12941	----	================================================================= PG NOTE: This file has many errors--it is suggested that readers ignore this version and open PG ebook #13251 which is a much cleaner version of this title. ================================================================== THE SCRANTON HIGH CHUMS ON THE CINDER PATH or The Mystery of the Haunted Quarry by Donald Ferguson CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. The Five Nut Foragers II. On the old Quarry Road III. Talking of Ghosts IV. In Training for the Great Tournament V. Treachery in the Air VI. The Prowler VII. Caught in the Act VIII. Leon Promises to Reform IX. Scranton in Gala Attire X. When Muscles Counted XI. The Crisis in Claude's Life XII. Startling News from the Juggins Boy XIII. To the Rescue of "K.K." XIV. The Searching Party XV. Prowling Around the Quarry XVI. A Friendly Ghost XVII. Scranton's "Open-House" Day XVIII. The Great Marathon Race XIX. On the Final Mile of the Course XX. The Boy Who Won---Conclusion CHAPTER I THE FIVE NUT FORAGERS The bright October sun was half-way down the western sky one Saturday afternoon. Two-thirds of the Fall month had already gone, and the air was becoming fairly crisp in the early mornings. All around the forest trees were painted various shades of bright scarlet, burnt umber brown and vivid gold by the practiced fingers of that master artist, the Frost-King. Flocks of robins and blackbirds were gathering rather late this year, preparatory to taking their annual pilgrimage to the warm Southland. They flew overhead at times in vast numbers, making a tremendous chatter. A noisy bunch of crows cawed unceasingly amidst the treetops as a large, lumbering old automobile passed along the country road, the same filled with lively boys, and also a number of sacks stuffed to their utmost capacity with what appeared to be black walnuts, shell-bark hickories, butternuts, and even splendid large chestnuts. Apparently, the strange and deadly blight that was attacking the chestnut groves all through the East had not yet appeared in the highly favored region around the town of Scranton, in which place the boys in question lived, and attended the famous high school where Dr. Carmack, also supervisor of the entire county schools, held forth. The five tired lads who formed this nutting party we have met before in the pages of previous stories in this series; so that to those who have been fortunate enough to possess such books they need no lengthy introduction. First, there was Hugh Morgan, looking as genial and determined as ever, and just as frequently consulted by his comrades, because his opinion always carried considerable weight. Then came his most intimate chum, Thad Stevens, who had played the position of backstop so successfully during the summer just passed, and helped to win the pennant for Scranton against the other two high schools of the country, situated in the towns of Allendale and Belleville. Besides these two, there was included in the party a tall chap who seemed to be acting as chauffeur, from which it might be judged that he had supplied the means for taking this nutting trip far afield; his name was Kenneth Kinkaid, but among his friends he answered to the shorter appellation of "K.K." Then came a fourth boy of shorter build, and more sturdy physique, Julius Hobson by name; and last, but far from least, Horatio Juggins, a rather comical fellow who often assumed a dramatic attitude, and quoted excerpts from some school declamation, his favorite, of course, being "Horatio at the Bridge." It was "K.K." who got up the annual foraging expedition on this particular year, and promised that they should go in style in the antiquated seven-passenger car belonging to his father, who was a commercial traveler, which car "K.K." often used, when he could raise the cash to provide sufficient gasolene at twenty-five cents per gallon. But on this momentous occasion each fellow had chipped in his share pro rata; so that the generous provider of the big, open car was not compelled to beg or borrow in order to properly equip the expedition. For ten days and more previously some of the boys had industriously interviewed the farmers who stood in the market-place during the early mornings, selling the products of their acres. Doubtless numerous good mothers wondered what caused such an early exodus from warm beds those days, since farmers had a habit of getting rid of their produce at dawn, and driving off home while most schoolboys were indulging in their last nap. But, by various means, they had learned just where the nuts grew most plentifully that season; and quite a list of available places had been tabulated: to the Guernsey Woods for blacks; plenty of shagbarks, and some sheilbarks to be gathered over at the old Morton Place, where no one had lived these seven years now; and they said the chestnuts away up in that region miles beyond the mill-pond was bearing a record crop this season, as if to make amends for lean years a-plenty. Scranton was one of the few places where the boys still yearned after a goodly supply of freshly gathered nuts to carry them through a long and severe winter. Somehow they vied with one another in the gathering of the harvest of the woods, and often these outings yielded considerable sport, besides being profitable to the nutters. On one momentous occasion the boys had even discovered the hive of a colony of wild bees, cut the tree down, fought the enraged denizens by means of smoke and fire, and eventually carried home a wonderful stock of dearly earned honey that would make the buckwheat cakes taste all the sweeter that winter because of the multitude of swellings it cost the proud possessors. Hugh had been coaxed to join the party; not that he did not fully enjoy such enterprises, but he had laid out another programme for that afternoon. All through the morning these same lads had been hard at work on the open field where Scranton played her baseball games, and had such other gatherings as high-school fellows are addicted. Here a fine new cinder path had been laid around the grounds, forming an oval that measured just an eighth of a mile, to a fraction. All through the livelong day on Saturdays, and in the afternoons during weekdays, boys in strange-looking running costumes of various designs could be seen diligently practicing at all manner of stunts, from sprinting, leaping hurdles, engaging in the high jump, with the aid of poles; throwing the hammer; and, in fact, every conceivable exercise that would be apt to come under the head of a genuine athletic tournament. For, to tell the secret without any evasion, that was just what Scranton designed to have inside of another week---a monster affair that included entries from all other schools in the county, and which already promised to be one of the greatest and most successful meets ever held. Hugh and his chums were every one of them entered for several events; indeed, it would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack to try and find a single Scranton boy above the age of ten, and sound of wind, who had not taken advantage of the generous invitation to place his name on the records, and go in for training along a certain line. Those who could not sprint, leap the bars, throw hammer or discus, or do any other of the ordinary stunts, might, at least, have some chance of winning a prize in the climbing of the greased pole, the catching of the greased pig, the running of the obstacle race, or testing their ability to hop in the three-legged race, where each couple of boys would have a right and left leg bound together, and then attempt to cross a given line ahead of all like competitors. So even when they started out after lunch the whole five were a bit tired; and a vast store of nuts, like the one they were fetching home, cannot be gathered, no matter however plentiful they may be on ground and trees, without considerable muscular effort on the part of the ambitious collectors. Consequently, every fellow was feeling pretty stiff and sore about the time we overtake them on the way home. Besides, most of them had zigzag scratches on face and hands by which to remember the wonderfully successful expedition for several days. Then there was Julius Hobson with a soiled handkerchief bound around his left thumb, which he solicitously examined every little while. He had, somehow, managed to catch a frisky little squirrel, which, wishing to take home, he had imprisoned in one of his side pockets that had a flap; but, desirous of fondling the furry little object, he had incautiously inserted his bare hand once too often; for its long teeth, so useful for nut cracking, went almost through his thumb, and gave his such an electric shock that in the confusion the frightened animal managed to escape once more to its native wilds. Hugh, as he went along toward home, was really taking mental notes concerning the lay of the land, and with an object in view. He was entered for the fifteen-mile Marathon race (an unusually long distance for boys to run, by the way, and hardly advisable under ordinary conditions), and one of the registering places where every contestant had to sign his name to a book kept by a judge so as to prove that he had actually reached that particular and important corner of the rectangular course, had been the quaint little old road tavern just half a mile back of them. "You're wondering just why I'm so curious about the country up here, I can see, fellows," Hugh was saying about the time we meet them, "and, as we all belong to the same school, and our dearest wish is to see Scranton High win the prize that is offered by the committee in the Marathon, I don't mind letting you in. I know something about this country up here, and have traced on a surveyor's chart the ordinary course a fellow would be apt to take in passing from the second tally post, that old tavern back of us, along this road to the canal, and from there across the old logging road to Hobson's Pond, where there's going to be the last registering place before the dash for home. Well, I've figured it out that a fellow would save considerable ground if he left this same road half a mile below, and cut across by way of the Juniper Swamp trail, striking in again along about the Halpin Farm" His remarks created no end of interest, for there were several others among the bunch who had also entered for that long-distance race; and, naturally, they began to figure on how they might take advantage of Hugh's discovery. It was all for the honor and credit of good old Scranton High; so that it really mattered little just which fellow crossed the line first, so long as he "saved the bacon." "It sounds pretty fine to me, Hugh," said Julius, "only I don't like one thing." "What's that, Julius?" demanded the Juggins boy. "By following that Juniper Swamp trail and the old road Hugh mentions, we'd have to pass close to that deserted stone quarry; and say, the farmers all vow it's sure haunted." CHAPTER II ON THE OLD QUARRY ROAD When Julius made this assertion, the other fellows looked at each other in what might be said to be a queer way. In fact, they had all heard certain absurd stories told in connection with the old quarry that had not been worked for so many years that the road leading to it across country had grown up in grass and weeds. Some adventurous boys who went out there once declared it was a most gruesome place, with pools of water covered with green scum lying around, and all sorts of holes looking like the cave Robinson Crusoe found on his island home to be seen where granite building rocks had been excavated from the towering cliffs. It was K.K. who laughed first, actually laughed scornfully, though Julius took it all so seriously. Thad Stevens followed with a chuckle, after his peculiar fashion. "You give me a pain, Julius, you certainly do," ventured K.K. "To think," added Thad, assuming a lofty air of superior knowledge, "of a fellow attending Scranton High believing the ridiculous yarns these uneducated tillers of the soil and their hired help pass around, about there being some sort of a genuine _ghost_ haunting the old quarry---why, it's positively silly of you, Julius, and I don't mind telling you so to your face." "Oh, hold on there, fellows!" expostulated the other boy; "I didn't say that I really and truly believed any of those awful stories, did I? But so many different persons have told me the same thing that, somehow, I came to think there _might_ be some fire where there was so much smoke. Of course, it can't be a ghost, but, nevertheless, there are queer goings-on about that deserted quarry these nights---three different people, and one of them a steady-going woman in the bargain, assured me they had glimpsed moving lights there, a sort of flare that did all sorts of zigzag stunts, like it was cutting signals in the air." "Hugh, do you think that could be what they call wild-fire, or some folks give it the name of will-o'-the-wisp, others say jack-o'-lantern?" demanded Horatio Juggins, who had been listening intently while all this talk was going on. "I'd hardly like to say," replied Hugh thoughtfully. "As a general thing that odd, moving light is seen in low, damp places. Often it is noticed in graveyards in the country, and is believed to be induced by a condition of the atmosphere, causing something like phosphorescence. You know what a firefly or lightning bug is like, don't you, Horatio? Yes, and a glow-worm also? Well, they say that there are black-looking pools of stagnant water lying around the old quarry; and yes, I think the lights seen might come from just such conditions." "That sounds all very well, Hugh," continued Julius, "but what about the terrifying cry that sometimes wells up from that same place?" "A cry, Julius, do you say?" exclaimed Horatio, his eyes growing round now with increasing wonder and thrilling interest, "do you really and truly mean that, or are you only joshing?" "Well," the narrator went on to say soberly, "two fellows told me they'd heard that same shriek. One was hunting a stray heifer when he found himself near the quarry, and then got a shock that sent him on the run all the way home, regardless of trees he banged into, for it was night-time, with only a quarter-moon up in the western sky. The other had laughed at all such silly stories, and to prove his bravery concluded to venture out there one night when the moon was as round as a cartwheel. He got close to the deserted workings when he too had a chill as he heard the most outlandish cry agoing, three times repeated, and---well, he grinned when he confessed that it took him just about one-fifth the time to get back home that he'd spent in the going." "Whee! perhaps there may be some sort of wild animal in one of the caves they tell about up there?" ventured Horatio. "I'm not a believer ghosts, and I don't consider myself a coward, either; but all the same it'd have to be something pretty big to induce me to walk out there to that same lonely quarry after nightfall. Now laugh if you want to, K.K." "Well," interrupted Hugh, just then, "we're approaching the place right now where that old quarry road I spoke of starts in. I'd like ever so much to take a look at that same quarry, by daylight, mind you. Is there any objection, fellows, to our testing out that road right now? It used to be a pretty fair proposition I've been told, so far as a road goes, and I think we could navigate the same in this car. K.K. how do you stand on that proposition, for one?" "Count me in on anything that promises an adventure, Hugh," came the prompt reply. "There is plenty of gas in the tank, and if we do get a puncture on the sharp stones we've got an extra tube along, with lots and lots of muscle lying around loose for changing the same. That's my answer, Hugh." "Thad, how about you?" continued the shrewd Hugh, well knowing that by making an individual appeal he would be more apt to receive a favorable response, because it goes against the average boy's pride to be accounted a weakling, or one addicted to believing old wives' fairy stories of goblins, and all such trash. "Oh, count me in, Hugh," responded the other, with an indifference that may possibly have been partly assumed; but then Thad Stevens was always ready to back his enterprising chum, no matter what the other suggested. "Horatio, it's up to you now!" Hugh went on remorselessly, as K.K. stopped the car at a signal from the other, and faint signs of what had once been a road were to be distinguished just on the left. "Majority rules, you know," said the wise Juggins boy, "and already three have given their assent; so it's no back-out for little Horatio." "Course I'll agree, Hugh," quickly added Julius, when he saw that the other had turned toward him. "I'm just as curious as the next fellow to see that old haunted quarry---in the daytime, of course. Besides, everybody knows there isn't any such thing as a ghost. All such stories, when they're sifted down, turn out to be humbugs. Sometimes the moving spectre is a white donkey browsing alongside the road. Then again I've heard of how it was a swing that had a white pillow left in it by the children, and the night wind caused it to advance and retreat in a _terrible_ way. Hugh, let's investigate this silly old business while we're on the spot." And by these wonderfully brave words Julius hoped to dissipate any notion concerning his alleged timidity that may have lodged in the brains of his chums. So K.K. started up again, and by another minute the old car had passed in among the trees, with the overgrown brush "swiping" against the sides every foot of the way. It was necessary that they proceed slowly and cautiously, because none of them had ever been over that long disused road before, and all sorts of obstacles might confront the bold invaders of the wilds. Hugh was using his eyes to good advantage, and at his advice the others did the same. It was a good thing the car was old, and that it mattered nothing how those stiff branches scraped against the sides during their forward progress. K.K. knew how to manage, all right, and, although the trail was quite rough in places where the heavy rains had washed the earth away, and left huge stones projecting, he was able to navigate around these obstacles successfully. Twice they came to low places where water ran, and there was some danger of the heavy car becoming mired. At such times several of the boys would jump out, and after investigating the conditions perhaps throw a mass of stones and pieces of wood in, to make what Hugh called a sort of a "corduroy road" across the swampy section of ground. It was all very interesting in the bargain, and, for the time being, the boys even forgot the fact that they were exceedingly tired. Then they seemed to be gradually ascending a grade, where the road turned out to be somewhat better. "I imagine we're getting close to the quarry now, fellows," Hugh informed them; "if what I was told is true. It will lie over here on the right, and only for the dense growth of trees with their foliage still hanging on, we might see the cliff forming the background of the quarry right now." Julius and Horatio looked around them with increasing interest, and perhaps a slight flutter of unusual vigor in the region of their hearts. It was about as gloomy a scene as any of them had ever gazed upon. Years had elapsed since work in the stone quarry had been abandoned, and Nature, as usual, had done her best to hide the cruel gashes made in her breast by man; the trees had grown and spread, while bushes and weeds extended their sway so as to almost choke everything around. The distant cawing of the crows sounded more gruesome than ever amidst such surroundings; but there was no sign of bird-life to be seen. It was as though the little feathered creatures found this region too lonely even for their nest building. Not even a red or gray squirrel frisked around a tree, or boldly defied the intruders of his wilderness haunt. "There, I just had a glimpse of the place through an opening!" suddenly announced Hugh; "I calculate that we'll soon come in plain sight of the whole business, for this road leads straight across the dumps, I was told, and then on again in the direction of Hobson's Pond." The sun was passing behind the first cloud of the whole day just then. Somehow the added somber conditions had an effect on all the boys; for, with the temporary vanishing of the king of day, the shadows around them appeared to grow bolder, and issue forth from their secret retreats. "Ugh! this is certainly a fierce place for a fellow to visit, say around midnight," K.K. was forced to admit, for he was the essence of candor at all times. "Wild horses couldn't drag me up here at such a time as that," said Horatio, as he looked ahead, and shivered, either with the chill of the air, or from some other reason, he hardly knew himself. "Hugh, would you try it if someone dared you to?" demanded Julius suddenly, taking the bull by the horns, so to speak. "I don't think I would, on a dare," replied the other calmly, yet deliberately, as he smiled at the speaker; "but if there was any good and sufficient reason for my doing the same, I'd agree to come alone, and spend a whole night in the deserted quarry. However, I'm not particularly _hankering_ after the experience, so please don't try to hatch up any wild scheme looking to that end. If you want to come, Julius, you're welcome to the job." Julius shuddered, and looked a bit pale at the very thought. "Oh! I wasn't even dreaming of it, Hugh," he hastened to declare. "I'd much prefer to being asleep in my own comfy bed at home when midnight comes around, and the last thing on earth you'd catch me doing would be out hunting spooks." It was just as Julius finished saying this that they received a sudden shock. A loud and thrilling sound, not unlike a human shriek, came to their ears, filling each and every boy in the car with a sense of unmitigated horror. It was so exceedingly dreadful that K.K. involuntarily brought the auto to a full stop, and then turned a face filled with mingled curiosity and awe upon his comrades. CHAPTER III TALKING OF GHOSTS "That was no crow cawing, boys, believe me!" ejaculated K.K. "Crow! Well, I should say not!" added Horatio instantly. "If you asked me right to my face I'd mention a donkey braying. Gee! but it was fierce!" "But what would a donkey be doing away up here at the old quarry, where there hasn't been a stroke of work done these many years; tell me that?" demanded Julius defiantly. "I don't believe it was a donkey," said Hugh, shaking his head, as though he, too, found himself exceedingly puzzled; "but I'm not in a position to explain the thing. That was certainly a queer noise, for a fact." "Extraordinary!" assented Thad Stevens. "Well, I should call it perfectly awful!" Horatio clipped in. "Horrible would be a better word to describe it," eagerly followed Julius, who, it must be confessed, was trembling all over; of course, not with fear, or anything like that, but just because of excitement, he assured himself. "And," continued the sensible Hugh, "if that's the sort of noises these farmer folks have been bearing right along, I don't wonder some of them have been nearly scared out of their wits. It was bad enough in broad daylight, with the sun shining; so what must it have seemed like in the moonlight, or when it was pitch dark?" "Wow! excuse me from coming up here after dusk," muttered Julius. "I'm no ghost-hunter, let me tell you. I know my weak points, and seeing things in the night-time used to be one of the same. They had a great time breaking me of it, too. Even now I sometimes dream of queer things when I've got the nightmare, after eating too big a Thanksgiving dinner; and when I wake up suddenly I'm all in a sweat, and a poor old moth fluttering at the window will give me a start, thinking it's the tiger getting in my East Indian bungalow." "Well, what's the program, Hugh?" asked K. "Shall I start up again, so we can continue our journey along this tough old road; or do you want to get out, and take a hunt around the quarry for the thing that gave those yawps?" "Get out?" repeated Julius, in a sudden panic; "not for Joseph. Don't count on _me_ for any such silly business. I came up here to get walnuts and such; and I'm meaning to stick close to my engagement. Side issues can't tempt me to change my mind. Guess I know when I'm well off." "It's been several minutes since we heard that sound," Hugh went on to remark; "and, so far, it hasn't been repeated." "Oh! it came three times, you remember, Hugh," suggested K.K.; "and, like in baseball, I reckon it's three times and out. Whatever it was let out those screeches it's certainly quieted down. How about going on now, Hugh?" "If I was alone," mused the other, "I really believe I'd be half tempted to take a prowl around, and find out if I could what all the row meant. I never like to pass anything up, when my curiosity is excited." "Oh, come back again some other time, Hugh, when you're not booked for getting home!" sang out Horatio. "If you put it to a vote I don't believe anybody in this bunch would seem wild to back you up right now. Fact is, I can hear our supper-bell calling me ever so loud. Hey! boys, how about that?" "Let's get a move on!" Julius hastened to reply, so that there could be no mistaking his sentiments, at least. Julius was followed by K.K., although the latter shrugged his shoulders as he added: "Perhaps it looks timid in us doing what we mean to, but really this is none of our business, and we might get in some trouble bothering around here. I read about a house that was said to be haunted, which story a daring reporter said he'd investigate. He spent a night there, and actually captured the ghost, who turned out to be just an ordinary man, living on a place adjoining the haunted estate. He owned up to being the pallid specter that had been giving the house such a bad name; and said he wanted to buy the property in for a song, as it would find no other purchaser if it had such an evil reputation. Now, maybe somebody wants this quarry for thirty cents, and this is his way of scaring other would-be purchasers away. We don't want to butt in on any such game, you see." Hugh and the others laughed at such a clever explanation. "Whatever the truth may be," said Hugh, "I hardly believe it'll turn out anything like that, K.K. But you might as well start on. We're only losing time here, and it seems as though the thing doesn't mean to give us another sample of that swan song." "For which, thanks!" sighed Julius. "I know music when I hear it, and if that's what they call a song of the dying swan excuse me from ever listening to another. I can beat that all hollow through a megaphone, and then not half try." So the chauffeur started up, and they were soon moving along the rough road that had once, no doubt, been kept in repair, when the heavy wagons carried out the building stone quarried from the hillside, but which was now in a pretty bad shape. Two minutes afterwards and the road took them directly alongside the quarry dump, where the excavated earth had been thrown. They could now see the cliff rising up alongside. It looked strangely bleak, for, of all things, there can hardly be a more desolate sight than an abandoned stone quarry, where the weeds and thistles have grown up, and puddles of water abound. Of course, the boys all stared, as they slowly wound along the road in full view of the entire panorama that was being unrolled before their eyes. They noted how in places there seemed to be deep fissures along the abrupt face of the high cliff. These looked like caves, and some of them might be of considerable extent, judging from their appearance. "If this great old place chanced to be nearer town," said K.K., managing to get a quick glimpse, although, as a rule, he needed all his attention riveted on the rough road he was trying to follow, "I reckon some of the fellows would have high times exploring those same holes in the hill." "It's just as well then it's as far distant as happens to be the case," Hugh told him; "because the doctors in Scranton would have broken arms and legs galore to practice on. That same old quarry would make a dangerous playground." "Oh!" That was Julius uttering a startled exclamation. He gripped Horatio so severely by the arm that he must have pinched the other. At any rate, Horatio gave a jump, and turned white; just as though his nerves had all been stretched to a high tension, so that anything startled him. "Hey! what did you do that for?" snapped Horatio, drawing away. "Think you're a ghost, Julius, and feel like biting, do you? Well, try somebody else's arm, if you please" "But didn't any of the rest of you see it?" gasped the said Julius, not deigning to quarrel over such a trivial thing as a pinch. "See what?" asked Steve, still staring hard at the quarry, which they were by now fairly well past. "Well, I don't know exactly, what it was," frankly admitted the disturber of the peace. "But it moved, and beckoned to us to come on over. You needn't laugh, Steve Mullane, I tell you I saw it plainly right over yonder where that big clump of Canada thistles is growing. Course I'm not pretending to say it was a man, or yet a wolf, but it was something, and it sure did move!" Hugh was looking with more or less interest. He knew how things appear to an excited imagination, and that those who believe in uncanny objects seldom have any trouble about conjuring up specters to satisfy their own minds. So all of them, save, perhaps, the driver, kept their eyes focussed on the spot mentioned by Julius until the first clump of trees shut out their view of the old stone quarry and its gruesome surroundings. "I looked as hard as I could," said Horatio, "but never a thing did I see move. Guess you've got a return of your old malady, Julius, and you were seeing things by daylight, just as you say you used to in the dark." "The only explanation I can give," spoke up Hugh, and, of course, every one lent a willing ear, because, as a rule, his opinions carried much weight with his chums; "is that while Julius may have seen something move, it was only a long, feathery plume of grass, nodding and bowing in the wind. I've been fooled by the same sort of object many a time. But let it pass, boys. We've turned our back on the old quarry now, and are headed for the road again, two miles above Hobson's mill-pond. I only hope we find it better going on this end of the abandoned trail. This jumping is hard on the springs of the car, and also on our bones." "For one," said Julius, "I hope never to set eyes on the place again." "Oh! that's silly talk, Julius," commented K.K. "Here's Hugh, who means to take a run out this way again as soon as he can, so as to time himself, and learn just what he can save by cutting across country in the big race. And I wouldn't be surprised if he put 'Just' Smith up to the dodge, in addition to Horatio here and myself, all being entered as contestants in the big Marathon race." "I certainly feel that way, K.K.," admitted Hugh firmly. "It strikes me this is going to be worth trying. If one of our crowd can save time by taking this route, while the other fellows go all the way around by road, that same thing may give Scranton High the clinching of the prize. It's all fair and square, too, for the conditions only demand that the runners refuse all sorts of lifts while on the road, and register at each and every tally place designated. If they can cut a corner they are at liberty to do so." "Oh! well," said Julius; "I'm not entered in the Marathon, luckily enough, so you see there's no need of my prowling around this spooky place again. I haven't lost any quarry, that I know of; and Scranton is a good enough place for me to do my athletic exercises in. But, Hugh, if you should happen to find out about the thing that emitted all those frightful squawks, I hope you'll promise to let us know the particulars." "I can promise that easily enough, Julius," the other told him; "though, just at present, my only concern is to gain time by this cut-off, and so win the big event for our school. Now suppose we drop this subject, and return to something pleasant." They continued to bump along the rocky road with its deep ruts. At times K.K. had to make little detours in order to navigate around some obstacle which could not be surmounted; for time had not dealt lightly with the quarry road, and the rains and wintry frosts had played havoc with its surface. But, eventually, they sighted light ahead. Steve was the first to glimpse an opening, and announce that the main highway leading down to Scranton must be close at hand. His words turned out to be true, and soon afterwards they issued forth from the covert and found themselves upon the turnpike, headed for home. Hugh turned around to mark the spot well in his mind, though he knew that it was to be the exit, and not the entrance, to the short-cut, in case he concluded to utilize the quarry road when the great race was on. CHAPTER IV IN TRAINING FOR THE GREAT TOURNAMENT It was an afternoon on the following week, after school hours, and the athletic field bordering the outskirts of the town of Scranton afforded a pretty lively spectacle. Indeed, it could be readily seen that the approaching tournament had taken a great hold upon the young people of the town. Scores of boys were busily engaged in various exercises, under the watchful eye of Mr. Leonard, the assistant principal under Dr. Carmack. This determined-looking young fellow was a college graduate, and had taken considerable interest in all manner of athletics; indeed, it was well known that he had played on one or more of the college teams during his course, and won quite an enviable reputation for good work, though hardly reckoned a brilliant star. Many who did not expect to participate in any of the numerous events had gathered to watch what was going on; and, besides, there were clusters of pretty high-school girls on the side lines, chattering like magpies, and venting their opinions regarding the chances certain favorites among their boy friends appeared to have in the way of winning a prize. Scores were busily engaged in running around the cinder-path, taking the high jump, trying the hurdles, so as to perfect themselves against the coming Saturday when the wonderful event was to come off; sprinting for the short races of fifty, or a hundred yards; throwing the discus or the hammer, and numerous other lively doings. Among these participants there were a number whom the reader of previous volumes in this series will readily recognize, and possibly gladly meet again. There was Alan Tyree, for instance, whose masterly pitching had done so much to land the pennant of the Three Town High School League that season for Scranton; Owen Dugdale, the efficient shortstop of the local nine; "Just" Smith, whose real name it happened was Justin, but who seldom heard it outside of school and home. He was a fleet runner, and had ably filled the position of left fielder when Scranton carried the school colors to victory over Allandale in that last heart-breaking game. Besides these, Joe Danvers was on deck, doing all sorts of wonderful stunts at throwing the hammer and taking the long jump, for Joe delighted in a variety of specialties and did not confine himself to any one particular thing; also might be seen one Claude Hastings, a chap who was a regular monkey in his way, and who always kept the crowd laughing by his antics, such as might be expected of a prize clown at the big Barnum and Bailey circus. Yes, and there was Nick Lang, as big as life, running like the wind around the cinder-path and looking as though he might have a pretty fair chance to carry off some sort of prize. Nick had for a long time been the town bully. He was not a rich man's son; in fact, Nick's folks were poor, and some people even thought the big, overgrown boy should be at work helping to keep the wolf from the door, instead of still attending high school and making himself a nuisance to decent folks through his delight in practical jokes and his bullying propensities. But even those who detested Nick Lang the most were willing to admit that he was a pretty fair athlete and could even have excelled along several lines if only he were able to control that nasty temper of his and "play fair." There were two other fellows, who were cronies of Nick's, and who, apparently, had entered for some of the events, because both Leon Disney and Tip Slavin were in evidence and hard at work practicing. Nick secretly hated, even as he also feared, Mr. Leonard, because the under-teacher had once cowed him and made him "eat humble pie" before the whole class; but, being a wise as well as pugnacious boy, Nick managed to keep his feelings under control, and when Mr. Leonard was around he usually behaved himself. Later in the afternoon, when most of the boys out for practice had become more or less tired from their exertions, they gathered here and there in little bunches to exchange "chaff," and express their opinions concerning various matters that had a bearing on the coming tournament. So Hugh Morgan found himself in a cluster that contained several of his chums, as well as a sprinkling of other fellows. A trio of lively high school girls hovered near, and occasionally joined in the conversation. They were Sue Barnes, whom Hugh usually counted on as his partner when any dance was given in the country, or at singing-school during the winter evenings; Ivy Middleton, Thad's choice for company, because she was both jolly and genial; and pretty Peggy Noland, whom Owen Dugdale liked, as had also Nick Lang, though the latter had of late been badly snubbed by the scornful Peggy because she could not stand for his rowdy ways. "Mr. Leonard says he's fully satisfied with the way most of the fellows are showing up," Joe Danvers was saying, about that time. "Well, we can't afford to loaf, for a fact," remarked Just Smith, soberly. "Let me tell you something, fellows. I was down in Paul Kramer's sporting emporium just last evening, when who should walk in but Big Ed. Patterson, the Allandale pitcher, who came so near to downing us last summer. He looks as fine as silk, and told me privately he calculates on carrying off that prize offered for hammer throwing, because that is his pet hobby, you see Yes, and more than that, he said they were all crazy up at his 'burg' over the big meet, boys being out practicing every sort of stunt, even to road-running by moonlight." "That sounds good to me," Hugh observed, not appearing to show any sign of alarm over the stirring news. "It means we'll have a wonderfully successful affair. Who carries off the prizes is a matter for the different schools to take care of, and those of us who believe in clean, honest sport only hope the best fellows win." "Huh!" grunted Owen Dugdale, "it goes to show that Allandale is all worked up over losing the baseball pennant to Scranton, and means to get even by carrying off the majority of the prizes our committee has offered for the dozen or more events to be contested for." "But he also informed me," continued the bearer of news, "that over in Belleville they were just as much excited as in his town, so that every fellow who'd entered for any event, even to climbing the greased pole or the sack race, was diligently practicing his particular stunt. Oh! it's just going to be the greatest athletic tournament ever held in this section of the country, believe me." Some of the more timid among the boys seemed to think that Scranton would come out second best when the great meet was a thing of the past; but others only found themselves more determined than ever to win, after learning how their rivals had entered into the affair with heart and soul. Hugh's often-expressed motto that the "best man should win" found an echo in the majority of their hearts, and they vied with each other in promising to give every ounce of ability to doing Scranton High credit. Mr. Leonard came around to have a few words with his boys. He was a great favorite with the majority of the scholars under his charge, and to his clever method of coaching they attributed considerable of their success on the diamond of recent months. If only his rules were strictly adhered to it was possible that Allandale and Belleville might be due for another rude surprise when they came over, bent on carrying off the majority of the high honors. "It is going to be no easy sledding for anybody,---remember that, fellows," the athletic instructor went on to say, after he had been told how both adjoining towns entered in the meet were striving with might and main to excel in every sort of event. "No matter who wins he'll only get there by doing his level best. That's all Scranton High asks of her representatives. Let there be no loafing, and if some of our good friends from A and B succeed in carrying away a few of the prizes, why, we'll know they earned the right, and are welcome to their reward. And now, I'd like to see you runners try one more ten-minute sprint, every one of you in a bunch, as a sort of wind-up for the day." Accordingly they ran off to the starting-point and lined up, each assuming his particular favorite crouching attitude, which he seemed to think best fitted for a speedy "get-away" when the signal was given. They ran like colts, and some displayed amazing speed, considering that they had been diligently working out on that same cinder-path for over two hours, with little intermissions between for resting. Those who expected to take part in the Marathon did not attempt to compete with those fleet sprinters, though if they were pressed doubtless they too could give quite an exhibition of fast running. But Mr. Leonard had taken great pains to inform them that the successful long-distance runners always take things moderately easy in the beginning of a race, preserving as much vigor as possible for the gruelling finish. The chief idea was to keep just behind the pace-maker, and be ready to rush to the front when on the home-stretch. The fellow best able to preserve his full powers for that last half-mile dash would be the one to carry off the honors. Nick Lang was there with the rest, watching Hugh out of the tail of his eye, as if he considered that in the other he would find his chief competitor; possibly he hoped to be able to pick up valuable points by keeping watch and ward on Hugh. Hugh had even consulted Mr. Leonard with regard to making use of his knowledge concerning that "cut-off." In fact, he wanted to lay any doubt that may have arisen in his own mind concerning its being perfectly legitimate that he should profit by such knowledge. The athletic instructor assured him he was keeping fully within the conditions of the race in so doing. "It is any competitor's privilege to go over the route as often as he pleases," was the way Mr. Leonard put it; "and so long as he conforms to the rules, such as keeping on his own feet every yard of the way, accepting no lift from wagon or car, and registering faithfully at the several stations provided, he has done all that is expected of him. If by crossing a field he thinks he can cut off fifty feet or more he is at liberty to make the attempt, although it may cost him dear, through his meeting with some unexpected obstacle in his progress, which would not have occurred had he stayed by the road. Some fellows might believe they could do better than trying to cross by way of that overgrown quarry road. Yes, you are keeping well within the letter of the law in choosing your own way of going, Hugh. Have no fears on that score, my boy." Mr. Leonard liked Hugh Morgan exceedingly; though that was not to be wondered at, because Hugh was one of those boys who would never stoop to do a tricky thing, no matter what allurements it held out; he always "played square," and even won the high regard of his rivals in many cases. When the October sun had reached the horizon the multitude of contestants and spectators commenced to string back to town, for it would soon be getting near supper time; and no fellow likes to be late at the table, especially when he feels as hungry as a bear, after exercising so violently for hours. Hugh was starting off alone, when Thad Stevens called out that he'd like the other to "hold up a minute," until he could overtake him; because it happened he had something to communicate which he thought Hugh ought to know. CHAPTER V TREACHERY IN THE AIR "Hugh, it looks to me like there's a hen on," was what Thad Stevens said, as he joined his chum. "That's a queer remark for you to make, Thad," the other chuckled; "after seeing what's been happening here on our athletic field this afternoon, I'd be likely to say there were a good many score of hens setting, each hoping to hatch out one of our dandy prizes next Saturday." "Oh! you understand that I mean something crooked going on, Hugh," Thad hastened to add. "That sounds serious enough. What do you know, Thad? The chances are ten to one if anything in the way of trickery is contemplated I can put my hand on the fellow who's guilty of the same." "Sure thing, Hugh, and his name is Nicholas in the bargain. They call him Young Nick, to distinguish him from his father who's dead and gone; but sometimes people say he's a regular Old Nick when it comes to playing mean jokes, and getting into trouble of all kinds." "What's Nick Lang been up to now, Thad?" "Oh just spying on you, for one thing!" exclaimed the other angrily "He's welcome to chase around after me as often as he pleases," said Hugh; "much good will it do him, I'm thinking. But tell me, why should he go to all that bother, when my going out and coming-in don't interfere with his happiness a whit?" "Hugh, Nick is on to your scheme for making use of that short-cut across by way of the old deserted quarry!" "You don't tell me?" Hugh observed. "Well, I came near speaking to him about it myself, Thad. You see, Nick is entered for the Marathon, just the same as a number of other Scranton High boys are. If K.K., Just Smith, and several other fellows are to have the benefit of that cutoff, if they choose to avail themselves of it, why shouldn't Nick be included, I've been asking myself? Yes, and I'd about concluded it was my duty to let him know; but if, as you say, he's found out for himself I'll be saved all the bother of telling." "He followed you across yesterday, Hugh. By a mere accident I heard him telling Tip Slavin, and he seemed to think it a good joke, because you never once suspected he was spying on you from behind trees and bushes. Why, he says he followed you clear across to the road again." Hugh shrugged his shoulders. "Then I give Nick full credit for carrying out a clever piece of business. I never once remember suspecting that anybody was around. But, Thad, what's worrying you? There isn't anything about that discovery to excite you." "Hugh, that boy means to do something mean, and it's got a connection with the short-cut quarry road in the bargain!" Hugh turned and looked at the speaker a little gravely. "I suppose now you've got some good reason for making that accusation, Thad?" he ventured. "Yes, I have," came the quick reply. "I heard him say something to that other sneak which I couldn't just catch, but it started Tip laughing like everything. He slapped a hand down on his knee, and went on to say: Fine, Nick, finer than silk! I bet you he'll be as mad as hops if he finds himself caught in such a trap, and loses the race. You can depend on me every time. My affair comes off right in the start, and I can easy get out there on my wheel long before the first runner heaves in sight. I'll coach Pete Dudley in his part, just as you were saying. It's the greatest trick you ever hatched up, Nick, the very greatest! Now, you can judge for yourself, Hugh, whether it's safe for you to try to cross by that same quarry road when the big Marathon race is on." Hugh seemed lost in thought for a brief interval. When he spoke again there was a settled look of grim determination on his face that Thad could easily understand, knowing the other as well as he did. "It isn't my way to show the white feather when the first cold wind starts to blowing, Thad, and no matter what Nick is planning to do I'm not going to give him the first chance to profit by my discovery of that short-cut route from road to road." "That means you decline to be shoved off the path, does it, Hugh?" "If I start in that race, as I expect to," Hugh told him, "I intend to make use of that short-cut, no matter if a dozen Tip Slavins, and Pete Dudleys are lying in wait to trip me up. But I'm much obliged to you all the same, Thad, for your warning. I'll be on my guard from this time on, and they're not going to trap me with my eyes blinded, I tell you that." Thad seemed to be lost in thought himself for a minute or so. Possibly he was trying to figure out how he could best serve his comrade in such an emergency. The gloomy woods surrounding the old quarry did not possess any attraction in the eyes of Thad Stevens. Though he had not shown the same degree of alarm as Horatio and Julius at the time they heard those remarkable sounds, so like human shrieks, nevertheless, Thad felt no hankering after another similar experience. Still he would brave much in order to help the chum whose interests were so dear to his own heart. He did not say what was in his mind, only looked a bit wise, as he once more turned to Hugh, as though his mind had been finally made up. "Just as you think best, Hugh," he went on to say quietly. "It may be that one or more of the other fellows will be taking advantage of that same old road, and there's safety in numbers, you know, they say. Nick is likely to get his fingers burned if he attempts any of his silly tricks. What do you suppose now he could plan to have those chaps do? They wouldn't want to really hurt you, because that might get them in bad with Captain Wambold, our police head. Can you think of any fool play he'd be apt to conjure up, such as might make Tip say it was the best and slickest scheme he'd ever heard about?" "Nick has so many wild ideas that he's likely to attempt nearly anything," said Hugh. "If he could find a good place where a runner would have to keep to the road I even believe he'd try to dig a deep pit, and cover the same over, just as the wild-animal catchers do in Africa, when they go out after big game for the menageries and zoos." "Why, would that work, do you think, Hugh?" cried the startled Thad, mentally picturing his chum crashing through a false roadbed, and dropping down into a deep hole from which, alone and unaided, he could not hope to escape until much time had elapsed, and all hope of winning the big Marathon was lost. "It might have done so if I hadn't chanced to possess a wide-awake chum, who gave me due warning, and caused me to keep a sharp lookout. As it is, if I glimpse a suspicious spot in my path I'll fight mighty shy of the same; or by a big leap give it the go-by. Of course, there might be other ways in which they could hope to detain me, such as dropping down on my shoulders from a tree, and with their faces covered so I couldn't recognize them." Thad looked grave. "Yes, they could do that, for a fact," he admitted. "Seems to me you'll have to keep one eye aloft all the while, Hugh, while the other is watching the ground for treachery. I must say this is a fine state of affairs. Not only does Scranton High have to go smack up against all the best runners of Allandale and Belleville, but be on the lookout for treachery at home besides. I'd give something to be one of a bunch of indignant fellows to take Nick Lang and his two pals out to the woods some fine night, and give the same a coat of tar and feathers, or else ride them on a rail. They're a disgrace to the community, and Scranton ought to take them in hand right away. That boy will set the town on fire yet I'm thinking, with his desperate tricks." "He will, unless he soon sees a light, and turns over a new leaf," admitted Hugh, who, it seems, had an idea of his own in connection with the said Nick, which, perhaps, he might find an opportunity to work out one of these days; but which he did not care to confide to his chum, because he knew Thad would be apt to consider it impossible, perhaps foolish. "There they go now, Hugh," suddenly remarked Thad in an undertone. "You see, he has both Tip and Leon along with him, and they're grinning as they look over this way. I warrant you Nick has been elaborating on that fine scheme of his; and, in anticipation, they can already see you held up in that lonely place, kicking your toes at the bottom of a miserable pit, or else tied to a tree." "Don't scowl so savagely, Thad," warned Hugh. "There's no need of letting them understand we're on to their game. The advantage always lies in catching the other fellow off his guard. Let's laugh while we walk past, as if we'd been figuring out how a certain prize was already dangling close to our fingertips." So Thad managed to "take a brace," profiting by the sage advice of his comrade; and, as they passed Nick and his two cronies, Hugh remarked as pleasantly as he could: "I've been watching you run to-day, Nick, and I honestly believe you are right up with the topnotchers in the game. There may be some surprises next Saturday for those who think they've got it all figured out who's going to win the prizes. And Nick, as far as I'm concerned, I'd like to see you take the long-distance prize, honestly and cleanly, if I can't get it myself. You're a representative of Scranton High, Nick, and we're all out to see the old school do herself proud." Nick seemed taken aback by these hearty words on the part of the fellow whom he had so long sought an opportunity to injure. He shot a hasty glance, accompanied by the uplifting of his heavy eyebrows, toward his companions, who, thereupon, catching a sly wink, perhaps, both chuckled audibly as though amused. "Oh! I've already as good as copped that Marathon prize," Nick went on to say, at the same time thrusting out his chin in his customary aggressive and boastful fashion. "I calculate to give the folks some surprise by the ease with which I'll come in away ahead of the next competitor. There'll be a wheen of those who also ran, bringing up the tail of the procession. Long-distance is my best suit, and I've waited a while to show up certain chaps in this town who think they are just the thing. Don't worry about me, Morgan; Nick Lang generally gets there when he throws his hat into the ring." At that the other two laughed uproariously, as though they thought the joke too good for anything. Possibly they took Nick's reference to "those who also ran" to mean Hugh Morgan particularly; and in their minds they could see him desperately trying to break his bonds; or climb up out of the deep pit into which he had gone crashing when the covered mattress, formed of slender twigs and dead leaves, had given way under his weight. Hugh and Thad walked on, the latter fairly boiling with ill-suppressed anger. "That fellow always gives me a pain, Hugh," he was saying, as they increased the distance separating them from the still merry trio in the rear. "He is really the meanest boy you could find in all the towns of this country. But fellows like him sometimes catch a Tartar; so, perhaps, it might happen in this case," and Thad, who evidently had something on his mind, would not commit himself further, as they walked on in company. CHAPTER VI THE PROWLER There had been considerable of a change in connection with the big open field where the boys of Scranton were allowed by the town council and mayor to play baseball, and also football, since summer waned. Somehow the success that attended the work of Scranton High in the battles of the Three Town League, as narrated in an earlier volume of this series, seemed to have stirred up many of the leading citizens. Besides, Mr. Leonard, the efficient under-principal of the high school, with a genuine love and sympathy for all boys in his heart, had kept things at boiling pitch. Consequently there was, first of all, a move made to lease that splendid field for a long term of years, from the owner, so that the young people of Scranton might have some central place to gather for all sorts of outdoor games and sports. So subscriptions were started looking to collect a fund with which not only to erect some sort of decent grandstand, but a building that would contain a number of conveniences such as most athletic grounds and similar institutions can boast. This building had now been completed, and the boys were in full possession. It contained, among other things, a score and more of lockers, where the one who paid a small fee could keep his "fighting togs," as Thad Stevens was wont to term his baseball clothes, or it might be the scanty raiment he wore when exercising on the athletic field, running, or boxing, or wrestling. Each boy who hired such a locker, of course, carried the key to the same; and when engaged in practice work rested easy in the belief that his street garments were securely taken care of. There was also a shower-bath and a pool in the building, as well as several other conveniences that could be used in the summer time during the hot weather. The boys arranged to take turns in shifts with regard to keeping the building clean, and thus far the scheme had worked very well; for the town did not care to go to the extra expense of hiring a custodian. Besides this, a high fence was ordered to be built around the entire grounds, for most other towns had their athletic fields enclosed. It would keep the rowdy element from disturbing the players when any game was in progress; and, as a small admission fee might often be asked, having one or two gates through which admission to the grounds could be obtained would facilitate matters greatly. But this was not all. Scranton had awakened to the fact that nature had been rather unkind to her young people, in that there was no large lake, or even so much as a small river close by her borders. When the boys and girls of the town felt inclined to skate after a sharp freeze along about New Year's Day, they had to walk all the way out to Hobson's mill-pond, situated between half and two-thirds of a mile away. This was not so bad for some of the sturdy chaps, but there were others who disliked taking such long tramps, especially after violent exercising for hours, it might be, on the ice. So, after mature deliberation, and receiving valuable suggestions from Mr. Leonard, as well as others who had seen similar things successfully carried out in various places, it had been arranged to flood the field after winter had fully set in. Then, during the time of severe weather, the young folks would have a splendid sheet of ice right at their doors, a comfortable retreat into which they could go to warm up, or to put on and remove their skates. Here various games were expected to be indulged in, as the weather permitted; and already a fine hockey Seven had been organized, under the leadership of Hugh Morgan, with a promise of many exciting games against rival teams. The high board fence was being erected, but would hardly be completed before Spring; still, it gave an air of business to the grounds, and the boys had already begun to congratulate themselves over the great stride forward Scranton had taken in the way of catering to her rising population. Of course, there were those in the town---you can always find a few in every community---who seriously objected to so much "good money being wasted," as they termed it, on such trivial things, when Scranton really needed an up-to-date library building in place of the poor apology for one that had to serve. These people, doubtless from worthy motives, though they were short-sighted in their opposition, lost no opportunity for running down the entire enterprise. The person who, perhaps, had more influence than any of the others, and was more vehement in deriding the "foolish expenditure of funds along such silly lines, instead of trying to elevate the standard of reading among Scranton's young people," was the rich widow, Mrs. Jardine. She had a son named Claude, whose life was rendered miserable by the lofty ambition of his mother to make him a genius. She never ceased talking upon all sorts of elevating subjects; and where other boys were allowed to lead normal lives, and have lots of innocent if strenuous fun during vacations, and holidays, poor Claude led a life of bondage. He was rather an effeminate-looking boy, tall and slender, with a face entirely destitute of color such as would indicate abounding spirits and good health; but it was no wonder, everyone knew how he was being made such a "sissy" of by his doting "mamma." despite all this there seemed to be a spark of ordinary boyish spirits concealed under Claude's superior airs. He sometimes stood and watched the other fellows engaged in playing prisoner's base, or some such rough-and-tumble game, with envy. Once upon a time his mother, chancing to pass along the street in her fine car, was horrified to discover her darling Claude actually taking part in some "rowdy game," in which he scrambled with the rest just as vehemently, and was, moreover, even worse off than the other boys with regard to soiled garments and disheveled hair. Evidently the long suppressed spirit of the lad had broken bounds, and for once he allowed himself to be natural. The other fellows never tired of telling how she had called to him almost frantically, as though she believed he had become inoculated with some deadly germ, and must be contaminated, bundling the boy into the car, and actually crying with dismay when she found that he actually had a scratch upon his nose, which had been bleeding. But it was also noticed that Claude grinned at his late fellow wrestlers as he was borne triumphantly away, as though to emphasize the fact that he had, at least, enjoyed one real period of excitement in his life, to remain as a bright spot for many days. Hugh had often wondered whether there might not be some way through which this deluded mother might be shown what a terrible error she was making in bringing up her boy to be so inane and useless. He needed physical development more than any other fellow in Scranton High. Constant feeding upon lofty ideas, and never given a chance to develop his muscles, was wrecking his health. Mr. Leonard had even gone to Mrs. Jardine and entreated her to let him undertake a moderate programme of athletic exercises with Claude; but he might as well have tried to lift the high-school building as to make her change her set ideas. Hugh and Thad had been out on a particular night after supper, visiting another boy who chanced to live on the outskirts of town. He had received a wonderful collection of curios from an uncle living out in India, after whom he had been named; and upon being especially invited over to view these things, which included a wonderful assortment of rare postage stamps, the two chums had made it a point to accept, being greatly interested in all boyish "hobbies." That was how they happened to be passing along the road close to the athletic grounds about half-past nine o'clock that same night. There was a fair moon shining, but objects appeared more or less misty, as often occurs under such conditions. The boys had about exhausted their vocabulary of words that express delight, in examining the many things of interest shown by "Limpy" Wallace, who was a cripple, and had to use a crutch, he being also a great admirer of Hugh Morgan, whom he considered in the light of a hero. Besides this, both boys were unusually tired after the exertions of the day, and Thad frequently yawned in a most terrific fashion, as he walked homeward. Probably these were the main reasons for their unnatural silence, as they stalked along side by side; since it is seldom that two lads will refrain from exchanging opinions on some object or other, when in company. Afterwards, in the light of what happened, they were inclined to believe that it was exceedingly fortunate they had lapsed into this queer condition of silence, for, otherwise, they would have missed something that proved unusually interesting, as well as afforded them more or less excitement. It was Thad who discovered it first. Perhaps he chanced to be looking that way while Hugh was star-gazing. At any rate he gripped his chum suddenly by the arm. "Sh! Hugh, what's that yonder, a skulking dog, or a fellow half bent over?" was what Thad whispered in the ear of his chum. Both of them had come to a full stop, under the impulse of the moment; and Thad was pointing a little to the right, which was where the building erected on the athletic grounds stood, dimly seen in the mysterious moonlight. So Hugh, staring quickly, made out the object indicated by his companion. Really, he could hardly blame Thad for asking such a question, because at first it was next to impossible to determine whether it was a four-footed creature, or a human being who, for some good reason, was trying to make himself appear as small as possible. But as Hugh continued to look he saw the other raise himself to his full height, as though to take a cautious survey of his surroundings. Then he knew that it was no canine prowling around to discover scraps thrown aside by the carpenters working on the board fence, as they ate their noon lunch. "It's a human being all right, Thad," Hugh whispered, in such a low tone that even the sharpest pair of ears going could never have caught the sound ten feet away. "Man, or boy, Hugh?" asked Thad, copying the example set by the other, and even bending his head so that his lips might come closer to Hugh's right ear. "Can't make that out," he was told. "But what in the wide world is he trying to do?" pursued Thad, his curiosity now fully aroused, as the unknown again started to move forward, pursuing the same strange cautious tactics as before. "That's what we ought to find out," Hugh told him. "I don't like the way he's sneaking around here. It looks as if he might be up to some game." "Oh! perhaps it's a tramp," suggested Thad, as the idea dawned upon his brain. "He may be meaning to break into the building, to sleep there to-night. I wouldn't put it past a hobo to steal anything he could find left in the lockers. Hugh, it's up to us to put a kink in his rope. Let's chase after him before he disappears." CHAPTER VII CAUGHT IN THE ACT "Hold on, Thad," continued Hugh, as he put a restraining hand on the shoulder of his more impulsive chum, "we've got to be careful, or else he'll learn how we're meaning to spy on him. Bend over, and do the grand sneak act." "He's headed straight for the building, Hugh!" breathed the other, as he complied with the directions given by the one whom he was accustomed to look upon in the light of a leader. "That's right, and I guess he's meaning to crawl inside, if only he can find a window that's been left unfastened. Steady now, Thad; he's stopped under one right now!" They continued to crouch there and watch what went on, their eyes glued upon the dimly seen figure of the unknown. Greatly to the surprise of Thad, the party stepped to one side, and seemed to be dragging back a heavy plank, not of any vast length, but sufficiently long to reach the window when placed on a slant. "Say, did you notice how he seemed to know just where that plank was lying, Hugh?" asked Thad deliriously. "Seems like he must have been spying out the land by daylight beforehand" "You're right there," whispered Hugh; "and he acts as if he felt pretty certain that particular window would be unfastened, in the bargain." "Hugh, that settles it," added the other sturdily, as though now fully convinced. "Yes, settles what, Thad?" "Why, it's a _boy_, don't you see, and he must have left that window unlatched on purpose this afternoon when some of the fellows were shutting up. "Wait and see," advised Hugh, although almost convinced of the same thing himself. The test was not long in coming. They could see the other "shinning" up the sloping plank, as any athletic boy would be apt to do, without any particular trouble. Now he had reached the window, and Thad held his breath in suspense. He sighed as he heard a slight squeaking sound. Evidently the sash which was supposed to be fastened every night through ordinary prudence, had given way to his hand, when he exerted some pressure. "He's going in, Hugh!" Thad observed, again laying a quivering hand on the arm of his comrade, and then following these words with a low exclamation of startled wonder: "Oh! look there, what's that queer glow mean?" Hugh understood readily enough. "Why, he's got one of those little handy electric torches, you see, and is using it so as to get his bearings inside the building." "Guess you're right, Hugh," admitted the other; "and there, he's crawling over the sill now, as sure as anything. Oh! the skunk, what can he be up to?" "We'll try and find out," said Hugh, with his usual promptness. "Now he's gone further from the window let's be moving along. That plank ought to make it easy sledding for fellows like us." Indeed, it would be hard to find a couple of more athletic boys than Hugh and his chum. Their intense love for every type of outdoor sport had kept them in splendid physical condition, so that their muscles were as firm as those of an athlete in training. To make their way up that sloping board and reaching the open window was likely to prove a mere bit of child's play with such fellows. Hugh was the first to ascend. When he had raised himself so that he could peep over the window ledge and see within the building he apparently found the coast clear; for Thad, coming along just behind, received a gentle prod with a toe, twice repeated, which he knew to be a signal that all was well. By the time Thad arrived the other was already well within the room, having slipped across the window-sill without making the slightest sound. All was dark around them, but further on they could see that weird shaft of light moving this, way and that, indicating the spot where the unknown intruder just then happened to be located. "He's making for the locker room, don't you see, Hugh?" Thad ventured, with a perceptible quiver to his low voice. "Sure thing, and he knows where he's going, in the bargain," the other went on. "Of course, it's no hobo, then," continued Thad. "That scamp knows every foot of ground under this roof. You can see it by the way he keeps straight on. Hugh, do you think it might be Nick?" After all, it was only natural for Thad to jump to this conclusion, because of the evil reputation enjoyed by the boy he mentioned. Nick Lang had been the bully and the terror of Scranton for years. There was seldom a prank played (from stealing fruit from neighboring farmers, to painting old Dobbin, a stray nag accustomed to feeding on the open lots, so that the ordinarily white horse resembled the National flag, and created no end of astonishment as he stalked around, prancing at a lively rate when the hot sun began to start the turpentine to burning), but that everybody at once suspected Nick of being the conspirator. Possibly he may not have always been the chief offender; but give Dog Tray a bad name and he gets the blame of everything that happens calculated to outrage the respectability of the law-abiding community. "I thought of him at first," replied Hugh, "but it strikes me that chap isn't of Nick's build. You see his light leaves his figure pretty much in the dark; for he's using it principally to show him the way, so he won't stumble over any chair, and make no end of a row." The two had been stealthily creeping forward all this while, and were, therefore, gradually diminishing the distance separating them from the bearer of the electric hand-torch. Thad had evidently been consulting his memory concerning something, for presently he again whispered in his chum's ear: "Then mebbe it might be Leon Disney, Hugh. Seems to me that sneak would be just the one to try some mean trick like this. And, besides, I happen to know he bought one of those little vestpocket lights down at Paul Kramer's store only three nights ago, because I saw him testing them and heard him say he'd take it." "Yes, that looks significant, I must say, Thad. But I'm trying to make out what he's done with his head. Don't you notice he's got it bundled up with a sort of woollen comforter or something like that?" "Why, so he has," replied the other; "I tell you what, Hugh, he's hoping to hide his face, so if he's discovered prowling around in here no one can say positively that they recognized him. Leon is up to all those sly tricks. He gets ideas like that out of the stories he's so fond of soaking in." "Keep still now, Thad, and we'll creep closer," warned the other. They really had their hands full endeavoring to advance upon the prowler without making any sort of sound that would arouse his suspicions. Hugh realized that if anything of this sort occurred the other would instantly throw the full glow of his little electric torch in their direction, and, of course, immediately discover their presence. If such a thing happened it might interfere with their suddenly arranged plan of campaign, and prevent the capture they contemplated, which would be a grievous disappointment to both boys. The unknown party had come to a standstill. He stood there in front of the long row of new lockers in which the boys who meant to take part in the principal events of the great athletic tournament kept their possessions, without which they would be more or less handicapped in their practice work. Thad had made another important discovery; indeed, it struck him as so significant that he could not forbear dragging Hugh down so that he could place his lips against the other's ear and whisper: "It's _your_ locker he's trying to open, Hugh, don't you see?" Hugh, of course, had already noted this circumstance, and felt duly thrilled, for really it struck him as something more than an accident, and along the lines of a deep design. Doubtless, his active brain started to wrestle with the problem as to why any one should wish to open his locker, since the only things he kept there consisted of his running jersey and trunks and shoes. Could it be possible that this was only some small piece of spite-work engineered by his old and inveterate enemy, Nick Lang, and ordered carried out by one of the bully's cronies; while Nick himself made certain to be in good company, so he could easily prove an alibi if accused of the mean trick. It seemed almost too contemptible to be true, since Hugh could easily purchase other garments down at the sporting-goods store in Scranton. Still, some mean natures are small enough to love to give "stabs" that might annoy the recipient; and boys sometimes grow so accustomed to certain articles of wearing apparel that being compelled to "break in" a new pair of running shoes might lose Hugh the great race! He gritted his teeth as a wave of indignation swept over him. Really it was high time this contemptible spirit of annoying those he chose to look upon in the light of enemies was crushed in Nick Lang. He had carried on with a "high horse" too long already, and, for one, Hugh felt as though combined action should be taken against him by the respectable fellows of Scranton High. But it was far from Hugh's intention to stand there and see his locker robbed by such an unprincipled fellow as Leon Disney, if, indeed, the skulker proved to be the party they suspected. Possibly Hugh moved too soon, for it would have been much wiser had he waited until the sneak thief actually had the locker open, and disclosed his full intention. Urged on to action by his indignation, Hugh started forward. Thad, realizing that it was his chum's intention to do something radical, skipped off a little to the right. He fancied that should the skulker take the alarm and try to flee, making for the open window in the rear, he was apt to turn aside and try to pass by; so his move was intended to block this little game. It turned out to be needless, for so interested as the fellow with the flash-light in his work of inserting a key in the lock, and trying to turn it, that he did not appear to notice anything wrong until Hugh was close at his elbow. Then, as Thad slipped around to one side to cover all lines of retreat. Hugh reached out a hand and caught hold of the fellow by the shoulder. At the same time he exclaimed in a severe voice: "Well, what are you doing here, I want to know, trying to break into my locker?" The other gave a tremendous start, and a low, bubbling cry, half of fright, and also of disgust, came from his lips. The woollen muffler fell from about his face, and, although he snapped off the light just then by a movement of his thumb, the others had glimpsed his features. Thad had evidently hit the target in the bull's-eye when he mentioned his suspicions concerning the probable identity of the skulker. It was Leon Disney! CHAPTER VIII LEON PROMISES TO REFORM The startled boy struggled to get free, but Hugh had taken a firmer grip upon his person, and saw to it that he could not squirm loose. "Quit your kicking!" cried Thad, indignantly, when one of the fellow's shoes came in rough contact with his own shins; "or we'll start something along the same lines! We know you, Leon Disney, so there's no use trying to hide your face." Leaning over, Thad groped around until he managed to find the hand that held the little electric torch. This latter article he tore from the grasp of Leon, and immediately pressed the button that caused the battery to work. The intense darkness around them was dissipated to some degree. Thad threw the glow directly into the face of the fellow Hugh was holding. Leon stopped his desperate struggles. He realized that the game was up so far as trying to keep his identity a secret; and, being a most resourceful sort of chap, he now resorted to another little scheme which he had undoubtedly thought out, to be used in case he was discovered, and cornered, while on his night mission. "Oh! is that you, Hugh?" he burst out, in a shaky voice. "Say, you gave me an awful scare! I thought it must be some old tramp that grabbed me, sure I did. It's all right now, Hugh, and I'm not wanting to clear out, since I know who you are. That's Thad, too, I reckon, holding my little flash-light. How you did startle me, though. I never dreamed anybody was around here when I started to come back after my watch." "What's that you say?" gasped Thad; "your watch? Tell that to the marines, Leon Disney!" "But it's so, I tell you. Thad, it sure is," persisted the other tenaciously, as though he had laid all his plans for just such an "accident," whereby his attempt to rob Hugh's locker would be held up. "I believe I must have forgotten to take it out of my locker this evening when I was dressing, after hard work on the field, running, and practising throwing the hammer. I never noticed it till long after supper, and I was afraid of what my dad would say when he asked me for it in the morning, to take back to the store where he got it, to exchange for another. So, Hugh, don't you see, the idea came to me that mebbe I might be able to get in the building out here if a window happened to be unfastened; which turned out to be the case, you know." "Yes, the very _first_ window you tackled in the bargain, Leon; how fortunate for you!" sneered the unbelieving Thad. "And say, you ought to know that this isn't your locker, because the numbers are painted big enough on the door for anybody with only one eye to see." Even this did not appear to disconcert the other boy. He was a slippery sort of customer, who always seemed able to find some sort of ready excuse, or a way to "climb down a tree" when caught in the act. He turned, and stared at the number 16 plainly on the door. Then he grinned at Thad as he hurriedly went on to explain further; for his inventive faculties seemed without end when they were exercised in order to get him out of any bad scrape: "Well, that shows my first guess was the right one after all. You see, Hugh, I knew my number was either 16 or 19, and, for the life of me, I couldn't tell which. Of course, if the first belongs to you when my number is 19, I was foolish to change my mind; though, of course, even if the key opened your locker I'd have known my mistake right away. No harm done, I hope, Hugh?" Thad made a low, growling sound, as though he put not the slightest faith in the story Leon was telling. He knew the other to be utterly unprincipled, and a willing tool in the hands of Nick Lang; indeed, there were some things about the sneaky Leon that blunt, honest Thad hated worse than the bullying propensities of the other boy. "So you really and truly left your watch in your locker, did you?" he demanded, with a perceptible sneer in his tones. "I think I did; in fact, I'm certainly hoping so," Leon hastily replied; "because if it doesn't happen to be there I don't know where I could have lost it; and I'll get a fine turning over from dad in the morning when he asks me for the same to take back, and exchange for one that keeps decent time." "Oh!" continued the still skeptical Thad, thinking to corner Leon, "then, perhaps, you'll prove your words by showing us the inside of your locker right now? Number 19 it would be, you said; well, here it is, on a direct line with Hugh's locker. Get busy with your key, Leon, and open up!" Possibly Thad was confident that the other would not venture to do as he demanded. He may have expected him to invent some handy excuse for not complying; but then the other had already laid the foundation for a reasonable sense of disappointment in case no watch was forthcoming when the locker was opened; since he said he hoped he might have forgotten it when dressing, and not lost it on the way home that evening at dusk. Leon started to obey with alacrity, as though he had no fears. His key immediately opened the door, and this, upon being swung aside, revealed a bundle of old athletic garments hastily thrown in without regard to neatness. These Leon commenced to eagerly take out, one at a time. He was careful how he handled them, as though fearful lest he might toss the silver watch out, to land on the floor with disastrous results. As he picked up such various articles of wearing apparel as used by an athlete in training, Leon continued to air his grievances, as though he meant Hugh to understand how utterly impossible it was for him to have intended any mean thing by breaking open a locker other than his own: "It was silly of me getting those numbers mixed in my head, of course; but then a figure nine is only a six turned upside down, you see. I was so worked up over missing my clock that I just couldn't think straight at all. Well, it isn't under that jersey, anyhow; nor yet covered by those trunks. I remember now I pushed it away back, so I couldn't drag it out. There's an old sweater I use when I'm overheated, and afraid of taking cold; mebbe now it's under hat." Reaching further in, Leon caught hold of the article in question, and carefully drew it toward him. Then he as cautiously lifted the torn sweater; and, as Thad turned the glow of the flash-light directly into the box they all saw the watch reposing in the corner, just as the boy had left it. Leon made a clutch for his property. He over did the matter, Hugh thought, acting in an exuberant fashion. "Oh! mebbe I'm not joyful over getting my hands on you again, you poor old time-keeper!" he exclaimed, as he snatched the silver watch up and shook it, as though any fault could be attached to the article in question. "A fine chase you've given me to-night; and playing the part of sneak thief in the bargain; but then, of course, you believe what I told you, now, Hugh, since you've seen that the watch was in my locker?" Hugh did not care to fully commit himself, it seemed, judging from the way in which he went on to say: "We've seen you recover your watch all right, Leon; and it was in your locker just as you said; but whether you forgot it, or left it there on purpose, is a question I'm not prepared to settle." Of course there was no further excuse for Hugh keeping that grip on Leon's shoulder, so he released his hold, and the other gave a sigh as of relief at this evidence of a change in policy on the part of his captor. "Say, I wish you'd do me a great favor, Hugh," Leon went on to say, as though he believed in the old maxim that it is wise to "strike while the iron is hot." "As to what?" demanded the one addressed in this whining way. "What's the use of saying anything about this business?" Leon went on eagerly. "It certainly wouldn't do any good, and I proved to you that I enter here just to recover my watch, didn't I? But mebbe it might get to my dad's ears, how I'd gone and been so careless about looking after my property. You see, he told me that if I lost this birthday present he'd not get me another watch till I graduated from high school; and say, I'm beginning to lose all hope of that ever happening in case. But you will keep mum about it, won't you, Hugh; just to save me from getting up against it rough with my strict dad?" It sounded like a reasonable request, Hugh must have thought. Besides, no matter what the intentions of Leon may have been, there had really been no harm done, owing to the fact of their being drawn to the spot by discovering his skulking figure dimly outlined in the moonlight. Hugh considered before committing himself to making any reply. He did not believe most of what the other so glibly declared, partly because he knew very well that Mr. Disney was not a strict parent at all, but a most indifferent one, or he would never have allowed his young hopeful to go in the company of Nick Lang, and take part in many of the other's practical jokes. Some of these had bordered on a serious nature, like the time the electric current was shut off abruptly when the graduation exercises were going on at night-time in the big auditorium in the high school building; and the ensuing utter darkness almost created a panic among the audience, composed principally of women and young people, the wires having been severed, it was later discovered, at a point where they entered the building. "I'll say this, Leon," he finally told the waiting boy; "I'll keep quiet about this little thing for three days, and then feel free to mention it, if the necessity arises. I'll make a further bargain with you to this effect; you fight shy of the company of Nick Lang after this, and I'll hold my tongue as long as I understand that you've cut his acquaintance; otherwise, I'll feel free to speak; and there are lots of people in this town who'll believe you had some dark motive back of your breaking into this building to-night. Your reputation is against you, Leon, you understand. Another fellow might enter here, and everybody would believe what he said; but you've long ago lost the confidence of everybody worth while in Scranton. Is it a bargain, then?" Leon replied with alacrity; but then that was no sign that he meant to keep his word. He had been caught in a downright lie on many another occasion; so Hugh did not place much reliance on his promise to reform. "Oh! as to that, Hugh," said the crafty Leon, "I've been figuring on cutting away from Nick for a long time now, and I guess I'll do it. He's got me in lots of nasty scrapes, you understand, and then just laughs at me. I'd have given him the shake long since, only he threatened to whip me black and blue if I ever did. But this would be a good chance to try it out. Yes, I'll promise you to try and break away from Nick; and I hope you'll keep mum about my coming here to-night. If you don't mind, Thad, I'd like to have my flash light now. And I ought to be going back home in the bargain, because dad doesn't like me to be out nights unless he knows where I'm at." Thad chuckled as though he considered this last in the light of a joke; for Leon roamed the streets until a late hour every night he chose; as there was no need of their staying longer, they passed out of the window, and headed toward heir respective homes. CHAPTER IX SCRANTON IN GALA ATTIRE That was, indeed, a busy Friday with the students of Scranton High. Lessons had been tabooed entirely, for what was the use of trying to hold the attention of the scholars, upon dry subjects when their thoughts continually roamed afield, and seemed concerned only with what great things were scheduled for the next afternoon? Still, they gathered at school, which was a sort of general headquarters where the various committees appointed could consult, and go forth to the work assigned to their particular charge. The girls were just as enthusiastic as the boys, and demanded equal representation upon a number of the said committees, especially the ones designed for the welcome and entertainment of the vast crowds expected to be present from neighboring towns and villages. It was going to be an event long to be remembered in Scranton, and the town dressed in gala attire in honor of the occasion. Flags and banners were being displayed as though a great wave of patriotism had overwhelmed the place. If a stranger had suddenly dropped down on the town just then he must have believed American soldiers were on the fighting line across in France, and that news had been cabled over to the effect that they had met the enemy in their first engagement, and won a decisive victory. The fairly good town brass band had promised to be on hand, and play during the best part of the afternoon. Then there would be a host of refreshment booths at which Scranton's fairest daughters would preside, accompanied in each instance by a matron of mature years, to lend dignity to the occasion. Here the good folks from Allandale, Belleville and other places, who honored the town with their presence would always be warmly welcomed, and given a cup of delicious tea, coffee or chocolate, as they preferred, accompanied with sandwiches galore, and even cake. Meanwhile it was planned that those who meant to take part in any of the events on the long programme should have a last "workout" that Friday afternoon. Saturday morning it was intended they should rest up, so as to be in the pink of condition when the meet opened at one o'clock. That might seem to be an early hour, as some had argued, but the programme was so extended at there was a possibility of darkness creeping up on them before the fifteen-mile Marathon, the latest event of the day, had been fully completed. During that energetic morning at school, when boys and girls were hustling to carry out the part of the work entrusted to them, Hugh had managed to keep an eye on Leon Disney from time to time. He felt pretty certain that the tricky boy had no intention of fulfilling the promise he had made under duress, and while a threat of exposure hung over his head, like the famous sword of Damocles, suspended by but a single hair. Leon watched Hugh also, and tried to act in a manner calculated not to arouse suspicion; but Hugh understood from his actions how matters probably stood. Leon had, of course, managed to see Nick Lang before coming to school, and explain to him what a bad fix he had managed to get himself in when caught in the act of breaking into Hugh Morgan's locker at the athletic grounds building. No doubt it had been artfully arranged between the precious pair that Leon was to seem to keep his distance away from Nick; and if at any other time the latter joined a group amidst whom Leon chanced to be standing the other was to immediately move away in an ostentatious fashion that would cause Hugh to believe he meant to keep his given word. But several times Hugh felt certain he detected sly winks exchanged between Nick and his apparently estranged pal; which could only mean that Leon was playing a double game. Still Hugh did not bother telling anyone about the affair of the preceding night. No harm had really been done, fortunately, and Leon might hold his evil propensities in check for a while if he had reason to fear disclosure. The committees were wearing their badges proudly, and each member seemed desirous of doing everything in his or her power to render the athletic tournament a wonderful success. Nothing like it had ever been attempted in the county, and for that reason they were compelled to look up all manner of accounts in papers and magazines, in order to do things properly. Mr. Leonard was a great help, for he, being a Princeton graduate, and interested in all manner of athletics for years, had kept in touch with such things. Then from various other unexpected sources assistance cropped up. Why, even old doctor Cadmus, the leading physician of Scranton, proved to be a walking encyclopedia of knowledge concerning the management of such an event; and it turned out that several times long years before, in another community entirely, he had had full charge of just such a tournament; also that he had many articles laid away telling of the modern innovations that had displaced the older method of doing things. After lunch the young people began to gather on the field by squads and battalions, and it was soon quite an animated sight, with the girls circulating around in gaily dressed bunches, and the various candidates going through their various stunts under the personal supervision of Mr. Leonard. There had been more or less talk concerning the advisability of allowing school boys to undertake such a long Marathon race. Fifteen miles, many thought, was far too strenuous an undertaking for lads as yet in their teens. Full-fledged athletes only run twenty miles in all the famous long distance races, and even at that numbers of them do not finish, the task being too much for them. But Mr. Leonard was of a different opinion, and he had his way. One thing, however, he did insist on. This was that each and every candidate entering for the Marathon fetch along with him a paper from his family physician, stating that he had undergone a rigid examination to ascertain whether he was in the pink of condition, and without the slightest heart trouble. Doctor Cadmus gladly examined all the Scranton fellows free of charge, and it was given out to the neighboring towns, from whence aspiring runners hailed, that the lack of such a physician's certificate would debar any candidate from the race. Hugh, along with several other fellows, intended to take a run of from seven to ten miles over the course that Friday afternoon. They did not wish to follow out the entire course, as that might injure their prospects for the next day, so Mr. Leonard convinced them. But half the distance would be apt to keep their muscles in good trim. Before making a start, however, Hugh wished to hang around, and watch what the other fellows were doing. He was deeply interested in the hammer throwing, as well as the sprinting, and, after seeing how well the boys acquitted themselves, felt more than ever assured that Scranton High would pull down quite a number of the fine prizes offered to successful competitors. It was while things were thus booming that a car rolled past on the main road leading out of town. Hugh noticed it particularly, for he chanced to be over at that side of the extensive field. There was a chauffeur at the wheel, and in the tonneau a lady and a boy sat, in whom Hugh quickly recognized Claude Jardine and his mother. She held her face deliberately away from the bright scene, as though appalled to know that so many parents in Scranton were so unwise, almost foolish, as to allow their sons to participate in such antics; and their daughters to attend the same. But Hugh chuckled when he saw Claude give a quick look up at his mother, as if to make certain she was not looking; after which he leaned forward and stared hard and eagerly at the wonderful picture that athletic field presented. Hugh had good eyesight, and he could detect the longing expression in the effeminate features of the boy whose mother seemed bent on making him a weakling and a "sissy." "Poor Claude, I certainly do pity you," Hugh was telling himself as the big car rolled on amidst a cloud of dust. "Deep down in your heart you are yearning to be as other natural boys are, who have red blood in their veins. If your dad had lived I warrant there'd be a different story to tell, because they say he liked all kinds of healthy sport; but, somehow, Mrs. Jardine has taken a dislike to such things that seems to keep growing stronger all the time, until it's become a regular mania with her. But unless she changes her mind there'll be a day coming when she'll bitterly regret it all. I suppose now, if she had a daughter she'd prevent her from associating with Sue, and Ivy, and Peggy, as well as all the other high-school girls whose mothers actually allow them to go to dances with us boys, and even cheer the Scranton players in a rattling good baseball game." There was an air of feverish expectation rampant throughout the whole town, and wherever young people got together the talk was of nothing else save the great event on the programme for the next day. Even many older persons seemed to have become infected with the sporting virus, because memories of other days were being recalled; and it was remarkable how many elderly men had once been deeply interested in just such things, though, of course, along somewhat less modern lines. Then again there was an undercurrent of talk that carried a thrill along with it. Stories that could not be confirmed, but were believed more or less, began to be circulated to the effect that some irresponsible parties meant to start something during the tournament that was calculated to bring disrepute upon the town of Scranton. It as even darkly hinted that the partly built, new, wooden fence had been set on fire as a lark; and quads of curious boys and girls even circulated long its entire length, bent upon ascertaining if such a thing could really be true. When they failed to find any evidence of a fire, they were still unconvinced; for, of course, it would be policy on the part of the management to conceal all traces, so as to save the good name of the town. These rumors could not be traced to any particular source, but there are always a certain number of persons who delight to circulate such stories, and, perhaps, add a little to the same with each and every additional telling, until a trivial happening becomes a colossal thing. That the committee in general charge of the great undertaking cherished some sort of fear that some daring outrage might be attempted by boys who were not connected with the high school was evident from the fact that they had had warning notices printed at the office of the _Weekly Courier_, notifying all boys who might contemplate playing any sort of practical joke during the holding of the carnival that Chief Adolph Wambold, the head of the local police, would have his entire force on the grounds, and such offenders would be harshly treated, if detected. The afternoon was well along when Hugh was approached by "Just" Smith, one of the candidates who meant to try for the Marathon prize. "Several of the boys are meaning to start off on that seven-mile spin, Hugh," the other announced as he came up; "and they want you to come along. We can start together, and then separate, as we feel disposed;" and, as this suited Hugh, he agreed. CHAPTER X WHEN MUSCLES COUNTED There were four of them who made the start, Hugh, "Just" Smith, Horatio Juggins, and K.K., the Kinkaid boy. Three of the bunch had been fielders in the baseball nine that carried off the championship pennant of the three-town-high-school league the preceding summer; and, having been known as great runners, it was only natural that they had felt impelled, to enter for the long-distance race. An equal number could be expected from both Allandale and Belleville, so that with others who would feel disposed to, at least, be in at the start, though calculating to fall out after a few miles had been run, possibly a full score would toe the string at the time the great Marathon was called. In an event of this nature a big "field" adds to the excitement of the occasion; and it is often noticed that those who have no intention of finishing usually look the most confident during the preparations for making the grand start. Well, they have no hope of getting any fun out of the race after losing sight of the crowd, and so they mean to take what they can beforehand. Talking is almost tabooed during such a race, since every breath lost in useless conversation saps so much energy. Even on a trial run Mr. Leonard had advised the boys to separate as soon as possible, and keep some distance apart, mostly to obviate this temptation to exchange views; so that each candidate could conserve every atom of his powers. So it came about that by the time two miles had been run Hugh found himself absolutely alone. Hugh had left the main thoroughfare, and was passing along a byroad that would take him around through the hilly country, until the Scranton turnpike was again reached. The other fellows had the option of doing as Hugh did, or they could continue on further, and, perhaps, get a lift back home on some farmer's wagon, or possibly a car bound for Scranton. Hugh had an idea, however, that one of them was coming along the same road a mile or more behind, and that it would turn out to be "Just" Smith. Some words the other chap had uttered when they were together before starting forth on the run gave Hugh this impression, though he could not be positive about it. At the time, it gave him little concern; but then he could not look into the immediate future, and see what it held for him. The coming of "Just" Smith would yet turn out to be an event of the first magnitude in Hugh's humble opinion; as the reader will soon learn. Hugh was jogging along nicely, and had long ago caught his second wind. He kept "tabs" upon himself, in order to know just how his energy held out, and if he was likely to be in condition for the gruelling finish that might become necessary, over the last half mile of the long course, could a visiting runner threaten to head the list with the goal in sight, and the thousands of eager spectators bursting out with cheers calculated to thrill the heart, and give fresh impetus to wearied boys. On the whole, Hugh felt fairly well satisfied with himself. He knew he had gone about as fast as ordinary runners would care to travel, who wished to conserve their strength toward the close of the race; and that he was holding back a good reserve stock of energy. Yes, he believed he was at his best, and if he failed to land the prize it as because some fellow was a better runner than he could ever hope to be. Just then he heard a sound that gave him a sudden thrill. It was like a faint human cry for help, uttered in a weak voice, and seemed to come from his right. Hugh stopped short. His first inclination was to instantly dash from the road and endeavor to discover what caused that cry. Then he had a wave of suspicion dart over him. Could this be a sly trick on the part of some enemy, meant to lure him into the brush and rocks, where he could, perhaps, be overpowered? But Nick, as well as his two satellites, Leon Disney and Tip Slavin, had been on the grounds at the time Hugh started his run, for he had taken particular notice of this fact; consequently, it was hardly likely that they could be concerned in any practical joke; and certainly no other fellow would be guilty of such a thing. That decided Hugh. He left the road, and started toward the spot where he judged that strange sound had welled forth. The country was exceedingly rough just there, and he fancied that some sort of deep gully, possibly a precipice, might lie off on his right, judging from the aspect of the land. Not hearing the sound again, Hugh uttered a loud hello. Then, as he continued to press hastily forward, he once more caught the beseeching cry. It had an agonizing strain to it, and Hugh could plainly make out the words: "Help! Oh! help! help!" Someone was evidently in trouble, Hugh decided, accelerating his pace as well as the conditions of the rough surface of the ground permitted. He had taken pains to locate the cry this time, and was, therefore, altering his course just a little. Again he called, and once more received a reply, more fearful than before: "Hurry! Oh! hurry, before it gives way, and I'm lost!" It sounded more like the voice of a girl than anything else. Hugh was thrilled at the bare thought of one of the opposite sex being caught in a trap whereby life itself was imperiled. He had been ascending all this time. From a single look, which he cast over his shoulder, he could see the road he had lately come along, trace his course, in fact, until it was lost at a bend half a mile away. He noted that a runner had just turned that bend, and was jogging along in a rhythmic, contented fashion, as though satisfied with the progress he was making; although "Just" Smith would have to speed up considerable on the morrow if he wished to be anywhere near the head of the procession when the race neared its close. Hugh, somehow, fixed the fact of his comrade's presence on his mind. He even mentally figured just how long it was likely to take the other to reach the spot where he himself had left the road; or, perhaps, that circumstance might loom up large in his calculations. Then he arrived at the brink of what seemed to e a precipice. The presence of this told Hugh plainly the nature of the task that awaited him. Someone had undoubtedly fallen over the brink, and was, even then, hanging on desperately to some jutting rock or bush that represented the only hope of safety from a serious fall. He threw himself down and thrust his head out over the edge. What Hugh saw was enough to give any boy a thrill of horror. Some ten feet below the top a human figure sprawled, kicking with his legs in the endeavor to find a brace for his feet. He was clinging to a bush that seemed to be growing from the face of the precipice, and which Hugh could see was slowly but surely giving way, one root after another losing its grip in the soil and rocky crevices. Hugh recognized the imperiled boy instantly, though utterly amazed at his discovery; he could not understand for the life of him how Claude Jardine, of all fellows in Scranton, could be placed in such a dreadful predicament. But Hugh did not waste a single precious second in trying to solve that puzzle; it could be all made plain after he had managed to save the poor chap. "Stop kicking, and keep perfectly still, Claude!" he instantly called. "But it's going to give way, and let me drop!" wailed the terrified boy. "It'll do that all the sooner if you keep moving as you are," Hugh told him sharply, with the tone of authority that one accustomed to command might use. "I'm coming down after you, so don't be afraid. Can you hold on just ten seconds more?" "I'll try to, but, oh! hurry, please!" came the trembling answer. Already Hugh was passing over the edge. He took care not to make a false movement, for the precipice was all of forty feet in depth, and a fall on the rocks below was bound to be a serious matter. To lower himself to where the imperiled boy clung he had to take advantage of numerous projecting points of rock that offered him a foothold, or a place where he could hang on with his hands. Hugh was as nimble as any boy in Scranton, which fact proved of great advantage to him just then. Had it been otherwise, he might have himself fallen, and there would then have been a double tragedy. Somehow, through Hugh's mind flashed the memory of how Claude's doting mother had always, on every occasion, condemned all athletic exercises that were intended to build up the muscles, and give new power to the body. It seemed the irony of fate that the life of her precious boy was now going to hang upon the ability of Hugh Morgan to sustain himself, and the weight of another, there upon the face of that rocky precipice! Perhaps in times to come Mrs. Jardine would discover how false her ideas were, and experience a radical change of heart. The opportunity which Hugh had once sighed for had come to him in a most wonderful way. He succeeded in making his way down in safety, though once he slipped, and had a thrill of alarm pass over him. Now he found himself alongside Claude. The boy's face was the color of ashes; Hugh had never looked upon a corpse in all his life, but he could not help comparing Claude's pallid countenance to one. He was glancing around with the eye of a general who lets nothing, no matter how trivial, escape him. Just a foot below Claude's dangling toes there was a narrow ledge. If only both of them could find lodgment upon this, and have some hold above for their hands, they might maintain their position until Hugh's shouts attracted "Just" Smith to the spot, and he could do something to aid them. "Listen, Claude," he said earnestly. "There's a way to save you, if only you keep your head about you. 'Just' Smith is coming along the road, and I'll shout out to guide him here so he can help us." "But---the bush is going to give way right off!" gasped the terrified boy. "Well, below us there's a ledge where we must plant our feet, and hold on," continued Hugh, convincingly. "I'm going to drop down to it now. Then you must try to lower yourself along the bush, inch by inch, until you feel the ledge under you. Don't be afraid, because I mean to grab hold of you; but when you feel me touching you, above all things don't let go above, or you'll throw us both down. Now, be ready, Claude; and, remember, it's going to be all right. Keep cool!" Of course, Hugh only said that last to reassure the poor chap. Claude was already cold with as cold as an icicle, in fact; and quaking with fear in the bargain. It was easy enough for Hugh to drop down another foot or so, until he felt the solid little ledge under him. Indeed, had it been necessary, such an agile fellow very likely might have continued all the way down to the base of the precipice. His next move was to find a firm hold for his left hand, to which he could continue to cling while he sustained much of the weight of the other boy, after the weakened roots of the bush gave way entirely. Claude was trying to do what he had been told, though in rather a bungling fashion. Inch by inch he allowed the bush to slip through his hands, looking down as well as he was able at the same time, in order to ascertain just how near he might be to that same ledge Hugh had told him of. CHAPTER XI THE CRISIS IN CLAUDE'S LIFE Hugh kept a watchful eye on that bush. He knew it was going to give way presently, when, unless Claude had managed to secure a fresh grip on some object with his poor scratched hands, he was likely to be dashed downward. Fortune was, however, kind in that respect, for there chanced to be a nice projection of rock, somewhat in the shape of a horn, just in the right place for Claude to seize upon, and which would help sustain his weight. Hugh knew very well, though, that most of the burden would fall upon him; and he, therefore, prepared to accept it. "Here, reach out with your left hand, Claude, and take hold of this rock. Your feet are both safely anchored on the ledge. Keep up your grit, and everything will be all right yet. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Claude?" "Yes, I do, Hugh," chattered the other, for his teeth were rattling together in a way that reminded Hugh of the "Bones" at the end of a minstrel line; if he had ever seen a Spanish stage performance he would have said they made a sound like castanets in the hands of the senorita who gave the national Castilian dance. Claude really managed to carry out that part of the task with a fair amount of success. His other hand still gripped the bush, which continued to gradually give way under the long and severe strain. Hugh braced himself. He had taken as firm a bold as was possible, and had his other arm thrown around Claude. "Steady, now, Claude, it's almost gone. When you feel it give way, try and make use of your right hand to find some other rocky point where you can hold on. I think there's one such on the other side of you. Above all, don't struggle, or you may throw me off my balance, and then it's good-bye to both of us. Now, be ready!" Hugh's calculations proved to be correct, for the bush gave way, and fell with a clatter of small stones and loosened earth, down toward the bottom of the steep declivity. Claude uttered a cry of dismay when he felt his support gone; but quickly he gripped the rocky knob with his left and more convulsively than ever, while Hugh sustained him to the best of his ability. "That was well done, Claude," Hugh now told him, his main object being to put a little more confidence in the other boy, and thus lighten his own load. "We'll manage to cling here for a bit longer. When I think 'Just' Smith is getting near by I'll let out a whoop that is bound to fetch him to our assistance." One, two, three minutes passed. It was very trying to Hugh, and already his muscles began to feel the undue strain keenly. But he gritted his teeth, and waited, as it would be only a waste of breath and energy to shout before the next runner was close enough up to locate the sound. Claude was shivering as though he would shake to pieces. He had received a dreadful fright, for a fact, and it was having its due effect upon his never strong frame. What would his doting mamma think, and say, Hugh told himself, almost with a chuckle of amusement, could she see her darling then and there, and realize how his very life depended upon the strong muscles and will to do things that Hugh Morgan had developed in himself? How slowly the seconds passed! Hugh was trying to count, so as to judge when the Marathon runner would be likely to have covered that half-mile, and be at the spot where he, Hugh, had left the road. When, finally, the time had expired he again spoke to Claude. "Don't be startled, Claude, because I'm going to shout out. Hang tight, now!" With that he sent out a whoop, and coupled it with the name of "Just" Smith. There was no immediate response, but then Hugh had already discounted this in his mind, remembering how he also had come to a sudden stop, and listened as though unable to believe his ears. Again he shouted, and once more uttered the name of the other boy. This time there came a speedy reply. "Hello! that you, Hugh?" "Yes, and I want help right away!" answered the boy who clung there with a burden on his hands. "Turn out of the road to the left, and hurry here. I'm down a precipice, Just. Keep coming, and I'll guide you all right." So Hugh continued to utter loud shouts every ten seconds or so. He could catch the calls of the advancing runner, and knew from their increasing loudness that he was gradually getting closer. Then, looking up, he saw a head projected over the brink above. He could easily understand how "Just" Smith's eyes must have almost started from their sockets when discovering the dreadful position of the pair below; and especially after he recognized Claude Jardin the last fellow in the wide world whom he would have expected to see in such a fix. "H-h-how in the wide world did you get down there, Hugh?" gasped the boy who leaned over the brink. "I came down after Claude here, who'd fallen over, and was hanging to a bush that was giving way," explained Hugh. "And now it's up to you to get us both out of this scrape, Just." "Oh, if only I had a rope!" cried the other, apparently nonplussed. "Well, wishes won't make one," said the practical Hugh; "and so we'll have to do without. But if you look around sharply I think you'll find a long pole there, for I remember noticing something of the kind." The boy above vanished for a brief period, which seemed ages to the anxious Claude; and even Hugh counted the seconds, for the strain was something serious. Then again that friendly head appeared in view. "You were right, Hugh!" called the Smith boy; "there was such a pole handy, and I've got the same right here now. It's plenty long enough to reach down to you; but I'm wondering however I'll be able to draw two of you up." "I don't expect you to, all by yourself, Just," Huge told him. "Poke the end of it down here, and keep a good stiff grip on the butt. Then we'll hold on, and find places to set our feet. Inch by inch, and foot by foot, we'll manage to climb up. You can help a little by keeping the stick coming, you know." "I get you, Hugh!" snapped the other eagerly; "and it's sure a right good scheme. But be mighty careful you don't slip, either of you. That fall'd break bones, even if it didn't kill you outright." "Don't worry about us, Just Smith; pay attention to your part of the contract, and things are bound to work out first-class. Lower away, and don't poke us off our perch, please. We've only got a risky hold below here." So saying, Hugh encouraged the other two to do their part manfully. Even Claude was shivering less than before, as though a breath of renewed confidence might have been installed in his heart by this close contact with such a stalwart chap as Hugh Morgan. It was going to be the turning point in Claude's career, of that Hugh felt positive. After this thrilling experience he was bound to awaken to the fact that he was not like other boys of his age; and demand of his mother that she permit him to participate in the life-giving outdoor sports that are a part and parcel of boy nature. They began to climb. It was slow work, but Hugh would not be hurried. Better that they waste time in gaining each foot than by an unwise step ruin all. What matter if that arm of his was almost numb with pain, and he had to press his teeth firmly together in order to continue to hold up Claude? If only the other had been a normal boy he could have helped himself wonderfully; but, as it was, he seemed as weak and helpless as a kitten that had never opened its eyes as yet. Well, half of the distance separating them from the top had been safely navigated, and so far no accident had occurred. Hugh kept encouraging his charge from time to time; and then speaking words also to the laboring, anxious boy above, directing him just how to proceed. Finally they reached the top. Hugh still ordered "Just" Smith to hold the pole as he had been doing. Then he managed to push Claude up so that he could crawl over the edge, which the other did in a speedy manner, bordering on the ludicrous. Then, to the surprise, as well as delight of Hugh, what did Claude do but turn and stretch out a helping hand, as though his first thought was to assist his rescuer to top the rise; indeed, Hugh's one arm was so utterly gone that he could hardly count on it for a single thing. Hugh would not be apt to forget this action on the part of the "sissy"; it proved what he had all along more than half suspected, that Claude really did have the making of a genuine boy in him, given half a chance for it to show itself, and the seed to germinate. And Hugh determined that he would make it his particular business to see that there came a change in Claude's dreary life. His mother could hardly refuse anything asked by the one to whom she owed the life of her son. Soon the trio lay upon the ground, breathing hard, and trying to talk at the same time. Both Hugh and "Just" Smith were consumed with curiosity to know how Claude happened to get into such a strange predicament, and he hastened to explain. After all, there was nothing so very singular about it. His mother had stopped in to see an old nurse, who had been in the family many years but was at the time lying sick at her sister's place. Something influenced Claude to get out of the big car to take a little stroll. Perhaps the sight of all those happy lads running and jumping and throwing weights had made him feel more than ever his own narrow, confined life, kept out of the society of all the other boys after school hours, and made to play the part of a "mollycoddle," as Roosevelt called all such fellows who have never learned how to take care of themselves when a bully threatens. Unused to the woods and hills, of course the first thing Claude did was to lose all sense of direction. He became alarmed, and that made matters worse than ever. So he had roamed about for almost a full hour, dreadfully tiring his poor feet and limbs, since he had never before in all his life walked so far and done such vigorous climbing. Then he had come to that precipice, and, thinking he might glimpse the cottage where the old nurse lived, somewhere down in the valley, he had incautiously crept too close to the brink, when his weight caused a portion of the soil to give way. Finding himself falling, Claude had clutched desperately around him, and, as it happened, his fingers gripped a friendly bush, to which he continued to cling even as he struggled to better his condition and shouted as best he was able. Hugh finished the story, to the edification of "Just" Smith, who admitted that if it had not been for the courage and muscular ability of Hugh the other boy must long ago have fallen to the bottom of the awful precipice. And Claude, shivering as he afterwards looked up at the forty feet and more of rocky wall, vowed he would never rest satisfied until he too had learned how to develop his muscles so that if ever again caught in a similar scrape he might have a fighting chance for his life. The two boys eventually found the cottage, although Mrs. Jardine and the car had gone down the road hoping to overtake Claude, though they were expected back again later; so, leaving Claude there, Hugh and "Just" Smith continued their seven-mile run. CHAPTER XII STARTLING NEWS FROM THE JUGGINS BOY "Burr-r-r-r!" That was the telephone bell ringing. "Hugh, will you answer it, since the chances are the call is from some one of your numerous boy chums?" the voice of Mrs. Morgan came from the dining-room, where she was looking after the silver and china, after washing up the supper dishes, for they temporarily chanced to be without a hired-girl. Hugh guessed as much. He had already been called to the several times since arriving home after his seven-mile spin. Once it had been Claude's mother, begging him to be sure and call at her house early in the morning, because she wanted to have a good, long, earnest talk with him about Claude's future; and also to let him know how brimful of gratitude a mother's heart could be toward the brave boy who, at the risk of his own life, had saved her only child for her. Hugh had promised he would see her, although he expected to be very busy on the morning of the athletic tournament and then expressed the hope that Claude and herself would honor the tournament with their presence. This she hastily assured him she meant to do, because it was now borne in on her heart that she had been making a terrible mistake in reference to the way she was bringing up her darling Claude. Needless to say, Hugh had chuckled joyously after that little talk. He guessed he would have little trouble now in removing the scales Mrs. Jardine had allowed to cover her eyes with regard to the benefits to be derived by any boy, no matter how weak he might be, through a judicious system of athletic exercises, the same to be lengthened as he gradually grew more capable of standing fatigue. "Hello!" Hugh called. A voice he immediately recognized as that of Horatio Juggins greeted him. "That you, Hugh?" "Just who it is; what's the matter, Horatio? Feeling the effects of your little jog this afternoon? I hope not, for your sake, to-morrow." "Oh! come off, Hugh," the other quickly replied. "I'd be a fine candidate for a fifteen-mile Marathon race, wouldn't I, if seven miles knocked me out? I'm as fit right now as a fiddle. But Hugh, can you come right over here now? Something dreadful has happened." Hugh had a chilly feeling pass over him. It seemed as though some sort of bad news was coming. Had the great meet been called off, for some unknown reason or other? Somehow that struck him first as a dire possibility, since it would grievously disappoint thousands of eager boys and girls, not to mention many older folks with young hearts. Now Hugh had intended to take that evening quietly, resting after his strenuous afternoon, and absolutely refuse to allow Thad, or any other fellow, to coax him outside the door. But already this resolve began to weaken. That dim mention of some possible tragedy happening started him going. "Of course I can come over, Horatio," he told the boy at the other end of the wire; "and I'll do so right away on condition that it's no joke. Tell me what's up first." "Oh! I meant to do that, Hugh," his friend hastened to say, and Hugh could detect a tremor to the boyish voice that told of excitement. "You see, it's K.K." "What's happened to him?" demanded Hugh, his mind instantly suggesting all manner of terrible possibilities, from a sudden attack of sickness to an accident whereby his life might be in danger; for with boys these things sometimes happen as unexpectedly as a flash of lightning from a clear sky. "Why, he never came back again from that run this afternoon, Hugh!" Horatio was saying, in an awed tone now. "What's that you're telling me?" exclaimed the astonished Hugh. "I thought I saw K.K. with some of the other fellows when I was starting home just before dusk came on, though, of course, I may have been mistaken about it." "You were, Hugh, you certainly were," Horatio assured him in a softened tone. "His own mother ought to know, hadn't she? Well, she's over here at our house right now, crying her eyes out, and imagining all sorts of terrible things. You remember the Kinkaids live close by us; and she knew her boy was going to take the run this afternoon along with me, so she thought I could tell her if anything had happened to detain him. Why, she says K.K. never missed his supper before in all his life. It'd have to be something _fierce_ to keep him away from his best meal of the whole day." Hugh was thinking swiftly. He realized that this was no little matter to be dismissed as unimportant. Something certainly must have happened to detain K.K. for all this time. Several hours had elapsed since the other fellows reached the terminus of the long run at the athletic grounds. Why then had not K.K. shown up? "Keep the rest till I get there, Horatio!" he told the other. "Then you're sure coming, are you, Hugh?" "Right away," Hugh added. "Well, I'm glad, because you'll know what to do about it. And there's something else!" "Yes?" "I've got something to tell you that, say, I didn't have the heart to explain to K.K.'s mother, because she's had enough frightened as it is; but it's looking particularly ugly to me, now that he hasn't come back. Oh! perhaps there is more'n a grain of truth in all those terrible stories those hayseeds tell about that place!" Hugh put up the receiver with a hang, made a dash for his cap, slipped on his sweater, for he knew the night air was cold, and then shot out of doors. Somehow those last few words of Horatio, breathing of mystery as they did, had excited his curiosity until it now reached fever-pitch. As he knew of several short-cuts across lots it took him but a few minutes to arrive at the Juggins home. Horatio was waiting at the door, and must have heard him running up the steps, for he instantly opened it to admit him. "Gee, but I'm glad you've come, Hugh!" was his greeting. "She's in there with mother, and taking on awful about it. It's a dreadful thing to see a woman cry, Hugh. And I'm afraid there may be a good reason for expecting the worst." "Tell me what you've got up your sleeve, Horatio," snapped Hugh, "and quit giving all these dark hints. You know something connected with K.K. that perhaps no one else does." "Guess I do, Hugh; for he confided in me, and told me not to say anything to the rest. Oh, how foolish it was for K.K. to think he could do that big job two days in succession; but he said he was feeling equal to nearly anything; and just had to make the try, since the notion had gripped him. But come on over to my den, Hugh, and I'll tell you all about it. Then you must decide what's best to be done; and say, I hope you can soothe Mrs. Kinkaid a bit in the bargain." Ten seconds later and the two boys found themselves ensconced in the room Horatio called his "den," although it was also his sleeping apartment. But he had fixed it as near like a boy's ideal of a lounging-place could be, the walls carrying the customary college pennants and a great variety of other things besides that gave them a rather crowded appearance. Evidently Horatio believed it added to the charm, for he never entered that "sanctum" without an involuntary smile of appreciation. Horatio closed the door softly after him. Hugh had also noticed how he did this just as carefully when admitting him to the front hall; and as though he expected that this must have aroused a certain amount of curiosity, Horatio hastened to explain. "You see, the poor woman is so excited, and in such a nervous condition, that she jumps up at the sound of a door closing, and starts to rush out into the hall, believing that Justin has got back home and hurried over to acquaint her with the joyous fact. Each time her disappointment leaves her worse than before. She will be needing Doctor Cadmus if this keeps on, as sure as anything." "Well, what is it you want to tell me, Horatio?" demanded Hugh, not even taking the trouble to drop down into the chair the owner of the "den" shoved toward him; for it seemed as though he must soon be on the jump---there was evidently something hanging over their heads, which would be needing prompt attention. "Why, it's just this, Hugh," began the other. "K.K. took a foolish notion he'd like to say he'd one over the full course just for practice. And, Hugh, he told me he meant to make use of the short-cut that crosses the old haunted quarry!" Hugh started, and looked serious. "Then, if anything has happened to K.K., it just have been while he was crossing that mile tract between the two main roads," he went on to say, without hesitation. Horatio nodded his head eagerly. "I jumped to that same conclusion, Hugh, only I didn't dare mention it to Mrs. Kinkaid. I thought you ought to know first of all, and decide on the program. It's terrible just to think of it; and K.K. actually pretended to make light, too, of all those stories the farmers have been telling about that awful place." "Hold your horses, Horatio!" Hugh exclaimed. "When I said that I wasn't thinking of ghosts, or anything else unnatural. I meant that in all probability poor K.K. met with some ordinary accident while on that stretch, and has been unable to continue his run. He may have tripped on a vine he failed to see, and either broken his leg, or else sprained his ankle so badly that he can't even limp along. I've known such a thing to happen---in fact, once I got myself in the same pickle, and had to crawl two miles to a house, every foot of the way on hands and knees, because the pain was frightful whenever I tried to stand up. Well, the chances are K.K. has had such a thing befall him." Horatio heaved a tremendous sigh, as though quite a weighty load had been taken off his chest. "You make me feel a heap better, Hugh, when you're so positive," he hastened to admit. "I was afraid it might be something even worse than a sprain; but never mind what I thought. The question now is, what ought we do about it?" "There's only one thing that can be done," Hugh told him in his customary straight-from-the-shoulder fashion, "which is for some of his chums to organize a searching party, get the old Kinkaid car out, and go up there to look over that abandoned road from one end to the other. We'll find K.K., or know the reason why." "That sounds good to me, Hugh!" declared Horatio, always ways ready to follow where a bold leader showed the way; "and perhaps we may have an opportunity to discover whether there is any truth about those queer happenings the farmers keep telling of whenever the old quarry is mentioned in their presence." "We'll not bother our minds about fairy stories," Hugh assured him. "What we're meaning to do is to look for a practical explanation of K.K.'s holding out. And, mark my words, the chances are ten to one we'll find the poor chap groaning alongside that road somewhere. But let's get busy now, Horatio!" CHAPTER XIII TO THE RESCUE OF "K.K." Hugh would really have been better satisfied if he could have hurried away without seeing K.K.'s mother. He feared that she might delay progress more or less, and at such a time every minute counted. But at the same time he realized that the poor lady was in a dreadful state of mind. It was necessary then that he try and soothe her anxiety, for, as Horatio knew very well, Hugh Morgan had a way of making other people feel the utmost confidence in him. "Well, let's see K.K.'s mother, Horatio; but we mustn't waste much time. We'll have to get her permission to run the car. I only hope there's a decent supply of gas aboard, or in the garage." Accordingly, Horatio led him into another room, where they found Mrs. Kinkaid in a dreadfully nervous condition. She jumped to her feet on discovering that Horatio had another boy with him, and then upon seeing that it was not the one her heart was yearning after she uttered a pitiful wail, and fell back into her chair again. Hugh wasted no time, but commenced telling her something of what he had heard from Horatio, connected with K.K.'s foolish determination to take in the entire course as though in the race. "Of a certainty he's fallen and sprained an ankle somewhere along that cross-country road, Mrs. Kinkaid," he ended with. "We mean to gather a few of the fellows, and if you'll give us permission to use your big car we intend to run up there and look that road over from end to end. There is no doubt but what we'll find K.K. and take him back with us. So please try and feel at things will turn out all right. Make up your mind we won't come back without him, that's all there is to it." Somehow the very confidence shown in Hugh's words seemed to pass along to the almost distracted lady. Her eyes lighted up with renewed courage, and she even smiled, though wanly, it must be confessed. But then Hugh was pretty much of a magician in regard to arousing a feeling of hope in the most depressed mind. "You are a thousand times welcome to the car," she hurriedly assured him; "and anything else you might want. It is dreadfully unfortunate Mr. Kinkaid is away on one of his usual business trips to the west, or he would insist on coming with you. But I feel certain, Hugh, you will manage things splendidly, and a mother's prayers will go after you, that you may not only find my boy, but that he may not have been seriously injured." "Then we'll not linger any longer, ma'am," said Hugh, eager to be on the move. Horatio wrapped himself up warmly, and the two of them shot out of the door. "Now, what first, Hugh?" Hugh seemed to have mapped out a plan of campaign in his mind, for he answered without hesitation. "We must pick up several of the fellows---Thad for one, then Owen Dugdale would be another good hand at hunting for a lost party; and, well, Julius Hobson for the third. That will make five in all,---enough to search the quarry road from end to end. Besides, we ought to carry several lanterns, because, while there is a moon, I reckon we'll find it far from light along that overgrown trail." "You just think of everything, Hugh," remarked Horatio, wonderingly. "Let's get the car, first of all," Hugh continued shrewdly, "because it can save us many steps in picking up the other fellows." By this time they were at the Kinkaid home Horatio was well acquainted with the premises, as he had played with K.K. since they were small boys together. Hugh had been told where the key of the garage was hidden, and quickly discovered it hanging on a concealed nail. "Wait till I throw the switch, and light up," said Horatio, for they had electricity at the Kinkaid place, and, of course, a bulb lighted in the garage was considered much safer than a lantern. As soon as the illumination came both boys set about examining the big touring car that occupied the garage. "Bully!" ejaculated Horatio, after making the rounds with suspended breath; "all the tires are as hard as anything. How about the supply of gas, Hugh?" for his companion had occupied himself with making an examination of the tank. "Plenty to carry us up and back twice over!" cried the delighted Hugh. "This is what I call great luck. I was afraid there would be a tire that needed changing; or else no gasolene at all." K.K. didn't realize how kind he was to himself when he fitted up the old car so handsomely, for some purpose." "Oh!" chuckled Horatio, "mebbe I know why. You see, there's going to be another barn dance next Tuesday night up at Bailey's, and I think K.K. asked a girl to go with him and Peggy Noland and Owen Dugdale. Yes, he even told me there was still room for two more, if I could coax somebody to keep me company." Hugh busied himself in starting the car going. He knew considerable about mechanics, as most boys of the present generation do, since automobiles have become so very common. Running it out of the garage Hugh bade Horatio "hop aboard," which that worthy did without a second invitation. "Better get Thad first of all, I reckon," suggested Hugh, as though he might even have figured out how best to save themselves from any unnecessary delay; "then we can clip around to Julius Hobson's place, and pick up Owen last on our way out of town." The program suited Horatio first class. Indeed, he had such perfect confidence in Hugh that anything the other said carried conviction along with it. It is a fine thing for any boy to have aroused such a spirit of trust in the minds of his comrades that they look up to him as a sort of natural leader, and obey his slightest wish without hesitation. But Hugh bore his honors with humility, and never attempted to display the attributes of a czar. Great was the astonishment of Thad Stevens when he found two excited fellows demanding that he bundle up and go with them for a night ride up to the abandoned quarry that had gained such a bad reputation among the country folks residing roundabout. The story was partly told in rapid-fire style, enough of it, at least, to cause Thad to bounce into his heavy coat, and provide himself with a lantern. He expected to become better informed from time to time as they pushed along the road. Next came Julius Hobson. They found him at home also, and, of course, he was duly worked up on hearing how poor K.K. had never returned home from his run over the long course of fifteen miles. When he heard that they needed lanterns Julius produced a new electric flashlight which had received for a birthday present, and Hugh said it would do very well as an additional means of illumination. Last of all they stopped at the home of Owen Dugdale, the dark-faced lad who lived with his grandfather in a big house, and about whom there had at one time been quite a little halo of mystery hanging. Again was the main fact mentioned concerning the necessity for a searching party starting forth to find poor K.K. Owen did not have to be urged to join the bunch; indeed, he showed himself eager to accompany them. "I can fetch a lantern, if you want me to, Hugh," he observed; "and say, do you know I'm of a mind to carry my new shotgun that I had given to me just last month, when Grandfather concluded I was old enough to want to go hunting. If we have to chase all around through that place there's so many queer stories told about we might as well be fixed so as to protect ourselves." "Huh!" snorted Horatio Juggins, skeptically, "I've always heard that ghosts don't mind ordinary birdshot any more'n an alligator would. But then fetch it along, Owen; it'll no doubt make us feel a little better when we find ourselves up in that terribly lonely tract of country. And who knows but what there might be a stray wildcat abroad in those woods. Such things have beer heard of, and I even saw the skin of a whopper shown in the market." So Owen carried out his design, and when he got aboard the big car he took with him not only a lantern, well filled with oil, but also his brand new twelve-gauge shotgun. At last they were off. Every fellow felt a peculiar sense of exhilaration that possibly even bordered on anticipation, take possession of him; for the future was there before them all unknown. Who could say what strange adventures might befall them before this undertaking was finished? Of course they had the headlights turned on at full force, and Hugh at the wheel found no difficulty in keeping the middle of the road. He did not mean to pursue a reckless pace, because, if they met with an accident it would spoil all their plans. Better to go at an ordinary rate of speed, and make haste slowly, so to speak. Meanwhile there was a clatter of tongues aboard the big car. Julius, Thad and Owen had dozens of pertinent questions ready to fire at Horatio, who was kept busy making illuminating replies. Thus the trio learned how K.K. had unwisely determined to cover the entire course and only whispered his intention to his chum, Horatio, at the same time binding him to silence, for fear lest Mr. Leonard put a damper on his plans by vetoing the scheme in the start. Then suggestions began to flow like water after a storm. All sorts of possibilities covering such a strange disappearance were advanced. Owen believed that Horatio was not far amiss when he declared there might be something in that ghost business, after all; and that poor K.K. had found it out to his cost; though, beyond this broad statement, Owen declined to commit himself, because he, of course, could not imagine what a genuine ghost would look like, in the daytime at that; or what such an apparition would be likely to do to a boy who had had the ill-luck to fall into its clutches. A dozen additional ideas were advanced, some of them bordering on the absurd and others really plausible. The unlimited resources of a boy's fertile mind in conjuring up remarkable explanations in a mysterious case like the one now engaging their attention had not yet been reached at the time Hugh suddenly announced they were close to the place where the abandoned quarry road started in from the thoroughfare they were then following. "We just passed the twin oaks I remember stood alongside the road on the left," he explained, at the same time slowing up considerably; "and they are close to the turning-in place." "I noticed them in particular, you see, because I didn't want to lose even three seconds when on the run, in searching for some sign of the spot; though, of course, I could have looked for the marks of our tires left there at the time we came back from our nutting excursion, and went through to the other road. Yes, here we are right now, and I'm going to turn in, boys." He negotiated the turn without accident, though the branches of the trees did scrape against the sides of the car in a way that made some of the occupants shudder; for already they were beginning to feel a trace of the uneasiness that their gruesome surroundings were apt to arouse within their boyish hearts. CHAPTER XIV THE SEARCHING PARTY "Hugh, it looks like we mightn't need those lanterns after all," remarked Horatio, after they had gotten well started along the dimly seen quarry road. Indeed, the brilliant headlights of the big car illuminated a radius of considerable size ahead of them and around. Every tiny twig was thrown out into bold relief, as though a powerful sun had found a way of forcing ingress through the canopy of leafless branches overhead. "Not just at present, perhaps," replied the driver at the wheel; "but they may come in handy yet. We'll wait and see." Owen sat beside Hugh, the other three occupying the tonneau of the car. There was abundance of room for all, and some to spare. Owen held his new shotgun in his hands and he kept a close watch upon the road ahead, just as though that idea connected with a ferocious wildcat might have taken hold on his mind, and he believed there was a possibility of such a thing coming to pass. Hugh drove with exceedingly great care, and made no attempt at speed. Indeed, such a thing was utterly out of the question, with that rough road to follow and the necessity of keeping a constant vigilant outlook, lest they collide with some tree. When the quarry was in full operation automobiles were an unknown luxury; and certainly no provision had ever been made for such a contraption passing along that crooked trail, with its numerous sharp curves intended to avoid natural obstacles. Three separate times already had Hugh brought the car to a full stop, and even caused the engine to cease its throbbing. This was done in order that all of them might strain their hearing, in hopes of catching some faint sound to tell that the missing boy whom they sought was close at hand. But only disappointment succeeded each attempt to pick up information. They caught the dismal hooting of an owl in some dead tree not far away, but certainly such a doleful sound did not raise their spirits materially. Several times while they were moving along Owen had seen a movement amidst the brush that gave him a little thrill; but the glimpses he obtained of the disappearing animal convinced him in one instance that it was a red fox that scurried off in alarm; while on the second occasion he rather imagined it was only a ring-tailed raccoon scuttling away and badly frightened by the intense white glow that bad suddenly penetrated his dark quarters. If there was a wildcat within twenty miles of the spot they certainly never knew of it, because no such beast of prey disclosed its presence to them while they continued on their way. But then there were plenty of thrills for the boys. Not only did the weird hooting of that horned owl come to make their flesh creep, but now and again they detected strange sounds that may have been caused by limbs of the trees rubbing together in the night breeze, but which had a wonderful resemblance to human groans. They had been pursuing their way along for some little time without much attempt at conversation; but it is pretty hard for a parcel of boys to remain long silent, no matter what the provocation. And Horatio, for one, felt urged to free his mind of certain fancies that had taken lodging there. "I say, fellows, doesn't this beat everything you ever saw all hollow?" he went on to say, for there was really no need of their keeping quiet; since they had not started out to steal a march upon any enemy,---only to find poor lost K.K. "Just listen to that awful groaning sound, will you? If I didn't know it was caused by the limbs of trees sawing across each other in the wind I'd think somebody was almost dying." "At another time I guess we wouldn't bother our heads about such a silly thing," observed Julius Hobson; "but, of course, our minds are full up with what may have happened to our comrade, and all that noise makes us shiver a heap; it's so suggestive, so to speak." "Oh! what did you think you saw then, Owen?" gasped Horatio, as, chancing to fix his gaze on the other, he noticed him suddenly elevate his gun as though tempted to shoot the same. Owen chuckled. "It was only a frisky rabbit, after all," he announced calmly enough. "I was just covering him to find out how easy I could nail the rascal, if only I was out hunting game instead of a lost boy. And we'd have had rabbit stew at the Dugdale home to-morrow, let me tell you, Horatio, if I'd cared to let fly, for I had him covered handsomely." "Well, please don't do it in a hurry again, Owen," asked Horatio, settling back once more, and hoping his throbbing heart might not beat so loudly that any of his comrades could hear it pounding against his ribs. "Remember this is no ordinary patch of woods we're in right now." All sorts of stories have been told concerning the country up here; and in passing through after nightfall we're doing what a big bribe couldn't tempt any farmer's help to try. But, Hugh, don't you think we must be getting pretty near that place by this time?" "Just about two-thirds of the way, Horatio," he was informed. "That leaning tree we passed is exactly three hundred and thirty-seven paces from the place we left the road." "Well, what do you think of that for looking ahead, fellows!" ejaculated Horatio. "Hugh here took all the trouble to count the steps while passing through, the day he came up to examine the ground. That's what I call preparedness, and I guess it counts in a race, just as much as in getting ready for war." Hugh laughed as though momentarily amused. "Well, they're both in the same category, Horatio, if you look at things from the right point of view; rival armies and rival athletes contending for the prize which in both cases would mean victory. Looking ahead is a useful hobby, and it's served me handsomely on many an occasion. I consider no time wasted that is employed to insure success; even if you never need the information you've picked up it adds to your stock of knowledge; and no fellow can have too big a fund of that." "Then we ought soon to be getting there, at this rate," continued Horatio. "Let's hope nothing happens to our old car. We'd have a jolly walk back to town if we broke down here and couldn't fix things. I'd prefer making a fire and spending the night in the woods to taking such a tramp, which would debar us from all hope of making that big run to-morrow." "With K.K. out of the game the chances for Scranton High begin to flicker some," admitted Julius. "He was showing unusual stamina right now, and secretly I was backing K.K. to bring home the bacon for our school. Of course, with Hugh and Horatio and 'Just' Smith still in the ring it isn't hopeless by any means; but they do say those Allandale chaps have unearthed several wonders at long-distance running, and they are dying to knock Scranton down this time." Again Hugh stopped the car and bade the others listen. "It isn't that I thought I heard anything suspicious, fellows," he went on to explain, when they manifested a certain amount of excitement; "but, on general principles, I think we ought to stop oftener, and find out if there's anything doing." After testing their combined hearing to the limit, and without any success, Hugh again started up. It was Thad who spoke next, and apparently he had been considering something that he would like to have made clear. "What if we pass all the way through to the other road, without learning a single thing, Hugh?" he went on to say; "do you mean to give it up, and head for home then and there?" "Well, I should hope not, Thad!" burst out Horatio; "we're none of us built that way. Because a fellow gets a single knock-down in a fight ought he to throw up the sponge right away, and own himself beaten? Why, we started out to find K.K., and sleep isn't going to visit my eyes this night until we succeed. That's the way I look at it, and I reckon the rest of you are in the same boat." "If such a thing should happen, Thad," said Hugh, sturdily, "we'll simply turn around and come back again; only, under the new conditions, some of you will have to turn out with the lanterns, and search alongside the road as we go slowly along." Horatio gave a gasp that was plainly audible. "Do you really mean, Hugh," he went on to task, in a voice that trembled more or less despite Horatio's effort to control the same, "that you half expect to find K.K.lying alongside the road, either dead, or else insensible from the pain of his broken leg?" "Well, I wasn't just thinking things would be as bad as all that," Hugh hastened to say. "What I had in mind was the chance of coming on his footprints, and then trying to follow the same. We could easily tell them, for K.K. had on his running shoes, you remember. By tracking him, step by step, don't you see, we could tell just where he met with his trouble, even find out, perhaps, the nature of his accident, and continue to follow him up." "That would suit me first rate," said Julius, promptly; "and my fine electric hand-torch might come into play with a vengeance. There's nothing better going for following a trail in the dark, because the light is focussed, you see, on a small compass. Why, you can pick up night-walkers like everything when the fishing season's on, by using a flashlight. I could even find a needle in a haystack, I believe, with one of these jim-dandy contraptions." "All right, Julius, we'll appoint you head tracker, then," chuckled Horatio. "But, after all, perhaps we'll run across our comrade yet, before we get out of this tangle. We're about to come to the most critical point of the entire trip, remember, for the old quarry is just ahead of us." Horatio chanced to be on the side of the car toward the quarry. He was not spending nearly so much time now looking ahead, leaving that task to his chums; even while talking he kept his eyes fixed upon the dark expanse that represented the surrounding woods, anticipating catching a glimpse of something, he hardly knew what, at any moment now. Doubtless all those silly yarns retailed by the ignorant gossiping farm-hands in the market-place in Scranton, while they tried to outdo one another in matching fairy stories, must have been circulating through Horatio's brain just then. The heavy atmosphere of the deserted stone quarry, and its lonely surroundings, added to the mysterious disappearance of K.K., combined to make him peculiarly susceptible to such influences as see ghosts in every white object that moves in the darkness. This being the case with the Juggins boy it was not to be wondered at that there could be traced a vein of actual gratification in his voice when he suddenly electrified his companions by exclaiming: "Hugh! fellows, I tell you I saw it right then, just as that Swanson farmhand vowed to me he did once on a time this last summer---it was a light, waved up and down, back and forth, and just like they teach you when you join the Signal Corps, and learn how to wigwag with a flag or a lantern. It came from right over yonder, where we all know the old quarry lies! And I'm not fooling, either; cross my heart if I am!" CHAPTER XV PROWLING AROUND THE QUARRY Everybody was staring hard by the time Horatio finished. Hugh, of course, had immediately stopped the car on the road, so that they were now stationary. It chanced that the spot was one of few where a glimpse of the quarry could be picked up, as the boys had discovered at the time they passed along this way, when we overtook them on their nutting trip. Seconds crept past. Each boy could measure time by the beating of his wildly accelerated heart, and as these were throbbing at the rate of something like a hundred pulsations per minute it can be easily understood that "things were going some," to quote Horatio, when afterwards telling the story. Then all of them saw what the first discoverer had attempted to describe. They stared as though fascinated. Truly Horatio had said well when he spoke of the odd movements of the mysterious light; for it moved swiftly up and down, then sideways, and in eccentric circles, after which it vanished as suddenly as it had come into being. Some of the boys sighed, as though being wakened from a dream. Horatio, of course, was full of deepest gratification, since he had detected a skeptical air in the actions of Thad and Owen, which seemed to place him in the light of one who saw things where none existed." "There, didn't I tell you?" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "And, say, wasn't that---eh, party, whoever he might be, making some sort of telegraphic signals with his old lantern or torch?" "Hugh, what do you think?" demanded Thad. "You're up in all that kind of wigwag signal work, and perhaps now you could tell what it means." "I lost some of it, I'm sorry to say, fellows," observed Hugh, gravely; "but all the same I caught enough to tell me that waving of a light was meant as a signal message, though who sent it, and to whom, is all a mystery." "But could you make out enough of the message, Hugh, to give you any idea what it stood for?" persisted Thad. "Yes, I believe I did," the other admitted, solemnly, so that each of his chums bent closer to catch the next words that fell from his lips. "I'm certain it spelled out the word 'Help,' for one; and I thought another was 'quick'!" "Oh! what do you think of that?" gasped Horatio. "The mystery deepens," added Owen, dramatically, just as he had probably been accustomed to reading in some story of excitement. "Of course," continued Hugh, immediately, "we've got to take a look around that same old quarry, and see what's going on. Somebody's holding the fort there, even if it is said to be deserted. Who and what he can be, of course, remains to be seen; but I'm not taking a bit of stock in those old wives' yarns about a ghost, remember, Horatio." "Then we'll have to leave the car on the road, won't we, Hugh, when we tackle this big job?" questioned Owen. "Of course; and since I marked the best spot where anyone could make their way along to the face of the quarry, we must start up again, and keep moving till we strike that place." "But, Hugh, do you think the---er---party making those signals with a light could have noticed our illumination, and that message was meant for us?" Horatio went on to ask, solicitously. "I'm not prepared to say," he was told, "though I don't see how anybody with eyes could miss discovering us coming along. And, besides, the old car makes plenty of noise in the bargain, to attract attention. So it looks as if he did know, and was trying to talk to us." All this only added to the thrill that was forever passing through each and every member of the night expedition. It would be manifestly impossible to describe their mixed feelings as they advanced slowly along the rough road so long abandoned to nature. A dozen times Horatio believed he heard cries; why, it seemed as though the air must be filled with uncanny sounds, for his lively imagination was working at race-horse speed just then. The car stopped short. "Wow! what's happened now, Hugh?" whisened Horatio. "We've arrived at the getting-out place, that's all," came the steady reply, as the chauffeur caused the engine to cease working and then proceeded to leave his seat, after his companion had jumped out. The lanterns were now lighted and the electric torch made ready for use. If hands trembled considerably during this operation, causing several matches to be used before the desired results were obtained, could anyone blame Owen and the other possessor of a lantern? It was a most remarkable thing that no one evinced the slightest disposition to stay by the car, and guard it against thieves. It was a case of "follow the leader," and where Hugh went they were all bound to go also. To be honest, the chances were that Horatio, for one, could not have been coaxed to separate himself from the company of his four chums; because there was a great deal of truth in that old maxim, "in union there is strength." Hugh now led the way. He had been given one of the lanterns with which to light a passage across the heaps of broken stones, earth, and rubbish, cast there at the time in the remote past when the quarry was in full blast, with workmen delving into the hillside, blasting away sections through the use of dynamite or powder, and sending out many wagon-loads of building-stone each of the six working days of the week. They did not string out in single file, but kept bunched together. Indeed, this came through no accident, but there was a method in their madness; because, you see, no fellow would want to be the hindmost in the file. Hugh showed a wonderful amount of knowledge of the place, considering that he had never before in his life placed a foot upon the ground and had to depend entirely on his former observations. But he kept on as straight as could be expected, and presently Owen managed to muster up courage enough to say in a low and most carefully guarded tone: "Hugh, did you take note of the exact spot where the light showed up? I'm asking because you seem to be heading direct for somewhere." "I believe I know where it was," Hugh told him simply. "You see, I noted several things about the face of the quarry that day we stopped to look it over; and when I saw that dancing trail of fire I figured out that it must be at just such a place, which spot I'm heading for right now. And just as you spoke I had ample proof that I was right in my guess." "Why, what happened, Hugh?" demanded Horatio eagerly. "I caught a faint glimpse of light up there," Hugh told him. "I wonder none of the rest of you happened to notice the same. It made me think that some person might be in one of those holes we saw in the face of the wall---caves, the natives call them, Horatio says. As this was somewhat deep only a tiny bit of illumination escaped, and you could just detect that when at a certain angle. Stop short, now, and see for yourselves, for there it is again!" Thrilled to the bone they stood and gaped. Hugh was pointing with his disengaged hand, half holding the lantern back of him so that its glow might not further interfere with their view. "You're right, Hugh; that's surely what it is," greed Thad, almost immediately; and each of the other three went on record with a corresponding affirmative. "Then the next thing for us to do is to find some way of climbing up to that same fissure," the leader explained, showing that he meant to lose no time in trying to open negotiations with the unknown denizens of the quarry, whose actions were becoming more and more mysterious as time passed. "Which means that we're going to beard the tiger in his den," quoth Owen, gripping his gun more firmly as he edged a little closer to Hugh; for since he was the only member of the expedition who could be said to possess a weapon it was proper that he should be found in the van at such a crisis. They walked on, not hastily, and showing no outward sign of the tumult that must have raged in each boyish heart. Now it was no longer possible for them to discern that faint glow; but such a little thing did not daunt them. Hugh had marked well the exact location of their objective point, and Hugh seldom made mistakes, those other confident fellows were telling themselves as they cheerfully trudged along. The foot of the cliff was at hand. Rains and winds and snow avalanches had, during the years that had passed since the hands of men worked those diggings, served to cut loose great quantities of debris from the face of the height, so that here and there at the foot irregular pyramids of earth and rocks could be seen. Hugh now seemed to have turned his attention from above and was bending half over, as though examining the ground. Owen knew what this meant. The other anticipated finding a track leading directly to the route by means of which that cavern halfway up the cliff might be easiest attained. And, as often happens, such reasoning proved to be the wisest thing the searchers could have undertaken, for hardly had half a minute elapsed an Hugh was heard to give vent to a low ejaculation of gratification. No one spoke, but they understood that he had found the trail he was looking for. Indeed, he at once started to move along, still bending over, holding his lighted lantern low, so that its not too good illumination would best serve him. Now they reached a sort of strange little gully, here the silt had washed down more heavily ring the period of erosion than at any other lace. Looking up, the boys could see that it afforded a steep but accessible avenue by means of which an agile person could ascend the otherwise impregnable height towering above their heads. Hugh halted not, but started up. Owen came close behind him, holding that formidable shotgun so that he could thrust it ahead of his leader would an occasion arise necessitating action. But Hugh had already warned him not to be rash, and under no condition to dream of firing until he himself had given the order. It was a queer little procession that crept up that steep trail in the gully formed by Nature during the heavy storms of summer and winter. The twin lanterns glimmered and flickered as the night wind puffed the tiny blazes; and ahead of all lay the white glow of the electric hand-torch, showing them how they were now almost at the end of their trail. Yes, the fissure extended straight into the face of the cliff. Hugh was taking them directly to the place where undoubtedly the mysterious unknown had stood on a sort of rocky platform, and indulged in all those queer telegraphic code motions with a light of some sort. CHAPTER XVI A FRIENDLY GHOST Hugh led the way straight into the fissure. As they proceeded they could see the light ahead growing stronger. Low sounds, as of voices, also led them onward; and then, upon turning a bend, they came upon a sight that had them all staring with wonder. It was indeed a cave, and of considerable dimensions. A wild beast would have delighted in such a den in which to hide from the rigors of winter, but to boys accustomed to the luxuries of home life it would doubtless have few attractions, especially after the novelty of camping-out had worn off in a week's time. It was a fire that burned which gave the light at a pile of dry wood, mostly broken branches of dead trees, showed that the occupant of the cave had laid in a supply against a rainy day. There, sitting with his back against the wall, was their missing comrade K.K. His face looked unusually white, and bore an expression of acute pain, which, however, he manfully tried from time to time to dismiss by a ghastly grin, altogether assumed, since he certainly was in no mood for laughing. They could see that his left leg was bandaged in some manner, as though he might have broken the bones, and someone had tried to bind up the limb. Even with that superficial glance Hugh marked the fact that this had been done in a fashion indicating considerable previous experience along such lines. And then they turned their attention upon the other party, the mysterious one who doubtless had found poor K.K. helpless on the ground and borne him to this cavern in the quarry. He was indeed a wild-looking party, with long, unkempt hair and a sunburnt face in which his glowing eyes were deep-seated. There was that about him to convince Hugh instantly he must be deranged, although just then the man bent over poor K.K. solicitously, and seemed to be tenderly doing something calculated to ease his pain. Hugh coughed, meaning to draw attention to the fact of their arrival. The man immediately stood up and bent a searching look upon the five lads. Perhaps he had been hearing K.K. tell how some of his chums would certainly be coming to search for him, and, therefore, even though he might wish to remain in his hidden retreat undisturbed, he manifested no hostility toward them, simply folded his arms and, stepping back, watched their approach. Hugh made gestures to indicate that they were peacefully disposed. In doing so he purposely used the signal code and spelled out the one word, "friend." He saw the wildman's thin face take on a sudden gleam of awakened interest, and he nodded his head in the affirmative, as if to reassure Hugh that they were not unwelcome. From this the boy knew the stranger must at some time have been in the army, and that even while his brain was resting under a cloud he could till send and receive messages such as had been one time his daily avocation. They reached the side of their unfortunate companion. He held out a hand to welcome Hugh. "Oh! I'm mighty glad you've come, fellows, I tell you," he told them, with a tremor in his voice. "I've had a rotten time of it all around, and suffered terribly. You see, I made a fool of myself, and tripped over a vine, so that I was thrown into a gully, with my left leg under me. Snapped both bones, he says, just above the ankle, and a fine time I've got ahead of me this winter, with no skating, hockey, or anything worth living for. But then it might have been worse, because my neck is worth more to me than my ankle. But now I do hope you can get me home. I never wanted to see home and mother one-half as much as now." "Yes, we've come in the big car, K.K.," Hugh assured him. "And we'll fetch you home right away. You ought to be looked after by Doctor Wambold; broken bones are not things to be trifled with, and while this party seems to have done the best he could it can only be a make shift." "Don't you believe it, Hugh," said the injured boy warmly; "why, he's a regular jim-dandy about such jobs. I bet you he used to be an army surgeon in his younger days, from hints he's let drop. And then he knows the Signal Corps work right off the handle to boot, even if---well, I won't say what I meant to. He's been so kind and considerate to me; my own father couldn't have been more tender. I've guessed the secret of the old haunted quarry, Hugh!" which last he almost whispered in the other's ear. "Yes, I can say the same," muttered Hugh, "because, as soon as I saw that he was using the regular army code of signals, I remembered about hearing how a certain family over near Hackensack had an uncle who used to be in the Signal Corps and was also later on an army surgeon, but who had suffered a sunstroke, and, well, was said to be a bit queer." "Yes," whispered K.K., "this is the same party. His name, I remember, was Dr. Coursens, and there was some talk last summer about his having got loose from the house and being drowned, they believed, in the river, though his body was never found. Just to think of it, he's been hiding here ever since, picking up his living almost like a wild animal. Why, right now his clothes are nearly falling off his back, and if he tries to hang out here much longer he'll be frozen to death. But, Hugh, we must let his folks know where he is so they can come after him. I believe his mind is beginning to get a little clear again, for at times he talks quite reasonably." This was all mighty interesting to Hugh, and he determined that he would let no grass grow under his feet until he had seen to it that the an with the deranged mind was once more re stored to his family. But the first thing to be done was to get poor K.K. safely back home. So he turned to the man and spoke to him, telling him that they wished to get their comrade to the car, and at the same time thanking him warmly for all he had done. Not a single word in reply did Hugh receive. The man listened and nodded his head, as though he could dimly understand what the boy was saying. Evidently he was in something of a dazed condition, if, as K.K. affirmed, his senses were beginning to assume a normal condition after years of darkness. It was a terrible job getting K.K. down from that elevated place. The man showed them how best to manage. He seemed really solicitous, and it could be seen that he had taken quite a liking to K.K. during their brief intercourse, since the latter had been found groaning on the ground. Eventually the level below the cliff was attained. Poor K.K. had groaned many times, hard though he fought to repress the sounds, for it was unavoidable that he should receive many jostlings while being transferred to the lower level. Then they made their way across the open space, and finally arrived at the waiting car, in which the injured youth was deposited and made as comfortable as the conditions allowed. The deranged man watched all this with a wistful gleam in his eye. He had fled from his kind while still gripped in the darkness of madness, but with the first glimmer of reason being seated once more on its throne he commenced to yearn after human fellowship again. Since the boys had all taken such a deep-seated interest in the matter it may be proper before the "ghost" of the haunted quarry is dropped altogether from the story to state that the very next morning Hugh went over to Hackensack and electrified the Coursen family with certain remarkable news he brought. It ended in their all starting forth and arriving at the quarry. They found the demented man awaiting their coming as though he had guessed what Hugh had in his mind. More than that he greeted them soberly, and called each member of the family by name, something he had not been able to do since that dark cloud descended upon his mind years back. There seemed reason to believe that in due time Doctor Coursen might regain his full senses again and spend a few years more with his delighted relatives before the end came. Hugh, of course, learned all about him and how he had served years in the army, first as a sergeant in the Signal Corps, and later on becoming a surgeon of considerable reputation before the accident in the tropics deprived him of his reason. Perhaps it had been the utterly helpless condition of poor K.K., when he came accidentally upon the injured boy, that had strongly appealed to the surgical spirit that still lay dormant in the brain and fingers of the insane man and which had been the main cause of the light of reason returning---surgery had been his passion, and the familiar work took him back to other days, apparently. And that very night, when Doctor Cadmus, hastily summoned to the home of Mrs. Kinkaid, examined the work of the deranged dweller of the quarry cave, he had pronounced it simply marvelous the clever way in which the other had set those bones and put a splint on the leg, with such clumsy means for working at hand. He declared he meant to interest himself deeply in the case and see if such a skillful surgeon might not be restored to the world so much in need of his kind, I with the terrible war raging on the other side of the Atlantic. To conclude with this subject, at last accounts Dr. Coursen had so far recovered as to send in his application for a berth in some hospital over in France, where his wonderful knowledge of surgery might prove useful to the countless wounded men at the front. And doubtless ere this reaches the eye of the reader he may be across the Atlantic, serving humanity in the great cause. Long would those five lads remember that strange expedition up to the haunted quarry, and what a remarkable discovery they made after arriving on the ground. It may be that Horatio, yes, and Julius also, would be less apt to clothe anything along a mysterious nature with ghostly attributes, after learning how common-sense and investigation will, in nearly all cases, turn suspicion into ridicule. But while the country folks, of course, also learned how the phantom of the quarry had turned out to be just a crazy man who had escaped from his confinement at home and gone back to primeval ways of living, few of them would ever muster up the courage to visit the deserted quarry after nightfall. It had too many thrilling associations to please them; and besides, what was the use of going out of their way just to feel the "goose-flesh" creep over their bodies when an owl hooted, or some little forest animal gave a grunt? K.K., being young and healthy, and attended carefully by good old Doctor Cadmus, was not confined to the house for many weeks. The bones did not require resetting, and rapidly knitted, so that after a while he could walk to and from school with the aid of a crutch; and later this, in turn, gave way to a cane. When February came he even threw this aid aside, and by March was seen taking his part in school rushes, as though he had never been injured at all. But his skates were never once used all winter, nor could he indulge in any sledding, both of which were favorite pleasures with K.K. On the whole, however, he felt that he had much to be thankful for; and tried not to be too greatly disappointed. But his chums would miss him when the Marathon race was on; because he had been accounted one of the best long-distance runners without exception that Scranton High could boast. CHAPTER XVII SCRANTON'S "OPEN-HOUSE" DAY Saturday opened with a promise of fair weather, and thousands of anxious hearts beat high with satisfaction when this important fact became manifest. Before the morning was half over many strangers were noticed in town, having taken the day off in order to attend the wonderful meet, of which so much had been said. Every boy in Scranton was wild-eyed, and on the run most of the time, trying to be here, there, and in half, a dozen places at once, if such a were possible. Indeed, there was so much going on it reminded some people of the famous circus that visited the town two years back, with three separate rings, and something taking place in each at the same time; so that the spectators hardly knew how to take it all in and keep from being cross-eyed. Out at the athletic grounds there were crowds gathered. Men were working at the fence, while another gang, under the orders of Mr. Leonard, carefully put in place such paraphernalia as would be needed in carrying out the programme. Even big pole had been well greased for the climbing match; while the hurdles for the obstacle race where ready to be placed in position at the proper time; and a thousand and one other matters engaged the attention of the physical director, who as probably the most industrious man in seven counties that Saturday A.M. Nor was that all. Some of the would-be contestants, not wholly satisfied with their record for proficiency, and wishing to key themselves up top-notch speed against the now near hour of trial, were on the ground, and in their working togs. Here a bunch galloped swiftly around the cinder path, with one of their number holding the watch on them to ascertain what time they made. Further along several other fellows were jumping with might and main, and showing either jubilation or deep chagrin as they found themselves able to do a shade better than ever before, or else going backward in their scoring. Indeed, that was going to be a red-letter day in the lives of all Scranton's young people. They begrudged the passing minutes, because their period of enjoyment would be shortened just so much with the loss of every sixty seconds. When Hugh came on the grounds, after his trip to Hackensack, and seeing the hermit of the quarry once more safely lodged in the bosom of his delighted family, he had only one regret. This was the fact that poor K.K., whose heart had been so set on carrying the colors of Scranton High to victory in the Marathon race, should be debarred from participating in the same by a cruel fate. As for himself Hugh was not quite so certain as before that he could accomplish such a thing as getting over those fifteen miles ahead of all competitors. What he had gone through with on the preceding day, coupled with his night journey, and only partial rest, after getting in bed at a late hour, had sapped some of his energy. But Hugh's grit and determination were just as strong as ever, and he meant to do his level best. If he fell down, why, there were "Just" Smith, and Horatio Juggins, as well as two other Scranton fellows, any one of whom might be the winner. So long as the prize fell to a Scranton High boy, it mattered little who carried off the honors, Hugh felt. Noon came at last. Everything was now ready for the opening of the athletic tournament. Chief Wambold kept watch and ward over the grounds, assisted by his entire force of uniformed men. He evidently did not intend that any boy, with a mind that turned to practical joking, should have a chance to exercise his evil propensities unchecked. Should such a thing be attempted the joker would find himself up against a snag immediately; and, as those posters announced, he was going to be harshly dealt with up to the "extreme penalty of the law." There were hundreds of people on the grounds at noon, which was a pretty good marker for the tense crowds that would soon be heading that way from every point of the compass. Most of these "early birds" were, of course, out-of-town folks, farmers' families that had come in, to market, perhaps, and they stayed over to see the great show, because everybody living for many miles round Scranton had heard about the meet, and and what a wonderful sight it would be, well worth going miles to gaze upon. These thrifty and sensible folks had, in many cases, brought their lunch along with them. Perhaps they disliked the idea of eating in small restaurants, such as Scranton, like most towns, boasted; but, no doubt, the main thing was economy in these times of scanty cash and inflated war prices. It was well worth watching when they started to open their packages, and spread out the contents on the ground or, as might be, on the benches here they had taken up their positions the better to see what went on. And really it would have made any boy's mouth water to note the immense quantities of home-made pies, doughnuts, fried chicken, and all such good things as were displayed in those farmer's wives lunch packets. At least there must be no sign of hard times when the family went on a picnic, or any other sort of pleasure jaunt. By then the crowds began to assemble in earnest. Town people, fearing a crush, hastened to leave home with the lunch dishes unwashed, and look for places to sit during the long afternoon. Along the roads every type of car, wagon, carriage, and other styles of equipages began to be seen, all heading toward the center of interest, which was the town of Scranton. Hundreds came from Allandale; indeed, it might be safe to even say thousands, for in every direction could be seen the colors of Allandale High, just as though each enthusiastic boy and girl had rounded up all their relatives and friends, and induced them to make it a point to travel to the neighboring borough, there to shout and shriek, and in other ways lend encouragement to each Allandale aspirant for athletic honors wherever they showed up. Belleville, too, must look very much like the "Deserted Village" on this particular afternoon; and, if the amount of business done depended on the few who had remained at home, her merchants would have to stay up until midnight in order to equal their customary Saturday sales. At half-past twelve the throng had become so dense that Chief Wambold and his men were compelled to enlist the services of a number of willing volunteers who, temporarily decorated with a silver shield, were vested with the authority of regular officers, in order to keep avenues open, and prevent the throng from breaking through the ropes upon the limited field where the athletes expected to compete. So far as attendance was concerned there was no longer the least doubt but that the meet would prove an abounding success; the rest remained to be proven. But the gathering athletes who began appear in little knots, coming from the dressing rooms of the building, seemed full of confidence, and answered the loud salutes of a myriad friends in the crowd with reassuring nods, and gestures calculated to buoy up their hopes. The programme would be varied. First would me several short sprints between the best runners of hundred-yard distances in the county. These were sure to key up the spectators by their thrilling intensity, as is always the case. Following fast upon these there would be hammer-throw, and the toss of the discus. Then the programme called for other athletic exhibitions along line that would lend variety, and enhance the interest, as the different schools struggled for supremacy in the arena provided, spurred on to do their utmost by ringing cheers, and the dearly beloved class songs. Everybody worth mentioning in Scranton would be there, from Dr. Carmack, the supervising head of the county schools, as well as principal of Scranton High, down the line to the Directors of the Games, the town council, the mayors of the three boroughs, and a whole host of notables besides. And how the fond eyes of father and mother would follow the movements of John, or Edward, or Philip, as though he might be the only young athlete worth watching in all that animated scene. If he won, they had always known he did not have an equal in his specialty; and should he be so unlucky as to come in at the heels of the pack, why, it was easy to be seen that he had not been given a square deal by some of the rival runners, who persisted in getting in his way, and were probably leagued together to prevent him from carrying off the prize. But no matter, he would always be a hero in the eyes of those who loved him, though he might not decorate the family mantel at home with the prizes he aspired to win. Hugh had kept fairly quiet after returning from Hackensack, and seeing the hermit once more safe in the charge of his folks. He knew that he must conserve his strength for the great undertaking that confronted him that afternoon. Those who had entered for the long-distance race would not be allowed, of course, to participate in any other event; that had been laid down as law by Mr. Leonard when they entered their names on the list of candidates. They must simply stand around and watch what was going on until the time came for staging the Marathon; when they could take their place in the long string that would await the pistol shot intended to start them on the telling grind. Horatio and "Just" Smith were on deck, looking fit and eager. Then, too, there was Nick Lang, with a grin on his heavy face every time he glanced toward the other three fellows. It was getting on, and some of the earlier events had already been carried through, amidst great roars of applause as the different prizes went, this one to an Allandale fellow, another to a boy wearing the Belleville High colors; and three in succession to local lads. "I don't exactly like the way that Nick Lang keeps on laughing to himself every time he looks over in this direction," Horatio was saying to the other two. "I've noticed the same thing," spoke up "Just" Smith; "and it makes me wonder if the tricky fellow hasn't got some slick game up his sleeve, as usual, looking to giving the rest of us trouble. You notice, don't you, boys, that, look as you will, you can't see anything of either that Tip Slavin, or Leon Disney. Now, when fellows who are as fond of outdoor sports as those two have always been, keep shy when such a great event as this meet is being pulled off, there must be a pretty good reason." "They may be somewhere in the crowd," Hugh went on to say, "because it'd be impossible for any single yellow to identify all that are in that solid heaving yelling mass of people. Nick believes he has a fair chance of leading the pack, and that makes him feel happy. I heard him say only yesterday that the one fellow he was afraid of in our whole bunch was K.K.; and now that accident has eliminated him, why, naturally, Nick feels more confidence. In imagination he's already receiving the grand Marathon prize, and hearing the crowds yelling themselves hoarse." "Well," snorted Horatio, gritting his teeth in a way he had when aroused, "if that's what pleases Nick he's got another guess coming; for three of us are also in the game; and he's got to do some mighty tall sprinting in that last half-mile if he expects to win out. Then there are a lot of other fellows in the run who may give him a pain. But, according to the programme, our race comes next after this pole vaulting contest; so, boys, we'd better be moving around, and getting our place in line, according to our several numbers." CHAPTER XVIII THE GREAT MARATHON RACE It was plainly noticeable how that vast crowd began to stir, and show signs of increased interest when the numerous trim runners entered for the big Marathon started to gather for the preliminary stage of the race. Each of the many contestants had a large number fastened upon both the front and back of his in upper garment. By these they might be recognized even at a distance; and many persons carried field or opera glasses of various types just purpose to make out who each runner was when he came in sight around the bend half a mile away, open on that last stretch that was likely to see the cruelest work of all, if the competition chanced to be keen. The boys, as a rule, looked very much like lithe grayhounds, for your natural runner is light of body, and can course along like the wind. Still, this applies more to short-distance sprinters than those whose specialty is endurance in a fifteen or twenty-mile race. Several of the fellows wore quite muscular in build, and gave evidence of a grim determination such as the bulldog possesses. These chaps might be easily distanced in the start, but they would keep doggedly on, under the spur of the knowledge contained in that old adage that "the race is not always to the swift." Hugh Morgan was, perhaps, the best built of them all, neither too heavy, nor yet betraying a weakness that would crop out after the first five miles had been covered, as might be the case with the more slender fellows. They stood in line, listening to the last words of caution delivered by Mr. Hitchens, a former Yale man who had umpired the baseball games the preceding summer in such an impartial manner that everyone had the utmost reliance on his fairness. He explained to them the simple conditions of the race,---how there must be no fouling of any kind; just how often and where the contestants must register their names in books kept by judges on the course; how each was supposed to give his word of honor not to accept any sort of lift for even a dozen feet; and that the great crowd assembled would be waiting to acclaim the first comer as the victor in the greatest long-distance race ever attempted by high-school boys, at least in that particular county. They were allowed a certain latitude as to their methods of running. If any of them could cut across lots, and still cover the entire course, as well as register faithfully wherever required, that was to be their option. Having finished his little fatherly talk, the referee stepped to one side, and gave the word for the runners to make ready. Every eye was glued on this or that contestant, according to the humor of the spectator. Each Allandale visitor saw only Allandale in that long line, swaying back and forth a trifle, like a reed shaken in the wind. They could not believe it possible that any other fellow had the slightest chance of coming in ahead of those fleet-footed boys upon whose ability they pinned their full trust. So it was with the Belleville rooters; while, of course, the natives were certain the prize was already as good as won by Hugh Morgan; or, it might happen to be, Horatio Juggins, "Just" with, or possibly Nick Lang, the last-named looking ever so confident, as he leaned over nearly double in his favorite crouch, his fingertips in contact with the ground, and his knees bent. Then came the sharp report of the pistol. "They're off!" involuntarily exclaimed a thousand persons in unison, as the line of nimble runners was seen to leap into action, and shoot away with amazing speed. There were a few little lively brushes in the start, before the runners settled down to real business. Some were immediately left behind, but this fact seemed to give them little concern, for they kept jogging away as though quite happy. Doubtless, a number had entered with no idea of covering more than a few miles of the long course. They just enjoyed the excitement, and the honor of being able to say they had once run in a fifteen-mile schoolboy Marathon race. After a bit these novices would drop out, perhaps even hasten back with various clever excuses for giving up; and having gained the cheers of their particular coterie of friends they could don a few more clothes to keep off the chill, and settle back to watch the rest of the entertainment. Their opinion would naturally be much sought after, as to the chances of this or that genuine contestant; which was one of the things they desired. As it takes considerable time for even fleet-footed runners to go over a fifteen-mile course, the sensible committee, who knew just about how long the crowd would have to wait, had provided plenty of amusement meanwhile. Interspersed with a number of minor events, such as further sprinting matches for younger entries, and some more pole vaulting, as well as Indian Club exhibitions of skill, would come the humorous features of the meet. These are always popular with the country people; indeed, nearly everybody seems to welcome them as a diversion calculated to raise hearty laughter. There was also keen competition even in the potato race; and the crowd yelled itself hoarse to the antics of those who met with all manner of mishaps when engaged in the hurdle, and the obstacle affairs. The boys who had engaged to try for these prizes seemed to "get their dander up," as some fellow expressed it, and the way they struggled and vied with one another was "equal to a circus with a brass band." Although mention may not have been made of he fact up to now, the Scranton band was giving of its very best from time to time, and the air robbed with martial music suitable to a country just then at war with a foreign nation. It was a fair sort of band in the bargain, and well worth listening to; so that the music really added greatly to the enjoyment of the occasion. When the three-legged race was pulled off the spectators howled their sympathy with this or that pair of contestants as they hopped along, now rolling on the ground while bound together, and, at times, even trying to creep in desperation, then it seemed as though a difference of opinions in the two minds trying to control what was just the same as one pair of legs, caused confusion, and a lack of progression. Later on came the climbing of the greased pole. This always comical enough, and aroused much enthusiasm. Nobody seems to be a favorite, and each successful attempt to mount is greeted with shrieks of laughter. So long as a valiant fellow is seen to be steadily making his way upwards inch by inch, he may be applauded; but let him display the slightest hint of having "shot his bolt," and begin to slip back again, howls of derision will greet his ears, so that in confusion he finally gives it up, and retires in haste. All sorts of small means are resorted to in order to allow the contestant to get a surer grip on the slippery pole; for, up to a certain point, these are allowable. One rubs sand in his hands, and for a brief time this seems to enable him to do splendid work; but then it soon wears away, and then his troubles begin; until, unable to make further progress, he is seen to glance over his shoulder to note how far from the ground he has risen. This is a sure sign of weakening, and, of course, the watchful crowd again roars at him to keep right on, that he's doing nobly, and all that; but John knows better, and so down he comes with a rush, and passes out, shaking his head in disgust and bitter disappointment; for possibly he had been within five feet of the top when his energies failed him. So the time went on, merrily enough. Many persons were declaring they had not enjoyed such an afternoon for years, and felt weak from so much laughter. Watches were being consulted more and more frequently now. "It's getting time we saw something of those chaps," could be heard here and there, showing that numbers had figured things out, or else received a tip from an authority in the game as to just how long it was likely to take a fleet runner to cover fifteen miles of good road. Anxious eyes were being strained unduly, watching the bend half a mile beyond. It could be seen from almost any part of the field, fortunately, though once the big board fence was in position, the view would be partly cut off. It had been arranged, as is always done, that when a runner was sighted nearing the bend a gun would be fired by the sentry on duty there, to attract the attention of the crowd, so that they might have the first glimpse of the leading contestants, as they rounded that abrupt curve where the view was shut off. There was now nothing going on in the arena, the entire programme having been carried out. Still, few, if any, left their seats, although they had been there for several hours, it might be. The deepest interest centered upon the completion of the Marathon race. In comparison to this exhibition of school-boy endurance and pluck the other affairs seemed to sink into insignificance; although at the time they occurred doubtless those who had friends entered were wildly excited. But then the race that has already been finished is never as intensely interesting as the one in process of being run; just as the fish landed never seems quite so wonderful as the fellow who is still swimming the waters, and eyeing the baited hook as though tempted to take a hazard. Seconds seemed fraught with undue importance, and many impatient fellows, upon consulting their watches, were seen to hold the same up to their ear, as though to make sure the time-piece had not stopped, so leaden-footed did the minutes seem to move along. Some of the girls had commenced to sing their class songs, but in a mild sort of way; for they did not wish to lose the sound that would denote that a runner was in sight at the second bend, and could be expected shortly to come into view at the head of the last half-mile strip of road leading to the goal. Once an engine on the railroad not far away gave a sharp whistle that thrilled everybody, and numberless eyes were glued on the point up the road where the first runner must appear. Then a general laugh ran around because of the false alarm. But everything must have an end, and that keen anxiety finally met with its reward. Plainly came the heavy boom of the waiting gun. Everyone craned his or her neck to see. Hearts beat quicker with eager anticipation. Which one of the thirty contestants would be the first to appear? There might be several in a bunch, primed for the final sprint for goal. The very thought thrilled hearts, and added color to cheeks, as well as made eyes sparkle with anticipation. Allandale was cheering now; Belleville rooters were strangely quiet; for, so far, the outcome of the great race was still wrapped in mystery; but the solution would soon come, they knew. Another heavy boom told that a second runner was just around the bend, and when a third discharge quickly followed the crowd knew there was going to be an exciting finish to the Marathon. Then a plainly audible sigh broke forth as the first runner was seen rounding the bend, and starting on the home stretch, but wabbling badly as he ran, being almost completely exhausted. CHAPTER XIX ON THE FINAL MILE OF THE COURSE Meanwhile, in order to understand certain important events that came about, it is necessary that we follow the runners, and devote this chapter to what occurred up to the time that first fellow came lunging around the final bend, having covered the whole course up to the final lap. For a mile or so along the road there were bunches of schoolboys and girls waiting to give some of the contestants a cheering word as they flashed past. The enthusiasts, however, would not linger long, for they likely enough wished to see the comical part of the programme carried out. Besides, once the runners had straggled past their posts the only interest remaining for them in the race was its conclusion. So they would want to get back to the grounds, and secure positions along the line to the first bend, where they could greet each contestant as he appeared, and cheer him on; for he would probably need encouragement, being near the point of exhaustion. Hugh had figured things out exactly, and knew what he could do. He was not alarmed because several of the visiting runners led the way, and even "Just" Smith had quite a little lead over him. Pegging along, Hugh covered mile after mile with a steadiness that he had reduced to machine like motion. He had timed himself, and the whole course was mentally charted for his guidance. If he reached the cut-off road at a certain time he would know things were moving just as swiftly as necessary. Those boys who strained themselves in that first seven miles would be apt to rue their rashness when they began to feel their legs quiver with weakness under them, and still miles remained to be covered ere the goal came in sight. And, besides, they were sure to be in no condition for a hot final sprint, in case of keen competition. So Hugh, having registered as required at two booths on the way, and thus learned the order in which the trio ahead of him seemed to be running, finally arrived at the sunken quarry road. He recognized the landmarks before he reached the spot; and losing not a second of time darted among the trees. "Just" Smith was still leading him, for here and there he could distinguish the other's foot prints, where the ground chanced to be a little moist. Hugh also had reason to believe that Nick Lang was coming strong not a great distance behind him. He wondered whether Nick meant to take advantage of the old quarry road as well as he and "Just" Smith, and Horatio in the bargain. For that matter Hugh did not care an iota; if Nick considered it would be to his advantage he was at liberty to benefit by this scheme of Hugh's. It was all for the glory of Scranton High; and far better that Nick won the prize, than that it should be taken by an Allandale, or a Belleville contestant---that is, if he won it honestly. Apparently, on the face of the returns, when half of the fifteen-mile course had been run, the victory was likely to be carried off by Whipple, the fleet-winged Allandale chap who had played right, field during the baseball matches; "Just" Smith; himself; or possibly Nick Lang. There was always a dim and remote possibility, however, of a dark horse forging to the front on the home stretch. This might be Horatio Juggins, or Mc. Kee, or perhaps that Belleville runner, Conway, who had looked so confident when Hugh surveyed the line of eager faces at the start. Hugh remembered every foot of the way along that quarry road. He had a faculty for impressing features of the surrounding landscape on his mind, so that he could recall it at pleasure, just as though he held a photograph in his hand. Now he was drawing near the quarry itself, the loneliest and most gruesome stretch of the entire cut-off; with "Just" Smith still in the lead. Hugh felt proud of his chum, and often chuckled as he contemplated the other's supreme delight in case a fickle fortune allowed him to come in ahead; for honors of this sort were a rare thing in the past of the Smith boy; and certainly he had never before been so close to reaping such a colossal prize as the winning of the Marathon would be reckoned. Now Hugh glimpsed the quarry on one side of him. How his thoughts flew backward to marshal the strange events so recently happening there, in which he and some of his comrades had had the good fortune to participate. Just then he heard a plain groan. It gave him a little thrill, but not because he fancied there was anything supernatural connected with the sound. Looking in the direction from whence the groan came he discovered a boy sitting on the ground, and rubbing his lower extremities vigorously. It was "Just" Smith! Evidently something not down on the programme had happened to the boy who led the race across the quarry road. Hugh suspected treachery immediately. He turned aside, and sprang towards his chum. "Hey! what ails you, 'Just' Smith?" he called out, wasting some of his precious breath in the bargain. "This isn't the way to win a Marathon, don't you know? What if you have barked your shin?---forget all about it, and get moving again!" The Smith boy looked very sad, as he shook his face dolefully. "Huh! wish I could, Hugh," he hastened to mumble, still rubbing his shin, and making faces as though it hurt him considerably. "I've tried to run, but shucks; what's the use when you can hardly limp at the best? I'm through, Hugh, sorry to say. You keep on, and bag the prize; next to winning it myself I'd love to know you took it away from that Whipple chap." "But---how did the accident happen, 'Just' Smith?" continued Hugh. "Accident nothing!" snapped the other, between his set teeth. "It was all a set-up game to knock one of us out of the race, I tell you. If you'd been leading at the time, why, that shower of rocks must have met you." "Rocks, did you say?" exclaimed Hugh, looking dark. Just then the sound of footsteps was heard. A runner went past them on the full tear. It was Nick Lang, and when he turned his face toward the two on their knees the wicked look on his grinning face told more eloquently than words how his brain had been the one to hatch up this miserable trick whereby he hoped to gain an advantage over one of his schoolmates who might happen to be leading him in the race. He vanished down the road, still running strong. "Just" Smith almost howled, he was so furious. "That's the chap who engineered this rotten game, I tell you, Hugh!" he snapped. "And chances are ten to one it was Leon Disney and that Tip Slavin who threw all those stones, and then ran away laughing, so I couldn't glimpse 'em. Say, I was struck in half a dozen places. I've got bump on my head nearly as big as a hen's egg; and my elbow hurts like everything. I was so flustered that I must have got twisted in a vine, or else struck a root, for I fell, and barked my shin something fierce. I wanted to chase after the cowards, but knew it was silly to think of such a thing. Then I tried to keep on, but it wasn't any use, and I gave it up as a bad job. But Hugh, I hope you don't mean to let that skunk profit by his trickery. Please start off, and beat him out, if it takes a leg." "But I hate to leave you here, 'Just' Smith, much as I'd like to chase after Nick, because now he deserves to be beaten." "Oh! don't bother about me, Hugh. I'll try and get to the main road, even if I have to _crawl_. Later on you can come back for me in some sort of rig. Whew! but I'm as mad as a hatter because I've lost my fine chance, when I was going so strong, with plenty of reserve force held back." Hugh realized that duty called upon him to do as his chum demanded. It would be a shame if Nick Lang actually profited through such a rank act of treachery toward his fellows of Scranton High. An individual should be ready to sacrifice his school or its interests to his own personal ambition, and certainly never should it be allowed that he gain his ends through such a dastardly trick as the waylaying of another on the road, and his being assaulted, as "Just" Smith had been. "All right, I'll do it, then!" Hugh exclaimed, with a look of sudden determination. "Expect me back later on, old fellow! Bye-bye! Don't try to do too much, and hurt yourself worse!" With these words he sprang away. "Just" Smith gave him a parting cheer, that must have come a bit hard, owing to the pain he suffered, and also the bitter disappointment that wrung his boyish and ambitious heart. Hugh had but one thought now, which was to speed along at such a clip as to allow him to finally overtake and pass the treacherous Nick, and leave him in the lurch. The spur of punishing the other for such dastardly conduct was apt to prove an incentive calculated to add considerably to Hugh's running. Nick had the advantage, since he must be well on the way to the main thoroughfare by now; and once that was gained there was a clear field ahead of him. But one more registering station remained, and that was at a certain turn on the way home. Then would come the final three miles, with the pace increasing constantly, as those in the lead vied with each other to get ahead, or to retain that proud position. Hugh quickly regained the mastery over his aroused feelings. He must stay cool and collected so as to do exactly the right thing at the right time. A little slip in the way of judgment was likely to lose him the race, for he now learned as he gained the main road, that there were not only one but two competitors ahead of him. Yes, the fleet-footed Whipple had somehow managed to spin along over the ground, and was now not far behind Nick Lang. Possibly the fellow from Allandale had also secretly examined the course and discovered a cut-off on his own account, through means of which he anticipated gaining a great advantage over all the other runners in the Marathon. Hugh now set out to make steady gains. He must be within a certain distance of those two fellows by the time the last stretch was reached, or else all his hope of overtaking and passing them would be lost. He found that his powers of endurance and speed had not been misjudged, for they responded nobly when called upon for a further spurt. Now, he was greatly lessening the distance separating him from Whipple; who, in turn, seemed able to hold his own with Nick. The latter began to show the first signs of distress when they were at the beginning of the last two miles. He looked over his shoulder, and no runner ever is guilty of such an unwise proceeding unless his heart has commenced to be filled with grave doubts as to his being a winner. Again did Hugh notice Nick doing this, and he took fresh courage from the circumstance. Yes, and looking more closely he also saw that Nick was not running true to form any longer; he had begun to wobble more or less, as though unable to continue on in a straight line. That was another bad sign, since it causes the runner to cover unnecessary ground; and also indicates a weakening heart. Hugh let out another burst of speed. He was closing the gap rapidly; and, apparently, Whipple also seemed to be gaining on the almost played-out Nick. They were now within less than a mile of the finish; the last turn would soon be reached, with the gun booming out the fact of their arrival. Hugh girded his loins for a Garrison finish, and gloried in the conviction that he was in trim to do himself credit. CHAPTER XX THE BOY WHO WON---CONCLUSION "It's Nick Lang, as sure as anything!" shouted a boy who happened to possess an excellent pair of field-glasses. "Nick Lang in the lead!" howled another; "well, what do you think of that? Where, oh, where, oh, where is Hugh Morgan about this time; and 'Just' Smith in the bargain?" "But Nick is a Scranton High boy after all, and that's a heap better than to see an Allandale fellow come in ahead!" cried another near by. "Look! a second runner has turned the bend; and see how he is coming up on poor wobbly old Nick hand-over-fist!" "Hello! what's this mean?" whooped a visitor exultantly. "Surely I know the second fellow's build. It's certainly our great Whipple! He's going to cop the prize, boys! Give Whipple an Allandale yell right now to encourage him!" Even as a score of boyish throats roared in response to this entreaty a third runner was discovered rounding the bend. He appeared to be tearing along at race-horse speed, as though having a reserve stock of power upon which to call in this closing half-mile of the long race. "Hugh Morgan!" The words seemed to run like wildfire through the vast crowd. Everybody repeated them, some with a growing delight, others with a sense of impending disaster to the wild hopes they had been so ardently cherishing; all according to the viewpoint they held. Scranton's register was rising, while Allandale visitors began to feel something was on the verge of happening to crush the budding paean of victory that was ready to bubble from their lips. Nick evidently knew that he had shot his bolt. He, doubtless, tried frantically to encourage his legs to move faster, but they refused to hearken to the call. Whipple was now rapidly closing the short gap existing between them. At the same time it could be seen that the Allandale runner veered a trifle, as though to give Nick a fairly wide berth when passing. Plenty of fellows noticed this fact, nor did they wonder at it. The tricky character of Nick Lang was pretty well known, and they believed he would not hesitate about throwing himself sideways, so as to collide with Whipple when the other was in the act of passing him; although such a vindictive act could, of course, not better the position of the local runner a particle. When Whipple actually took the lead a great roar arose from thousands of throats. Doubtless many wild-eyed Allandale enthusiasts already counted the victory as won. They could be seen commencing to throw their hats and caps into the air, boy-fashion. Others, wiser, gripped their hands, and held their breath while waiting to see the actual finish of the great race. Of a truth Whipple was doing splendidly, there was no gainsaying that; but coming on back of him was one who appeared to be making much better time. Hugh was gaining fast, they could see. The only question that remained to be settled was whether Whipple had it in him to increase his pace sufficiently to cross the tape first; or, on the other hand, if Hugh Morgan was able to speed up still more, and close the gap. How the shouts rang out. Everybody seemed to be cheering madly at the same time. Men stood up, and waved their arms; girls embraced each other, though not an eye was turned away from that wonderful finish of the great Marathon race. Now, Hugh had apparently released his final effort. He was gaining faster and faster. Whipple seemed to know that he was in deadly peril. He, too, looked back over his shoulder in alarm, possibly meaning in desperation to almost burst a blood vessel if he found that his rival was about to overtake him. That proved his eventual undoing, though the result was no longer in doubt. He lost his balance, and, being so exhausted that he could not stand longer, pitched headlong to the ground, just as the fleet Hugh jumped into the lead, raced twenty steps further, broke the extended tape, and thus won the race. How the heavens seemed to fairly quiver with the roars that broke out! It had been a most thrilling finish for the greatest race ever run in all the country. Time might come and time might go, but never would those who had been so fortunate as to witness the conclusion of the Marathon forget the thrilling spectacle. Hugh bore his honors meekly. He utterly declined to let some of the Scranton fellows pick him up and bear him around on their shoulders, as they threatened to do. After the prizes had been duly awarded the assemblage broke up, and the roads leading out of Scranton were soon blocked with hundreds of vehicles of every description carrying home the visitors. Even Allandale and Belleville had no reason to be disappointed over the general results, for their young athletes had fared very well, all things considered. Of course, most of them would rather have seen the Marathon won by a representative from their school than to "scoop in" all the other prizes grouped together; but since it had to go to Scranton, they voiced the opinion of most people when they declared they were glad Hugh Morgan had won it, and not Nick Lang. Even though overwhelmed with congratulations on every hand, Hugh did not forget his promise to "Just" Smith. As soon as he could get into his street clothes he hunted a fellow who chanced to have his father's flivver handy, and easily won his consent to take him along the road in the direction of Belleville, in order to find poor "Just" Smith, and get him home again. This they did without any mishap, and it may be easily understood that the disappointed boy hailed their coming with great joy. He knew all about that grueling finish of the big race in the bargain, some of those Allandale chaps passing by in vehicles having readily informed him as to the winner, and what a tremendously thrilling sight the finish had been. Of course, since "Just" Smith had not once glimpsed the figures of his assailants, and as conviction can hardly rest upon a burst of vindictive boyish laughter, there was no public denunciation of Nick Lang and his cronies. Everybody could give a good guess, however, as to who was guilty; and after that Nick was destined to feel himself more ostracized by his schoolmates than ever before. The great athletic tournament had proven to be a complete success, being marred by no serious accidents, for which many a devoted mother in Scranton gave thanks that same night, even though her boy may not have won undying fame through gaining a prize. Hugh himself was more than satisfied, though he would have been almost as well pleased had it been poor "K.K.," "Just" Smith, or Horatio Juggins who had won the big race, so long as the honor of Scranton High was upheld. That was to be the finish of the fall sports, but with winter so near at hand, and that vast field being put in order for flooding, it might readily be guessed the boys and girls of Scranton were in line for considerable more fun while Jack Frost held sway over his frozen dominions. That this supposition proved to be a correct one may be judged from the title of the fourth and following volume in this series, which can be had wherever boys' books are sold, and bearing the suggestive title of _"The Chums of Scranton High at Ice Hockey_; or, _A Wizard on Steel Runners._" Get it, if you have enjoyed reading about Hugh Morgan and his loyal comrades in this and previous books; you will find it just as deeply interesting as anything that has gone before, since the boys of Scranton enter upon a fresh line of healthy competition, this time upon the ice. THE END 
12689	----	THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN or Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports By H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. "The High School Sneak" II. Dick & Co. After the School Board's Scalps III. Not So Much of a Freshman IV. Captain of the Hounds V. The "Muckers" and the "Gentleman" VI. Fred Offers to Solve the Locker Mystery VII. Dick's Turn to Get a Jolt VIII. Only a "Suspended" Freshman Now IX. Laura Bentley is Wide Awake X. Tip Scammon Talks---But Not Enough XI. The Welcome With a Big "W" XII. Dick & Co. Give Football a New Boost XIII. "The Oath of the Dub" XIV. On the Gridiron with Cobber Second XV. Gridley Faces Disaster XVI. The Fake Kick, Two Ways XVII. Dick's "Find" Makes Gridley Shiver XVIII. Fred Slides into the Freeze XIX. Dick & Co. Show Some Team Work XX. Out for That Toboggan XXI. Thanks Served with Hate XXII. The Only Freshman at the Senior Ball XXIII. The Nitroglycerine Mystery Speaks Up XXIV. The Capture of the Bank Robbers XXV. Conclusion CHAPTER I THE HIGH SCHOOL SNEAK "I say you did!" cried Fred Ripley, hotly. Dick Prescott's cheeks turned a dull red as he replied, quietly, after swallowing a choky feeling in his throat: "I have already told you that I did not do it." "Then who did do the contemptible thing?" insisted Ripley, sneeringly. Fully forty boys, representing all the different classes at the Gridley High School, stood looking on at this altercation in the school grounds. Half a dozen of the girls, too, hovered in the background, interested, or curious, though not venturing too close to what might turn out to be a fight in hot blood. "If I knew," rejoined Dick, in that same quiet voice, in which one older in the world's ways might have detected the danger-signal, "I wouldn't tell you." "Bah!" jeered Fred Ripley, hotly. "Perhaps you mean that you don't believe me?" said Prescott inquiringly. "I don't!" laughed Ripley, shortly, bitterly. "Oh!" A world of meaning surged up in that exclamation. It was as though bright, energetic, honest Dick Prescott had been struck a blow that he could not resent. This, indeed, was the fact. "See here, Ripley-----" burst, indignantly, from Dick Prescott's lips, as his face went white and then glowed a deeper red than before. "Well, kid?" sneered Ripley. "If I didn't have a hand---the right hand, at that---that is too crippled, today, I'd pound your words down your mouth." "Oh, your hand?" retorted Ripley, confidently. "The yarn about that hand is another lie." Dick's injured right hand came out of the jacket pocket in which it had rested. With his left hand he flung down his cap. "I'll fight---you---anyway!" Prescott announced, slowly. There were a few faint cheers, though some of the older High School boys looked serious. Fair play was an honored tradition in Gridley. Ripley, however, had thrown down his cap at once, hurling his strapped-up school books aside at the same time. "Wait a moment," commanded Frank Thompson, stepping forward. He was a member of the first class, a member of the school eleven, and a husky young fellow who could enforce his opinions at need. "Get back, Thomp," retorted Ripley. "The cub wants to fight, and he's got to." "Not if he has an injured hand," retorted Frank, quickly. "He hasn't," jeered Ripley. "And he's got so fight, if he has four lame hands." "He can fight, then, yes," agreed Thompson. "But remember, Fred, it's allowable, when a fellow's crippled, to fight by substitute." "Substitute?" asked Fred, looking uncomfortable. "Yes; I'll take his place, if Prescott will let me," volunteered Frank Thompson, coolly. "You? I guess not," snorted Ripley. "I won't stand for that. I'm a third classman, and you're a first classman. You're half as big again as I am, and-----" "The odds wouldn't be as bad as you're proposing to take out of this poor little freshman with the crippled hand," insisted Thompson. "So get ready to meet me. I'll allow one of my hands to be tied, if you want." Yet even this proposition couldn't be made alluring to Fred Ripley. He knew Thompson's mettle and strength too well for that. Dan Dalzell, another freshman, had been standing back, keeping quiet as long as he could. "See here," proposed Dan, stepping forward, "isn't a freshman allowed to say something when his friend is insulted?" "Go ahead," nodded Thompson, who knew Dan to be one of young Prescott's close friends. "Dick isn't in shape to fight, and I know it," continued Dan Dalzell, hotly. "But Ripley wants something easy, like a freshman, so he can have me!" "And me," cried Tom Reade, also leaping forward. "He can have one with me, too," offered Harry Hazelton. "Same here," added Greg Holmes and Dave Darrin. All five of the speakers were freshmen, and close chums of Dick Prescott's. "Say, what do you think I want---to fight a whole pack?" demanded Ripley, hoarsely. "Oh, you don't have to fight us all at once," retorted Dave Darrin. "But you've insulted our friend, and you've taken a sneaking advantage of him at a time when you _knew_ he couldn't handle anyone as big as you are. So, Ripley, you're answerable to Prescott's friends. I'll tell you what you can do. There are five of us. You can take any one of us that you prefer for the first bout. When you've thrashed him, you can call for the next, and so on. But you've got to go through the five of us in turn. If you don't, I'll call you a coward from now on. You're bigger than any of us." "See here, Cub Darrin," raged Ripley, starting forward, his face aflame, "I don't allow any freshman to talk that way to me. I won't fight you, but I'll chastise you, and you can protect yourself if you know how." He made a bound forward, intent on hitting Darrin, who stood his ground unflinchingly. But Thompson seized the third classman by the shoulder and shoved him back. "Now, stop this, Ripley, and you freshmen, cut it out, too," warned the athletic first classman. "This is descending to a low level. We don't want a lot of bickering or mouth-fighting, and we don't intend to have anything but fair play, either." "As this is largely my affair," broke in Dick Prescott, who had had time to cool down a bit, "let me have a chance to make an offer." "Go ahead," nodded Thompson. "Then," proposed Dick, "since you won't let me fight today, why can't this meeting hold over until my hand is in shape? Then I'll agree to give Ripley all he wants." "That's the only sensible thing I've heard said in five minutes," declared Frank Thompson, looking about him at other upper classmen. "Is it the general opinion that the fight hold over for a few days, or, say, a fortnight?" "Yes," came back an eager, approving chorus. "Then so be it," proclaimed Frank. "And now, remember, Ripley, this fight is not to be pulled off until the school agrees to it. If you pick any trouble with Prescott until you get the word, or if you try to find any excuse for hitting him while his hand's out of shape, then you'll answer to the school for your conduct. You know what that means, don't you?" "Humph!" snorted Fred Ripley. "All this fuss about the High School sneak!" Again Dick started forward, but Thompson caught him firmly. "Hold on, freshie!" advised the older boy. "Save it up. Bottle it. You can have all the more fun out of Ripley when your hand is in shape." "His hand is in as good shape as it ever was," retorted Ripley, scornfully. "And he lies when he says he didn't do this." Ripley swung, so as to display the tail of a short topcoat that was one of his treasures. The garment was fashionably made and of the best material, for Ripley's father was a wealthy lawyer in Gridley, and the young Ripley hopeful had all the most costly things a boy can prize. Along the tail of the coat some miscreant had daubed a streak of fresh white paint. Ripley had found it there when donning the coat to leave school at one o'clock that day. Fred knew that Dick had been in the coat room after recess, and, as he disliked the freshman, Ripley had accused Dick of the deed. Having fired his parting shot, Fred turned on his heel, sauntering over to where the fluttering group of girls waited. One of them, Clara Deane, stepped forward to meet him. "Fred, why do you have anything to do with such a low-down fellow as Prescott?" asked Clara, contemptuously. "He's the sneak of the school," uttered Fred, harshly; "but I can't let even a sneak streak my coat with paint." "And he never did such a thing, either!" broke in Laura Bentley, disdainfully. "Fred Ripley, you accused Dick Prescott of playing off a lame hand. I know how his hand became crippled. Dick wanted me to promise not to tell how it happened, but now I'm going to. Wait and you can hear, both of you." "I don't want to, I'm sure," rejoined Clara, with a toss of her head. "Come along, Fred." This pair of students walked away together. They always did, after school was out. The Ripleys and the Deanes were neighbors. The other girls, however, followed Laura, as, with quick, resolute step, she marched over to where the High School boys still lingered. "Boys," began Laura, "Mr. Prescott has been accused of pretending about a hurt hand. I know how he injured it; and, as he did it-----" "Please don't say any more, Miss Bentley," begged Dick, flushing. "Yes, I shall," insisted Laura, quietly. "It happened night before last. Dick Prescott didn't want anything said about it, and neither did the police, so-----" "The police?" chipped in several of the High School boys and girls. "Yes, the police wanted it kept quiet, so they could have a chance to catch the fellow," Laura hastened on. "But they've had time enough, now, to catch the rascal, if they're ever going to. You see, it happened this way: Mother had forty-five dollars on hand that belonged to the church fair fund. So, night before last, she asked me to take it over to Miss Bond, the treasurer. I was going through Clinton Street, in one of the dark spots, when a man jumped out from behind a tree and made a snatch for the purse that I carried in my hand. "Well, somehow---I don't just know how," Laura continued, "I managed to keep hold of the purse and I screamed, of course. Then some one came running down the street as fast as he could---and Dick Prescott leaped at the rascal. It was a hard fight---a fearful one." The girl shuddered even then, in the telling, but she continued: "The wretch was twice as big as Dick Prescott. I thought Dick was going to be killed. Twice the fellow broke loose, and started to run, but what do you think Master Dick was up to?" "What?" chorused the interested audience. "Master Dick had his mind set on subduing the robber and holding him for the police. So he tried to stop the wretch from getting away. At last, however, the fellow hurled Dick backward, so that he fell. When he got up he was lame. You all may have noticed that Mr. Prescott limped a bit yesterday?" "Yes; he _did_," confirmed Frank Thompson. "And his hand was hurt, too---I know that," insisted Laura. "For he escorted me to Miss Bond's, and then home. When we got there, I asked my father, who is a doctor, to take Dick into the office. Father said, afterwards, that Dick's right wrist was sprained, and his ankle wrenched a bit, too. He said Dick would be doing well to have the full use of his wrist in a week. Then the police came, when my father telephoned for them, and the police didn't want anything said for a while." "So you, a fourteen-year-old freshie, are going about at night trying to waylay footpads, are you?" demanded Thompson, resting a friendly hand on Dick's shoulder. "But why did you keep so close-mouthed, afterwards?" demanded the first classman. "Well, for one thing, I guess I was a bit ashamed," confessed Dick, reddening. "Ashamed of rushing to beauty's aid?" demanded Frank, laughingly. "Nothing like it," Dick protested, growing redder still. "I was ashamed over having let the footpad get away." "What? And he twice your size?" gasped Thompson. "Fellows, what do you think of the modest cheek of this freshie! Ashamed because he couldn't bag a full-sized thug!" "That kid's the mustard!" broke in another first classman, approvingly. "That's what he is!" came from others. "Wow! whoop!" They began crowding about the confused, blushing freshie, pumping his uninjured left hand. Then some one shouted: "He's all right, from the ground up. He's a Gridley boy! He's only a freshie in years, but he'll get over that. Now, up with Dick Prescott! On your shoulders! Give him the High School yell!" Before he could even dodge, this High School freshman found himself going up in the air. With all consideration for his injured hand the upper classmen rushed him out of the school grounds, onto the street, holding him aloft in the post of honor. The other boys followed. Even the few girls followed, waving their handkerchiefs, while a lusty roar went up: "T-E-R-R-O-R-S! Wa-ar! Fam-ine! Pesti-lence! That's us! That's us! G-R-I-D-L-E-Y---H.S. Rah! rah! rah! rah! _Gri-idley_!" "What's all that racket back there?" asked Clara Deane, turning at the head of the street. "Why, they're yelling and carrying that odious little Dick Prescott." "Must be dragging him off to give him a ducking, as he deserves," muttered Fred Ripley, gratingly. "No, no! It's the school yell, and the girls are waving their handkerchiefs." "Then they must be canonizing the school sneak," returned Ripley, frowning hard. "Well, don't wait to see," urged Clara. "We don't care about mixing up too much with such a common crowd as the Gridley H.S. students are." "Prescott is nothing but a mucker, but he spoiled my coat, and I'll make him smart for it!" uttered Fred, his face burning with sullen rage. "You'll only smirch yourself, Fred, by having anything more to do with such a fellow," Clara warned him. "When I'm even with the fellow, I won't have anything more to do with him," snorted Ripley. "But I'll wait, watch and plan for years, if I have to, to take all the conceit and meanness out of that sneak. I'll never quit until I can look at myself in the glass and tell myself that I've paid back the lowest trick ever played on me!" CHAPTER II DICK & CO. GO AFTER THE SCHOOL BOARD'S SCALPS In Gridley High School, sessions began at eight in the morning. School let out for the day at one in the afternoon. The brighter students, who could get most of their lessons in school, and do the rest of the work during the evening, thus had the afternoon for work or fun. Often, though, it happened that there were parties, or school dances in the evening. Then a portion of the afternoon could be used for study, if need be. Saturdays, of course, were free from study for all but the dullest---and the dullest usually don't bother their heads much about study at any time. Gridley was not a large place---just an average little American city of some thirty thousand inhabitants. It was a much bigger place than that, though, when it came to the matter of public spirit. Gridley people were proud of their town. They wanted everything there to be of the best. Certainly, the Gridley High School was not surpassed by many in the country. The imposing building cost some two hundred thousand dollars. The equipment of the school was as fine as could be put in a building of that size. Including the principal, there were sixteen teachers, four of them being men. In all the classes combined, there were some two hundred and forty students, about one hundred of these being girls. Nearly all of the students were divided between the four regular classes. There were always a few there taking a postgraduate, or fifth year of work, for either college or one of the technical schools. With such a school and such a staff of teachers as it possessed the Gridley standard of scholarship was high. The Gridley diploma was a good one to take to a college or to a "Tech" school. Yet this fine high school stood well in the bodily branches of training. Gridley's H.S. football eleven had played, in the past four years, forty-nine games with other high school teams, and had lost but two of these games. The Gridley baseball nine had played fifty-four games with other high school teams in the same period, and had met defeat but three times in the four years. Athletics, at this school, were not overdone, but were carried on with a fine insistence and a dogged determination. Up to date, however, despite the fine work of their boys, the citizens of the town had been somewhat grudging about affording money for training athletic teams. What the boys had won on the fields of sport they had accomplished more without public encouragement than with it. It was now October. Dick Prescott and his five closest friends were all freshmen. They had been in the school only long enough to become accustomed to the routine of work and study. They were still freshmen, and would be until the close of the school year. As freshmen were rather despised "cubs" Dick and his friends would be daring, indeed should they dare to do anything, in their freshman year, to make them very prominent. According to a good many Gridley people Dick's father, Eben Prescott, was accounted the best educated man in town. The elder Prescott had taken high honors at college; he had afterwards graduated in law, and, for a while, had tried to build up a practice. Eben Prescott was not lazy, but he was a student, much given to dreaming. He had finally been driven to opening a small bookstore. Here, when not waiting on customers, he could read. Dick's mother had proved the life of the little business. Had it not been for her energy and judgment the pair would have found it difficult to rear even their one child properly. The family lived in five rooms over the bookstore. From the time he first began to go to school it had been plain that Dick Prescott inherited his mother's energy, plus some of his own. He had been one of the leaders in study, work and mischief, at the Central Grammar School. It was while in the grammar school that a band of boys had been formed who were popularly known as "Dick & Co." Dick was naturally the head. The other members of the company were Tom Reade, Dan Dalzell, Harry Hazelton, Greg Holmes and Dave Darrin. These were the same now all High School freshmen who had stepped forward and offered to take Dick's place in fighting Fred Ripley. Dick was now fourteen, and so were all his partners, except Tom Reade, who was a year older. All of Dick's chums were boys belonging to families of average means. This is but another way of saying that, as a usual thing, Dick and all his partners would have been unable to fish up a whole dollar among them all. Fred Ripley, on the other hand, usually carried considerable money with him. Lawyer Ripley usually allowed Fred much more money than that snobbish young man knew how to make good use of. Fred and Clara Deane were undoubtedly the best-dressed pair in the High School, and the two best supplied with spending money. There were a few other sons or daughters of well-to-do people in Gridley High School, but the average attendance came from families that were only just about well enough off to be able to maintain their youngsters at higher studies. Fred Ripley, despite his mean nature, was not wholly without friends in the High School. Some of his pocket money he spent on his closest intimates. Then, too, Fred had rather a shrewd idea as to those on whom it was safe or best to vent his snobbishness. From the start of the school year, Ripley had picked out young Freshman Prescott as a boy he did not like. Dick's place in the moneyed scale of life was so lowly that Fred did not hesitate about treating the other boy in a disagreeable manner. A week after the meeting between Fred and Dick the High School atmosphere had suddenly become charged with intense excitement. The school eleven had come out of training, had played almost its last match with the "scrub" team and was now close to the time for its first regular match. Oakdale H.S. was to be the first opponent, and Oakdale was just good enough a team to make the Gridley boys a bit uneasy over the outcome. "My remarks this morning," announced Dr. Thornton, on opening school on Monday, "are not so much directed at the young ladies. But to the young gentlemen I will say that, when the football season opens, we usually notice a great falling off in the recitation marks. This year I hope will be an exception. It has always been part of my policy to encourage school athletics, but I do not mind telling you that some members of the Board of Education notice that school percentages fall off in October and November. This, I trust, will not be the case this year. If it is I fear that the Board of Education may take some steps that will result in making athletics less of a feature among our young men. I hope that it is not necessary to add anything to this plain appeal to your good judgment, young gentlemen." It _wasn't_. Dr. Thornton was a man of so few and direct words that the boys gathered on the male side of the big assembly room looked around at each other in plain dismay. "That miserable old Board of Education is equal to shutting down on us right in the middle of the season," whispered Frank Thompson to Dent, who sat next him. "You know the answer?" Dent whispered back. "What?" "Give the board no excuse for any such action. Keep up to the academ. grind." "But how do that and train-----" A general buzz was going around on the boys' side of the room. Several of the girls, too, were whispering in some excitement, for most of the girls were enthusiastic "fans" at all of the High School games. Whispering, provided it was "necessary" and did not disturb others, was not against the rules. These were no longer school children, but "young gentlemen" and "young ladies," and allowed more freedom than in the lower schools. For a few moments Dr. Thornton tolerated patiently the excited buzz in the big assembly room. Then, at last, he struck a paper-weight against the top of his desk on the platform. "First period recitations, now," announced the principal. Clang! At stroke of the bell there was a hurried clutching of books and notebooks. The students filed down the aisles, going quickly to their proper sections, which formed in the hall outside. The tramp of feet resounded through the building, for some recitation rooms were on the first floor, some on the second and some on the third. Two minutes later there was quiet in the great building. Recitation room doors were closed. One passing through the corridors would have heard only the indistinct murmur of voices from the different rooms. Within five minutes every one of the instructors detected the fact that, though discipline was as good as ever, Dr. Thornton's words had spoiled the morning's recitations. Try as they would, the young men could not fasten their minds on the work on hand. The hint that athletics might be stopped had _stung_. Dick & Co. were all sitting in IV. English. "Mr. Prescott," directed Submaster Morton, "define the principle of suspense, as employed in writing." Dick started, looked bewildered, then rose. "It's---it's-----" he began. "A little more rapidly, if you please." "I studied it last night, sir, but I'm afraid I've clean forgotten all about that principle," Dick confessed. He sat down, red-faced, nor was his discomfiture decreased by hearing some of the occupants of the girls' seats giggle. "I shall question you about that at the next recitation. Mr. Prescott," nodded the submaster. "Ye-es, sir. I hope you'll have luck," Dick answered, absently. "What's that?" rapped out Mr. Morton. Dick, aroused, was on his feet again, like a flash. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Morton," he came out straightforwardly. "That sounded like slang, or disrespect. I beg to assure you, sir, that neither was intended. The truth is-----" "Your mind is busy with other things this morning, I see," smiled the sub-master. "Ye-es, sir." Dick dropped once more into his seat. Ralph Morton sighed. That very popular young submaster, only three years out of college, was the hugely admired coach who had led the Gridley eleven to victory during the last three seasons. He was as disturbed as anyone could have been over the rumored intention of the Board of Education to take some unpleasant action regarding High School athletics. It was a terribly unsatisfactory hour in IV. English. Five minutes before the period was up Mr. Morton dejectedly closed the text-book from which he had been questioning, and remarked, tersely: "At ease!" Instantly the buzz of whispering broke forth. It was required only that not enough noise be made to disturb the students in adjoining rooms. Dick, Tom and Dan sat in the front row. Directly behind them were the other three members of the "Co." "Say," muttered Dan, in a low undertone, "Mr. Morton looks half glum and half savage this morning, like the rest of us." "Seems to," muttered Tom Reade. "What do you make of _that_?" challenged Dan. "There must be strong foundation for the little hint Dr. Thornton let fall this morning," guessed Dave Darrin. "And Mr. Morton knows it's a straight tip," added Harry Hazelton, sagely. "It'll be a confounded shame, if the Board does anything like that," glowed Dick Prescott, indignantly. "They'll be so many dead ones, if they _do_," flared Tom Reade, hotly. "Yes," agreed Dave Darrin. "But the worst about that Board of Education is that, though they _are_ dead ones, they're so very dead that they'll never find it out." "Won't they, thought" whispered Dan Dalzell, hotly. "Say, I'm inclined to think they will! I-----" "Dan!" whispered Dick, warningly. "Yep; you've guessed right," grinned Dan. "I am hatching a scheme in my mind. I'm getting up something that will bring even that dummified Board to its senses." "Then you can achieve the impossible," teased Reade. "Say, but it's a warm one that's forming this time," whispered Dan, his eyes dancing. "I'll see you fellows at recess. Not a word until then. But you-----" Ting-ling-ling. The bell connecting with the annunciator at the principal's desk was trilling in IV. English, as it was in all the other recitation rooms. IV. English rose, the boys waiting until the girls had passed from the room. A study-hour in the big assembly room followed for Dick & Co. Yet, had anyone watched Dan Dalzell, it would have been found that young man was in the reference room, and reading, or thumbing---of all volumes in the English language---the city directory! When recess broke, Dick & Co. quickly got together. By twos, Dick and Dave Darrin leading, they marched down through one of the side streets, it being permitted to High School pupils to go outside the yard in the near neighborhood. Presently Dick halted before a stone wall. He eyed Dan keenly, who had been walking just behind with Harry Hazelton. "Dan," demanded the leader, "you gave us to understand that your mind is seething again. Is that true?" "Quite true," Dan averred, solemnly. "What particular kind of cerebration is oscillating inside of your intelligence?" Dick queried. "Which?" demanded Dan, suspiciously. "No, I never! I'm not that kind of fellow." "In plain, freshman English, then, what's your scheme?" "We'll have to get statistics," announced Dalzell, "before I can come right down to bare facts. When does the Board of Education, otherwise known as the Grannies' Club, meet?" "Tonight, in the Board Room in the High School building," Dick answered. "How many members are there?" "Seven," Dick affirmed. "That's not too many, then," continued Dan, thoughtfully. "Not too many?" repeated Dick Prescott. "What do you mean?" "Why, I've been refreshing my general information about this town by consulting the city directory. From that valuable tome I discovered that there are just nine undertakers in town." "Now, what on earth are you driving at---or driveling at?" asked Dick Prescott, suspiciously, while the other partners remained wonderingly, eagerly silent. "Why," pursued Dan, "we can summon seven of the undertakers for our job, and still leave two available for the public service." Dick sprang up from the stone wall, tightly gripping Dan Dalzell by the coat collar. "Help me watch this lunatic, fellows," urged Dick, quietly. "He's dangerous. You've heard him! He's plotting assassination!" "Undertakers don't assassinate anyone, do they?" queried Dan, with an air of mock innocence. "What _are_ you plotting, then?" insisted Dick. Dan's face broadened into a very pronounced grin. "Why, see here, fellows, there seems to be some fire behind Dr. Thornton's smoke that the Board of Education may get excited over low recitation marks, and actually---_stop football_!" finished Dalzell, in a gasp. The other five chums snorted. Dan Dalzell was presently able to control his feelings sufficiently to proceed: "No one but actually dead ones would expect an American institution of the higher learning to exist in these days without football. Hence, if the Grannies' Club---I mean the School Board---are planning to stop football, or even believe that it is possible, then they're sure enough dead ones. Am I right?" "Right and sane, after all," nodded Dick. "Therefore," pursued Dan, "if the board members are dead ones, why not go ahead and bury them? Or, at the least, show our kindly interest in that direction. See here, fellows"---here Dan lowered his voice to the faintest sort of whisper, while the other partners gathered close about him---"tonight we fellows can scatter over the town, and drop into different telephone booths where we're not known. We can call up seven different undertakers, convey to them a hint that there's a dead one at the Board Room, and state that the victim of our call is wanted there at once. "What good would that do?" demanded Dick, after a thoughtful pause. "Why," proposed Dan Dalzell, "if seven undertakers call, all within five minutes, won't it be a delicate way of conveying the hint that a Board of Education that thinks it can stop football is composed of dead ones? You see, there'll be an undertaker for each member of the Board. Don't you think the idea---the hint---would soak through even those seven dull old heads?" Tom, Harry and Dave began to chuckle, though they looked puzzled. "Well, if you ask _me_," decided Dick, after more thought, "I have just one answer. The scheme is too grisly. Besides, we've nothing against the undertakers that should make us willing to waste their time. Moreover, Dan we're in the High School, and we're expected to be gentlemen. Now, does your scheme strike you as just the prank for a lot of gentlemen." "Say, don't look the thing over too closely," protested Dan, more soberly, "or you'll find lots of bad holes in the scheme. Yet, somehow, we've got to bring it to the attention of the Board that, if they go against High School football, they're real dead ones." "I've just an idea we can do that," spoke Dick Prescott, reflectively. "We can rig the scheme over, so as to save seven estimable business men from starting out on fools' errands. And we can drive the lesson home to the Board just as hard---perhaps harder." At these hopeful words from the chief the partners pricked up their ears, then crowded closer. "In the first place," began Dick, "Dan's scheme---beg your pardon, old fellow---is clumsy, grisly and likely to come back as a club to hit us over the head. Now, you all know Len Spencer, the 'Morning Blade' reporter. He's a regular 'fan' over the football and baseball teams, and follows them everywhere in the seasons. You also know that Len is a pretty good friend of mine. If I put Len up to a scheme that will furnish him with good 'copy' for two mornings, he'll put it through for me, and be as mum as an oyster." "How can Len help us in anything?" demanded Dave Darrin, wonderingly. "Listen!" ordered Dick Prescott, with a twinkle in his eyes. When Dick & Co. hurried back at the close of recess they felt serene and content. All the partners felt that Dick Prescott, the most fertile boy in ideas at the Central Grammar School, was going to be able to save the day for football. For Dick had propounded a scheme that was sure to work---barring accidents! That evening the Board of Education met in dull and stately session. These meetings were generally so dull and devoid of real news that the local press was content to get its account from the secretary's minutes. Tonight was no exception in this respect. No reporter was present when Chairman Stone rapped for order. Seven excellent men were these who sat around the long table. Most of them had made their mark in local business, or in the professions. Yet, as it happened, none of these excellent men had ever made a mark in athletics in earlier years. As they appeared to have succeeded excellently in life without football the members of the Board were inclined to reason that football must be a bad thing. After the session had droned along for three-quarters of an hour, and all routine business had been transacted, Chairman Stone looked about at his fellow Board members. "Gentlemen," he began, "we have noticed that, during October and November, the High School percentages, especially those of the young men, are prone to fall a bit. There can be but one cause for this---the football craze. There are signs that this stupid athletic folly will take a greater hold than ever, this year, on our High School students. I thought it best to ask Dr. Thornton to caution the students that any such falling-off of percentages this year might make it necessary for us to forbid High School football." "It was an excellent idea to give such a warning, Mr. Chairman," nodded Mr. Hegler. "So I thought," replied Chairman Stone, complacently. "Yet, while we have been in session this evening, I have been wondering why it would not be a good plan to promote scholarship at once by summarily forbidding football." "Even for the balance of this present season?" asked Mr. Chesbritt, ponderously. "Even for the balance of this season," confirmed Mr. Stone. There were murmurs of approval. Just at that moment, however, the door opened suddenly, and Reporter Len Spencer, a bright-faced young man of twenty-two, hurried in on tip-toe. Then, suddenly, he halted, looking unutterably astonished. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen," murmured the reporter. "But I did not expect to find you in session." "And why not, Mr. Spencer?" demanded the chairman, crisply. "Why, I---er---I---well, to be candid, gentlemen, 'The Blade' had information that some one had died here." "Died here?" gasped Chairman Stone. "Upon my word that would be a most extraordinary thing to do in the presence of this Board. Where did you get such very remarkable information, young man?" "It was telephoned to 'The Blade' office," Len Spencer replied. "By whom?" "I---I really don't know," replied the young reporter, looking much embarrassed. "I don't believe our editor, Mr. Pollock, does, either. The news came in over the 'phone. Mr. Pollock told me to rush up here and get all the facts." "The facts," retorted Mr. Stone, dryly, "would be most difficult for the members of this Board to furnish. Indeed, the only fact in which we are interested would be the name of the person who-----" Ting-a-ling-ling! As the telephone bell jangled Chairman Stone drew the desk instrument toward him, holding the receiver to his ear. "Hullo!" hailed a voice. "Is that the Board of Education's office?" "It is," confessed Chairman Stone. "Is our reporter, Spencer, there? If so, I would like to talk with him." "Yes, he's right here, Mr. Pollock. And from the extraordinary information he has brought us, I think he needs a talking-to. Wait a moment." Chairman Stone passed the instrument to Len Spencer. The members of the Board felt curiosity enough to leave their seats and gather at the head of the table. They could hear Editor Pollock's voice as it ran on: "Hullo, Spencer. Say, I've just had another 'phone from that same party. He says that he sent in his information a bit twisted. What he meant to tell us was that there are _seven dead ones_ in the Board of Education who know so little about public spirit and pride in our boys that they are even considering the idea of forbidding High School football." "Oh, that's it, eh?" asked Spencer, solemnly. "Seven dead ones?" "Yes; of course you've already discovered that there's no real tragedy up at the Board, unless they're actually planning some move against football." The seven members of the School Board looked at one another blankly, wonderingly. "Who sent you that message over the 'phone?" questioned the reporter. The seven Board members pricked up their ears still more keenly. "I don't know," came Editor Pollock's voice. "But I suspect it came from the Business Men's Club. That's a wide-awake and progressive crowd, you know, and full of local pride, even in our High School boys. But, Spencer, I'm in just a bit of a fix. I had already run out six lines on the bulletin board announcing that a sudden death had taken place in the School Board meeting. Now, I've got to run out another bulletin and explain. Spencer, you'd better come back here on the jump. Good-bye!" As the bell rang off, and the reporter laid the instrument back on the table, he said: "Gentlemen, I am ordered back to my office in haste. Yet, before I go, as a matter of news interest, I think I'd better ask you whether any action is going to be taken forbidding football in the High School?" "N-n-not to the best of our knowledge," stammered Chairman Stone. "We have---taken no action along that line." "Are you likely to take any such action tonight?" "I---I---think not." "Thank you, and goodnight, gentlemen. I offer you my apology and 'The Blade's' for having intruded on you in this fashion." As soon as the members of the Board were alone Chairman Stone glanced about him, and remarked: "So, it appears, gentlemen, that, if we do not favor High School football, we shall be regarded as what are termed 'dead ones'!" CHAPTER III NOT SO MUCH OF A FRESHMAN The next morning's "Blade" contained a column and a half, written in Reporter Spencer's most picturesque vein. The headlines ran: "School Board Hoaxed. Gentle Jokers Convey a Needed Hint. Football Not to Be Barred in High School. 'Blade' Reporter a First-off Victim in the Service of Public Spirit." It was a fine article, from a High School boy's point of view. It was an article, too, which, in a city ruled by a lively public spirit, was likely to tie the hands of a Board of Education that did not care to fly in the face of public opinion. Dick Prescott, before he went in to breakfast, read the article in secret, with many a chuckle. "You seem much interested in the newspaper, Richard," said his father, when the young freshman came to table, still holding 'The Blade.'" "Yes, sir. You know I have set my heart on making the H.S. eleven just as soon as I strike a higher class. I was afraid the School Board would abolish the game from our school. Now, I know they won't." "Hm! Let me see 'The Blade.'" Mr. Prescott glanced through the article, a faint twinkle showing in his eyes. "The School Board may stop High School football," commented Mr. Prescott, laying aside the paper. "They _may_, but it would take a good deal of courage, for that article will start Gridley on a furor of enthusiasm for the game. I wonder who got up that hoax." "Why, Dad, 'The Blade,' hints at some one down at the Business Men's Club." "Hm! I wonder who wrote the article." "Perhaps Len Spencer," replied Dick. "You know, Dad, he's a great fan for all our H.S. sports." "I can just see Jason Stone reading that article at _his_ breakfast table this morning," smiled Mr. Prescott. "Stone is a great sail-trimmer, always afraid of the man who casts a vote." "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Prescott, coming in breezily from the kitchen. Dick explained the news to his mother. "Abolish football at the High School!" echoed Mrs. Prescott, indignantly. "And I've been sharing your great wish Dick, to make the team when you're old enough. They shan't do it, anyway, Dick, until you've had your chance on the eleven!" "No, mother," replied the boy, very quietly; "I don't believe they will." With a sudden rush of recollection of other pranks in which she had known her son to be engaged in the grammar school days, Mrs. Prescott shot a sudden, wondering glance at him. But Dick, looking utterly innocent, was chewing his food. Frank Thompson, Ben Badger and Ted Butler, all seniors, and stars on the H.S. football team, had risen early that morning, every one of them feeling glum over the dread that the great sport might be "killed" for them. They were the only members of the eleven who happened to see "The Blade" early. In consequence, these three husky young Americans were on the street early. Just as naturally they ran into each other. "Whoop!" yelled Thompson, when he came in sight of his pals. "Wow!" observed Ben. "And some more!" glowed Butler. "Will they stop football _now_?" demanded Thompson. "Not while anyone is looking," averred Butler. "But say, it was great of the Business Men's Club to make such a stroke for us," went on Badger, enthusiastically. "Yes," admitted Frank Thompson, "if that was where it came from. I guess it was, all right." Arm in arm the three went off down the street, feeling as though the world had turned right side up once more. Dick met his partners on the way to the High School. All were grinning quietly. "You're the genius, Dick," admitted Dan Dalzell, cordially. "My undertaker scheme would have been ghastly. It would have taken all the edge off the joke---would have spoiled it, and the joke would have been a club that would have hit us over the head. But, say! I wonder if the Grannies' Club will dare to touch our sacred football now!" "Don't waste any time wondering," chuckled Tom Reade. "They wont." It was a happy day in the famous old Gridley High School. Actually, the recitations went off better than they had done on any day since term opening. Dick Prescott was out on the street rather early that afternoon. He wanted to run across Len Spencer, and chose Main Street as the most likely thoroughfare for the purpose. He met the reporter at the head of a little alleyway. "Well, Dick, how did you like it?" was the reporter's greeting. "Say, it was great!" Dick bubbled over. "What do they think down at H.S.?" "Think?" repeated young Prescott. "Why, everybody is in ecstasies. The gloom of yesterday has vanished like the mist from a cheap cigar. You're suspected of writing the article, too, Len. If the High School students can find any proof that you did you'll get a rouser in the way of handsome treatment." The two had stepped down just off the street into the alleyway. "Does everyone seem to believe that the job was put up at the Business Men's Club?" Dick asked. "Sure thing," nodded Len Spencer. "And no member of the Club will deny it, either, for the thing has struck the popular side of the town. Why, by tonight, there'll be at least a dozen of the members, each confidentially telling his friends that _he_ conceived the whole trick." "That'll make it all the stronger," nodded Dick. "Good thing." "Glee!" chuckled Len. "Wouldn't the whole town---including the Board members---wake up, if they only knew that the whole thing was planned out by a fourteen-year-old freshie, by name Dick Prescott!" "You won't let it out, Len, that I had any hand in it?" asked Dick, quickly. "Oh, not I," promised Len, quickly. "I gave you my word on that, son, didn't I?" "Now, see here," Dick went on, "why can't you push this thing along one day further? Why don't you interview a lot of the prominent business men on the absolute necessity of football for keeping up the H.S. spirit and traditions?" "Good idea as far as it goes," assented Len, dubiously. "But a lot of the business men might prove to be fossilized, and be against the grand old game." "Leave that sort out," hinted Dick, sagely, "and go after the right kind." "How'll I know the right kind?" asked reporter Spencer, thoughtfully. "Why, use your head a bit. There's Beck. He's a millionaire, and one of the big men of the town, isn't he?" "Yes; but he may not believe in football." "Shucks! Of course Beck believes in football," retorted Dick. "Doesn't his lumber yard furnish all the wooden goods that are needed for fences, seats, and all that sort of thing up at the athletic grounds? Doesn't Beck know that, if he said a word against football, he never get another order for lumber from the H.S. Alumni association. Then there's Carleson. He's one of the directors of the railroad, therefore a big enough man to interview." "Where does Carleson come in on hot interest in football?" "Use your head," jibed Dick. "Doesn't his railroad have lots of jobs transporting the football teams to other games, and bringing other teams here? Don't mobs of fans follow the teams and pay fare? Why, H.S. football is a dividend-payer to Carleson. Your own editor, Pollock, will come out for us. Besides the news football makes for 'The Blade,' just think of the profit from doing all the poster and ticket printing for us. Then there's Henley, who sells the team uniforms and other athletic goods _and he's one of the aldermen_! Why, man alive, there are a score of big men in town who can't afford to see H.S. football stopped. Here are some of their names-----" Dick rattled it along, giving a long list to Len Spencer, who jotted down the names. "Thank you; old man," said the reporter, cordially. "I'll get these interviews, and it'll make a corking good second-day story. Pollock says I can push this as far as I like, for it has struck a popular vein. But Pollock says he wouldn't have thought of it, Dick, if you hadn't set the ball rolling." "Then he knows the big part that my chums and I took in the game?" asked Dick, his face showing his concern. "Yes; but don't worry. Old Pollock is as mum as the grave about such things. Now, so long, Dick, old fellow. I've got to run down to the end of this alley to call on a sick friend. Then I'll hustle out and get a barrelful of interviews that will cinch and rivet football on Gridley H.S. for a century to come!" As Len Spencer vanished through one of the doorways Dick Prescott turned toward the street. As he did so, he jumped back. "We want you, freshie!" declared Frank Thompson, grimly. "And we want you badly." Badger and Butler, who were just behind the speaker, closed in firmly around the freshman. "We heard, and we didn't feel ashamed to listen," declared Thompson. "So you're the genius that has been doing giant's work for football? You are under arrest, freshie---and I hope you'll come along without making any row." Despite the severity of the looks in the faces of these three seniors, Dick Prescott did not feel very uneasy. He submitted to walking between Thompson and Butler, while Ben Badger brought up the rear. The unafraid prisoner was marched along and into another street, to where the football eleven had its "club room." This was an unoccupied store, the agent of which allowed the boys the use of the place, rent free, as long as it remained idle. When near this headquarters Ben Badger darted ahead, throwing open the door, while Frank and Ted marched in with their prisoner. "Attention!" roared Ben. Nearly all the members and substitutes of the eleven were present. They were sorting over various bits of football paraphernalia. Several of them stopped work to look up as Ben Badger slammed the door shut again. "Well, what are you making so much noise about?" demanded one of the second classmen. "You come in with a roar, and all you bring with you is---just a poor, insignificant little freshie." "Oh, but what a freshman!" thundered Frank Thompson. "Listen, fellows, what do you suppose this freshman has done?" "Lynch him for it, anyway, whatever it is," retorted another. "Wait!" commanded Thompson. "And listen." There upon Frank detailed what he and his two comrades had overheard at the head of the alleyway. Instantly the complexion of things changed. There were cheers and hoarse yells, as the football men rushed forward, crowding about Dick Prescott. "Now I've told all that I heard," wound up Thompson. "We'll have to ask Mr. Prescott to favor us with the further details, which I trust he will be inclined to do." "Mr. Prescott!" That, instead of "cub," "kid" or "freshie." Had the enthusiasm been less intense Dick would have been sure that they were having fun with him. "Go on," ordered Ben Badger briefly. "Talk up!" To have refused plain orders from a first classman might have been serious. Dick knew better. Clearing his throat he related all he could recall of how the plot came to be hatched. Nor was Dick glory-hunter enough to give himself any more credit than he did his partners. In his brief account the freshman spread all the credit for the invention equally over the six members of Dick & Co. "'Twas a great thought, and carried out like a campaign," declared Ben Badger. There was more cheering. Then Frank Thompson dragged Dick forward once more before the lined-up team. "Fellows," proposed Thompson, "we owe this freshie-----" "Stop that!" roared one of the fellows. "Prescott may be young---painfully young---but he's no freshie." "Then," amended Thompson, with grave dignity, "we owe a handsome reward to this---upper classman. May I tell him what the reward is to be?" "Go ahead, Thomp!" came an answering roar. "Then, listen, Prescott. For the great deed you have done for Gridley H.S. football every member of Dick & Co. deserves undying fame. As I can't be sure of our ability to confer that, we'll do the next best thing. In years and class you're all six of you freshmen. Now, what is expected of a freshman?" "Why," laughed Dick, "as I understand it, a freshman is a fellow who doesn't dare to be fresh." "Hear! hear!" yelled a dozen voices. "In that respect," proclaimed Thompson, solemnly, "Dick & Co. shall no longer be freshman at Gridley H.S.! If the spirit seizes any of you, then go ahead and be fresh---of course, not _too_ fresh! Mix in with the upper classmen, all of you, if you want to. Have your opinions, and don't be afraid to let 'em out---if you can't hold in any longer. To the upper class dances this winter Dick & Co. shall have a bid---if you'll all learn how to walk and glide across a waxed floor. Remember, when you're among the fellows, you don't have to keep in the back freshmen row---but see to it that you don't encourage general mutiny in your class against the superior upper classes. Finally, you can get sassy with all upper classman whenever any of you six want to---all you'll have to do, further, will be to fight." Another round of cheers confirmed Thompson's declaration. "Now, fellows, get a move on!" bawled Sam Edgeworth, captain of the football eleven. "We've barely time to get to the field and meet Coach Morton punctually." "Will you let me make one request?" shouted Dick, over the hubbub. "Yes. Go ahead! Get it out quick!" "Then please don't let out a word," begged young Prescott, "about Dick & Co., as we fellows are called, being at the bottom of the plot against the Board of Education." "Not a word!" promised Captain Edgeworth, gravely. Then Dick was hustled good-naturedly to the door, Ben Badger once more springing forward to hold it open. As Dick hurried out onto the sidewalk a hurricane of cheers followed him. Then, as the door was closing, came a fierce burst of the High School yell. Just as it happened, this parting salute couldn't have been worse timed. Within four doors Dr. Thornton, the principal, was sauntering slowly along. He heard tine hubbub, of course, and looked up, to see Dick Prescott coming out alone, a pleased look on his flushed face. Across the street, just coming out of a store, was Chairman Jason Stone of the Gridley Board of Education. "Young Prescott! Bless my soul!" murmured Dr. Thornton. "Why are the football team making such a row over that young freshman?" In another instant the principal's question all but answered itself. "Why, I wonder," muttered the good doctor, "if the enthusiasm in any way relates to the hoax on the Board. Was Prescott at the bottom of it? I'll keep it in mind and try to find out!" "If the football crew are making all that row over a mere freshman," thought Chairman Stone, "then young Prescott must be the inventor of the yarn that has made Gridley wonder whether we of the Board are so many 'dead ones.' Hm! hm! I'll find out if that's the case. Such a trick is clearly one that would call for expelling the young man from the High School!" CHAPTER IV CAPTION OF THE HOUNDS "Is that mucker going to run today?" The questioner was Fred Ripley, and his voice was full of disgust. He glared at Dick Prescott, who was seated unconcernedly on a stone wall, awaiting the arrival of Tom Reade and Dan Dalzell, the only other members of Dick & Co. who were to figure in today's event. "Is who going to run?" asked Ben Badger. "That little mucker, Prescott?" insisted Fred. "Yes," returned Badger, shortly. "Gridley H.S. is getting worse and worse," growled Ripley. "Athletics ought to be confined to the best sort of fellows in the school. These little muckers, these nobodies, ought to be kept out of everything in which the real fellows take part." "Don't be a cad, Ripley," retorted Badger, half angrily. "Oh, I'm no great stickler for caste, and that sort of thing," Fred grumbled on. "I'm democratic enough, when it comes to that, and I associate with a good many fellows whose fathers don't stand as high in the community as mine does." "That's really kind of you," mimicked Ben Badger, with another look of disgust at the rich lawyer's son. "Of course, you feel just as though anything that your father may have accomplished puts you in a rather more elect lot." "Of course, it does," retorted Fred, drawing himself up stiffly. "Still, you know as well as anyone does, Badger, that I'm not stuck up just on account of family or position. I'm ready to give the friend's hand to any of the right sort of fellows. But what is that little mucker, Prescott? His parents peddle books and newspapers." "They run a book and periodical shop, if that is what you mean," rejoined Ben, disgustedly, as he looked the young snob over for the third time. "Some mighty big people have done that in times past. As to position, Prescott's father isn't a rich man, nor a very successful one, but I wish I could look forward, some day, to being half as well educated as Dick's father is." "A dreamer, a fool, a man who couldn't and didn't succeed," sneered Fred. "And his son will be a bigger mistake in life. I don't have anything to do with that kind of people and their friends." "I'll wish you good-day, then," broke in Badger, crisply, and moved away. "I want to be reckoned as one of Dick Prescott's friends. He's one of the most promising young fellows in Gridley H.S." Ripley let loose an astounded gasp. He stood still where Badger had left him, boiling over with rage. Had Ripley been wise, he would have chosen another time for anger. Any trainer or physician could have told this young snob that just before going off on a long race is the worst possible time for letting anger get the best of one. Anger excites the action of the heart to a degree that makes subsequent running performance a thing of difficulty. Gridley H.S. was out for the October paper chase. This was an annual event, in which the sophomores, or third classmen, acted as the hares, while the freshmen played the part of the hounds. The course was six miles across country. Three courses, of equal length, were laid down, each with a different terminal. It was known, in advance, only to the hares, which course would be run over. But, which ever course was taken, it must be followed to the end. Five minutes' start was allowed to the hares. Then the hounds were sent after them in full yelp. By starting time for the hounds the hares were sure to be out of sight. An official of the first class, who followed the hares at the outset, gave the call when the five minutes were up. Beginning with that call the hares were obliged to scatter bits of paper, as they ran, all the way to the finish of the run. All three of the courses were somewhat parallel during the first five minutes of the run, but, as the hounds had no means of knowing which course was the right one, the hounds had to divide their forces until the first of the paper trails was struck. Then the "baying" of the hounds who found the trail brought the other two parties of freshmen to them. Usually, four or five upper classmen ran with the hounds to decide upon "captures" in case of dispute. A hound overhauling a hare had to throw his arms around the prize, stopping him fairly for at least fifteen seconds. Then the hare was sent back, out of the race. Each hound was credited with the hare he captured. Twelve hares ran, also twelve hounds. If the hounds captured seven or more of the hares ere the race was finished, then the hounds won. If they captured less than six, the hares won. If six hares were captured, then the race was a "tie." But, as will be seen, with the five minutes' start, and the hares averaging a year more of age, the sophomore class usually won this chase. These rules had originated at Gridley, where the High School boys considered their form of the game superior to the rules usually followed. This year, as in previous years, the sophomores felt confident of winning. The freshmen hounds averaged rather small in size, though little was known as to the freshmen running powers or wind. The sophomores were all good runners. The contestants for positions on both teams had been tried out three days before, by a committee of men from the first class. The sophomores had not been allowed to see the freshmen run at these trials. The start was to be made at three o'clock on this Monday afternoon. All the runners were now here, Reade and Dalzell having been among the last of the freshmen to come up. It was ten minutes before three. "Half of the freshmen are a pretty mucky looking lot, aren't they?" asked Ripley, as he and Purcell, of the hares, strolled by. "I hadn't noticed it," replied Purcell pleasantly. "I thought them a clean and able looking lot of young fellows." "Humph! A pretty cheap lot! I call 'em," rejoined Ripley. Dick Prescott heard and flushed slightly. He understood the allusion, coming from the source that it did. But Dick was bent on making a good run this afternoon, and kept his temper. "Hares on the line!" shouted Frank Thompson, finally. He was to fire the shots that started the two teams, then was to run with the hounds to act as one of the judges of possible captures. Purcell, who was captain of the hares, led his men forward to the line laid across the grass. Just before they formed, the captain gave some whispered instructions. Ben Badger was already at the line. He was to run with the hares during the first five minutes, then give the final signal for beginning to scatter the paper trail. "On the line there, quick!" called Thompson, watch in his left hand, pistol in his right. "Ready!" The hares, each with a bag of torn paper hanging over one hip, bent forward. Crack! At the report of the pistol the hares bounded forward. In barely more than a minute afterwards they were out of sight. Then followed some minutes of tedious waiting for the Gridley freshmen. "Hounds to the line!" Dick, who had been elected captain of the freshmen team, led his men forward on all easy lope. Dick took his place at the extreme left of the pursuing line, with Tom Reade next to him; then Dan Dalzell. "Ready!" A pause of a few seconds. Crack! The pistol sent the hounds away. They did not attempt to run fast. Captain Dick Prescott's orders were against that. The hounds moved away at an easy lope, for there were miles yet to be covered. Six miles, in fact, is more than average High School boys of the lower classes can make at a cross-country jog. A go-as-you-please gait was therefore allowed. Either hare or hound might walk when he preferred. But for the first five minutes the hounds, who divided into three squads almost immediately, moved along at an easy jog. Every eye was alert for the first sign of a paper trail. There were six upper classmen running with the hounds. Ben Badger was somewhere ahead, hiding in order not to betray the trail. But, when he had been passed, Badger would jump up and run with the hounds, making the seventh judge. "I wonder if we've a ghost of a show to win," muttered Tom Reade. "Every show in the world---until we're beaten!" replied Dick, doggedly. "It isn't in the Gridley blood to wonder if we can win---we've got to win!" After that Dick closed his lips firmly. He must save his wind for the long cross-country. On the left the runners were now in a field. The center was moving along the highway, the right wing being in a field over beyond. "Wow-oo! wow-oo! wow-oo!" sounded a deep, far-away chorus. "There's the trail, away over to the right!" shouted Captain Dick. "Come on, fellows!" On an oblique line he led them, toward the road. They took a low stone wall on the leap, vaulting the fence at the other side of the road. The center squad had already overtaken the discoverers of the trail. "Run easily. Don't try to cover it all in a minute. Save your wind!" admonished Dick to his own squad. The upper classmen judges ran well behind the hounds. It was needful only that they be near enough to see and decide any disputed point of capture. It was all of twenty-five minutes over a course that led across fields and through woods, ere the hounds caught the first glimpse of their quarry. Yet, all along, the paper trail was in evidence. One of the hares was required to strew the small bits of paper. When his bag was empty another hare must begin dropping the white bits. "I'll bet Ripley dropped along here---the trail is so mean and difficult," grunted Reade, disgustedly. "There are the hares ahead---I see two of them!" bellowed Dan Dalzell, lustily. A chorus from the hounds responded an instant later. Yes; they had come in sight of the chase. But the rearmost hares were still a good half mile away. Then the hares disappeared into a forest, leaving only the paper trail as evidence of their presence. "Brook ahead!" sang out Captain Dick. "Go easily and save some of your wind for jumping." In a minute more they came to it. Most of the hounds knew when to start on the faster run that must precede the running jump. Splash! splash. Splash! spla-a-ash! Four of the freshmen floundered in the knee-deep water. Well doused, they must none the less dash out of the cold water and continue on the chase. "Keep a-moving, and you'll soon be dry and warm," Dick called backward over his shoulder. The four who had been badly wet ran heavily now, yet afraid of ridicule if they fell out. They were having their first taste of High School sports, which made no allowance for quitters. Twenty minutes later a low hurrah went up from the freshmen hounds. Dawson, of the hares, found the pace too swift for him. With a slight pain in his side he lagged so that one of the hounds put on an extra spurt, then wound his arms around the sophomore. "Fair capture!" bawled one of the judges, and Dawson, dropping out, sat down until he could get his wind back. Within the next twenty minutes four more of the hares fell into the maws of the hounds. Five captures! That was fine. Only two more needed, and less than two miles to cover. The hares were, at this time, again out of sight in the woods ahead. But Captain Dick, having saved his wind well, now put on a slightly better spurt and jogged ahead, full of the purpose of capturing his second hare. One of the "catches" was already recorded to his credit. "There's one of the hares," Dick flashed to himself, as he caught an indistinct glimpse of a sweater and a moving pair of legs ahead. "He seems to be losing his wind, too---that fellow." In a minute more Dick gave another gasp of discovery. "It's Fred Ripley. I suppose it will be bitter medicine for him, if _I_ make the catch," thought the young captain of the hounds. Though he was too manly, too good a sportsman to allow malice to creep in, Prescott certainly did do his best to overtake the lagging Fred. Gradually, the young captain left the hares behind. But Badger, who was an easy runner, forged ahead so as to keep the leading hound in full sight. Hearing some one running behind him, Fred Ripley glanced backward over his shoulder. "The mucker!" gritted the lawyer's son. "He mustn't catch me---he shan't!" Yet vainly did Ripley try to put on more speed. He kept it up for a few yards, then knew that he was failing. That ill-advised anger before the start was surely telling on him now. Dick still kept forward, gaining a yard or so every few minutes. "Keep back! Don't you dare touch me, you mucker!" hissed Fred sharply over his shoulder. "Mucker?" retorted Prescott. "I'll pay you for that!" At a bound he covered the distance, throwing first one arm, then the other, fairly around Ripley. Fred fought furiously to break the clasp, but was so winded that he couldn't. "Let go of me! Your touch soils!" he cried, hoarsely. But Dick still kept his hold, counting: "---twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!" "Fair capture!" rumbled Ben Badger. The other hounds, or their leaders, were stripping by now. Dick, at the judge's words, loosed his hold on Fred. "You cur!" snarled Fred. Then, summoning all his remaining strength, Ripley hauled off and struck astounded Dick on the face, sending the captain of the hounds to the ground. "Take that, mucker!" shouted the assailant. Those of the hounds who had not shot by, halted in sheer amazement. Like a flash Dick was on his feet, his eyes flashing, cheeks flushing crimson. "Go on, hounds, go on!" he shouted. "I can take care of this one disgrace to Gridley H.S.!" CHAPTER V THE "MUCKER" AND THE "GENTLEMAN" Ben Badger gave Captain Dick a shove. "Go on, Prescott! Go on, hounds!" roared Badger. "You've only one more capture to make. Run along, Dick! I'll take care of Ripley. He'll stay right here until you come back, or else he'll never have the nerve to show his face at Gridley H.S. again! Run, you hounds!" Dick needed no farther urging. Though he was naturally wild with anger, inside, he managed to keep that feeling down and back. He was captain of the hounds. He had his duty to his team and his class first of all to think about. "Come on, hounds!" he shouted to those who had lagged at sight of the knock-down. "One more hare in our trap---then we'll be back here!" What he meant by being "back here" everyone present could guess. In fact, many wondered why there had not sooner been a fight between the freshman and his determined sophomore enemy. Truth to tell, Dick, after that day in the school grounds, had been inclined to overlook the whole affair. He was not afraid of Ripley. It was only that Dick's ordinary good nature had triumphed. He was not a brawler, yet could stand out for his rights when a need came. A third of a mile further on another yell of triumph floated back to young Prescott, who had not yet regained the lead. In a few moments more the last of the hounds came upon a flushed, joyous group of freshmen runners. With them were two of the judges and a sheepish-looking hare. The freshmen hounds had won, and had bagged all the hares for which the game called. Let the five remaining hares keep on running to the finish, if they would. For the first time in seven years the freshmen hounds, led by Captain Dick Prescott, had won. "Ki-yi-yi-yi-yi!" howled the exultant fourth classmen. "And another for Dick Prescott." "Dick Prescott has other game on his hands now," spoke up Dan Dalzell, one of the late arrivals. "What's the row?" demanded the freshman who had just bagged the seventh hare. "Row? That's just it," nodded Dan. "Prescott caught Ripley---" "We saw that." "But you didn't see the finish. Ripley, as soon as he was released, knocked Dick down." "And _you_ came on with the hounds, Dick!" demanded Tom Reade, incredulously. "Badger is keeping Ripley on ice until we get back," Dan supplied, hastily. "Then let us get back quick!" begged Reade. "Not too fast, though," objected Dan. "Remember, Ripley has been getting his wind back since he stopped. Give our Dick the same show." No one thought of asking why Dick would need his wind now. To those who had heard the brief recital of facts it was plain that there could be but one finish to the afternoon's sport. Prescott's hand was sound, at last, and he could give an account of himself. "Walk slowly, all hands," insisted Dan. "Dick, old fellow, on the way back, amuse yourself by getting in all the full, deep breaths that you can." "I'll be all right," spoke Dick confidently. It did not look that way to many of them. Dick was shorter, and weighed much less than did the sophomore who was waiting back there under the trees. Ripley had had a good deal of training in boxing, and was not a coward when he thought the odds on his own side. What none of the fellows knew, though, was that the lawyer's son, ever since that scene in the school yard, had been at his boxing lessons again with renewed energy. "Play him for delay, at first, Dick," whispered Dan. "If Ripley can rush you, and get you excited, he'll have a better chance to win out. If you hold him off, hinder him and delay him, before long he'll lose some of his nerve. A fellow like Ripley will begin to go all to pieces, once he gets it into his head that he has a long and hard job before him." "I'll do my best," Dick promised. "Hang it, if he hadn't knocked me down so treacherously, I wouldn't care about fighting. I don't care so much what he _says_. Fred Ripley's mouth is the weakest part of him." The sophomore was waiting, a sulky frown on his face. A few feet away Ben Badger, a grim look on his usually good-humored face, leaned against a tree, his arms folded. Even had he wanted to get away from this, Ripley couldn't have done it. For a sophomore to find any excuse for getting out of a fight with a freshman would bring down upon the soph all the wrath and disgust of the disgraced third class. "Come on, mucker! Take off your sweater and get ready to take your real medicine!" snarled Fred, harshly. But Dick Prescott, young as he was, was much too wise to allow himself to be betrayed into anger. Instead, he halted a few feet away, looking with a significant smile at his enemy. "As I understand it," replied Prescott, "the festivities that are soon to commence are to decide which is the mucker---which will go down to the ground to eat his fill of dirt." Badger, Thompson and Butler took upon themselves the direction of the coming "affair." "See here, Ted, you look after Ripley's interests," proposed Badger. "It's a mean job. I'd sooner have the other side of the bet," grumbled Ted Butler, in an undertone. "I'll look after young Prescott," continued Ben Badger. "Thomp will do all the honors as referee." Ripley was already peeling off his sweater. "Get down to your fighting rig, Prescott," urged Badger, leading his principal to one side. "How are you, boy?" he whispered, anxiously. "Feeling right up to the fighting pitch?" "I hate fighting," Dick answered, simply, speaking so that only his second could hear him. "Of course it's necessary sometimes, but I can never quite help feeling that, at best, it's low-down business." "So it is," assented Bed Badger, heartily enough. "But what about it in the case of a sneak like Ripley? If he didn't have other fellows' fists to fear he'd be unbearable." "He is, anyway," muttered Dick, just before his head was covered by the sweater that Badger was helping him remove. "You've been doing a lot of running this afternoon, gentlemen," declared Thompson, as the two combatants came toward him. "Do you each feel as though you had fighting wind left?" "I've got as much as the other fellow," replied Dick. "Don't you dare refer to me as a 'fellow'!" ordered Ripley, scowling. "I'll call you a girl, then, if you prefer," proposed Dick, with a tantalizing grin. "You don't know how to talk to gentlemen," retorted Fred, harshly. "Be silent, both of you," ordered Thompson, sternly. "You can do your talking in another way. "Can't begin too soon for me," uttered Ripley. "One minute rounds for you, gentlemen," continued Thompson, then turned to another upper classman, requesting him to hold the watch. "Now are you ready?" Ripley grunted, Dick nodded. "Ready, then! Shake hands!" "I won't," replied Dick, sturdily, ere Fred could speak. The latter, though he, too, would have refused, went white with rage. "Take your places, then," directed Thompson, briskly. "Ready! Time!" Fred Ripley put up a really splendid guard as he advanced warily upon the freshman. Dick's guard, at the outset, was not as good. They feinted for two or three passes, then Ripley let out a short-arm jab that caught Dick Prescott on the end of the nose. Blood began to drip. Ripley's eyes danced. "I'll black both eyes, too, before I put you out," he threatened, in a low tone, as he fought in for another opening. "Brag's a good dog," retorted Dick, quietly. The blow, though it had stung, had served to make him only the more cool. He was watching, cat-like, for Ripley's style of attack. That style was a good one, from the "scientific" view-point, if Ripley could maintain it without excitement and all the while keep his wind. But would he? The freshman, though not much of a lover of fighting, had made some study of the art. Moreover, Dick had a dogged coolness that went far in the arena. Suddenly, Dick let go such a seemingly careless shoulder blow with his left, straight for Ripley's face, that Fred almost lazily threw up his right arm to stop it. But to have that right out of the way was just what Prescott was playing for. Quick as thought Dick's right flew out, colliding with Ripley's mid-wind with a force that brought a groan from the taller fighter. Dick might have followed it up, but he chivalrously sprang back, waiting for Fred to make the first sign of renewal of combat. "Time!" came from the boy with the watch. "Kid, you're going to be all right; you've got your horse-sense with you," glowed Ben Badger, as he hurried Dick back under a tree. "Let me see what I can do to stop your nose running quite so red." Soon the summons came that took the combatants back to the imaginary ring. Again they went at it, both sides cautious, for Ripley was puzzled and a bit afraid. He had not expected this little freshman to last for a second round. Before the second call of "time" came Ripley had managed to land two stinging ones on Dick's left cheek, but the freshman did not go down, nor even wilt under this treatment. He was proving the fact that he could "take punishment." Yet Dick did not land anything that hurt his opponent. "You didn't half try this time," whispered Ben, as he attended his man in the "corner" under the tree. "Come on, mucker!" yelled Ripley, derisively, when the two were summoned for the third round. "Speak for yourself, fellow," Dick answered, coolly. "I'm a gentleman, and a gentleman's son," proclaimed Fred, haughtily. "You're a mucker, and the son of a mucker!" "Time!" Dick could stand an ordinary insult with a fair amount of good nature, when he despised the source of the insult. But now there was a quiet flash in his eyes that Badger was glad to see. Ripley started in to rush things. In quick succession he delivered half a dozen stout blows. Only one of then landed, and that glancingly. Ripley was puzzled, but he had no time to guess. For Dick was not exactly rushing, now. He was merely fighting in close, remembering that he had two striking hands, and that feinting was sometimes useful. "A-a-a-h!" The murmur went up, eagerly, as the onlookers saw Prescott land his right fist in solid impact against Ripley's right eye. Bump! Before Ripley could get back out of such grueling quarters Dick had landed a second blow over the other eye. Ripley staggered. A body blow sent him to his knees. Dick backed off but a few inches. "One, two, three, four, five, six-----" droned off the timekeeper. Fred Ripley tried to leap up, but, as he did so, Dick's waiting left caught him a staggering one on the nose that toppled him over backwards to the ground. "One, two, three-----" began the timekeeper, but suddenly broke off, to call time. "Prescott, you're a bird!" declared Ben Badger, exultantly, as he led his man away. "I wouldn't have gone for him so hard," muttered Dick. "But the fellow started to get nasty with his mouth. Then it was time to let him have it." Frank Thompson went over to Ripley, to see whether the latter wanted to continue the fight. "That mucker took an unfair advantage of me, hitting me when I was getting up," grumbled Fred, who now looked a good deal battered. "Prescott was right within the rules," declared Thompson. "You would have done the same thing if you had had the chance." Fred growled something under his breath. "Are you coming back to the ring?" demanded the referee. Ripley hesitated. The yellow streak was strong in him, but he dreaded letting the others see it. "I'd rather finish this up some other day," he proposed. "You know you can't do that," retorted Thompson, disgustedly. "You either have to come up to the scratch, or admit yourself beaten." "Admit myself beaten---by that mucker?" gasped Ripley, turning livid. "Then come up at the call of time," directed Thompson, and strode back to the battle ground. The timekeeper called. Dick Prescott returned to his ground. Ripley stood back, leaning against a tree. He tried hard to look dignified, but one glance at his nose and eyes was enough to spoil the effect. "Coming, Ripley?" demanded Thompson. "Brace up, man, unless you want to admit your thrashing," urged Ted Butler. "I'll attend to that mucker when I feel like it," growled Fred Ripley. The form of the remark was unfortunate for the one who made it, for it caused one of the freshman class to call out exultantly: "He sure doesn't feel like it just now. Look at him!" "Come, if you don't hurry in you've get to admit the beating," muttered Ted Butler. Ripley's reply being only a snort, Butler suddenly drew forth his handkerchief, rolling it rapidly into a ball. "In default of a sponge," called Butler, "I throw this up for my man---I mean principal." "Ripley being unable to come to the scratch, the fight is awarded to Prescott," announced Frank Thompson. "Whoop! Hoo-oo-ray!" The freshmen clustered about were wild with excitement. "You'll have a fine time squaring this with the sophomore class," uttered Ted Butler, disgustedly. "Your class, Ripley, will be sore enough, anyway, over losing the paper chase for the first time that any of us can remember. Now, for a soph to be thrashed, in three rounds, by a little freshman-----" Butler didn't finish, but, turning on his heel, walked over to join the rest. There were two sophomores there who had come over at the end of the paper chase, but neither went to the assistance of his defeated classman. Ripley, alone, got his sweater back over his head. The crowd was around Dick Prescott, who felt almost ashamed of the fight, unavoidable as he knew it to have been. When he had finished getting his clothes on, Ripley stalked moodily past the main group. "You mucker," he hissed, "I suppose you feel swelled up over having had a chance to fight gentleman. You-----" "Oh, Ripley, dry up---do!" interjected Ted Butler. "You call yourself a gentleman, but you talk and act more like well, more like a pup with the mange!" "A pup with the mange! Great!" came the gleeful chorus from a half score of freshmen. "I'm not through with you, yet, Prescott!" Fred Ripley called back over his shoulder. "I'll settle my score with you at my convenience!" Then, as he put more distance between himself and the other Gridley High School boys, Ripley added to himself: "That settlement shall stop at nothing to put Dick Prescott in the dust---where he belongs." "Oh, freshie, but you've coolness and judgment," cried Thompson, approvingly. "And you've broken one cad's heart today." "I'm sorry if I have," declared Dick, frankly, generously. "I wouldn't have had any heart in the fight if he hadn't started in to humiliate me. I wouldn't have cared so much for that, either. But he started to say something nasty about my parents, and I have as good parents as ever a boy had. Then I felt I simply _had_ to fit a plug between Ripley's teeth." Fred Ripley had pain in his eyes to help keep him awake that night. Yet he would have been awake, anyway, for his wicked brain was seething with plans for the way to "get even" with Dick Prescott. CHAPTER VI FRED OFFERS TO SOLVE THE LOCKER MYSTERY For a week Gridley High School managed to get along without the presence of Fred Ripley. That haughty young man was at home, nursing a pair of black eyes and his wrath. Yet, in a whole week, a mean fellow who is rather clever can hatch a whole lot of mischief. This Dick & Co., and some others, were presently to discover. All outer wraps were left in the basement in locker rooms on which barred iron doors were locked. In the boys' basement were lockers A and B. Each locker was in charge of a monitor who carried the key to his own particular locker room. As it happened Dick Prescott was at present monitor of Locker A. If during school hours, one of the boys wanted to get his hat out of a locker the monitor of that locker went to the basement with him, unlocking the door, and locking it again after the desired article of apparel had been obtained. Thus, in a general way, each monitor was responsible for the safety of hats, coats, umbrellas, overshoes, etc., that might have been left in the locker that was in his charge. Wednesday, just after one o'clock one of the sophomore boys went hurriedly up the stairs, a worried look on his face. He went straight to the principal's office, and was fortunate enough to find that gentleman still at his desk. "What is it, Edwards?" asked the principal, looking up. "Dr. Thornton, I've had something strange happen to me, or to my overcoat, if you prefer to put it that way," replied Edwards. "What has gone wrong?" "Why, sir, relying on the safety of the looker, I left, at recess in one of my overcoat pockets, a package containing a jeweled pin that had been repaired for my mother. Now, sir, on going down to my coat, I found the pin missing from the pocket." "Did you look thoroughly on the floor, Edwards?" "Yes, sir; hunted thoroughly." "Wait; I'll go down with you," proposed the principal. Both principal and student searched thoroughly in the locker. Dick, as in duty bound, was still there, on guard at the door. "Mr. Prescott," asked puzzled Dr. Thornton, did any student have admittance to the locker after recess today?" "None, sir," answered Dick promptly. "Hm! And you're absolutely sure, Mr. Edwards, that you left the little package in your overcoat pocket?" "Positive of it, Dr. Thornton." "It's so strange that it startles me," admitted the good principal. "It startles me a good deal," confessed Edwards, grimly, "to think what explanation I am to offer my mother." "Oh, well, it _must_ turn up," replied Dr. Thornton, though vaguely. "Anyway, Edwards, there has been no theft. The door is locked, and the only two keys to it are the one carried by the monitor and a duplicate which is kept locked in my own desk. You'll probably find it in one of your pockets." "I have been through every pocket in my clothes at least seven times, sir," insisted the dismayed Edwards. "And that is a rather valuable pin," he added; "worth, I believe, something, like fifty dollars." "Rest assured that we'll have some good explanation of the mystery before long," replied the principal as soothingly as he could. Edwards went away, sore and disheartened, but there was nothing more to be said or done. Thursday morning Dr. Thornton carried the investigation further, but absolutely no light could be shed on the missing pin. But at recess it was Frank Thompson who came upstairs breathless. "Dr. Thornton," he cried, excitedly, "it's my own fault, of course, but I'm afraid I've seen the last of my watch. It's one that father carried for a good many years, and at last gave me. The works are not very expensive, but the case was a gold one." "How did you lose it?" inquired the principal, looking up over the gold rims of his spectacles. "Why, I had to hurry to make school this morning, sir, and, as you know, it's a rather long walk. So I carried my watch in the little change pocket in my reefer in order to be able to look at it frequently. I reached the locker just in time not to be late, and forgot and left my watch in the reefer. When I went down just now I found the watch gone." "Oh, but this is serious!" gasped Dr. Thornton, in dismay. "It begins to look like an assured fact that there is some thief at work. Yet Prescott alone has a key to that locker." "Prescott is all right. He's no thief," put in Thompson, quickly. "I agree with you, Mr. Thompson. I consider Mr. Prescott too manly a fellow to be mixed up in anything dishonest. Yet something is wrong---very wrong. For the safety and good name of us all we must go to the bottom of this mystery." That, of course, was all the satisfaction Thompson could expect at the moment. He went out to the remainder of his recess, feeling decidedly blue. Nor was Dr. Thornton any less disturbed. When recess was over, the entire body of students was questioned in the general assembly room, but no light was forthcoming. "Of course, in view of what has happened," counseled Dr. Thornton, "the young gentlemen will do well to leave nothing of value in their coats in the locker rooms. And while nothing distressing, has yet happened in the young ladies basement, I trust they will govern themselves by what has happened on the young men's side." Dick Prescott felt much concerned over it all, though he did not imagine that anyone suspected _him_ of any share in the disappearance of articles of value. Friday there were no mishaps, for the very simple reason that no one left anything of value in the locker rooms. On Monday Fred Ripley was back again. With the aid of a little help from the druggist the haughty young man presented two eyes that did not show any signs of having been damaged. Fred himself offered no comment on his absence. He seemed anxious to be on especially good terms with all of the upper classmen with whom he usually associated. During the first period of the morning Ripley had no recitation on. He sat at his desk studying. Presently as permitted under the rules, he whispered softly with the boy seated behind him. Then, suddenly, Ripley rose and tip-toed down the aisle to the desk. The principal himself sat there in charge. "Dr. Thornton," began Ripley, in a low voice, "I was away last week, and so didn't hear all the school news. I have just learned about the locker room thefts, and so I'm uneasy. Just as the bell rang I was having trouble with the pearl and diamond scarf-pin that I often wear. There wasn't time to adjust it, so I dropped it in my overcoat pocket. I would like to go down to my coat, now, and get it." "Prescott is reciting in IV. Physics," replied Dr. Thornton, rising. "However, in view of all that has happened, I think we shall do well to go down and call him out of class. I don't want any more valuable articles to be missing." Principal and student went quietly to the floor below. Dr. Thornton thrust his head into the physics laboratory and quietly called Dick out, explaining what was wanted. "You'll come, too, won't you, doctor?" asked Ripley. The principal nodded without speaking. As the three reached the barred door, Dick inserted the key, then threw open the door. Fred marched over to his coat, thrusting his hand into a pocket. "By thunder, it's gone!" gasped Fred. In an instant Dr. Thornton bounded into the locker room. He himself explored every pocket in the boy's coat. "Strange! strange!" muttered the bewildered principal. "All the other thefts happened in this locker, didn't they?" inquired Ripley, suspiciously. "Yes---if thefts they were," admitted Dr. Thornton. "Nothing missing from the other locker room?" "Nothing." "Doctor," went on Ripley, as though loath to utter the words, I hate to suggest anything of the sort. But---er---but---has the monitor of this locker been searched after any of the---er---disappearances?" "Ripley, you forget yourself!" cried the principal. "What do you mean!" flared Dick, in the same breath, turning crimson, next going very white. "Doctor, I'm sorry," spoke Ripley, with great seeming reluctance, "but that pin is a costly one. I ask that the monitor be searched!" CHAPTER VII DICK'S TURN TO GET A JOLT "Ripley, you don't realize what you are saying!" cried Dr. Thornton, gazing at the sophomore in very evident distress. "I only know that I'm all broken up, sir, over losing my costly pin," persisted Fred. "And I know my father will be angry, and will raise a row at the School Board's meeting." Dick Prescott, standing by, had turned from scarlet to white, and back again. "But Ripley," explained the principal, almost pleadingly, "the act would be illegal. No one has a lawful right to search the person of anyone except a properly qualified police officer. And even the police officer can do so only after he has arrested a suspected person." "Oh, then I suppose, sir, there's no show for me to get any real justice done in this matter," muttered Fred, with an air of feigned resignation. But by now Dick Prescott felt that he must speak---or explode. "Dr. Thornton," he cried, chokingly, "the charge made against me, or, at least, implied, is an outrageous one. But, as a matter of justice to me, now that the hint has been cast, I ask that _you_, sir, search me right here and now." "Then you've had time to hide the pin!" muttered Fred, in a very low voice. Dick Prescott heard, but he paid no heed to the fellow. "Dr. Thornton, will you search me---_now_?" insisted the young freshman. "But I don't want to, Prescott," appealed the principal. "I haven't the remotest suspicion of you, anyway, my dear boy." "I ask the search, sir, just as a matter of justice," Dick insisted. "If it were not too strong a word, then I would say that I _demand_ to be searched here and now." Suiting the action to the word, Dick Prescott, standing proudly erect, raised both arms over his head. "Now, please, doctor, just as a matter of simple justice," begged the young freshman. "Oh, very well, then, Mr. Prescott," sighed the principal. "But I never had a more distasteful task." Into one of the side pockets Dr. Thornton projected a shaking hand. He drew out only some scraps of paper, which he promptly thrust back. Then he inserted a hand in the jacket pocket on the other side. "Ouch!" suddenly exclaimed the principal, in very real pain. He drew the hand out, quickly. A drop of blood oozed up at the tip of his forefinger. "Mr. Prescott," demanded Dr. Thornton, "what is that pointed object in your pocket?" "_What_?" demanded Fred Ripley, tensely. Dick himself thrust a hand into that pocket, and drew forth---Fred Ripley's missing pin. "What---why---who-----" gasped the freshman, suffocatingly. "Oh, yes, of course," jeered Fred Ripley. "Astonished, aren't you---you mucker?" The last two words Ripley uttered in so low a tone that the principal, gazing in horrified fascination at the pin that he now held in his own hands, did not hear. "You coward!" cried Dick, hotly, and clenched his fist, intent on driving it against the sophomore's face. But Dr. Thornton knew enough about High School boys' fights, to galvanize himself into action. Like a flash he bounded between the two boys. "Here, here, Prescott, none of that!" he admonished. "I---I beg _your_ pardon, sir," gasped Dick, in a tone which made it very plain that he did not include his enemy in that apology. "May I trouble you for my pin, sir, now that it has been recovered?" asked Fred, coolly. "Why---um!---that depends," replied Dr. Thornton, slowly, speaking with a painful effort. "If you, or your father, have or would have any idea of a criminal prosecution, Ripley, then it would be improper to return your pin. It would have to be turned over to the police as an exhibit in evidence. _But_ do you intend anything of that sort, Mr. Ripley?" "Why, that's as _you_ say, doctor," replied the sophomore, quickly. "It's a matter of school discipline, and belongs to your province. Personally, I know that I would rather not have this matter go any further." "I---I don't know what to do," confessed Dr. Thornton, in anxious perplexity. "In any event, before doing anything, I think I had better consult the superintendent and the Board of Education. Mr. Prescott, I will say, freely, that I am most loath to believe anything of this sort against you can be possible. There must be---must be---some---er explanation. I---I---don't want you to feel that I believe your guilt as yet assured. I---I-----" Here Dr. Thornton broke down, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. Almost unconsciously he passed the pin, which he was yet holding, to Fred Ripley. "Lock the locker door, Mr. Prescott---and give me the key," requested the principal. Dick passed over the key, then spoke, with more composure than might have been expected under the circumstances: "Dr. Thornton, I am as innocent of any thieving as you yourself can be. Sooner or later the right of this will come out. Then you will realize that I didn't steal anything. I'll prove myself innocent yet, sir." "I hope so, my boy, I---I---hope so," replied the principal. As they ascended, Fred Ripley stepped aside to let the other two go first. He was afraid to have Dick Prescott behind him just then. No sooner had the trio entered the general assembly room than it quickly dawned on all the students of both sexes that something was unusually wrong. Dick's face was red as fire. Had he been guilty of the thefts, he might have been cooler about it all. Conscious innocence often puts on the appearance of guilt. Somehow, Dick got to his seat. He picked up a book, mechanically, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in study. "What's up?" whispered the fellow seated behind Fred. Ripley turned enough to raise his eyebrows significantly and let his questioner see him do it. Instantly all seated near the lawyer's son became intensely curious. Wondering glances strayed from over book-tops, even from the far corners of the big assembly room. Then the curious glanced at Dr. Thornton so often that the much disturbed principal soon called another teacher to the desk and left the room. At recess, Purcell, of the sophomore class, was found in charge at the door of Dick's old locker room. Ripley held his tongue until he was out in the school yard. Then he broke loose before those who would listen to him---and the number was large. Dick & Co. had gathered by themselves in another corner of the yard. Here, however, they were soon joined by a small mob of the fellows, especially of the freshman class. Dick had his say. He didn't want to say much, but he related, in a straightforward way, what had happened. "It's one of Fred Ripley's mean tricks," declared one of the freshmen. "Fred Ripley can't fool anyone. He put that pin in Dick's pocket himself." "But two thefts---two things were missed last week, when Ripley wasn't at school at all," spoke one boy, in an undertone. "Yes; that's the queer part of it," agreed another boy. "Ripley couldn't have had anything to do with those other cases." This latter was the view that was occurring to Mr. Thornton, as he sat in the principal's room, poring and pondering over the whole distressing matter. Thompson and the other football leaders came trooping over to Dick & Co. as soon as they heard the noise. Prescott was a hero with the football crowd. There was no use in telling them anything against their little freshie hero. "Prescott, it would look foolish to talk much," declared Thompson, in a voice that was husky from real emotion. "Just give me your hand, old man!" Dick took the proffered hand, pressing it hard and gratefully. Then the rest of the football squad pressed forward, each insisting on a hearty handshake. "Nobody except those who want to, will stomach this silly charge against Dick," grunted Tom Reade to Dan Dalzell. "See how it's turning out? Our old pal and leader is holding a regular reception." "'Scuse me," begged Dan, hastily. "There's Laura Bentley beckoning to me." He hastened over to the girl's side. There were tiny drops in the corners of Laura's eyes that looked like suppressed tears. "Dan," she said, coming straight to the point, "we have heard, of course. What a silly charge! See here, you pals of Dick's are going to walk home with him from school this noon?" "Surest thing that ever happened in the world," declared Dalzell, fervently. "Just so," nodded Laura. "Well, if you won't think it strange or forward, six of us girls want to walk along with you boys. That will be a hint that the freshman class, if not the whole H.S., passes a vote of confidence in Dick Prescott, the most straightforward fellow in the class or the school." "Bully for you, Miss Bentley!" glowed Dan. "We shall be looking for you young ladies when school lets out." When the outside bell rang for reassembling, such a guard of honor had chosen to gather around Dick, and march in with him, that it looked more like a triumphal procession. "I feel better," sighed the boy, contentedly to himself, as he dropped into his seat. "What a bully thing a little confidence is!" When school let out, Dick & Co., each partner escorting one of the freshman girls, strolled down the street. A good many more of the students chose to drop in behind them. Dick could say nothing, but his heart swelled with pride. "The way to get famous and respected, nowadays, is to steal something, and to get found out," sneered Fred Ripley, bitterly, to Clara Deane. Straight to his own door did some two score in all of the Gridley H.S. students escort Dick Prescott. "Three cheers for Dick!" proposed some one. "And for Dick and Co.!" shouted another voice. The cheers were given with gusto. So much noise was made, in fact, that Mrs. Prescott came to open the door. Something in his mother's face---a look of dread and alarm---spoiled the cheering for Dick. As soon as he could he got inside the house. Little did the young freshman suspect the ordeal that awaited him here. CHAPTER VIII ONLY A "SUSPENDED" FRESHMAN NOW "What's wrong mother? Have you heard-----" the boy began, as soon as the door was closed. "Yes, Richard." "But, mother, I am inno-----" "Oh, Dick, of course you are! But this fearful suspicion is enough to kill one who loves you. Come! Your father is in the store. Dr. Thornton is upstairs. He and---and---a policeman. "Policeman!" gasped Dick, paling instantly. "Do they mean to-----" "I don't know just what they mean, Dick I'm too dazed to guess," replied his mother. "But come upstairs." As Dick entered their little parlor he was dimly aware that the High School principal was in the room. But the boy's whole gaze was centered on a quiet little man---Hemingway, the plain clothes man from the police station. "Don't look scared to death, Prescott," urged Dr. Thornton, with a faint attempt at a smile. "We want to go through with a little formality---that is all. This matter at the High School has puzzled me to such a degree that I left early today and went to consult with Mr. Hemingway. Now, he thought it best that we come around here and have a talk with you." "I can begin that talk best," pursued Hemingway, "by asking you, Prescott, whether you have anything that you want to say first-off?" "I can't say anything," replied Dick, slowly, "except that I know nothing as to how any of the articles missed at school came to vanish. Ripley's pin was found in my pocket today, and I can only guess that some one---Ripley, perhaps dropped it in my pocket. Ripley has some feelings of enmity for me, anyway. We had a fight last week, and---" Dick could not repress a smile---"I thrashed him so that he was out of school for several days." "But Ripley was not at school for the last few days, until today," broke in Dr. Thornton. "Now, a pin and a watch were missed while Ripley was not attending school." "I know it, sir," Dick nodded. "As to those two articles I cannot offer even the ghost of an explanation." "I don't like to accuse you of taking Ripley's scarf-pin, nor do I like to suspect him of putting up such a contemptible trick," explained Dr. Thornton, thoughtfully. "As far as the incident of the scarf-pin goes I am willing to admit that your explanation is just as likely to be good as is any other." "Prescott, what did you do with the other pin and the watch?" shot in Policeman Hemingway, suddenly and compellingly. It was well done. Had Dick been actually guilty, he might either have betrayed himself, or gone to stammering. But, as it was, he smiled, wanly, as he replied: "I didn't do anything with them, Mr. Hemingway. I have just been explaining that." "How much money have you about you at this moment?" demanded Hemingway. "Two cents, I believe," laughed Dick, beginning to turn out his pockets. He produced the two copper coins, and held them out to the special officer. "You may have more about you, then, somewhere," hinted the officer. "Find it, then," begged Dick, frankly, as he stepped forward. "Search me. I'll allow it, and shall be glad to have you do it." So Policeman Hemingway made the search, with the speed and skill of an expert. "No; you've no more money about you," admitted the policeman. "You may have some put away, though." "Where would it be likely to be?" Dick inquired. "In your room, perhaps; in your baggage, or hidden behind books; oh, there's a lot of places where a boy can hide money in his own room." "Come along and show me a few of them, then, won't you please?" challenged the young freshman. Mrs. Prescott, who had been hovering near the doorway, gave a gasp of dismay. To her tortured soul this police investigation seemed to be the acme of disgrace. It all pointed to the arrest of her boy---to a long term in some jail or reformatory, most likely. "Madame," asked the plain clothes man, stepping to the door, "will you give your full consent to my searching your son's room---in the presence of yourself and of Dr. Thornton, of course? I am obliged to ask your permission, for, without a search warrant I have no other legal right than that which you may give me." "Of course you may search Richard's room," replied his mother, quickly. "But you'll be wasting your time, for you'll find nothing incriminating in my boy's room." "Of course not, of course not," replied Hemingway, soothingly. "That is what we most want---_not_ to find anything there. Will you lead the way, please? Prescott, you may come and see the search also." So the four filed into the little room that served Dick as sleeping apartment, study-room, den, library and all. Hemingway moved quickly about, exploring the pockets of Dick's other clothing hanging there. He delved into, under and behind all of the few books there. This plain clothes man moved from place to place with a speed and certainty that spoke of his long years of practice in this sort of work. "There's nothing left but the trunk, now," declared the policeman, bending over and trying the lock. "The key to this, Prescott!" Dick produced the key. Hemingway fitted it in the lock, throwing up the lid. The trunk was but half filled, mostly with odds and ends, for Dick was not a boy of many possessions. After a few moments the policeman deftly produced, from the bottom, a gold watch. This he laid on the floor without a word, and continued the search. In another moment he had produced the jeweled pin that exactly answered the description of the one belonging to Mrs. Edwards. Dick gave a gasp, then a low groan. A heart-broken sob welled up in Mrs. Prescott's throat. Dr. Thornton turned as white as chalk. Hemingway, an old actor in such things, did not show what he felt---if he really felt it at all. "These are the missing articles, aren't they?" asked the policeman, straightening up and passing watch and pin to the High School principal. "I believe them to be," nodded Dr. Thornton, brokenly. Mrs. Prescott had staggered forward, weeping and throwing her arms around her son. "O, Richard! Richard, my boy!" was all she could say. "Mother, I know nothing about how those things came to be in my trunk," protested the boy, sturdily. After his first groan the young freshman, being all grit by nature, straightened up, feeling that he could look all the world in the eye. Only his mother's grief, and the knowledge that his father was soon to be hurt, appealed to the softer side of young Prescott's nature. "Mother, I have not stolen anything," the boy said, more solemnly, after a pause. "I am your son. You believe me, don't you?" "I'd stake my life on your innocence when you've given me your word!" declared that loyal woman. "The chief said I was to take your instructions, Dr. Thornton," hinted Hemingway. "Yes; I heard the order given," nodded the now gloomy High School principal. "Shall I arrest young Prescott?" At that paralyzing question Dick's mother did not cry out. She kissed her son, then went just past the open doorway, where she halted again. "I hesitate about seeing any boy start from his first offense with a criminal record," replied the principal, slowly. "If I were convinced that this would be the last offense I certainly would not favor any prosecution. Prescott, could you promise-----" "Then you believe, sir, that I stole the things that you hold in your hand?" demanded the young freshman, steadily. "I don't want to believe it," protested Dr. Thornton. "It seems wicked---monstrous---to believe that any fine, bright, capable boy like you can be-----" Dr. Thornton all but broke down. Then he added, in a hoarse whisper: "---a thief." "I'm not one," rejoined Dick. "And, not very far into the future lies the day when I'm going to prove it to you." "If you can," replied Dr. Thornton, "you'll make me as happy as you do yourself and your parents." "Let me have the watch and pin to turn over to the chief, doctor," requested Hemingway, and took the articles. "Now, for the boy-----?" "I'm not going to have him arrested," replied the principal, "unless the superintendent or the Board of Education so direct me." From the other side of the doorway could be heard a stifled cry of delight. "Then we may as well be going, doctor. You'll come to the station with me, won't you?" "In one moment," replied the principal. He turned to Dick, sorrowfully holding out his hand. "Prescott, whatever I may do will be the result of long and careful thought, or at the order of the superintendent or of the Board of Education. If you really are guilty, I hope you will pause, think and resolve, ere it is too late, to make a man of yourself hereafter. If you are innocent, I hope, with all my heart, that you will succeed in proving it. And to that end you may have any possible aid that I can give you. Goodbye, Prescott. Goodbye, madam! May peace be with you." Half way down the stairs Dr. Thornton turned around to say: "Of course, you quite comprehend, Prescott, that, pending official action by the school authorities, you must be suspended from the Gridley High School!" As soon as the door had closed Dick half-tottered back into his room. He did not close the door, but crossed to the window, where he stood looking out upon a world that had darkened fearfully. Then, without having heard a step, Dick Prescott felt his mother's arms enfold him. CHAPTER IX LAURA BENTLEY IS WIDE AWAKE Suspended! That did not mean expulsion, but it did mean that, until the school authorities had taken definite action on the case, young Prescott could not again attend H.S., or any other school under the control of the Board of Education. The five other partners of Dick & Co. had faced the school defiantly when taking Dick's books from his desk and strapping them to bring home. Dan Dalzell thrashed a sophomore for daring to make some allusion to Prescott's "thefts." Tom Reade tried to thrash another sophomore for a very similar offense, but Reade got whipped by a very small margin. That fact, however, did not discourage Reade. He had entered his protest, anyway. Dave Darrin extracted apologies for remarks made, from three different sophomores. All of the partners were diligent in protecting and defending the reputation of their chief. Every day the "Co." came to see Dick. They made it a point, too, to appear on the street with him. Not one member of the football team "went back on" the suspended freshman. All treated him with the utmost cordiality and faith wherever they met him. Laura Bentley and some of the other girls of Dick's class stood by him unwaveringly by chatting with the suspended freshman whenever and wherever they met him on the street. "Pooh, old man, a fellow who has all the brains you displayed in making that football stroke doesn't need larceny as an aid to getting ahead in the world," was the way Frank Thompson put it. "Thank you, Thompson. It's always good to have friends," smiled Dick, wistfully. "But, just now, I appreciate them more than ever." "The football team and its best friends are giving Fred Ripley the dead cut," pursued Thompson. "And say, you know the junior class's dance comes off the night after tomorrow night. Juniors are always invited, but members of other classes have to depend on favor for invitations. We've fixed it so that Ripley couldn't get an invite. He tried, though. Now, Prescott, you'll receive an invitation in tomorrow morning's mail. Fix it to be there, old man. Do! You'll find yourself flanked by friends. If any fellow looks at you cross-eyed at the junior dance, the eleven will throw him out through a window!" Dick looked more wistful than ever. He had never had many lessons in dancing, but he took to the art naturally. Had life been happier for him just then he would have been glad to take up the invitation. Besides, Dave Darrin had told him that Laura Bentley was invited and meant to go. "Now, you'll come along, of course," asked Thompson, coaxingly. "No-o-o," hesitated Dick, "I don't believe I shall." "Oh, nonsense, old man!" "I believe I'd rather not," replied Prescott, sadly; "though I'm tremendously grateful to those who want me to come and who would try to make it pleasant for me." Thompson argued, but it was no use. "Why, every one of your partners is going," said Frank. "Here comes Dave Darrin now. He'll tell you so." "Nope," said Dave, with all the energy at his command. "We understand we're to be invited, and we'd give almost anything to go, but Dick & Co. don't go unless the Dick part of the firm is with us." The junior dance came off, and was a good deal of a success in many ways. Only one of the ten boys of the freshman class who were invited attended. Eight girls of the same class were invited, but only two of them accepted. Laura Bentley decided, at the last moment, against attending. Within ten days two important games came off between the Gridley H.S. and other crack high school teams. Gridley won both. "It would be cheeky in me to go to the game, when I'm suspended---hardly a H.S. boy, in fact," Dick explained to his partners. "But you go. "No, sir!" muttered Greg Holmes. "Not if you feel that you can't go," protested Harry Hazelton. "Dick & Co. go together, or not at all." Gridley H.S. won both games by the skin of their teeth. "We can't succeed much longer without our mascots," Thompson declared impressively before all the members of Dick & Co. The six freshmen, walking along the street together had been rounded up and haled into the store where the football squad held its "club" meetings. "Humph! I'd be a poor mascot for any body," muttered Dick. "I haven't been able to bring even myself good luck." "You just come to a game once, all six of you," begged Ben Badger. "Then you'll see how we can pile up the score over the enemy! Don't let it get out of your heads that you're our real, sure-thing mascots. Why, if it hadn't been for you six youngsters we probably wouldn't be playing football any more this season." Other members of the squad tried to ply their persuasive powers, but all in vain. Dick Prescott, though not breaking down or wilting under the suspicion that lay against him, felt convinced that it would be out of place for him to attend High School affairs while on the suspended list. "Humph!" grunted Thomp. "The only thing I can see for us to do is to spend a lot of the Athletic Association's money in hiring a swell detective to come to town and find out who really did take the things at the old H.S. Then we'd have you with us again, Dick Prescott." Though under such long suspension Dick was not going backward much in his studies. He had his books at home, and every forenoon he put in the time faithfully over them. One of these November evenings Dick had the good fortune to have Dave Darrin and Greg Holmes up in his room with him. The other partners were at home studying. Dick and his friends were talking rather dispiritedly, for the long suspension, without action, was beginning to wear on them all. Dick's case was now quietly before the Board of Education, but a result had not yet been reached by that slow-moving body. Of course, the members of the Board had now more than a good idea that Dick & Co. had been behind that "dead ones" hoax; but the members of the Board were trying to do their duty in the suspension case, and tried not to let any other considerations weigh with them. "We've all heard that old chestnut about the silver lining to the cloud," observed Dave, dejectedly. "If it's true, then silver seems to be mighty scarce these days." "Richard! Ri-i-ichard!" called the elder Prescott, loudly, from the foot of the stairs that led up from the store. "Yes, sir," cried Dick, bounding to the door and throwing it open. "Laura Bentley has called us up on the 'phone. She says she wants to talk to you quicker'n lightning, whatever speed that may indicate. She adds, mysteriously, that 'it's the biggest thing that ever happened!'" "Coming, sir!" cried Dick, bounding down the stairs, snatching at his cap and reefer as he started, though he could not have told why he picked up these garments. Dave and Greg, acting on some mysterious impulse, grabbed up their reefers and hats, and went down the stairs hot-foot after their chum and leader. "Hullo!" called Dick, reaching the telephone instrument in the back room of the store. "Yes, Miss Bentley, this is Prescott." "Then listen!" came the swiftly uttered words. Dick discovered that the girl was breathless with excitement and the largeness of her news. "Are you listening?" "I'll catch every word," Dick replied. "Well, I'm at Belle Meade's house. Belle and her mother are here. Mr. Meade is out. You know where the house is---corner of Clark Street and Stetson's Alley?" "Yes; I know." "Well, the room between the dining-room and the parlor is in darkness, and has been all evening. There's a window in that room that opens over the alley. The Meade apartment is on the second floor, you know. Well, Belle was passing that window---in the dark---and she heard voices down below in the alley. She wouldn't have thought anything of it, but she heard one of the speakers raise his voice and say, excitedly: 'See here, I did the trick, didn't I? Ain't Dick Prescott bounced out of school! Ain't he in disgrace! And he'll never get out of it!'" "Then another voice broke in, in a lower tone, but Belle couldn't hear what was said. She's back in the dark by that open window now," Laura Bentley hurried on, breathlessly. "The two parties are still there, talking. It's hardly a minute's run from where you are. Can't you get some one in a hurry, run up here and jump on the parties? _Please_ do, Dick! It'll be the means of clearing up this whole awful business!" "Won't I, though?" answered Dick, breathlessly, into the 'phone. "I have two chums here now. We'll be there like greased lightning---and, oh, Miss Bentley, _thank_ you!" Neither Dave nor Greg needed to ask any questions, for both had stood close to the receiver, drinking in every word. Now they shot out through the front of the store with a speed and turbulence that made studious Mr. Prescott gasp with amazement. "Careful, now, fellows!" warned Dick a few moments later. "We want to _hear_, as well as _catch_! Softly does it." Well practiced in running, not one of the three freshmen was out of breath by the time that they reached the head of Stetson's Alley. Just before turning the corner at the head of the alley, Dick and his freshmen chums halted to listen and reconnoiter. Peeping cautiously around the corner, Dick, Greg and Dave made out dimly one figure well down the alley. There was not light enough there to recognize the fellow. And the three boys could make out some one past this first fellow, but the second individual stood well in the dark shadow of the delivery doorway of a store. "Let's see if we can't creep up a little nearer," whispered Dick Prescott, softly. "They may see us coming," warned Dave. "If they do, we'll just make a jump in and nab them anyway," Dick rejoined. "Remember the main game---capture!" Cautiously, a foot at a time, and in Indian file, the three freshmen stole down the dark alleyway. Then Dick halted, passing back a nudge that Dave Darrin passed on to Greg Holmes. "Now, ye needn't think ye're goin' to renig," warned the fellow who was nearer to the boys. "I done the whole job against Prescott, and I done it as neat as the next one. Why, _you_ never even thought of the trick of slipping that watch and pin into Prescott's trunk, did ye? That was _my_ brains. I supplied the brains, an' you've got to raise the cash to pay for 'em! How did I do that trick of slippin' the watch an' pin into Prescott's trunk! Oh, yes! Of course, ye wanter know. Well, I'll tell ye when ye hand me the rest o' the money for doin' the whole trick---then I'll tell ye." Something in a very low whisper came, in response, from the second party who was invisible to the prowling freshmen. Dick Prescott felt that there was no need of prolonging this scene. He had heard enough. "Now, rush 'em! Grab 'em---and hold 'em!" shouted Dick, suddenly. As the three freshmen shot forward into the darkness something that sounded like an almost hysterical cheer in girls' voices came from the open, dark window overhead. But neither Dick nor his chums paused to give thought to that at this important moment. The unknown who had been doing most of the talking wheeled with an oath, making a frantic dash to get out of the alley and onto the street. But Dick shot fairly past him, dodging slightly, and made a bound for the second party to this wicked conference. Just beyond the doorway in which this second party had keen standing was a yard that furnished a second means of exit from the alley. It was this second party to the talk that Dick was after. He left the other fugitive to his two active, quick-witted chums. They were swift to understand, and grappled, together, with the rascal fleeing for the street. The three went down in a scuffling, fighting heap. Like a flash the fellow that Dick was after seemed to melt into the adjoining back yard. Prescott, in trying to get in after him in record time, fell flat to the ground just inside the yard. Yet, as he went down Prescott grabbed one of his fugitive's trouser legs near the ankle. "Let go!" hissed the other, in too low a voice to be recognized. Before Dick, holding on grimly, had time to look upward, the wretch lifted a cane, bringing it down on Dick's head with ugly force. CHAPTER X TIP SCAMMON TALKS---BUT NOT ENOUGH If that ugly blow hadn't proved a glancing one, Dick Prescott might have been for a long siege of brain fever. As it was, he was slightly stunned for the moment. By the time he could leap up and look about him, rather dizzily, his late assailant had made a clean escape. "No time to waste on a fellow who's got away," quoth Dick. He staggered slightly, at first, as he hurried from the yard back into the alleyway. "Now, you quiet down!" commanded Dave Darrin hoarsely. "No more from you, Mr. Thug!" "Lemme go, or it'll be worse for ye!" threatened a harsh voice that, nevertheless, had a whine in it. "What use to let you go, Tip Scammon?" demanded Darrin. "We know you, and the police would pick you up again in an hour." "Lemme go, and keep yer mouth shut," whined the fellow. "If ye don't, ye'll be sorry. If ye _do_ lemme go, I'll pay ye for the accommodation." "Yes," retorted Dave, scornfully. "You'd pay us, I suppose, with money you picked up in some way resembling the trick you played on Dick Prescott." "Well, money's money, ain't it?" demanded Tip, skeptically. "Some kinds of money are worse that dirt," growled Greg Holmes. This was the conversation, swiftly carried on, that Dick heard as he stepped back to his friends. Scammon was lying on his back on the ground, with Dave seated across his chest. Greg bent back the wretch's head, holding a short club that the two freshmen had taken away from Tip in the scuffle. "Where's the other one, Dick?" gasped Dave, as he saw young Prescott coming back alone. "He got away," muttered Dick. "He hit me over the head, and stunned me for a moment, or I'd be holding onto him yet." "Who was he?" demanded Greg, breathlessly. "I don't know," Dick admitted. "I'd give a small part of the earth to know and be sure about it." That admission of ignorance was a most unfortunate one. Tip Scammon heard it, and the fellow grinned inwardly over knowing that his late companion had not been recognized. "What are we going to do with this fellow, Dick?" asked Dave. "I'm wondering whether he ought to be arrested or not," Dick replied. "Fellows, I feel mighty sorry for Tip's father." And well might all three feel sorry. So, far as was known, this crime against Dick was the first offense Tip had committed against the law. He was a tough character, and regarded as one of the worse than worthless young men of Gridley. Tip was a handy fellow, a jack-of-all-trades, with several at which he might have made an honest living---but he wouldn't. Yet Tip's father was old John Scammon, the highly respected janitor at the High School, where he had served for some forty years. "I say, fellows, I wonder if we can let Tip go---now that we know the whole story?" breathed Dick. "Say, I'll make it worth yer while," proposed Tip, eagerly. "How about the law?" asked Dave Darrin, seriously. "Have we any right to let the fellow go, when we know he has committed a serious crime?" "I don't know," replied Prescott. "All I'm thinking of is good, honest old John Scammon." "It'd break me old man's heart---sure it would," put in Tip, cunningly. At the first cry from Belle and Laura Bentley, however Mrs. Meade, who was also in the secret, had hurried down into Clark Street. Just as it happened she had espied a policeman less than a block away. That officer, posted by Mrs. Meade, now came hurrying down the alleyway. "Oho! Tip, is it?" demanded the policeman. "Let him up, Darrin. I can handle him. Now, then, what's the row about?" Thereupon Dick and his chums had to tell the story. There was no way out of it. Officer Connors heard a little of it, then decided: "The station house is the place to tell the rest of this. Come along, Tip. And you youngsters trail along behind." Though the station house was not far away, a good-sized crowd was trailing along by the time they reached the business stand of the police. Tip was hustled in through the doorway, the three young freshmen following. Leaning over the railing, smoking and chatting with the sergeant at the desk, was plain clothes man Hemingway. "Hullo," muttered that latter officer, "what's this?" "A slice out of one of your cases, I guess, Hemingway, from what I've heard," laughed Connors. "According to these boys, Tip is the fellow who knows the inside game of the High School thefts." "Let's have Scammon in the back room, then," urged Hemingway, leading the way to the guard room. The sergeant, also, followed, after summoning a reserve policeman to the desk. Then followed a sharp grilling by the keen, astute Hemingway. Dick and his chums told what they had heard Tip say before they pounced upon him. Tip, who was a round-headed, short, square-shouldered fellow of twenty-four, possessed more of the cunning of the prize ring than the cleverness of the keen thief. "I've been caught with the packages on me," he admitted, bluntly, and with some show of bravado. "I guess I can't get outer delivering 'em." "Then you stole that pin and the gold watch from the locker at the High School?" demanded Hemingway, swiftly. "Yep." "How did you get into the locker room?" shot out Hemingway. "Guess!" leered Tip, exhibiting some cheap bravado. "Maybe I can find the answer in your clothes," retorted the plain clothes man. "Stand still." The search resulted in the finding of about ten dollars, a knife, and three queer-looking implements that Hemingway instantly declared to be pick-locks. "You used these tools, and slipped the lock, did you?" asked Hemingway. "Didn't have to," grinned Tip. "Took an impression of the lock, then, and made a key, did you?" "Right-o," drawled Tip. "I'll look into your lodgings," muttered Hemingway. "Probably I'll find you've got a good outfit for that kind of work. I remember you used to work for a locksmith." Tip, however, was not scared. He knew that there was nothing at his lodgings to betray him. "Then you used these picklocks to open Prescott's locked trunk with?" was Hemingway's next question. "'Fraid I did," leered Tip. "What time of the day did you get into the Prescott flat?" "'Bout ten o'clock, morning of the same day ye went through Prescott's trunk an' found the goods there." "The same goods that you placed in the trunk, Tip, after breaking into the Prescott flat while Mr. and Mrs. Prescott were down in their store and young Prescott was at the High School?" "That's right," Tip grinned. "You picked the lock of young Prescott's trunk, stowed the watch and pin away in there, and then sprung the lock again?" "Why, say, ye muster seen me," declared Scammon, admiringly. "The week before that day you must have been at the High School, helping your father, especially in the basement during session hours." "I sure was," Tip admitted. "I had ter, didn't I, to have a chance ter get inter the locker room?" "What did you say the name of the fellow was who hired you to do the trick?" swiftly demanded Hemingway, changing the tack. "I b'lieve I _didn't_ say," responded Tip, giving a wink that included all present. "Tell me now, then." "Not if ye was to hang me for refusing," declared Scammon, with sudden obstinacy. "Yet you've told us everything else," argued the plain clothes man. "Might jest as well tell ye everything else," retorted Tip. "Didn't these High School kids find the packages on me?" "Then tell us who the chap was that you were talking with tonight." "Not fer anything ye could give me," asserted Tip Scammon, with great promptness. "Oh, well, then," returned Hemingway, with affected carelessness, "Prescott can tell us the name of the chap he grappled with in that back yard." "Yep! Let young Prescott tell," agreed Tip with great cheerfulness. That was as far as the police could get with the prisoner. He readily admitted all that was known, and he had even gone so far as to tell how he had stolen the watch and the pin, and how he had secreted them in Dick's trunk, but beyond that the fellow would not go further. "Did you have anything to do with placing Ripley's pin in Prescott's pocket?" questioned Hemingway. "Nope," declared Tip, in all apparent candor. "Know anything about that?" "Nope." "Then how did you know that that particular morning was the right morning to hide the other two stolen articles in Prescott's trunk?" "I heard, on the street, what was happenin'," declared Tip, confidently. "So I knew 'twas the right time ter do the rest of the trick." At last Hemingway gave up the attempt to learn the name of the party with whom Tip had been talking in Stetson's Alley on this night. Then Tip was led away to a cell. "Come on, fellows," muttered Dick to his chums. "Since Tip is under arrest, anyway, and has confessed, and since the whole thing is bound to become public, I want to run down to 'The Blade' office, find Len Spencer, and send him up here to get the whole, straight story. _With this yarn printed I can go back to school in the morning_!" "Now, see here, Dick," expostulated Dave Darrin, as the three chums hurried along the street, "in the station house you told the police you didn't get a look at the other fellow's face." "Well, that was straight," Prescott asserted. "Do you mean to say you don't know who the fellow was---you really don't?" persisted Dave Darrin. "I don't know," Dick declared flatly. "You've a suspicion, just the same," asserted Greg Holmes, dryly. "Possibly." "Who was it, then?" coaxed Greg Holmes. "Was it Fred Ripley?" shot out Dave Darrin. "Will you fellows keep a secret, on your solemn honor, if I tell you one?" Dick questioned. Dave and Greg both promised. "Well, then," Prescott admitted, "I'm convinced in my own mind that it was Fred Ripley that I had hold of for an instant tonight. But I didn't see his face, and I can't prove it. That's why I'm not going to tell about it. But this fellow wore lavender striped trousers, just like a pair of Fred's. There is just a chance or two in a thousand that it wasn't Ripley---and I'm not going to throw it all over on him when I can't prove it. Fellows, I know just what it feels like to be under suspicion when you really didn't do a thing. _It hurts---awfully_!" CHAPTER XI THE WELCOME WITH A BIG "W" Ben Badger sat perched aloft among the bare, spreading branches of a giant maple near one corner of the school grounds. The maple stood at the curbing of the sidewalk. Down below stood nearly a hundred High School boys of Gridley. That Ben was on sentry duty was apparent from the eager looks that those below frequently cast up at him. At times, too, the general impatience sought relief in questions hurled at Ben. Finally, from the lookout aloft came down the rousing hail: "Here he comes! fellows! Here he comes! No---here _they_ come! The whole crowd---Dick & Co.!" A flutter passed through the crowd below, vet not one of the Gridley H.S. boys stirred from the ranks just within the school yard gate. Back on the main steps of the High School building nearly three score of the young ladies were irregularly grouped. They were silent, but expectant. For "The Blade" had been read in many a Gridley home that morning. The news had traveled fast over Gridley. Though the paper had contained no announcement that Prescott would return to school, every High School boy and girl had felt sure of that. Down the street, three abreast, came Dick & Co., with proud, firm stride. Very likely the partners were even more exultant than was Prescott himself. Then the freshman sextette came in full sight from the gateway. "Who's this?" yelled Ben Badger in his loudest voice. From the crowded tanks below welled up the chorus: "Dick & Co.! Dick & Co.! Good old Dick! Bully old Co.!" Prescott and his chums halted, thunderstruck by the volume and force of that unexpected chorus. Immediately on top of it rolled out lustily the complicated High School yell, given with a vim never before heard off the football field. And then: "What's the matter with Dick Prescott?" demanded Ben Badger, in stentorian tones. From one half of the H.S. boys came the roaring response: "He's the whole cheese." Then, from the other half: "-----for a _freshman_!" Dick & Co. recovering from their amazement, were coming on again now. Young Prescott's heart thumped hard. He was no popularity-chaser, but only the fellow who has been down hard, for a while, knows how good it is to be _up_ once more. As Dick neared the gate Ben Badger dropped down out of the bare maple tree, for Ben had yet other duties on the reception committee. He and Frank Thompson suddenly snatched Dick Prescott out of the ranks of his chums, and hoisted him aloft. This these two husky first classmen were well able to do. Across the school yard they started with him, while the rest of the fellows followed, giving voice to the High School yell: "T-E-R-R-O-R-S! Wa-ar! Fam-ine! Pes-ti-lence! That's us! That's us! G-R-I-D-L-E-Y H.S.! Rah! rah! rah! rah! Gri-i-id-ley!" The girls grouped on the steps parted, letting the leaders and followers through. With the rush as of an army the excited youngsters bore Dick Prescott up a flight of stairs. Half a dozen of the fellows sprang ahead of Badger and Thompson, throwing open one of the doors of the general assembly room. Again the High School yell broke loose, sounding, in that confined space, as though it must jar the rafters loose. Dr. Thornton had risen from his chair behind the desk. It was before coming-in-hour, and there was no rule that commanded quietude before the bell rang. Yet such a din had never before been heard in the room. But just then Dr. Thornton caught sight of red-faced, happy-looking Dick Prescott on the shoulders of Badger and Thompson. Then the principal laughed in sheer good humor. Wheeling, Badger and Thompson carried Dick straight up to the platform, where they deposited their human burden at the edge. "Welcome to our city!" yelled Badger, sonorously. "Mr. Prescott," greeted Dr. Thornton, holding out his hand, "I am heartily glad to see you back here." "No more pleased, sir, than I am to be here," returned the young freshman. "And I must thank you, doctor, for the promptness with which you sent the note around to me informing me that the suspension had automatically ended." While the cheering was going on out in the yard, and while Dick was being carried in triumph into the building, Fred Ripley and Clara Deane had just turned in out of a side street and come within view of the demonstration. "They're shouting out something about Prescott," murmured Clara. "Oh, I suppose the mucker has been allowed to sneak back into school," returned Ripley, in disgust. "It's a shame to allow that class of young fellows in a high school," declared Miss Deane. "If a higher education is necessary for such people, they ought to be sent to a special school of their own." "If Gridley H.S. goes on being cheapened I shall go to some good private prep. school somewhere," hinted Fred. "That _would_ be a splendid idea," glowed Clara. "I wouldn't mind going to some good seminary myself." "If we do, let us hope we can find a town that will contain both schools," suggested Fred, with an attempt at gallantry. "For that matter, Clara, there are co-ed private schools, you know." "I don't want to go to one," retorted Miss Deane, promptly. "Co-ed schools are just like co-ed colleges. The boys may have a good enough time, but the co-ed girls are shoved into the background. Co-ed boys pretend they don't know that the co-ed girls are alive. The High School is better, for a girl, than any co-ed private school, for in the High School girls are treated on an even footing with boys." "We'll both of us keep that prep. school idea in mind, though," proposed Ripley, just before the pair entered the school building. By the time that this exclusive pair entered the general assembly room the scene before them was none too pleasing. The congratulatory crowd being too large for Dick alone, his five partners were holding separate little receptions for groups, relating how Dick, Dave and Greg had captured Tip Scammon. Such speculation there was as to who Tip's unrecognized companion could have been the night before. As Fred stepped into the big room he was conscious of many unfriendly glances that were sent in his direction. As early as possible Dick Prescott sought out Laura Bentley and Bell Meade, and to them he expressed his heartiest thanks for the splendid aid they had given him toward this present happy moment. So great was the clamor, in fact, that, when the gong outside struck the "minute-call" at 7.59, no one in the assembly room seemed to hear it. Then came the jingling of the assembly bell in the big room. A murmur of surprise ran around, for time had passed rapidly since Dick's appearance. In another moment the only sound was that of quiet footfalls as the young ladies and gentlemen of the Gridley H.S. moved to their seats. In a few seconds more only the ticking of the big clock was heard. CHAPTER XII DICK & CO. GIVE FOOTBALL A NEW BOOST By recess the feeling had quieted down. Dick Prescott was only a freshman, but it is safe to say that he was the most popular freshman who had ever "happened" at Gridley H.S. However, the noisy spirit of welcome had spent itself Dick & Co. were given a chance to go away quietly by themselves and talk over their own affairs. Fred Ripley appeared to be the only unhappy boy in the lot. He kept to himself a good deal, and the scowl on his face threatened to become chronic. Recess was nearly up when Thomp and Captain Sam Edgeworth, of the eleven, approached Dick & Co. A nod from Edgeworth drew Prescott away from his chums. "Prescott, as you know, we don't usually allow freshmen to mix much with us in the athletic line. But the fellows feel that you are a big exception. You couldn't possibly make the team this year, of course, but we well, we thought you might like a bit of the social end of the squad. We thought you might like to come around to our headquarters and see us drill and hear our talk of the game. Would it interest you any?" "Would it?" glowed Dick. "Why, as much as it would please a ragpicker to be carried off to a palace to live!" "Do you care to come around and see us this afternoon?" pursued Captain Sam. "Say three o'clock." "I'd be delighted." "Then come around and see us, Prescott. Maybe you'll be interested in something that you see and hear." "I wonder-----" began Dick, wistfully. "Well, what?" asked Thomp. "Could you possibly include my chums in that invitation? They're all mightily interested." "Yes," nodded Thompson, "they're interested, and they all helped you to spring that trick on the Board of Education. It's more than half likely that we owe the continuance of football this season to Dick & Co." "Bring your friends along, then," agreed Captain Sam Edgeworth, though he solemnly hoped, under his breath, that he wasn't establishing a fearful precedent by showing such wholesale cordiality to the usually despised freshmen. "We'll use all six of you as our mascots," laughed Thomp. "And er---er---" began Dick, a bit diffidently, "we have something that we've been talking over, and we want to suggest to you---if you won't think us all too eternally fresh." "Anyway, the idea'll have to keep," muttered Edgeworth, as the gong clanged out. "There goes the end of recess." The long lines were quickly filing in at two entrances? and the work of the school day was on again. It was barely a quarter of three when Dick & Co. walking two-and-two, came in sight of the otherwise unoccupied store that formed the football headquarters. "We're too early," muttered Prescott, consulting his watch. "We'll have to take a walk around a few blocks yet, fellows." "Why?" Dan Dalzell wanted to know. "What difference does a matter of a few minutes make?" "Haven't you had it rubbed into you enough that you're only a measly freshman?" laughed Dick. "And don't you know a freshman is called a freshman only because he can't dare to do anything that looks the least little bit fresh? From an upper classman's point of view we've had a thumping big privilege accorded us, and we don't want to spoil it by running it into the ground. So I vote for a walk that will make us at least two minutes late going into the football headquarters." "My vote goes with yours," nodded Dave Darrin. The good sense of it appealed to all the chums, so they strolled away again, and came back three minutes late, Outside the door they halted. Some of the awe of the conscious freshman came upon two or three of the chums. "You go in first, Dick," urged Tom Reade. "It was you who got the invite, anyway," hinted Greg Holmes. Laughing quietly Dick turned the knob of the door. He went in bravely enough, but some of his chums followed rather sheepishly. Fred Ripley, who had dropped in five minutes before, saw them at once, and scowled. "'Ware freshmen!" he called, rather loudly. Nearly all the members of the regular and sub teams were present. Most of them were going through an Indian club drill at the further end of the room. At Fred's cry several of them turned around sharply. "Oh, that's all right," called out Edgeworth. "These particular freshmen are privileged. Welcome, Dick & Co.!" "Privileged? Welcome?" gasped Ripley, in a tone of huge disgust. "What on earth is the High School coming to these days?" "If you don't like to see them here, Ripley," broke in Thompson, "you know-----" "Oh, well!" growled Fred, with a shrug of his shoulders. Then, disdaining to look at Dick & Co., this stickler for upper class exclusiveness turned and stalked out of the store, closing the door after him with a bang. For some minutes Dick and his chums stood quietly against the wall at one side of the big, almost bare room. Then Edgeworth called out: "Now, fellows, we've had enough of indoor work. We'll take a brief rest. After that we'll go over to the field and practice tackles and formations until dark." Released from the drills Thomp came over to shake hands with the freshmen visitors. Edgeworth presently strolled over, and a few others. "By the way, captain," spoke up Thompson, finally, "I think Prescott told us that the mighty freshmen intellects of Dick & Co. had been trying out their brains in the effort to get up some new football stunts." "That's so," nodded Sam. "Have we time to listen to them?" "Yes," decided the football captain; "if it doesn't take them too long to explain." Ben Badger kicked forward an empty packing case. "Here's a platform, Prescott. Get up and orate!" he called. Dick laughingly held back from the packing case until Badger and Thomp lifted him bodily and stood him on top of the box. "And cut it short, and make it practical," admonished Ted Butler, "or take the dire consequences!" "Why, I don't know, gentlemen of the football team, that it's much of an idea," Dick began, "but my chums and I have been thinking over the complaint of the Athletics Committee that you haven't as much money, this season, as you'd like." "Money?" echoed one. "Now, you're whispering. Whoop!" "Money---the root of all evil!" shouted another. "Get wicked!" adjured a third. "What my friends and I had to suggest," Dick went on, "was that, as we understand it, the folks of the town don't contribute much cash for upholding the fame of High School athletics." "The School Alumni Association does pretty well in that line," replied Edgeworth. "The public in general do pretty well by buying tickets rather liberally to our games. It's the expenses that are the great trouble. You see, Prescott, instead of maintaining one team, we really have to support two, for the subs are necessary in order to give us practice. Then the coach's expenses are heavy. Now, the Alumni Association owns our athletic field, but a lot of lumber and carpenter work is needed there every year, making repairs and putting in improvements. Then, when we play high school teams at a distance from here the railroad expenses eat up enormously." "And we have to play mostly teams at a good distance from here," laughed Ben Badger, "for we've played the nearby elevens time and again, and Gridley has eaten up the other fellows in such big gulps that we have to get on dates, these days, with teams so far away that they don't know much about us." "But there's plenty of money in the town," replied Dick. "The business men have some of it. The wealthy people have a lot of it, too. It is a Gridley brag that the people of this city are public spirited to the last gasp. Now, if you can get public spirit and money on good speaking terms there wouldn't need to be any lack of funds for High School athletics." "All right," nodded Edgeworth, trying to conceal a slight impatience "But how are you going to introduce public spirit effectively to money?" "That's what we freshmen have been wondering," Dick replied. "Now, every student in the Gridley H.S.---boy students and girl students---gets a share of the reflected glory that comes from the work of one of the best high school elevens in the United States. So, as we see it, the whole student body should get together in the raising of funds. And when I say 'funds,' I don't mean pennies or dimes." "This is becoming interesting," called out Ben Badger. "That my chums and I would suggest," Dick continued, "is that the whole student body of Gridley H.S. be enlisted, and sent out to scour the town, holding, out a subscription paper that is properly worded at the top." "How worded?" demanded Ted Butler. "My freshmen chums and I have prepared a draft of the paper. May I read what we suggest as a heading for the paper?" "Hear! Hear!" cried a dozen. "Thank you," Prescott acknowledged, gratefully. Then, drawing a paper from his pocket, he read as follows: _"'Gridley is justly proud of its public spirit, and rejoices in having the best in several lines. Few if any cities in the United States possess a High School football team that can down the eleven from Gridley H.S. We are proud of our High School, and as proud of its reputation in athletics. We believe that Gridley prominence in athletics should be fostered in every way, and we know that real athletics cost money---a lot of it! We, The Undersigned, therefore subscribe to the Athletic Committee of Gridley H.S. the amounts of public spirit set down opposite our names in dollars.'"_ After Dick Prescott had ceased reading it took nearly a full minute for the cleverness of this direct appeal to local pride to strike home in the minds of the football squad. Then loud applause broke loose. "Freshie!" roared Sam Edgeworth, over the din, "that's genius, compressed into a hundred words!" "It's O.K.!" declared Thompson, with heavy emphasis. "Bully!" roared Ben Badger. Then one pessimist was heard from: "It's good, but it takes something mighty good to force people to part with their own cash." "Don't you think that, with every H.S. boy and girl going around with the paper, it will force subscriptions?" Dick inquired. "Oh, well," granted the pessimist, "I believe it will cost enough money out of the public to pay all the cost of printing the subscription papers anyway." "If we didn't need that kicker on the team, we'd throw him out of here," laughed Sam Edgeworth, good-naturedly. Then the matter was put to informal vote, and it was decided to ask the permission of the Athletic Committee to put through the scheme presented by Dick & Co. "And now it's time to be off for the field," proclaimed Sam Edgeworth, with emphasis. Coach Morton will be waiting for us, and he isn't the man who enjoys being kept waiting." "Come along with us, Dick & Co.," called Thompson. "You'll have a chance to see whether you approve of our way of handling the game." So Dick and his partners went along. Though they could only stand at the edge of the field and look on, yet that was rare fun, for no other freshmen were on the same side of the fence. As all six of the boys knew considerable about the theories and rules of football, and as all of them watched closely the plays between Gridley H.S. and the subs, they soon saw the reason why Gridley had one of the most formidable High School teams in the country. "Oh, for the day when _we_ can try to make the team!" uttered Dick Prescott, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. The fund-raising scheme offered by Dick & Co. went before the Athletic Committee that same evening. It was accepted, as Prescott and Darrin, hanging about outside the H.S. building, learned an hour later. In three days more the subscription papers had been printed and were distributed. Every boy and girl in the school received one, with instructions to bring it back, "filled out"---or take the consequences. Then the canvassing began. Would it work? Dick & Co. felt that their own reputations hung in the balance. And it was bound to be the case that some of the students, though they took the papers, did a lot of prompt "kicking" about it. _Would it "work"_? CHAPTER XIII "THE OATH OF THE DUB" For a full week the boys and girls of Gridley H.S. scoured the town, trying their fortune everywhere that money was supposed to lurk. The great Thanksgiving game was coming on. Gridley was to play the second team of Cobber University. This second team from Cobber had beaten every high school team it had tackled for the two preceding years. Gridley, in this present year, had not met with a single defeat in a total of nine games thus far played. In six of the games the opponents had not scored at all. But could Cobber Second be beaten? The Cobber eleven was one of the finest in the country. Even the second team was considered a "terror," as its record of unbroken victories for two years testified. So much awe, in fact, did Cobber Second inspire among the high school teams that Gridley was the only outfit to be found that dared take up the proposition of a Thanksgiving Day game with the college men. "Gridley can't win!" the pessimists predicted. Even the heartiest well-wishers of Gridley H.S. felt, mournfully, that too big a contract had been undertaken. Dick & Co., however, under the inspiring influence of their leader, were all to the hopeful. "We'll win," Dick proclaimed, "because Gridley needs the game. When Gridley folks go after anything they won't take 'no' for an answer. That's the spirit of the town, and the High School is worthy of all the traditions of the town." "Talk's cheap, and brag's a good dog!" sneered Ripley. Three sophomores who overheard the remark promptly "bagged" Fred and threw him over the school yard fence. "Come back with any more of that," warned one of the hazers, "and we'll scour your intellect at the town pump." Being a freshman, Prescott didn't say too much. Neither did his chums. Yet what they did say was bright and hopeful. Their spirit began to soak through the student body. "You see, gentlemen," Coach Morton warned the football squad one morning at recess, "you've _got_ to win. The school believes you can do it, and the town is beginning to believe it. If you lose to Cobber Second you'll forfeit the respect of all the thousands of Gridley folks who are now saying nice things about you." "Write it down," begged Thompson. "We're going to beat Cobber Second off the gridiron." "Good!" cheered Mr. Morton. "That's the talk. And be sure you live up to it!" "We've got to live up to it," asserted Thomp, solemnly. "Right-o!" came the enthusiastic approval from as many members of the student body as could crowd within easy hearing. The girls were all there, too, for in these days the girls were as much excited as others over the prospects of winning. "Shall I tell coach and students, Cap?" called Thomp to Edgeworth. "It won't do any harm," nodded Sam. "Confession will make our deed more binding." "What deed?" demanded Coach Morton, scenting some mystery that he was not yet in on. "Why, you see, sir," proclaimed Thomp, "every member of the team, and every sub who stands any show to get into the game, has taken the oath of the dub." "'The oath of the dub'?" repeated Sub-master Morton. "That's a new one on me. "It's a new one on us all," admitted Thompson, gravely. "We've taken the oath, but it's so dreadful that most of us shivered when it came our turn to recite the patter---the ritual, I mean." "What is this 'oath of the dub'?" asked the coach. "It's fearful," shivered Thomp. "Any of you fellows feel better able to explain?" He glanced around him at the other visible members and subs of the school eleven, but they shook their heads and shrank back. "Well, then, I'll have to tell you myself," conceded Thomp, with an air of gloom. "It's a fearful thing. Yet, as I've been through with it once, one more time can't hurt me---much." Thomp made an eloquent pause. Then, reaching his right hand aloft, his eyes turned toward the sky, he recited, in a deep bass voice: "I have pledged my honor, as a gridiron specialist, that Gridley H.S. shall lug away all the points of the game from Cobber Second. If we fail, then may everyone who espies me mutter: 'There goes a dub!' May the word 'dub' haunt me in my waking hours, and pursue me, mounted on the nightmares of slumber! May my best friends ever afterward refer to me only as a 'dub.' For if I fail the school, then am I truly a 'dub,' and there is no help for me. If I fail, then may I never, so long as life lasts, be permitted to lose sight of the patent fact that I _am_ a 'dub'! So help me _Bob_!" A roar of laughter and approval went up from all who heard. Coach Morton tried hard to preserve his gravity, but his sides shook, and his face reddened from the effort. At last he broke loose. When he could control his voice Mr. Morton demanded: "What genius of the first class invented the 'oath of the dub'?" "It wasn't a senior, sir," Thomp confessed. "What junior, then?" "Not a junior, either." "_Who_, then?" insisted the submaster. "Tell him, Sam." "That oath, Mr. Morton, required and received the concerted brainpower of-----" "Dick & Co.!" shouted the football squad in chorus. A good-natured riot followed. "Dick & Co. will soon get the notion that they're the whole High School," growled Fred Ripley to Purcell. "They are a big feature of the school," laughed Purcell. "You're about the only one, Fred, who hasn't discovered it. Rub your eyes, man, and take another look." "Bah!" muttered Ripley, turning away. Just then the gong clanged the end of recess. "Now, that 'the oath of the dub' has been given out," suggested Dick Prescott to his chums, after school, "we ought to find Len Spencer and give it to him. He'll print it in tomorrow's 'Blade' and that will send local pride soaring. That'll help a whole lot to success with the subscription papers." After the papers had been in circulation a week the Athletics Committee held an evening session, in the room of the Superintendent of Schools, in the H.S. building. By eight o'clock nearly a hundred and fifty of the boys and girls had assembled. More came in later. The subscription papers, and the amounts for which they called, were turned in to Coach Morton. It was soon noticed that many of the subscriptions had been paid by check. Laura Bentley was the first to turn in a paper. "Twenty dollars," she announced, quietly, though with evident pride. "Eleven dollars," announced Belle Meade. After a good many of the girls had made accounting they boys had a brief chance. When it came Dick Prescott's turn he spoke so quietly that those nearest him thought he said six dollars. _"Sixty dollars?"_ repeated Mr. Morton, more distinctly. "The best offering yet." "I've one more," added Prescott, in the same low voice. "Then speak up more loudly," directed the submaster. "There are a lot of young people here who want to hear." "Here," continued Dick, handing in another paper, "is a communication signed by the members of the city's Common Council. They signed as individuals. They agree to hire the Gridley Military Band, of twenty-eight pieces, to be on hand at the Thanksgiving game and to play for our High School eleven." None of Dick's partners had secured less than twenty-five dollars. When all the subscriptions had been turned in, and the amount footed up by Coach Morton, that gentleman announced, in tones that betrayed excitement: "The total subscriptions amount to nineteen hundred and sixty-eight dollars. That will put us on a fine footing for this year, and leave a good balance over for next year!" Then the enthusiasm broke loose in earnest. Two score of fans turned, at once, to find Dick & Co., who had started the scheme. But Dick & Co. had quietly vanished. Before it adjourned that night, the Athletics Committee, with the help of Captain Sam Edgeworth, found one effective way of rewarding those who had conceived this highly successful subscription campaign. Dick Prescott was appointed cheer-master for the great Thanksgiving Day game. More, Dick was to name any one of his chums as assistant cheer-master. As the cheer-master bosses the noise that is so indispensable a part of the game, the honor that had come to young Prescott was no mean one. No Gridley freshman had ever before achieved it. Dick left to his partners the selection of assistant cheer-master. _They_ settled on Dave Darrin. CHAPTER XIV ON THE GRIDIRON WITH COBBER SECOND Once upon a time Thanksgiving Day was an orgie conducted in honor of that national bird, the turkey. In these happier days, in every live community, the turkey must wait until the football game has been fought out. Then the adherents of one eleven eat crow. Gridley's great game of the year was scheduled to begin at three o'clock. However, a large part of the fun, at a really "big" game consists in being on hand an hour ahead of time and hearing and seeing all the fun that goes on. Promptly at the tick of two o'clock the Gridley Band blew its first blast, to the tune of "Hail, Columbia!" The band was stationed close to the ground, in the center of the stand reserved for the High School student body. Off the right of the band rose four tiers of bright-faced, wholesome-looking High School girls. To the left of the band sat the boys. Across the field, on a much smaller stand, sat the hundred or so followers of the team from Cobber. The Cobbers had no band. Few feminine faces appeared on the Cobber stand. The Cobber colors, brown and gray, floated here and there on the breeze in the form of small banners. Gridley's stand was brilliant with the crimson and gold banners of Gridley H.S. These bright-hued bits of bunting waved deliriously as the band's strains floated forth. But as "Hail Columbia" belongs to all Americans, the Cobbers elected to flash their bunting, too. Suddenly the music paused. Then came pressing contempt for the hostile eleven: "All coons look alike to me!" Cobber's friends took the hint in an instant. To a man the visiting delegation arose, hurling out the Cobber yell in round, deep-chested notes. Just outside the lines, behind a huge megaphone mounted on a tripod, stood Dick Prescott, cheer-master. At his side was Dave Darrin, whose duties were likely to prove mainly nominal. Dick swung the megaphone from left to right, as he called out through it: "Now, then---number seven!" From the boy's side came the prompt response, in slow, measured cadence, every word of it distinct: "C-O-B-B-E-R! Born in misfortune! Reared on trouble. Grew to be a disgrace---and died in tears!" Cobber's friends had to "chew" over that. They had nothing in their repertory of "sass" that seemed to fill this bill. To return an inapt yell would be worse than silence. So the visitors sat scowling at the field. "Score one on Cobber's goat," grinned Dave Darrin. Presently, after some whispering on the visitors' stand, this rather lame one came from the college crowd: "C-O-B-B-E-R! C-O-B-W-E-B! Our trap for the foolish little fly!" One of the few girls on the visitors' stand rose to wave her brown and gray banner. She slipped and fell through between the seats. Quick as a flash Dave Darrin sprang to the megaphone, swinging it around at the enemy, and bawling this atrocious pun: "Now you spider! But now you can't!" That brought a laugh, even from the visitors. The hapless girl, with the help of some of her male friends, was hoisted up once more to a seat and safety. "Look at the poor girl," laughed Dick to Darrin. "She's wearing our colors now---crimson face and a gold locket under it." "If she wasn't a girl, I'd yell that over to 'em," laughed Dave. The band was playing again, in its most rollicking rhythm, the old air from "Olivette," "Then bob up serenely!" The laughter started on the Gridley side, but it spread all the way around to the Cobber seats. As the minutes flew by it became apparent, from a survey of the filled seats, that at least two thousand, outside of the Cobber and the Gridley H.S. delegations, were present at the game. This meant a healthful addition to the athletics fund. By and by Cobber recovered its nerve on the seats. Cobber yells floated forth on the air. Yet, for every sing-song taunt the visitors found that the home fans had an apt retort. This was where Dick Prescott's ready wit came in, for it was his task to call for all the cheers, yells, songs or taunts. Two-thirty came. Dick called for the High School song. The band accompanied, while the entire student body sang. At its completion Cobber answered, as might have been expected, with cat calls. Within the next few minutes Dick ran the H.S. boosters through nearly the whole repertory of cheers and songs. Then, just after quarter of three, Dave made an important discovery. "Here come the teams," he whispered. Dick, without turning to look, swung the megaphone so that its wide mouth aimed straight at the band leader. "You know what now, leader!" In a twinkling the musicians rose. A cornetist flared forth with a bugle call. Down came the leader's baton. The bugle call shaded off into a single strain from the band. Then out crashed: "See, the conquering hero comes!" With both teams marching onto the field the call was for courtesy. Gridley H.S. and Cobber rose in their seats. The other spectators, mostly, also stood up. Cobber Second came marching around in review before Gridley H.S. seats, and received a rattling volley of good, staunch old American cheers. Gridley H.S. eleven took the other side of the field. With Sam Edgeworth at their head they went past the visitors' seats, and received the most thundering welcome that Cobber knew how to give. Passing the two grand stands the captains wheeled their men marching them out into the field. Two footballs bounded from the side lines, and both teams began preliminary practice plays. After that the band played a couple of lively airs. The people on the grand stands did not pay much heed to the practice work. They knew that the players were merely warming up. Coach Morton came down along the side lines, halting close to the cheer-master and his assistant. After the first greeting Mr. Morton turned his eyes anxiously toward the field. The day was ideal---not too cold. Though the sun was out, there was some cloudiness, yet without a sign of rain or snow. The field was in excellent shape for a fast game. "Why, Dick, you're _trembling_!" grunted Dave Darrin, in amazement. "I know it," Prescott confessed, half guiltily. "What's the matter?" "Oh, nothing; only I'm so excited I can't quite keep still." "Afraid for _our_ side?" "We're going to win!" asserted Dick, stubbornly. "Yet you're shaking!" "It is buck fever, I guess. O Dave, I _do_ love this grand old game!" Coach Morton half turned, sending a comprehending smile at the earnest young freshman. "I wonder if you'd feel like that," ventured Dave, "if you were one of our fellows out there on the gridiron." "Not for a second," spoke up Prescott, promptly. "I know what I would be doing though." "What?" "I'd he Singing inside---singing songs of triumph over the game we were going to win---the game we just _had_ to win!" "You'd be pretty confident," smiled Darrin. "Yes, I would," Dick asserted. "I believe it's the only spirit worth having---the firm conviction that you're going to win, and that nothing can stop you." Coach Morton turned long enough to say: "Prescott, I wish you were old enough and big enough to be out there on our team now. When your time comes I certainly hope you'll make the eleven. Your spirit is what every high school needs." Blushing a bit, Dick drew the score card out of his pocket. He knew the Gridley side of it by heart, already, but he wanted to read it over again. This was the line-up that he saw: Gridley H.S. Positions Cobber Second Evans .....left end..........Paisley Butler.....left tackle.......Jordrey Beck.......left guard........Smith Badger.....center ...........Halsey Thompson...right guard.......Jennison Edgeworth..right tackle......Potter Stearns....right end.........Adams Winters....quarter-back......Bentley Jasper.....right half-back...Haddleston Trent .....left half-back....Dill Gleason....fullback..........Strope "Why isn't Edgeworth in center?" asked Dave, glancing down over Dick's shoulder. "Played down a bit too fine to hold center in a big game like this," Dick answered. "Edgeworth is a corking center, and I wouldn't be afraid to see him there today. But Ben Badger is every bit as good." Coach Morton drew in his breath sharply. Referee Henderson had just signaled to Badger, acting captain for the home team, and Halsey, captain of the Cobbers, to come in for the toss. The players halted in their work to await the result of that toss. "You call, Halsey," nodded Ben Badger. "Up!" warned the referee, and flipped the coin. "Tails!" sang Captain Halsey. "Heads it is," announced Referee Henderson. Ben Badger grinned. "It's all starting _our_ way," clicked Dick Prescott, in an undertone. He seemed lost in a transport of ecstasy. CHAPTER XV GRIDLEY FACES DISASTER "We'll kick from the north end," announced Captain Badger, promptly. With a grunt of satisfaction, Gridley loped off for its positions. The band broke loose in a wild hurrah of a tune. Spectators belonging to both sides took up a wild cheer until the referee raised his right hand for silence. The opposing teams were lined up. Darting forward to center field the referee placed the ball, then ran backwards off the gridiron. His whistle went to his lips. It was an instant of strained attention. Trill-ll! It was not a cheer, but a subdued, breathless gasp that rose from the two camps of fans as the opposing lines rushed at each other. Dick could not help a slight groan, for Adams, of Cobber, reached the pigskin first. But Adams kicked it off over the line. Here was Gridley's prompt chance. Evans kicked the ball from the twenty-five-yard line. It was stopped by Huddleston, who started to run with it. Luckless plan! Gridley's line came thundering down upon him almost ere Huddleston had stepped off! Bump! The combatants piled into and over each other. Huddleston was downed on his fifty-yard line. At this instant Dick bethought himself. Placing his mouth to the megaphone, he roared: "H.S. cheer!" It rolled out with full volume while the referee was placing the ball. By the time it died out Cobber's captain could be heard calling: "Four---nine---thirty-three---eight!" Trill-ll! Here, the heavier boys from Cobber began to do their fine work, and Gridley hearts sank. Cobber made a first down on three plays. It ended in a bad fumble, however, for steady Thompson went down over the ball on the Gridley forty-five-yard line. "H.S. cheer once more!" bellowed Dick. The High School boys and girls answered with a will, drawing it out so long as to cause the referee to frown. When it ended Badger's signals ripped out fast and clear. The ball came back to Quarter-back Winters. He started Gridley faces to glowing again, for Winters did one of the things that had made the team famous. This was the Gridley fake kick. With any lesser team it would have been good for twenty-five yards. Even against the big, alert fellows from Cobber that fake kick was good for eight yards. But not yet did the full effect of the move come. For Cobber was off-side and Trent burst through the line on a spurt that was good for thirty-three yards. Two snappy line plays followed that made the Cobber boys feel the cold sweat ooze. It would have been Gridley's first down, but a little slip penalized the home players for fifteen yards. Most of the people of Gridley back in the seats wore now standing up in their excitement. They had dreaded much from the bigger college boys, but now the spectators saw that Gridley could hold its own for strategy, ruse and speed. Cobber lost its temper just a bit, now, before the smiling faces of these High School boys. Some rough playing followed, but the home boys kept their tempers. Soon Ben Badger signaled another fake kick formation. That was Gridley's specialty for this game, one long planned and worked for. Quarter-back Winters again got the ball. With a handsome forward pass he made it Thompson's, and it went to the enemy's seven-yard line. "Question---four!" appealed Cheer-Master Prescott, through the megaphone. Back from twenty boys on the home stand came the heavy query: _"Where's Cobber? Where's Cobber?"_ From all the rest of the H.S. fans came the roaring answer: "Lost! Suitable reward and no questions asked!" Then the Cobber fans hurled back this hint: _"Brag's a great dog, Brag's a smart dog, Brag's a good dog, but----- Look out for the cat!"_ Cobber now developed their own famous bulldog tactics. From the seven-yard line Gridley moved the ball less than two yards in three plays. Cobber got the ball, and then other things began to happen. Cobber's big fellows worried the ball back for eleven yards. Then the visitors, who carried thirty per cent. more weight, began with heavy mass plays. Gridley began to go down, to double up and collapse before that heavy, rough play, in which fatigue, not speed was the object of the opponents. It was not scientific play, but it was grueling on the High School boys. Even confident Dick Prescott's heart began to sink. Coach Morton was breathing hard. Unless Gridley could hold the enemy's rush back effectively enough to get the ball once more on downs, the college boys seemed likely to rush it right over the High School goal line. Had Cobber tried any kicks, Gridley would have had the ball, and would have known what to do with it. But Captain Halsey knew that. He depended, now, wholly on heavy mass rushes and plays. Yet the Gridley boys were by no means asleep---or lazy. "I won't tire our men all out in the first half," muttered Badger to himself. "But I won't let them stroll through our line." Even the heavy Cobber men, though they advanced doggedly, did not make any too great progress. Down at the Gridley fifteen-yard line the High School boys developed their greatest stubbornness and strength. So well did they oppose the college boys that, by preventing progress in three successive plays, the home boys again got the ball. They could not move it sufficiently far forward, however. Cobber took the ball again. "Better let up on the cheers, don't you think, sir?" Dick inquired. "Yes," nodded Coach Morton. "It would only worry our boys now, and they've got enough on their minds as it is." Again Cobber took the offensive. At the next down a man had to be sent from the field, and a substitute sent out. But the casualty went to Cobber, not to the High School team. That fact gave the major part of the audience grim satisfaction. "There they go, now!" muttered Dave Darrin, in disgust. "Nothing is going to stop the big fellows!" "They're getting nearer our goal line," Dick admitted. "But a game is never won until it's finished. Cobber, as yet, hasn't even gotten the touchdown!" A minute later Cobber _had_. To the Gridley onlookers it sent a shock of dismay. The college men certainly had scored. "It's Cobber's beef, not science," Dick stoutly asserted. "Our fellows play with more speed and real skill. _Say_---look at that!" For Bentley, of the college eleven, had just missed the kick from field. Five points for the visitors! The teams swiftly changed ends and lined up. The whistle's call sent them off to the fray, for there were but three minutes left of the first half. Cobber won the kick but didn't carry it far. Gridley got down as far as the enemy's twenty-yard line. Then the smaller High School boys were fairly pushed back into their own territory, losing twelve yards of their own side of the field. Trill-ll! The first half was over. "Sam, can you do better? Do you want to go back on the job?" asked Ben Badger. "No," replied the Gridley captain. "It's been tough on us, but you've done everything that I could have done. I'm satisfied, and I believe the coach is." "We'll ask him," proposed Badger. Morton was hurrying toward his boys. The coach's face was impassive. For all his looks showed he might have been congratulating himself on a winning. "No; there's no need to change captains," decided the coach. "It's like changing a horse in mid-stream. I don't see, Badger, that you're lost any tricks that Edgeworth could have made. "What's our weak point?" asked Ben. "There isn't much of a weak point, anywhere, as far as your play goes," Mr. Morton responded. "In many respects your play has been better than Cobber's. Weight is your poor point." Nevertheless the coach made several suggestions in the time that was allowed him. "Whenever you get a proper chance, Captain, and have the ball, open up the play as much as you can. Don't give Cobber a chance to bump you any when it can be avoided." In the meantime the Cobber fans, as was their right, were hurling the most abusive cheers and taunts. Dick, as cheer-master, allowed this to pass until nearly the end of the intermission. At last he gave the sudden call through the megaphone: "Twenty-three!" The number sounded ominous; so did the cheer that was designated by it. The Gridley H.S. boys on the grand stand responded hardly more than half-heartedly: _"Com-pan-nee served first! That's our steady rule! Manners the best are taught In Gridley school! "But he who waits laughs best! 'Tis but a distance short 'Twixt laugh and weep--- Your joy'll be short!"_ "H.S. cheer!" exhorted Prescott, at once. It came, with a more thundering volley. Yet Gridley folks stirred uneasily. "That's what comes of putting a freshman, without judgment, on the calling job," muttered Fred Ripley sarcastically. The whistle blew. Cobber got the ball, and kept it moving. Once there was a brief setback when Gridley got the pigskin and sought to push it back. After four yards, however, Cobber took it and moved down the field with it. It seemed impossible to offer effective resistance to the heavy college men now. Gridley hearts sank from sheer weight. Gridley had met more than its match! CHAPTER XVI THE FAKE KICK, TWO WAYS It was almost a touchdown for Cobber when Ben Badger rallied his men enough to fight the college men back some twenty-odd yards. But then the tide turned once more, and Cobber began to fight its way back to the High School goal line. The spectators had given up hope, all save those who sat in the Cobber seats. This was to be the first defeat of the season, and the whipping was to come from worthy foemen. Yet are home folks ever satisfied to see their own youngsters beaten? Defeat was now conceded, however. Even Coach Morton, though his face did not betray him, had given up all hope. Dick, however, kept calling for the cheers and yells. The student body did their best, but their spirits were low. Once Morton turned and frowned, but Freshman Prescott did not see him. The coach feared that this jubilant racket would get on the nerves of the Gridley battlers. "How many minutes will it take Cobber to cross our line?" murmured Dave in Dick's ear. "They won't do it before next year," Prescott staunchly retorted. Just then Cobber lost fifteen yards on penalty, and Gridley H.S. had the ball at the moment when it was sadly needed. "Band, four bars of 'Hot Time in the Old Town!'" yelled Prescott through the big megaphone. The leader's baton fell like a flash. The band itself sharing in the excitement fairly ripped the air out in gallop time. As Ben Badger heard he straightened up for a moment, shaking his long locks in the wind. A smile crossed his face. Then he bent over the ball for the pass. "Nine---fourteen, eighteen---seven!" he called. Evans darted quickly out on his end. Quarter-back Winters moved his feet somewhat to left. Trent, left half-back, shot swiftly away to an altered position. Captain Halsey, of the college team, saw instantly that it looked like a long pass and a sprint around Gridley's left end. A football general must change front swiftly. At the signal, Cobber disposed itself to bunch against the High School left. The whistle blew. Winters got the ball, and made the movements for a kick. Cobber men, in the air on the jump, halted somewhat uncertainly, some of them. It was a fake kick, and a royally good one. The ball went to Stearns instead. Out around the right end dashed the little left, with Gridley support thumping over the ground to back him up. But Stearns was the best Gridley runner on the field today. Moreover, he had not been worked as hard as had Evans. A nimble dodge, and Stearns was past the first Cobber interference. A howl of delight went up from the home fans. Then Cobber's secondary defense made a dash for Stearns. The latter found himself balked, so headed straight for them. Through the line he made a dash. It was too much for little Stearns. Down he went, and a groan of disappointment went up from the Gridley seats. Yet only to one knee went the swift little end. He was up and off again like a shot. One Cobber man wheeled and would have grabbed the little right end, but there was where Frank Thompson played for all there was in him. He pitched forward, falling headlong, and Smith, of Cobber, fell over him. It was a sprint, now! For an instant the field close to Stearns was clear of opposition. Wild cheering broke loose. Dick Prescott fairly danced for joy. Ah! Here came some of the belated Cobber men, supporting their fullback. There was a heavy crash. Stearns, caught in the midst of the mixup, went down, but he covered the pigskin! Then the linesman hurried up. The news was so good that it flew from mouth to mouth along the east side boards: "Forty-two yards!" Cobber's captain gasped. It had been close playing all afternoon. He had looked for nothing like this. Clearly, Gridley's fake kick tactics were all of the real thing. For the first time Halsey and his best men felt much of their confidence ooze. Down almost over the line, Gridley soon had the ball, while the home fans were again standing up and cheering. Then a penalty set the ball back. But Gridley soon had the ball again. In two plays the doughty High School boys carried the pigskin eight yards. Only nine to go! As Badger's signals rang out for the third pass, Badger's men were seen to spread. Another fake kick? Then the ball went backward. Winters, of course, took it. Like magic, while watchful Cobber stood opened up, the Gridley line closed in again. Artful Dodger Winters still had the ball. Thompson, Edgeworth, Badger and Beck butted in solidly behind the lithe quarter-back. The rest of Gridley followed. Cheek of cheek! The out-weighed High School boys were giving Cobber a dose of Cobber medicine. It was a mass-play---a battering-ram assault. And Gridley got it over! An inch past the line Winters tripped and went down, covering the ball. Touchdown! Five to five a tie score! "Kick the goal!" came the hoarse appeal from the east side seats. "Kick as you never kicked before!" Gridley fans could fairly hear themselves shake now. Hats were off and waving. The High School girls stood up, frantically waving their crimson and gold banners. Cool, steady, like one without nerves, Thompson went back into the field and poised himself for the kick. At the whistle the dull thump of a boot against the pigskin was heard all over the field. The ball arched and soared. Even before it came toward earth a wild "hurrah!" went up from the east side. The ball went straight between the bars! Score: "Six to five!" Badger and his young reliables were quietly smiling, now. Captain Halsey began to look glum. "Four bars of 'Hot Time' once more!" begged Dick Prescott, in a voice that sounded as if palsy-touched. The band blared out while the teams were changing ends. Once more Cobber got the ball on the kick-off. A massed rush was made for Gridley's goal, but it didn't get far. With eleven minutes left to play, and a lead on the score, Badger had resolved on using up all the reserve strength, if need be. Gridley had not yet called on any substitutes, and several capable young "subs" waited just outside the lines, frantic for a call. Let Cobber be rough, if that suited the college men. Cobber lost the ball on downs. Then Gridley took the pigskin. "Play for time," was Badger's signaled order. Not much in the delay line is possible under a vigilant referee, yet all the time that strategy _could_ gain was taken advantage of. Thrice the ball was fought over the center of the gridiron. Then it settled slowly toward the High School goal, making slow, stubbornly fought advances. Three minutes left to play! Gridley H.S. got the ball once more, under the distance rule. Now Badger called out the same signal that had been used for that most effective fake kick. Captain Halsey smiled as he saw the High School fighters spread out swiftly, just as they had done before. Halsey thought he knew this time! That same old ruse of dashing around the left end; then a fake kick and a dashing race by Stearns. Halsey's swiftly telegraphed orders disposed his men to meet the former dodge more effectively. The whistle sounded, and the ball was passed. But what Halsey didn't know was that, the second time this signal was called it meant the players were to do exactly what they seemed spreading out for. So the ball actually went around the left end this time, Evans making the best sprint that was left in his stiffening muscles. He covered twenty-four yards before he was brought to earth. Here was where delay came in. While Cobber was fighting stubbornly to regain the pigskin, the whistle sounded the end of the second half. Gridley had won from the big enemy! Now pandemonium broke loose. Two thousand people leaped up and down, yelling themselves hoarse. So many hats went into the air that it was a miracle if every man recovered his own headgear. The band didn't play; the student body didn't sound a yell. What would have been the use? There was too much noise. Dick made a bound, landing beside the band leader. "Hustle your men, please! Get out into the field and lead our men off." It needed quick work, for the players were already leaving the grounds. The wildest fans were getting over the lines, mingling with the late players. But the band got there on the run. Above all the din Ben Badger was quick to realize the meaning of the new move. He caught his men back, forming them just behind the forming band. Off marched the victorious team to the air of "Hot Time!" That brought down the cheering harder than ever. While it lasted, Dick and Dave, by frantic movements, succeeded in holding a large proportion of the student body back in their seats. As soon as the band had reached the far end of the field, and the human racket had died down somewhat, Freshman Prescott succeeded in making himself heard: "Now! Our final yell of victory!" This was the High School yell, followed, instantly, by the taunting query: "Is there any game you _do_ play, Cobber?" But there came no answer from the depths of the gloomy Cobber fans. CHAPTER XVII DICK'S "FIND" MAKES GRIDLEY SHIVER That closed the football season in a blaze of glory. Gridley H.S. had closed the year without a defeat. The day after Thanksgiving football is deader than marbles. Gridley H.S. boys and girls settled down to study until the holidays came on. The next thing of note that happened in the student world jarred the whole town. There might have been a much bigger jar, however. Dave Darrin often worked, Saturday nights, in the express office. One night in early December he was employed there as usual. At about nine o'clock Dick Prescott and Tom Reade dropped in. "Pretty near through, old fellow?" Dick asked. "I will be when the 8:50 gets in and the goods are checked up," replied Dave. "The train is a few minutes late tonight." There being no one else at the office, except the night manager and two clerks, Dick and Reade felt that they would not be in the way if they waited for Dave. Twenty minutes later the wagon drove up with the packages and cases that had arrived on the 8:50 train. "You two can give a hand, if you like," invited Dave, as the packages were being passed up to the counter, checked and taken care of. Prescott and Reade pitched in, working with a will. "Here, don't shoot this box through as fast as you've done the others," counseled Dick, as he picked up a small box, some eighteen inches long and about a foot square at the end. "The label says, 'Extra fragile. Value two hundred and fifty dollars.'" Dave reached out to receive it, as Dick laid it carefully on the counter. "Packages of that value have to be handled with caution," muttered Dave. "When a fellow puts on a valuation like that, it means that he intends to make claim for any damage whatever." "Hold on," muttered Dick, eyeing the counter. "There's something leaking from the box now." Dave took his hands away, then bent over to have a look with Dick. A very tiny puddle of some very thick, syrupy stuff was slowly forming on the counter. "I wonder if the contents _have_ been damaged?" muttered Dave, uneasily. Then added, in a whisper: "The night manager will blame us, and hold me responsible, if there _is_ any damage." Both boys carefully inspected the tiny puddle for a few moments. "Say, don't touch the box again," counseled Prescott, uneasily. "Do you know what that stuff looks to me like, Dave?" "What?" "Do you remember the thick stuff that Dr. Thornton showed us in IV. Chemistry the other day?" "Great Scott!" breathed Dave Darrin, anxiously. "You don't mean nitroglycerine?" "But I _do_!" Dick nodded, energetically. "Wow! Don't stir from here. I'll call the night manager." Night Manager Drowan came over at once, eyeing the box and the tiny pool of thick stuff. "I never saw nitroglycerine but once," remarked Mr. Drowan, nervously. "I should say this stuff looks just like it. We won't take any chances, anyway. Dave, you go to the telephone, and notify the police. Your friends can stand guard over the box so that no one gets a chance to go near it." But, while Dave was at the 'phone, Mr. Drowan hung over the box as though fascinated. "It takes fire to set this stuff off, doesn't it?" he asked. "No," Dick replied. "If it's nitroglycerine in that box, a light, sharp blow might be enough to do the trick. At least, that was about what Dr. Thornton said." Dave came back with word that the police would send some one at once. "They asked me whom the stuff was addressed to," Dave continued, "and I had to admit that I didn't know." "It's addressed to Simon Tripps, to be called for. Identification by letter herewith," read Dick Prescott, from the label. "Yes; I have the letter," nodded Mr. Drowan. "It contains the signature of the party who's to call for the box. That's all the identification that's asked." At this moment Officer Hemingway, in plain clothes, came in, followed by a policeman in uniform. Hemingway took a look at the stuff slowly oozing out of a corner of the box. "My bet is nitroglycerine---what the bank robbers call 'soup,'" declared Hemingway, almost in a whisper. "All right; we'll take it up to the station house. Then we'll send for Dr. Thornton, who is the best chemist hereabouts. As soon as we get this stuff to the station house I'll hustle back and hide against the coming of Mr. Tripps. If he comes before I get back, jump on the fellow and hold him for me, no matter what kind of a fight he puts up." Dave gazed after the retreating figures of the policemen. "Bright man, that Hemingway," he remarked. "If Tripps shows up, we are to jump on him and nail him---no matter if he hauls out two six-shooter and turns 'em on us" "We can grab any one man, and hold him," returned Dick, confidently. "All we've got to do is to get at him from all sides. See here, Dave, if a fellow comes in and tells you he's Tripps, you repeat the name as though you weren't sure. As soon as we hear the name, Tom and I can jump on him from behind, and you can sail in in front. Eh, Reade?" "It sounds good," nodded Tom. "I'll take a chance on it, Dick, with you to engineer the job." In ten minutes Officer Hemingway was back. He stepped into a cupboard close to the counter, prepared for the coming of Tripps. Half an hour later the police station's officer in charge telephoned that Dr. Thornton had carefully opened the box, and had declared that it contained four pounds of nitroglycerine. Nor had Dr. Thornton taken any chances of mistake. He had taken a minute quantity of the suspected stuff out in the yard back of the station house, and had exploded it. At a moment when the office was empty of patrons Mr. Drowan stepped into the cupboard for a moment, as though searching for something. "How late do you stay open?" whispered Hemingway. "Ten o'clock, usually, on Saturday nights, but we'll keep open as late as you want, officer." "Better keep open until midnight, then." So they did, Dick telephoning his parents at the store to explain that he was at the express office helping Dave. Midnight came and went. A few minutes after the new day had begun Hemingway came out of the cupboard. "You may as well close up, Drowan," the plain clothes man decided. "The fellow who calls himself Tripps isn't going to show up. If he had been going to claim his box he'd have been here before this." "You think he got scared away?" asked the night manager. "The fellow was probably keeping watch on this office. He saw what happened, and decided not to run his neck into a noose. You'll never have any word from Tripps." "Isn't it just barely possible," hinted one of the clerks, "that the man wanted the stuff for some legitimate purpose?" "A man who knows how to use nitroglycerine," retorted Hemingway, gruffly, "also knows that it's against the law to ship nitroglycerine unlabeled. He also knows that it's against the law for an express company to transport the stuff on a car that is part of a passenger train. So this fellow who calls himself Tripps is a crook. We haven't caught him, but we've stopped him from using his 'soup' the way he had intended to use it." "Wonder what he did want to do with it?" mused Dick Prescott. "There are any one of twenty ways in which the fellow might have used the stuff criminally," replied the plain clothes man. "Of course, for one thing, it could be used to blow open a safe with. But safecracking, nowadays, is done by ordinary robbers, and they're able to carry in a pocket or a satchel the small quantity of 'soup' that it takes to blow the lock of a safe door, or the door off the safe." After thinking a few minutes, Hemingway went to the telephone, calling up the chief of police at the latter's home. The plain clothes man stated the case, and suggested that the story be told to "The Blade" editor for publication in the morning issue. Then, if anyone in town had any definite suspicion why so much nitroglycerine should be needed in that little city, he could communicate his suspicions or his facts to the police. "The chief agrees to my plan," nodded Hemingway, leaving the 'phone. "Me for 'The Blade' office." "See here," begged Dick, earnestly, "if there's to be a good newspaper story in this, please let me turn it over to Len Spencer. He's one of our best newspaper men. He'll write a corking good story about this business---and, besides, I'm under some personal obligations to him." "So I've heard," replied the plain clothes man, with a twinkle in his eyes. Hemingway heard a good deal in his saunterings about Gridley. He had picked up the yarn about Dick & Co., Len Spencer and the "dead ones." "So that 'The Blade' gets it, I don't care who writes the story," replied the policeman, good-humoredly. Dick swiftly called up "The Morning Blade' office. Spencer was there, and came to the telephone. "How's news tonight?" asked Prescott, after naming himself. "Duller than a lecture," rejoined Len. "Would you like a hot one for the first page?" pursued Dick. "Would I? Would a cat lap milk, or a dog run when he had a can tied to his tail? But don't string me, Dick. There's an absolute zero on news tonight." "Then you stay right where you are for two or three minutes," Dick begged his reporter friend. "Officer Hemingway and some others are coming down to see you. You'll want to save three or four columns, I guess." "Oh, now, see here, Dick-----" came Reporter Spencer's voice, in expostulation. "Straight goods," Dick assured him. "When I say that I mean it. And, this time, I not only mean it, but _know_ it. Wait! We'll be right down to your office." Nor did it take Len Spencer long to realize that he had in hand the big news sensation of the hour for the people of Gridley. Everyone in Gridley either wondered or shivered the next morning at breakfast table. Four pounds of nitroglycerine are enough to work fearful havoc and mischief. CHAPTER XVIII FRED SLIDES INTO THE FREEZE Monday's "Blade" contained additional light on the nitroglycerine affair---or what passed as "light." Len Spencer and the local police had discovered that at least three of the wealthiest men in town had received, during the last few weeks, threatening letters from cranks. These cranks had all demanded money, under pain of severe harm if they failed to turn over the money. It now developed that the police chief and Officer Hemingway had, some time before, arrested a nearly harmless lunatic, who, it was believed had written the letters. The man with the unbalanced mind did not appear dangerous, yet, in view of his threats, he had been quietly "railroaded" off to all asylum for the insane. Now, the arrival of four pounds of nitroglycerine at the local express office was believed to show that the lunatic had had comrades, or else that the crazy man had been used merely as a tool. Hemingway hurried off to the asylum, to interview the unfortunate one. All the plain clothes man succeeded in getting, however, was a rambling talk that didn't make sense. Monday's "Blade" announced that the chief of police had been authorized to offer a reward of five hundred dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the party or parties behind the criminal shipment of the giant explosive to Gridley. Everyone believed that the frightened rich men had combined to offer the reward. Many wondered that the offered reward was not larger. All of the student body at the High School were busy talking about the affair in the big assembly room before the session opened. "I see where my parents have made a great mistake," sighed Frank Thompson. "How?" demanded Ben Badger. "Instead of wasting my time at the High School they should have apprenticed me to a good journeyman detective," grumbled Thomp. "Oh, but couldn't I use that five hundred, if only my training had fitted me for such deeds as running down a nitroglycerine peddler!" "It isn't anything to joke about," shuddered one of the girls. "It's awful! Would four pounds of the dreadful stuff destroy the town of Gridley?" "No," Badger informed her; "but it would be enough to blow up several wood-piles and destroy a lot of clean Monday wash." "There you go joking again," protested the girl, and turned away. "Oh, well," declared Fred Ripley, "we must possess ourselves with patience. We shall soon know the whole truth." "Do you really think so?" asked Purcell. "It's one of the surest things conceivable," railed Ripley. "That bright constellation of freshmen known under the musical title of Dick & Co. will solve the whole affair wit, in forty-eight hours. Indeed, I'm not sure but Dick & Co., even at this moment, carry the secret looked in their breasts." Fred glanced quickly around him to see how much of a laugh this had started. To his chagrin he found his bantering had fallen flat. "Oh, well," gaped Dowdell, gazing out of the window near which he stood, "I know one important fact about the mystery." "What's that?" asked half a dozen quickly. "None of the five hundred is destined to come my way. "That jest saddens a lot of us with the same conviction," muttered Ted Butler, shaking his head. "But this I _do_ know," continued Dowdell, "if the weather continues cold there'll be some elegant skating before the week is out." Gridley did not slumber over the nitroglycerine mystery. Len Spencer, though he could gain no actual information, managed to have something interesting on the subject in each morning's "Blade." The people of Gridley talked of the mystery everywhere. There was one other mild sensation this week that lasted for a part of a day. Tip Scammon came up for his trial. He pleaded guilty to the thefts from the High School locker room, and also guilty to the charge of entering the Prescott rooms in order to hide his loot in Dick's trunk. By way of leniency toward a first offender the court let Tip off with a sentence of fourteen months in the penitentiary. This sentence, by good behavior on the part of Tip, would shrink to ten months of actual imprisonment. In every way the police and the prosecuting attorney tried to make Tip reveal the name of his confederate. But Tip, for reasons of his own, maintained absolute, dogged silence on this head, and went to the penitentiary without having named the person who met him in the alleyway that evening when Tip himself was caught. The promise of skating was made good. Wednesday afternoon it was discovered that the ice in Gaylor's Cove was in splendid condition, and strong enough to bear. Thursday a series of High School racing contests were planned for Saturday afternoon. There was so much money left over in the Athletics Committee's treasury that it was voted to offer a series of individual trophies for boy and girl skaters in different events. Moreover, in these skating events members of the freshman class were to be allowed to compete. "Now, see here, fellows," urged Dick, when he had gotten his partners aside, "some of the freshman class ought to be winners of some of the events. We want to give our class a good name. And, out of the six of us, there ought to be one winner for something. I wish you'd all do your best to get in shape. You'll all go over to the cove with me this afternoon, of course." They did. More than a hundred of the student body, most of them boys, were on the ice that afternoon. Some went scurrying by for all they were worth. These were training for the races. Others gathered in the less traveled parts of the cove, which was a large one, and practiced the "fancy" feats. Tom Reade and Dan Dalzell put themselves in this class. Dick and his other partners went in for speed. Friday afternoon there was an even larger attendance. Gaylor's Cove was about half a mile long, with an average width of a quarter of a mile. At the middle the cove was open for a long way upon the river. At some points on the river proper the ice was strong enough to bear. Near Gaylor's Cove, however, the river current was so swift that the river ice at this point looked thin and treacherous. No one ventured out on the ice just beyond the cove. Friday night many a High School boy and girl studied the sky. There was no sign of storm, nor did the conditions seem to threaten a thaw. Saturday morning was cold and clear. The temperature, at noon, was just above freezing point, though not enough so to bring about a "thaw" in the ice. By one o'clock Saturday afternoon Gaylor's Cove was a scene of great activity. Two thirds of the High School students were there, most of them on skates. There were three or four hundred other youngsters, and more than a hundred grown-ups. "All we need is the band," laughed Dick Prescott, as he skated slowly along with Laura Bentley. "The click-clack of the skates is enough for me," Laura replied. "You are not down in any of the girls' contests, are you?" he asked. "No; does that disappoint you, Dick?" "N-no," he said, slowly. "Still, it's fine to see every event all but crowded." "In how many events are you entered?" asked the girl. "Only one, the freshman's mile. That will be swift work, and there are two turns, the way the course is to be laid out." "Why didn't you enter more of the freshman events?" Laura asked. "Well, it will take a lot of good wind to keep going at a swift pace for a mile. I want to save all my strength and wind for that one event." "What is the prize in the freshman's mile?" asked Laura, fumbling in her muff for the card of the day's events. "You noticed that handsome Canadian toboggan, didn't you?" "The one with the side hand-rails?" Laura asked, looking up brightly into his face. "Yes; that ought to have been one of the prizes in the girls' events." "Why?" queried Dick, looking a bit disconcerted. "Why, those hand-rails are meant for timid girls to take hold of. A boy would never want a toboggan with hand-rails." "Perhaps the fellow who's going to win the freshman's mile expects to invite some of the young ladies to go out tobogganing with him," hinted young Prescott. "Is it _fixed_ who shall win that race?" demanded Laura, teasingly. "Hardly that," Dick rejoined, dryly. "Then how do you know the coming owner's intentions, if you don't know who is going to win the race?" Miss Bentley insisted. "Well, you see, it's this way?" Dick admitted, "I've made up my mind to win that race." "So you regard the race as being as good as won by yourself?" smiled the physician's daughter. "It's one of the rules of Dick & Co.," Prescott answered, as they turned and skated slowly back toward the center of the cove, "when we go into anything we consider it as good as won from the outset." "Well, I like that spirit," Laura admitted. "Faint heart never yet won anything but a spill." Laura had her card out by this time, and was studying it leisurely, trusting to her companion to guide her. "I see Fred Ripley is entered for the grand event in fancy skating," she observed. "Yes; are you interested in him?" Something in the directness of the question caused the girl to bite her lips. "Now, that's hardly fair, Dick," she cried, flushing with vexation. "No; the fact is, I'm hoping he'll lose." "Why?" "Because, Fred has never been very nice to you, Dick." That was direct enough, and Dick flushed with pleasure. "Thank you, Laura; that's more handsome than what I said to you." "I accept your apology," she laughed. "Look! There goes Fred Ripley now! How foolish of him." Fred was heading straight out of the cove toward the river. He was a fine skater, and now he was showing off at his best. He had adapted a "turn promenade" step from roller skating, and was whirling along, turning and half dancing as he sped along. It was a graceful, rhythmical performance. Despite the fact that young Ripley was not widely liked, his present work drew considerable applause from the spectators. That applause acted like incense under the young man's nostrils. He determined to go farther out, maintaining his present step unbroken. "Look out, Ripley!" warned Thomp. "The ice won't bear out there." Fred didn't reply by as much as a look. He kept on out toward the thin ice. Cra-a-ack! Splash! The thin ice had broken. Ripley, moving backwards, did not realize his fix until his feet; shot into the water. Down he came on his back, breaking more of the ice. A yell, and he was gone below the surface. And now everybody seemed shouting at once. A hundred people ran to and fro, shouting out what ought to be done. "Get a rope! Run for a doctor! Bring fence rails! Telephone for the police!" That's the usual way with a crowd, to think up things that others ought to do. Dick Prescott espied Dave Darrin ahead. Dropping Laura's arm without a word, Dick skated swiftly up to Dave, called Darrin, then lightning. As he worked young Prescott shot out a few hurried orders. Then another great cry went up. Dick Prescott was sprinting fast toward the thin ice. Close to where Fred Ripley had gone down there was another great rent in the ice. Dick Prescott was "in the freeze," in quest of his enemy! CHAPTER XIX DICK & CO. SHOW SOME TEAM WORK So suddenly and heavily did he break through the thin ice that Dick went underneath the surface. "Help!" roared Fred, in a frenzy, as he came to the surface. The skates on his feet clogged all his movements, and acted like lead. "There's Ripley, but where's Prescott?" shouted several. "A-a-ah!" That last cry went up as a sound of relief, when Prescott's brown-haired pate, hatless, bobbed up close to where he had gone down. "Good boy, Prescott!" "Go in and get Ripley." "Save yourself, anyway! Don't be over-foolish!" A dozen more cries went up from cove and shore. Yet it is doubtful if Prescott heard any of them. In the first instant that his eyes came above the level of the water, Dick took in the details of Ripley's whereabouts. Dick had to calculate at lightning speed. "O Prescott," gasped Fred, when he saw his would-be rescuer, "can't you break the ice between us? I can't keep up much longer." "Get hold of the edge of the ice, Ripley," called Dick. "Just rest lightly on it. Don't try to make it bear your weight---it won't! It'll help hold you up, though, if you keep cool." "Cool?" groaned Fred. "I'm freezing. In pity's name get to me quickly." Fred was so wholly self-centered that it didn't occur to him that the freshman must be just as chilled as he himself was. Dick's legs ached with the cold chill of the icy water. He was free of the weight of skates, however, and he trod water during the few seconds that he needed for making up his mind what it was best to do. Much depended upon the help that those on shore gave, but Dick had left his orders with Dave Darrin, and he trusted the shore end to his capable lieutenant. Fred, though hardly more than able to keep himself afloat, managed to reach the nearest edge of ice. He clutched at it eagerly, then, disregarding excellent advice, he tried to climb out upon it. There was another crash. With another yell, Ripley sank again, to the horror of those on shore. But Prescott did not see this. The freshman, after trying to calculate the exact distance across the intervening ice, dived below the glassy surface. He was swimming, now, under the ice. As he swam the freshman kept his eyes open, swimming close to the ice, yet not touching it. So he came up, in the open. But where was Fred? "Ripley just sank!" came the hoarse chorus from shore and cove. This was serious enough. He who sinks for the second time in icy waters, especially when hampered by skates, may very likely not come up again. "It must have been about here that he went down," calculated Prescott, deliberately, as he swam through the open water. "Now, then!" Down went Dick. To those looking on, it was heroic---sublime? Yet it looked as though the rescuer must be dooming himself. "One Prescott is worth a dozen Ripleys" murmured one man who, unable to swim, was obliged to stand looking uselessly on. There were still many who were shouting confusing advice as to what others ought to do. A few were even running about trying to do something. Dave Darrin was actually "on the job." He had pressed Dick's other partners into service and as many of the High School boys as possible. They got off their skates in a rush. "Tom," shouted Dave, "you and Greg get some of the fellows and rush down as many ties as you can from that pile by the railroad tracks. Dalzell, you and Harry get down at the edge of send him your way. Make a raft by laying four ties side by side, and lash the ends. Do it as quick as a flash. I'll be there by that time." Tom and Greg quickly had a dozen men running for railroad ties, a pile of which stood less than an eighth of a mile away. By the time that the man with ropes arrived, and two more behind him, bringing more, there were a dozen railroad ties on the ice by the outer edge of the cove. Harry Hazelton and Dan snatched short lengths of rope and knotted them around either end of the raft. "Some of you men make another raft, just like that one!" shouted Dave, who, at the time, was busily engaged in making a noose at one end of a long coil of half-inch rope. "Here, you two men get hold of the other end of this," ordered Dave, running up with the coil of rope. Then, hardly waiting to make sure that they had the rope, Dave turned to Harry and Dan, calling to them to help him push the raft out beyond the cove. A dozen men and boys tried to help, all at once, but Dave and Harry saw to it that no speed was lost by blundering. The raft was not difficult to push out over the ice. "Now, let me have it alone," shouted Dave. "The ice may break at any point beyond." So Dave tugged and pushed, guiding the small raft before him. Cra-ack! Dave and the raft went through the ice, but Darrin quickly climbed up astride of the ties. Out beyond, Dick was holding up Fred Ripley, whom he had found and brought to the surface. Fred's eyes were nearly closed. After his second drop below, the Ripley lad was nearly spent. Glancing back, Dave saw that another raft was being pushed out by the two men who held the rope that was noosed under his shoulders. "Now, halt where you are!" Dave Darrin shouted back. "Toss me a long rope that I can throw out to Prescott!" The rope came swirling. Dave caught it easily enough. Then, still sitting on the raft, his legs, of course, in the water, Darrin recoiled the rope. "Can you spare a hand to catch, Dick?" shouted Dave. "Surely!" came back the steady answer. The coil flew out across the thin ice. One end splashed in the water. Guiding the all but helpless Fred, Dick swam to the rope's end. Further back the two men who held to the rope connecting with Dave had seated themselves across the second raft. If the ice broke at _that_ point they would have little difficulty in making themselves safe. "Ripley, stir yourself!" ordered Dick. "Can you take hold of this rope, and keep hold of it" Can you climb across the thin ice, holding onto the rope and being towed if the ice breaks?" "I---I---I'm afraid," chattered Ripley. "You come with me!" "It'll be a good deal easier if you can go first, and alone," spoke the freshman, rather sternly. "I think I can keep myself afloat until you get over to solid ice. Then the rope can be thrown back to me." "I'm afraid, I tell you," insisted Fred, his teeth clicking against each other. "Can't you see that I'm all in?" "You'll have us both all in, if you don't get some courage together," young Prescott insisted. "Come, be a man, Ripley!" "I'm freezing to death here," moaned Ripley, closing his eyes. Somehow---he could never tell just how, afterwards, Dick managed to slip the rope under Fred's shoulders. With infinite effort---for he had to keep them both afloat, the freshman double-knotted the rope. "Come, now, you've got to help yourself across the ice, while Dave hauls on the line," urged Dick. Fred made a motion as though to bestir himself but he did it so feebly that Prescott gave him a sharp pinch. "Ouch!" flared Fred, now seeming to be wide awake. "Prescott, you have the upper hand here. Don't be a bully!" "I don't want to," spoke Dick, quietly, trying to keep his own teeth from rattling. "But you've got to stir yourself, or else I must do it for you. Now, get started over the thin ice. Dave will haul. Never mind if the ice breaks under you; the rope is tied around you. You're sure to be hauled to safety if you help yourself. Now, then, Dave! Begin to haul in!" It needed another pinch to make Fred Ripley bestir himself properly. He half whimpered in protest, but Prescott was past minding _that_. Hardly had Ripley gotten his full weight upon the ice than it broke under him. He splashed into the water with a great howl, but alert Dave Darrin hauled in just enough of the rope. Ripley was safe, and could make the next attempt to get out on the ice. Meanwhile, Prescott swam to another part of the ice edge. He rested his hands on that edge, not heavily, but just enough for some support. At the same time he kept his tired, aching, almost frozen legs in motion just to keep himself from growing any more numb. Four times Fred Ripley broke through the thin ice, but each time Dave Darrin, astride the first raft, pulled in on the rope just in time. After getting himself out of the water for the fifth time, Ripley crawled over stronger ice, and went on past the hole in which Dave sat on the raft. Then Ripley was able to get to his feet, tottering toward the shore, shaking as though with fever and chills. A cheer went up from those who watched. The enthusiasm would have been vastly greater had not the crowd had its eyes on Dick Prescott, who must yet be saved if aid could reach him before his numbed limbs could sustain him no longer. "Get that rope off, Ripley," bawled Dave Darrin. "Hurry! I must throw it to Dick, or he'll go down!" "I can't get it off," mumbled Fred, tugging vainly, almost aimlessly, as he still moved coveward. As he was on staunch ice, now, three or four men ran toward him. One, with a sharp knife, waved the others away and quickly slashed the noose away from Fred's shoulders. "Go on, you pup!" grumbled the man with the knife. "Now, we'll try to get help to the _man_!" Fred was not too far spent to flash angrily at that taunt. "You'd better be careful whom you speak to like that!" snarled Ripley. "You're a low-bred fellow, anyway!" But the man who had slashed the rope free didn't even hear. He had turned toward Darrin, to make sure that Dave could draw the rope toward him fast enough. "One of you people get Ripley's skates off for him, and help him ashore," called Tom Reade. "Why don't _you_?" some one in the crowd answered. "Because my job," retorted Reade, "is keeping my eyes on my chum, ready to help if anything comes up that I can do." Four or five hurried to Fred's aid. He had been walking on his skates, which, at best, is an awkward style of locomotion. Two men held him up, while two of the H.S. boys quickly took off his skates. After that Fred, leaning on one of the H.S. boys, made much quicker time to the shore. Here a man with a sleigh waited. "Pile him in here," directed the driver. "Dr. Gilbert has gone up to the Avery House and is getting things ready. I'll have Ripley back in a jiffy." "Oh, that's all right," sang out a boy in the freshman class. "But the main thing is to hustle back and be ready to take Dick Prescott." "And I'll pray all through the round trip that you may get Prescott back to shore alive," fervently replied the driver, as he brought the whip down across the horse's back. Dave Darrin, too, was chilled. That was why, when he had drawn all the rope in and had coiled it, he made a throw that fell short. "Courage, Dick, old fellow," he shouted. "I'll get it to you, in a jiffy." Nervously, quickly, Dave hauled in the rope. He coiled rapidly, yet with care. "Now, may Heaven give me the strength to throw this coil far enough to do the trick!" prayed Dave Darrin, as he made the second cast. There was frenzy behind that throw. Hurrah! There was four feet of rope to spare as it splashed into the open part where Dick still hung, though he was fast weakening. "There's a noose on the end---I fixed it, Dick! Get it over your head and under your shoulders!" bawled Dave Darrin. It was only the coolness of a last desperate hope that enabled the freshman to adjust the noose sufficiently. "All r-r-r-i-ight!" he called, unable to make any further effort to stop the rattling of his teeth. "Come on, then!" cheered Dave. It was team play between two freshmen, but it was worked out. Dick, after a while, reached solid ice. Tom Reade and Dan Dalzell risked themselves a good deal in going far out to meet him. But they got their leader and rushed him toward the cove. Soon a dozen H.S. boys were running around Dick. Some of them had him upon their shoulders; others were trying to help. As they rushed him across the cove to the sleigh that had just arrived, the cheering was deafening. Others in the crowd had already run up along the road, which was lined as Dick and Darrin were driven along as fast as the horse could go. Tom Reade stood on the runners behind. As soon as the door of the hotel was reached, Reade aided the driver in rushing the boys inside. Even here the cheering followed them in volleys. "Come on---into a cold room with you, at first," ordered Dr. Gilbert, appearing, while a dozen H.S. boys came in his wake. "You don't want to get near a fire yet. Strip them, both, lads, and rub them down for all you're worth. Don't mind peeling a little skin off!" Dick and Dave were rushed into a room. With so many hands to help, they were soon stripped. Then rough Turkish towels were plied upon them until even their skins began to show the red of blood and life. "Now, wrap blankets about them, and bring them into a warm room," ordered the doctor. As they entered the other room they espied Fred Ripley, already seated in an arm-chair by the stove, a bowl of something hot in one hand. The driver of the sleigh now came in. "You lads will want something warm and dry to put on," he declared. "Give me your orders. The distance isn't far. I'll drive to your homes and get the clothes and things that you want." "No, thank you," returned Ripley, stiffly. "I've already had a telephone message sent, and my father's auto will bring out what I need." "But you youngsters will want something?" asked the driver, turning to the plucky freshmen. Dick and Dave stated their requests, Prescott adding: "But please be sure to make our parents understand that we're safe. We don't want them seared to death." Fred Ripley took a long swallow of the steaming stuff in his bowl. As he did so he took a furtive glance in the direction of the freshmen. Was he going to attempt to thank them for having risked their own lives to help him back to safety? CHAPTER XX OUT FOR THAT TOBOGGAN! Ben Badger came to the shore edge of the ice, megaphone in hand announcing in stentorian tones: "Our friends are safe---even jolly. The sports will now go on!" First on the card was a free-for-all dash of a half mile, standing start. The trophy was a regulation target revolver. Badger, of the first class, and Purcell, of the sophomore, held the lead and all but tied each other at the outset. Third in order came Stearns, the agile little right end of the eleven. When half the distance had been traveled it was noticed that Stearns was creeping up on the leaders. "Look out, Ben, or the little fellow will get you!" roared friends. Stearns continued to gain, slowly. Purcell dropped back to third place. None of the other eight in the race seemed likely to do anything effective. "A little more steam, Ben!" "Stearns, you can get it!" In the last eighth of the distance Stearns made good. Summoning all his football wind and speed the little right end closed and shot ahead. Not once in the remainder of the course did Ben Badger quite catch up with his smaller opponent. Stearns won by some fifteen yards. The racers came slowly back, breathing harder than usual. As soon as jovial Ben felt equal to the task of further announcing, he picked up the megaphone, shouting: "As I didn't win, all the further events are postponed!" There was stupefied silence for a few moments. Grown people and the students looked from one to another. Then a guffaw started that swelled to a chorus of laughter. "The next event on the card," called Ben, satisfied with the effect of his joke, "is the free-for-all fancy skating event. The contestants will come before the judges one at a time. Each entrant is limited to two minutes, actual time." There should have been some girls entered in this event, but there were none. Six H.S. boys from the different classes came forward. "Fred Ripley loses his chance," muttered some one. "He _had_ his chance. A fellow who prefers to skate into the freeze is counted out," replied Thomp. Just as the contestants were moving out Greg Holmes came hurrying down to the ice. "Am I too late?" he called. "Not if you think you've got anything good," replied Badger. Greg promptly proceeded to put on his skates, covertly watching the performance of the first fellow to show off. It was good work that Greg watched, but he thought he could beat it. "You'll have to go last on the list," nodded Ben, as Greg came skating up. Greg merely nodded, though inwardly he grinned. "That just suits me," he told himself. "The fellow who skates last will be freshest in the minds of the judges." When it came Greg's turn he avoided most of the fancy figures that the other fellows had shown off amid much applause. Still, Greg showed a bewildering assortment of "eights," "double-eights" and some magnificent work along the "turn promenade" order that Ripley had been doing before the accident. Then Greg came in, promenading backward on his skates. "I'm going to fall," he called to the judges, "but it will be intentional." "Fall it is, then," nodded Sam Edgeworth, one of the judges. Greg was moving jauntily along, still doing the backward promenade. Suddenly one of his skates appeared to catch against the other. Down went Greg, backwards. Despite his announcement the moment before, a sympathetic murmur went up from many of the onlookers. But Greg, sitting down suddenly as he did, pivoted around like a streak. Throwing his hands back of his head, he sprang to his feet. At the first he was doing the forward promenade. The whole manoeuvre, including the fall, had occupied barely four seconds. Now, wheeling into the back promenade Greg glided before the judges. "Time," called the holder of the watch. "I'm willing," nodded Greg. "And I'm willing any contestant who wants should try my stunt before the verdict is given." The conference between the judges did not last long and Greg got the decision. "The freshman mile will come along later," announced Ben, through the megaphone. "The committee want to put in a freak race first." The "freak" was a quarter mile, nearly go-as-you-please. In this race each contestant had on his left skate, but no skate on the right foot. The contestant who reached the finish line first won---"even if he slides on his back," Ben announced, sagely. Tom Reade hurried onto the ice as one of the entrants in this race. He had practiced it well, and won it easily, securing a silver medal. Greg's prize had been a gold medal, but over this fact Tom allowed himself to feel no envy or disappointment. Several other events came along in quick succession. Everyone seemed to forget that the freshman mile had not yet been skated. It was called last on the list. Just as the skaters were moving forward some one detected a figure hurrying down the slope over the snow. "Here comes Dick Prescott!" "Is he going into the race after all?" A lively burst of cheers greeted the freshman as he reached the edge of the ice. Dick looked as cheery and as rosy as ever. No onlooker could see that Prescott's late adventure had injured him in the least. "Going to race, Dick?" called some one. "Surest thing," laughed the freshman, "if I can find my skates. If not, I'm going to try to borrow a pair of the right size." "Here are your skates," called Laura Bentley, gliding forward over the ice. "I picked them up for you, and I've been holding 'em ever since. "That's what I call mighty good of you," glowed Dick. "Thank you a thousand times." Dick sat down on a wooden box. He could have had the services of half a dozen seniors to fasten on his skates, but he preferred to do it for himself. Clamps adjusted, and skates tested, Dick struck off leisurely, going up before the starter and judges. These were grouped near the starting line. "Standing start," announced Ben. "Each man exactly to the line. Pistol signal. False starts barred, and the usual penalties for fouling. Get on line, all!" Then the starter moved forward, pistol in hand. "On your marks!" "Get set!" Bang! Dick, at the left end of the line, crouched forward somewhat. Nearly the whole of his right runner rested on the ice. His left foot was well forward, the toe of the skate dug well into the ice. His right arm pointed ahead, his left behind. Crack! At the sound of the shot Dick let his right foot spring into the air. As it came down, ahead, he gave a vigorous thrust with his left. The style of start was his own, but it worked to a charm. A hearty cheer went up when the spectators saw that Dick was leading by five yards. At the first turn, however, Prescott's adherents---and they were many this afternoon---felt a thrill of disappointment. Walter Hewlett, whose skating had been strong and steady so far, passed Dick at the turn. "Hardly fair, after all," murmured several. "_Of course_, after what he's been through, no matter how much nerve Prescott may have, he can't be anything like up to his usual form." Had Dick heard them he would have smiled. He knew that the skating was warming him up and taking away whatever of the chill had been left. As they neared the second turn the distance between Dick and Hewlett was about fifteen yards. The other freshmen were far enough behind both not to appear to count. Now Prescott turned on steam. He reached the second turn only eight yards behind Hewlett, and that latter freshman made the poorer turn. Down the home stretch now! Dick began to work deep breathing for all he was worth. Instead of taking slow, deep breaths, he breathed rapidly, pumping his lungs full of air. That _rapid_ deep breathing started his heart to working faster, sent the blood bounding through his arteries. It would have been exhausting if carried out too long. But now, on what was left of the home stretch, it acted almost like pumping oxygen into his lungs. Swiftly the distance melted. "Hurrah!" rang the yell. "There goes Prescott ahead!" Not only ahead, but gaining in the lead. Five yards to the good, then ten, twelve, fifteen. Dick Prescott shot over the finish line a good eighteen yards ahead. Then the victor came to a stop, panting but happy. Five minutes later, when all the congratulations were over, he skated up beside Laura Bentley. "You saved my skates for me, Laura, and brought me luck all through. I want _you_ to have the first ride on that toboggan." CHAPTER XXI THANKS SERVED WITH HATE It didn't take long for the Gridley boys who were most interested in athletics to figure up that three out of the eight prizes offered had gone to the freshman class. More than that, the three freshmen winners were all members of the firm of Dick & Co., Limited. "Saturday's work, and some other things, show us that Dick & Co. are going to be heard from a whole lot in the athletics of future years at this school," Ben told Dick at recess Monday morning. "Whew! But I'm sorry I'm not going to be here to watch the progress of you freshmen!" Monday afternoon, while he was eating the midday meal, just after school had been dismissed, Dick received, by messenger, a note from Lawyer Ripley, asking the young freshman to call at his office at three o'clock. Though actually retired, the wealthy lawyer maintained an office in one of the big buildings on Main Street. To this office Mr. Ripley went once in a while, to transact business. "As I haven't a dollar in the world," smiled young Prescott, "it is hardly likely that he has been engaged to bring a suit against me. Oh, hang it, I know! He means to thank me for hauling Fred out of the water. What an infernal nuisance!" For a few minutes Dick was inclined to disregard the invitation. He spoke to his mother about it. "Have you any good reason for not going?" asked Mrs. Prescott. "No, mother; except that I don't like the Ripley crowd particularly. Then, besides, I have no use for being thanked. I'd have done as much for a tramp that I had never seen before." "I am afraid you have reasons for disliking Fred Ripley," admitted Mrs. Prescott. "But has the elder Mr. Ripley ever given you any cause for disliking him?" "No; of course not." "Then wouldn't it be the part of courtesy for you to go, since he requests it?" "But, if he wants to thank me, why shouldn't he come here?" "My boy, it is one of the privileges of older persons to expect younger ones to come to them." "I guess that's right," nodded Dick. "Oh, well, I'll go. But, if Mr. Ripley has anything to pass in the way of thanks, I hope he'll cut it short." So, at three o'clock, Dick climbed the stairs and knocked at the office door. The lawyer himself opened. "Oh, how do you do, Prescott?" demanded Lawyer Ripley, holding out his hand. "I'm most heartily glad to see you. You didn't see anything of my indolent son on the street, did you?" "No, sir," the freshman answered, adding, to himself: "I should hope not!" "Come into my private office won't you, Prescott?" asked the lawyer, leading the way through his outer office. The elder Ripley placed a comfortable arm-chair for his freshman caller, asking him to be seated. Though Lawyer Ripley was, ordinarily, a rather pompous and purseproud sort of man, it was plain that he realized a debt of gratitude, and meant to pay it as graciously as he knew how to do. "You have performed a most valuable service for me, Prescott," began the lawyer again, in a heavy, solemn voice. "You are quite welcome to the service, Mr. Ripley, and I hope you won't think any more about it," Dick replied. "But it is impossible that I forget it," replied the lawyer, raising his eyebrows in some astonishment. "You saved the life of my son, my only child." "At not very much risk to myself, sir," smiled the freshman. "I was able, soon after, to go in and win a skating race." "At not much risk?" repeated the lawyer. "Why, your life was in very considerable danger. Do you call that little?" "Almost any of the High School fellows would have done it, Mr. Ripley." "But none of them did." "Because I happened to be right at hand, and jumped in first---that was all," Dick insisted. "Young man, I am not going to allow you to make little of the great service that you did me. I---ah, here comes the young man we've been discussing." The lawyer changed the subject as Fred entered. "Frederick, you are late, and, on an occasion of this kind, I could hope that you would be more prompt." "My watch was slow," replied Fred Ripley, using one hand to cover a slight yawn. "Don't you see who is here?" demanded his father. "Yes, sir." "Is that all you have to say?" "How do you do?" nodded Dick, for Lawyer Ripley was looking curiously from one boy to the other. "Don't you---er---consider, Frederick, that it would be an excellent idea if you were to offer your hand to Mr. Prescott?" demanded the lawyer. The ordeal was as distasteful to Dick as it could possibly have been to the Ripley heir. Yet Dick got quickly up out of his chair, accepting the slowly proffered hand of the sophomore. "That's better," smiled the lawyer. "Now, I'll leave you two together for the moment." The lawyer closed the door behind him as he stepped into the outer office. Fred Ripley glanced covertly at Dick, who had remained standing. Even as big a sneak as young Ripley had shown himself at times to be, he knew perfectly well that he owed it, even to himself, to try to be gracious with the lad who had saved his life. But Dick said nothing, nor did he glance particularly at the sophomore. That made it all the harder for Fred to find something to say. The clock in the room ticked. Dick, to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, strolled over to a window and stood looking out. That, therefore, was the situation when Lawyer Ripley came back into the room. "What a jovial, friendly pair!" railed the lawyer, who held a slip of paper in his hand, as he advanced toward the freshman. "Prescott," declared the lawyer, "I can't tell you what is in my heart. I can't even pay you adequately for what you have done for me and for my boy. But I ask you to accept this as a slight indication, only, of what I feel." Dick took the paper, glancing at it curiously. It was the lawyer's check for two hundred and fifty dollars. "Accept it," begged the lawyer, in a rather pompous voice. "Do whatever you please with it." Dick colored. "Whatever I please with it?" he asked, a bit unsteadily. "Yes; certainly, of course," murmured the lawyer. "I have no doubt whatever that a live? healthy boy can find something to do with a check like that." Flushing still more deeply, while Fred Ripley looked on, at first enviously, Dick Prescott tore the check into several pieces. The lawyer stared at him in amazement. "I appreciate your intention, Mr. Ripley," Dick went on, his voice a bit husky, "and I thank you, sir. But I can't take any money." "Can't take it?" repeated the astonished lawyer, while Fred Ripley fairly gasped. "I can't accept money, sir, for an act of humanity." "Oh! But I think I can convince you, my boy, that you _can_." "I'm equally sure that you can't Mr. Ripley," persisted the freshman, smiling. "But again I thank you for the intention." Lawyer Ripley was a good deal of a judge of human character. He began to feel sure that the freshman was speaking the truth. Just at that moment some one entered the outer office. Mr. Ripley glanced out, then said: "I shall have to ask you to excuse me for a few moments. Fred, of course you have just thanked Mr. Prescott again for his heroic act?" "N-n-no, sir," stammered Fred. "When I return I don't want to have to hear another answer like that," warned the lawyer, sternly. Then he closed the door behind him. Dick turned, with a dry smile. "Since you're under orders to thank me, Fred, get it over with quickly," laughed the freshman. "I'll help you all I can." Young Ripley's better nature really was stirred for a moment. "Of course I thank you, Prescott," he stammered. "It was a splendid thing for you to do. I---I don't know as I had any right to expect it, either, for I've been pretty mean to you." "I know," replied Dick, with the same dry smile. "You put Tip Scammon up to the High School locker thefts, to get me in disgrace, and unlucky Tip had to go to jail for it." Fred Ripley glared at the freshman with terror-stricken eyes. Then, without warning, Fred made a leap for ward, to clutch Dick by the throat. CHAPTER XXII THE ONLY FRESHMEN AT THE SENIOR BALL Side-stepping, the freshman put up one arm to ward off further attack. "Come, don't start a fight here, Fred," Dick cautioned the other, in a low tone. "For one thing, you couldn't win anyway. Besides, your father would hear the racket and come in." "How do you know I put Tip up to that job?" demanded young Ripley, his face as white as chalk. "Did Tip tell you all about it?" "Not a word." "Then you don't know," cried Fred, in sudden triumph. "If I didn't," grinned Dick, "you've just confessed it." "You tricked me---I mean it's a lie." "No; it isn't, either," asserted Dick, coolly. "Though the second chap, in that mix-up in Stetson's alley one night, got away before I had time to recognize his face in the black darkness there, yet as I fell and grabbed for the chap's ankle, I noticed his trousers with the lavender stripe. I had seen those trousers on you before, Fred, and you're wearing them again at this minute." Fred glanced downward, starting. "You see," insisted the freshman, "there's no sense in denying that you put Tip up to the game that got him into the penitentiary." "How many have you told this to?" demanded Fred, fright showing in his face. "My chums suspect," Dick answered, frankly. "I'm pretty sure I haven't told anyone else." "Good thing you haven't, then," retorted Fred, recovering some of his usual impudence. "My father is a lawyer, and he'd know how to make you smart if you started libelous yarns about me." "Your father being a lawyer, I think he would also be likely to show an investigating turn of mind. You can put it up to your father if you want to, Fred." Young Ripley winced. Prescott laughed lightly. "Now, see here, Fred, I don't want to live on bad terms with anyone. You've got good points, I'm sure you have." "Oh, thank you," rejoined the sophomore, with exaggerated sarcasm. "And I'll be glad to begin being on good terms with you at any time, if you should ever really want such a thing," continued the freshman. "If you were a thoroughly good fellow, wholly on the level, like Badger, Thomp, Purcell, or any one of scores of fellows that we know, then I'd hate to know that you didn't like me. But, as to the kind of fellow you've sometimes shown yourself to be, Fred, I've been really glad that I wasn't your sort and didn't appeal to you." At this style of talk the sophomore seemed all but crushed with mortification. "Come, Fred," pursued Dick, not waiting for the other to answer, "be a different sort of chap. Make up your mind to go through the High School, and through life afterwards, dealing with everybody on the square. Be pleasant and honest---be a high-class fellow---and everyone will like you and seek your friendship. That's all I've got to say." "It's quite enough to say," retorted Ripley, but he spoke in a low voice that had in it no trace of combative energy. "Well, boys, how are matters going?" asked Lawyer Ripley, reentering. "Fred, have you remedied your boorishness by thanking Prescott?" "Oh, yes, he has thanked me," Dick replied, cheerily. "And we've been chatting about---some other matters. And now, Mr. Ripley, if you will excuse me, I feel that I must run along." I have other things that I really must attend to." "Won't you be more sensible, and let me make you a duplicate to the check you tore up?" asked the lawyer. "Thank you, sir; but I don't want to; couldn't, in fact. My father and mother would be ashamed of me if I took home a check for such a service. Good afternoon, Mr. Ripley. So long, Fred." Dick went out of the lawyer's offices almost breezily. Fred even found the nerve to respond to Dick's parting salutation with something very close to an air of cordiality. The instant he reached the street Dick took in several deep breaths. "Whew! It seems mighty good to be in the fresh air once more, after being in the same room with Fred Ripley," muttered the freshman. "Hello, Dickens, kid," called a voice from behind, and an arm rested on his shoulder. "Hello, Ben," replied Prescott, looking around. "I just wanted to say that the senior ball comes off Saturday night of this week. You're going to get one of the few freshman tickets. The ticket allows you to invite one of the girls. Now, remember, freshie, we depend upon you to be there." Dick started to object. Well enough he knew that there would be few freshmen at the senior dance, which was the most exclusive affair in the High School year. "You can't kick," rattled on Badger. "You'll get thrashed, if you do. Didn't I tell you that there'll be very few freshman tickets sent out? Only six, in fact. Dick & Co. are going to hog all the freshman tickets. That's largely on account of what you youngsters have done for football and athletics in general. Lad, this is the last year that the seniors will have a chance to see anything of Dick & Co. So you simply can't stay away from the senior ball. Not a single member of Dick & Co. can be excused from attending." "We'll see about it," replied Dick. "No, you won't! It has all been seen to. The six of you are going to be on hand---with six stunning girls, too!" "I thank you, anyway; I thank you all heartily for this very unusual honor," Dick protested. "That's all right, then; it's settled," proclaimed Ben Badger, with an air of finality. "The dance begins at nine. It's all stated on the ticket." By the next day it _was_ settled that Dick & Co. were going to attend. Besides the senior class, a good many of the juniors were also invited. There was to be a fair sprinkling of sophomores, but of the freshmen Dick & Co. were the only ones invited. Up to the middle of the week Fred Ripley felt rather certain that he was to be invited. Then, feeling less certain, he went to Thomp and Badger. "Say, fellows," began Fred, with a confident air, "I just want to mention the fact that I haven't received a card to the senior ball yet." "Maybe you will, next year," suggested Thomp coolly. Fred flushed, then went white. "Oh, very well, if you mean than I'm to be left out," grunted Ripley. "I'm afraid, Fred," hinted Badger, "that you were overlooked until the full number of soph tickets had been issued. It was an oversight, of course, but I'm afraid it's too late to remedy it." Fred Ripley went away, furious with anger, for he already knew, as did everyone else in Gridley H.S., that Dick & Co. were to be among the elect at the senior ball. And Fred had been so sure of a card to the ball that he had gone to the length of inviting Clara Deane to accompany him to the affair. That young lady had most joyously accepted. Now, as he walked home with Miss Clara this afternoon, Fred suddenly broke out: "I say, Clara, you don't very much mind if we don't go to the senior ball, do you?" "Yes," Miss Deane retorted. "Why, what's the matter, Fred. Didn't you receive an invitation?" "Of course, I could get an invite," lied young Ripley. "But the plain truth is, I want to keep out of the affair." "Why, what's the matter?" asked Clara, gazing at her escort in astonishment. "Haven't you heard the news?" "What news?" "That mucker crowd, who call themselves Dick &s Co., have been invited." "There's no harm in that, is there?" asked Clara Deane, quietly. "Why, they're quite popular young fellows; certainly the best-liked freshmen." "Well, _I_ don't like them," retorted Fred, sullenly. "And so, after inviting me to go to the ball with you, now you're going to invite me to remain at home instead?" "Oh, of course, if you really want to go, I'll see about it," muttered the sophomore. But he didn't see about it, nor did Clara Deane again refer to the matter. However, being an enterprising girl, Miss Deane was not long in discovering that Fred was not going to the senior affair for the very good reason that he _couldn't possibly_ get himself written down on the invitation list. Apart from the moral side of the question it is rarely worth while to lie---to a girl, especially. CHAPTER XXIII THE NITROGLYCERINE MYSTERY SPEAKS UP In one phase of its social life Gridley H.S. was especially sensible. Since only a few of the boys could be expected to be able to afford evening dress suits, it was a rule that none, even the seniors, should appear at any of the class functions in these fashionable garments. Hence, Dick & Co., when they arrived with their girl friends, did not feel out of place on the score of clothes. Each of the freshmen wore his "Sunday" suit, and each wore a flower at his lapel. Unfortunately, no limitations were placed on the dress of the girls. Therefore, while some rather plain frocks were in evidence, many of the girls were rather elaborately attired. Laura Bentley, though her father's means rather permitted, did not "overdo" in respect of dress. Dick felt sure, however, as he offered his arm, and conducted her out on the floor, that Laura was quite the prettiest, sweetest-looking girl there. All of Dick's chums felt satisfied with their partners of the evening, for each young man had invited the girl whose company he was sure to enjoy most. Somehow, though they did not feel just out of place at the senior ball, the six young freshmen and their partners, all of the freshman class, happened to come together at one end of the hall. "What do you all say," proposed Dick, "if, in the grand march, we freshies keep together, six couples all in one section?" "We'll feel more comfortable, surely," grinned Dave Darrin. "Why? Are you scared?" asked Laura, looking at him archly. "Not so that the band-leader could notice it," replied Dave. "Yet I think we'd all be making more noise if this were a freshman dance." "But the freshmen don't have a dance until just before commencement time," put in Belle Meade, who was there with Dave. "Anyway, the seniors are not so very important," laughed Laura. "the average age of the freshman class is about fourteen or fifteen. The seniors are only three years older Pooh! Who's afraid?" "I am," broke in Ben Badger, coming up behind them. "Desperately afraid." "You? Of what?" asked Laura, turning around upon him. "Afraid that I'm too late to write my autograph on your dance card," admitted Ben, with a rueful smile. "But you're a senior," murmured Laura. "Is that a crime?" demanded Ben, in a tone of wonder. "Why, we were planning," put in Belle, "that the freshmen boys and freshmen girls should dance together this evening." "I see a ray of hope," protested Ben. "I'm going to college, so I shall be a freshman again next year. Isn't that enough to entitle me to one---square---dance, anyway?" Without waiting for another reply, Ben caught up Laura's card, and looked it over. "May I have number nine, please?" he begged. "Yes, thank you," Laura answered, so Badger scribbled his name. "My hopes are rising," cried Frank Thompson, gliding into the group. Thereupon other seniors and juniors came up. It wasn't long before Dick & Co. had to bestir themselves in order to be sure of having dances enough with the girls of their own class. "You can retaliate, you know, by going after some of the girls of the two upper classes," suggested Laura. "I don't believe I'll try that," Dick replied. "It's all right for the upper class boys to want to dance with some of the freshman girls, especially when the freshman girls are such a charming lot-----" "Our thanks!" And six girls bowed low before him. "But it would be regarded, I'm afraid, as rank impudence, if we little freshmen wanted to dance with senior or junior girls. When a freshman is in doubt the tip is 'don't!'" The orchestra was playing a lively waltz that made most of the girls and many of the boys tap their feet restlessly. The perfume of flowers was in the air. Lively chatter and merry laughter rang out. "This is the brighter side of school life," murmured Dick, enthusiastically. "One of the brighter sides," suggested Laura. "Your remark, as you made it, sounds ungrateful. It is a delight to be a High School student. There are no really dark sides to the life." "But some sides are much brighter than others," Dick insisted. "I like study, and am glad I have a chance to go further in it than most young people get. Yet these class dances give us something that algebra, or chemistry, or geometry can't supply us." "This is the brightest spot of the year," put in Tom Reade, in a low voice. "It must be the brightness of the girls' eyes that fill this part of the room with so much radiance." "Bravo!" laughed Laura and Belle together. "Have you been quiet the last fifteen minutes on purpose to think that up?" Dave asked enviously. "Tom can say lots of nicer things than that," spoke up Bessie Trenholm, half shyly. "Oh, can he?" demanded Harry Hazelton. "Please search your memory then, Bessie. Let's have a few specimens of what Tom can say under the influence of luminous eyes." Bessie blushed. When she tried to speak she stammered. "I---I guess I can't remember anything," she pleaded. Freshman laughter rang out merrily at this. But the waltz had ended, and now the prompter was calling for the grand march. "Let's find our places," urged Dan Dalzell. "We're on the side, so we might as well remain right where we are," proposed Dick. "That is, unless the floor manager or some aide comes along and chases us to the rear of the procession." But no one interfered with the freshmen taking their places in the line just where they stood. As the grand march ended the orchestra drew breath once or twice, then burst forth in a gallop. Dick offered Laura his guidance, and away they flew together. By the time the gallop ended the freshman couples were rather well scattered over the hall. Dick danced well. He enjoyed himself immensely. So did his partners. Some of the freshman girls finally drifted off with upper class partners. Toward midnight, Dick, alone, drifted to Dave Darrin and Harry Hazelton. "I haven't a thing to do, now, for four dances, unless some senior drops dead," Dick remarked. "I'm in as bad a plight," admitted Harry. "And I," nodded Dave. It wasn't many moments ere the other three partners happened along, all disengaged. "We don't want to be wall-flowers," muttered Dick. "It's going to be more than half an hour from now before any of us are due to dance again. See here, fellows, what do you say to our getting our hats and coats and getting out into the air for a while? A ballroom, isn't the worst place in the world, but I'm so much a fresh air fellow, that I'm half stifling here." "Good! Come along to the coatroom, then," nodded Greg Holmes. "Going home?" asked Laura Bentley, in a tone of protest, as she whirled by on Thompson's arm and saw Dick & Co. headed for the coatroom. She was gone before Dick could answer by word of mouth. But he saw her regarding him from the other end of the room, and smilingly shook his head. "Feels good to be out, doesn't it?" asked Dan Dalzell, as the freshman sextette struck the open air. "Yes; but what has happened to the blooming town?" demanded Greg Holmes. Even this Main Street of Gridley presented a curious look. It was a freezingly cold December night and it looked to the freshman as though the senior ball must be the only live thing left in the little city. All the stores were closed, and had been for some time. All lights were out in the nearest residences. At first the boys thought they beheld held a policeman standing in front of the First National Bank, half a block away, but a closer look revealed the fact that he was only some belated loiterer---the sole human being in sight save themselves. "Come off this other way, and let's go down the side street," proposed Dick. "Yes; if we're to find signs of life anywhere, it will have to be on the smaller side streets," observed Greg Holmes. Music wafted to them from the hall. "There's life going on up there," remarked Dave. "We left it behind us." "It isn't life," laughed Dick, "when some other fellow is dancing with your girl." Along the side street the first corner was at the beginning of a broad back alley that ran parallel with Main Street. Along this alleyway they turned. "By looking up at the windows," suggested Prescott, "we may get some glimpses of the dance that are not so apparent when you're up in the hall." True, as they passed by the rear of the dance hall they caught some glimpses of moving couples going by the windows, but that was all. "And I want to remark," grunted Tom Reade, "that it's cold outdoors tonight." "An outdoor fellow like you ought not to mind that," chaffed Dick "Oh, I'll stand it as long as the rest of you do," challenged Reade. Dick and Dave were in the lead, the other chums coming behind them in couples. So Prescott and Dave Darrin were the first to catch a glimpse down the short lane that led from the alleyway to the back of one of the buildings. Here stood a man, with cap drawn well down over his forehead. He was beside an automobile---a big black touring car. Dick saw and guessed. He almost jumped. Giving Dave's arm a quick squeeze, Prescott marched by without appearing to pay any heed to the man and the autocar. Once past the lane, Dick kept on walking, but he turned and walked backwards. He signed to the other four, putting a finger to his lips for silence. All six of the chums had guessed swiftly what the man and the auto, at that particular point, must mean! "Keep walking, fellows," whispered Dick, as the other startled freshmen reached him. "And laugh---loudly!" Their forced laughter rang out. Then Dick, again at the head with Dave, started in on the first bars of the latest popular song. Again the chums understood, and joined in with a will. When he had gone two hundred feet further, Dick countermarched his little force. Still singing they went back by the head of the lane, but not one member of Dick & Co. allowed himself to glance down the lane at man or automobile. Then the song died out. "I say, fellows," called Dave Darrin, banteringly, "we'd better get back to the hall if we don't want to find other fellows going home with our girls." "I'll fight before I'll let that happen," proclaimed Dick Prescott. "Hustle, then!" urged Dan. Once out of the alleyway and into the side street the freshmen halted for an instant. "Fellows," spoke Dick Prescott, "you all know what that means? One lookout in front of the bank, and another at the rear. An auto at the rear, too. Greg, you hustle to the police station as fast as you can make your feet fly. No use trying to find a place open where you can telephone. Come, the rest of you fellows." There was a side entrance to the hall from the side street. Dick and his four remaining chums ran in at this side door, that the man in front of the bank might not see them. Up the stairs the freshmen rushed. "Dave, take care of the orchestra," panted Dick. "The music mustn't stop for an instant after we get the fellows out." Something in the looks of the five freshmen, as they burst into the hall attracted the attention of nearly everyone present. Dick held up his hand as a sign for the dancing to stop. But Dave Darrin was already up on the platform, talking in the leader's ear, and the music did not cease. As quickly as could be Dick got the upper classmen away from the girls, at the lower end of the hall. "What is it? What can be the matter?" all the girls wanted to know. But Dick called out, loudly enough to make himself heard: "Young ladies, it is highly important that the music and the sounds of moving feet be kept up. Won't you young ladies please dance with each other until we bet back? Then we'll tell you an interesting story---if you're good." In the meantime Tom Reade was telling Thompson, Badger and Edgeworth, and as many more as could get close enough, what had happened. "See here, fellows," spoke Thomp, "there's a big chance fer the crowd to win fun and glory for good old Gridley H.S. Seniors and Dick & Co. will steal down the alleyway, and be upon that lookout before he can say 'batter-cakes and coffee.' Juniors and sophs go in a bunch, prepared to catch the lookout on Main Street. All get your coats and come softly down the _side_ stairs!" In many gatherings the speed and comprehension with which all the Gridley High School boys acted would have been regarded as marvelous. But they were always in training for athletics. Team work and the spirit of speed and discipline prevailed among them. Almost in a jiffy, so it seemed, the masculine part of the senior dance party was out on the sidewalk of the side street. "Don't you juniors and sophs show yourselves on Main Street for a full sixty seconds, unless you hear us raise a row at the back of the bank," advised Dick. Somehow, none of the upper classmen seemed to think it strange for young Prescott thus to take command. He and his chums had discovered the attempt on the bank, and it seemed natural, just now, for the freshman leader to lead the whole school. On tiptoe Dick and his chums led the way into the alley, the seniors following just as stealthily. When the freshmen were within thirty feet of the lane Dick Prescott held up his hand, then signed to all hands to make the grand rush forward. Just an instant before the High School boys could start, the earth suddenly shook and swayed under them, while on the frosty night air there came a great, sullen, fearsome--- BOOM! That was the explosion designed to blow open the door of the bank's vault. CHAPTER XXIV THE CAPTURE OF THE BANK ROBBERS In answer, a rousing defiance, the Gridley H.S. yell was roared out. And by this time, seniors Dick & Co. were in full motion. "Four---thirteen---eleven!" bellowed Sam Edgeworth. The football men heard that signal and understood the application of it. Though the flying wedge is now no longer tolerated in football, there are other plays evolved from it, and the signal called for one. Edgeworth himself formed the point of the wedge. "Freshies in the center!" he bawled back lustily. As the High School crowd rushed around the corner, giving their vocal chords full play, Dick and his chums were hustled inside of the inverted "V" formation. It was a human battering ram that launched itself into the lane---filling that narrow passage, choking it. One of the bank robbers was still on the lookout duty. At the first sound he had drawn his revolver, prepared to shoot right and left. But this avalanche of torsos, arms and legs was more than the fellow had bargained for. If it be true that a community can't be indicted, then it is still truer that a community can't be murdered. The armed rascal gasped at the magnitude of his task of defense. In another second he had been bowled clean over off his feet, and a half a dozen seniors were reaching for his weapon. As Dick Prescott and his chums got out of the wedge they made a dash for the automobile. At that same instant the air bore to them the battle-yell of juniors and sophs at the front of the bank. The rear door of the building was yanked hastily open. Two masked men shot the rays of their bulls-eye lanterns out into the lane, while their right hands held revolvers. Bang-bang! Bang-bang! The rear door slammed, the robbers retreating behind that barrier. In the first moment the High School boys themselves were a good deal startled, though they didn't make any effort to run. Then the news pulsed swiftly through the senior crowd. The noise hadn't come from pistols. Dick & Co. had shut off any possibility of automobile flight by falling upon the tires with their pocket knives. Any robbers that could bluff their way through the crowd and start the engine would have to hobble along on flat tires! The rear lookout of the robber band was now a safe prisoner in the hands of four stalwart seniors. Ben Badger had the fellow's revolver. Out in front of the bank the juniors and sophs held the enemy at bay inside. The lookout, after trying to hold up the rush at the point of the pistol, had turned without firing, and had tried to get away. But four of the juniors had sprinted after him and caught him. Thus the forces stood. Inside the bank building were at least two of the robbers, armed and presumably desperate. Yet they knew they couldn't shoot their way out through a multitude, either at the front or the back of the building. On the other hand, the High School boys didn't care about rushing into a darkness that was held by armed men. Thus the opposing sides stood holding each other at bay until new actors came upon the scene---the police reserves. Four officers ran to the front of the bank. Chief Coy and four more appeared in the lane among the High School boys. "Now, young gentlemen, jump out, if you please!" rang the chief's order, "We've got to get inside at those fellows, and there may be a good many bullets flying." "Huh!" objected Thomp. "We penned that gang up for you. Now, are you going to chase us off just as the real fun starts?" "If you stay, it'll be at your own risk, then," answered Chief Coy, with a rather pleased grin, for he had followed the fortunes of Gridley H.S. on the football gridiron, and well enough he knew the school grit. Pushing their way through, the police made their way to the closed rear door. "Within, there!" summoned Coy, knocking lustily on the door. "You are surrounded, and may as well give up. Open the door, and come out, and you'll be safe." There was a pause. Then a gruff voice demanded: "If we open you don't fire on us?" "Not if you come out with your hands held up high." "All right, then. Give us time to open the door." The light from the police dark lanterns played on the door as it swung open. Then two very crestfallen robbers, holding their hands well aloft, came out on the steps. The windows of the hall, some distance away, had been thrown up. A lot of white-gowned girls, some with covered heads, and some not, looked wonderingly out at the spot lighted up by the dark lanterns. Chief Coy and two of his officers quickly entered the bank. It was ten minutes before they reappeared. "Somebody has done us the good turn of discovering this thing just in time tonight," announced Coy, with a grave face. "The vault door is blown entirely off, and the vault is stacked high with sacks of money. Who first discovered this thing anyway?" "Don't you know?" called Ben Badger. From a score of throats at once the information broke forth: "Dick & Co.!" "It'll be a good night's work for Dick & Co., then, when the bank directors meet" declared Chief Coy. "In three or four minutes more these robbers would have been going sixty miles an hour with an automobile loaded down to the guards with real money!" The police party being large enough to take care of everything, it was not many minutes more before the High School boys were back in the hall. It took half an hour, however, for the young men to gratify the natural curiosity of the girls. At last the orchestra leader, tiring of the long delay, passed the word to his musicians. Then the music pealed out for that good, stirring old eulogy: "For he's a jolly good fellow!" In an instant bright-faced boys and girls caught up the refrain, making the hall shake with the din of their voices. In the midst of it Thomp and Badger made a rush for Dick Prescott, caught him, and rushed him to the platform. But they had to hold him there. "Speech! speech!" roared the boy and girl assemblage. There was a volley of hand-clapping. But Dick, as soon as he could make himself heard, responded: "You've got my number---nothing but the freshman class. When a freshman is in doubt he doesn't dare do it!" Suddenly turning, Dick bolted for the floor once more. Then the next number on the dance programme began, and laughter reigned. But these events had not been in the dance programme, and it was now late. For an hour or more the chaperons had been fretting, so they brought the dance to a close. Then followed the merry bustle of departure, the hasty goodbyes, the rattling of wheels through the sleeping town and all was quiet in Gridley. But many a household was awakened to hear the story of the attempted burglary and the part that Dick & Co. had taken in preventing it. CHAPTER XXV CONCLUSION It isn't all play in a High School. A vast amount of study has to be mastered. There are nerve-racking examinations. It is a tremendously busy life despite its sport. So here we would better take leave of Gridley H.S. so far as this volume is concerned. It was soon known that, had not Dick & Co. taken their little walk the robbers would have gotten away with one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in cash. As it was, however, all four men were in the police toils, and they were presently sent to the penitentiary, where they are serving long terms. The bank directors _did_ vote to reward the H.S. boys as individuals, but Dick & Co. and all the upper classmen refused to accept anything for their own pockets. In despair, the directors finally hit upon the scheme of subscribing one thousand dollars to the funds of the Athletics Committee. The catching of the bank robbers solved the nitroglycerine mystery. One of the safe-blowing quartette was recognized by the police as having been in Gridley at the time when that nitroglycerine package was received at the express office. Had they gotten their box in safety the robbers would have entered the bank that night, and there might have been a different story---one of great loss to the bank. Fred Ripley? His further story belongs to the following volume. Dick & Co. went through their freshman year with credit all around. When next we meet them we shall find them sophomores, with all the privileges of upper classmen. We shall meet these young sophomores in a sparkling tale of High School life and doings, ambitions and work, sports and pastimes. The next volume will be published under the title: "_The High School Pitcher; or Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond_." This will be a rousing story of baseball in particular, but likewise replete with other situations of absorbing interest to all high school boys and girls. THE END 
12692	----	THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM or Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard By H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. "Kicker" Drayne Revolts II. A Hint from the Girls III. Putting the Tag on the Sneak IV. The Traitor Gets His Deserts V. "Brass" for an Armor Plate VI. One of the Fallen VII. Dick Meets the Boy-With-A-Kick VIII. Dick Puts "A Better Man" in His Place IX. Could Dave Make Good? X. Leading the Town to Athletics XI. The "King Deed" of Daring XII. The Nerve of the Soldier XIII. Dick Begins to Feel Old XIV. Fordham Plays the Gentleman's Game XV. "We'll Play the Gentleman's Game XVI. Gridley's Last Charge XVII. The Long Gray Column XVIII. The Would-Be Candidates XIX. Tom Reade Bosses the Job XX. When the Great News was Given Out XXI. Gridley Seniors Whoop It Up XXII. The Message From the Unknown XXIII. The Plight of the Innocent XXIV. Dave Gives Points to the Chief of Police XXV. Conclusion CHAPTER I "Kicker" Drayne Revolts "I'm going to play quarter-back," declared Drayne stolidly. "You?" demanded Captain Dick Prescott, looking at the aspirant in stolid wonder. "Of course," retorted Drayne. "It's the one position I'm best fitted for of all on the team." "Do you mean that you're better fitted for that post than anyone else on the team?" inquired Prescott. "Or that it's the position that best fits your talents?" "Both," replied Drayne. Dick Prescott glanced out over Gridley High School's broad athletic field. A group of the middle men of the line, and their substitutes, had gathered around Coach Morton. On another part of the field Dave Darrin was handling a squad of new football men, teaching how to rush in and tackle the swinging lay figure. Still others, under Greg Holmes, were practicing punt kicks. Drayne's face was flushed, and, though he strove to hide the fact, there was an anxious look there. "I didn't quite understand, Drayne," continued the young captain of the team, "that you were to take a very important part this year." "Pshaw! I'd like to know why I'm not," returned the other boy hotly. "I think that is regarded as being the general understanding," continued Dick. He didn't like this classmate, yet he hated to give offense or to hurt the other's feelings in any way. "The general understanding?" repeated Drayne hotly. "Then I can tell the man who started that understanding." "I think I can, too," Prescott answered, smiling patiently. "It was you, Dick Prescott! You, the leader of Dick & Co., a gang that tries to boss everything in the High School! "Cool down a bit," advised young Prescott coolly. "You know well enough that the little band of chums who have been nicknamed Dick & Co. don't try to run things in the High School. You know, too, Drayne, if you'll be honest about it, that my chums and I have sometimes sacrificed our own wishes to what seemed to be the greatest good of the school." "Then who is the man who has worked to put me on the shelf in football?" insisted the other boy, eyeing Dick menacingly. "Yourself, Drayne!" "What are you talking about?" cried Drayne, more angry than before. "Don't be blind, Drayne," continued the young captain. "And don't be silly enough to pretend that you don't know just what I mean. You remember last Thanksgiving Day?" "Oh, that?" said Drayne, contemptuously. "Just because I wouldn't do just what you fellows wished me to do? "I was there," pursued Captain Prescott, "and I heard all that was said, saw all that was done. There was nothing unreasonable asked of you. Some of the fellows were a good bit worried as to whether you were really in shape for the game, and they talked about it among themselves. They didn't intend you to over hear, but you did, and you took offense. The next thing we knew, you were hauling off your togs in hot temper, and telling us that you wouldn't play. You did this in spite of the fact that we were about to play the last and biggest game of the season." "I should say I wouldn't play, under such circumstances! Nor would you, Prescott, had the same thing happened to you." "I have had worse things happen to me," replied Dick coolly. "I have been hectored to pieces, at times, both on the baseball and football teams. The hectoring has even gone so far that I have had to fight, more than once. But never sulked in dressing quarters and refused to go on the field." "No!" taunted Drayne. "And a good reason why. You craved to get out, always, and make grand stand plays!" "I suppose I'm as fond of applause from the grand stand as any other natural fellow," laughed Dick good-humoredly. "But I'll tell you one thing, Drayne: I never hear a murmur of what comes from the grand stand until the game is over. I play for the success of the team to which I belong, and listening to applause would take my mind off the plays. But, candidly, what the fellows have against you, is that you're a quitter. You throw down your togs at a critical moment, and tell us you won't play, just because your fearfully sensitive feelings have been hurt. Now, a sportsman doesn't do that." "Oh, it's all right for you to take on that mighty superior air, and try to lecture me," retorted Drayne gruffly. "I'm not lecturing you. But the fellows chose me to lead the team this year, and the captain is the spokesman of the team. He also has to attend to its disagreeable business. Don't blame me, Drayne, and don't blame anyone else-----" "Captain Prescott!" sounded the low, but clean-cut, penetrating voice of Mr. Morton, submaster and football coach of the Gridley High School. "Coming, sir!" answered Dick promptly. Then he added, to Drayne: "Just blame your own conduct for the decision that was reached by coach and myself after listening to the instructions of the alumni Athletics Committee." Dick moved away at a loping run, for football practice was limited to an hour and a half in an afternoon, and he knew there was no time to be frittered. "Oh, you sneak!" quivered Drayne, clenching his hands as he scowled at the back of the captain. "It was you who brought up the old dispute. It is you who are keeping me from any decent chance this last year of mine in the High School. I won't stand it! I'll shake the dust from my feet on this crowd. I won't remain in the squad, just for a possible chance to sub in some small game!" His face still hot with what he considered righteous indignation, Drayne felt better as soon as he had decided to shake the crowd. In an instant, however, he changed his mind. A sly, exultant look came into his eyes. "On second thought I believe I won't quit," he grinned to himself. "I'll stay---I'll drill---and I'll get good and square with this cheap crowd, captained by a cheap man! Gridley hasn't lost a game in years. Well, you chaps shall lose more than one game this year! I'll teach you! I'll make this a year that shall never be forgotten by humbled Gridley pride!" Just what Phin Drayne was planning will doubtless be made plain ere long. Readers of the preceding volumes in this series are already familiar with nearly all the people, young and old, of both sexes, whom they are now to meet again. In the first volume, "_The High School Freshmen_," our readers became acquainted with Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell, Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, six young chums who, back in their days in the Central Grammar School Gridley, had become fast friends, and had become known as Dick & Co. These chums played together, planned together, entered all sports together. They were inseparable. All were manly young fellows. When they entered Gridley High School, and caught the fine High School spirit prevailing there, they made the honor of the school even more important than their own companionship. In the first year at High School the boys, being mere freshmen, could not expect to enter any of the school's athletic teams. Yet, as our readers know, Dick and his friends found many a quiet way to boost local interest and pride in High School athletics. Dick & Co. also indulged in many merry and startlingly novel pranks. Dick secured an amateur position as space reporter on "The Blade," the morning newspaper of the little city, and was assigned, among other things, to look after the news end of the transactions of the Board of Education. The "influence" that young Prescott secured in that way doubtless saved him from having grave trouble, or being expelled when, owing to Dr. Thornton's ill-health, Abner Cantwell, a man with an uncontrollable temper, came temporarily to the principal's chair. To everybody's great delight, at the beginning of this their senior year, Dr. Thornton had returned to his position fully restored to his former vigor and health. In "_The High School Pitcher_" Dick & Co., then sophomores, were shown in some fine work with the Gridley High School nine, and Dick had serious, even dangerous, Trouble, with mean, treacherous enemies that he made. In "_The High School Left End_," Dick & Co., juniors, made their real entrance into High School athletics by securing places in the school football eleven. It was in this year that there occurred the famous strife between the "soreheads" and their enemies, whom the former termed the "muckers." The "soreheads" were the sons of certain aristocratic families who resolved to secede from football in case any of the members of Dick & Co. or of other poor Gridley families, were allowed to make places on the team. As the group of "soreheads" contained a few young men who were really absolutely necessary to the success of the Gridley High School football eleven, the strife threatened to put Gridley in the back row as far as football went. But Dick, with his characteristic vigor, went after the "soreheads" in the columns of "The Blade." He covered them with ridicule and scorn so that the citizens of the town began to take a hand in the matter as soon as their public pride was aroused. The "soreheads" were driven, then, to apply for places in the football squad. Only those most needed, however, had been admitted, and the rest had retired in sullen admission of defeat. Two of the latter, Bayliss and Bert Dodge, carried matters so far, however, that they were actually forced out of the High School and left Gridley to go to a preparatory school elsewhere. The hostile attempts of young Ripley, of Dodge, Drayne and others to injure Dick & Co. have been fully related in the four volumes of the "_High School Boys' Vacation Series_." This series deals with the good times enjoyed by Dick & Co. during their first three summers as high school boys. These stories are replete with summer athletics, and a host of exciting adventures. The four volumes of this Vacation Series are published under the titles: "_The High School Boys' Canoe Club_," "_The High School Boys in Summer Camp_," "_The High School Boys Fishing Trip_" and "_The High School Boys' Training Hike_." This present year no "sorehead" movement had been attempted. Every student who honestly wanted to play football presented himself at the school gymnasium, on the afternoon named by Coach Morton for the call, including Drayne, who had been one of the original "soreheads." Drayne afterwards returned to the football fold, behaving with absurd childishness at the big Thanksgiving game, as our readers will recall. Leaving Coach Morton, Captain Prescott hurried away to take charge of the practice. "Come, Mr. Drayne!" called Coach Morton "Get into the tackling work, and be sure to mix it up lively." "Just a moment, coach, if you please," begged Drayne. "Well, Drayne?" asked Mr. Morton "Captain Prescott has just been telling me that I'm to be only a sort of sub this year." "Well, he's captain," replied the submaster. "Huh! I thought it was all Prescott's fine work!" sneered Phin. "You're wrong there, Mr. Drayne," rejoined the coach frankly. "As a matter of fact, it was I who suggested that you be cast for light work this year." "Oh!" muttered Drayne "Yes; if you feel like blaming anyone, blame me, not Prescott. You know, Drayne, you didn't behave very well last Thanksgiving Day." "I admit that my behavior was unreasonable, sir. But you know, Mr. Morton, that I'm one of the valuable men." "There's a crowd of valuable men this year, Drayne," smiled the submaster. "On the strongest pledge that I can give you, Mr. Morton, will you allow me to play regular quarter-back this season?" begged the quitter of the year before. "I would give the idea more thought if Prescott recommended it; but I doubt if he would," answered Mr. Morton slowly. "Personally, Drayne, I don't approve of putting you on strong this year. The quitter's reputation Drayne, is one that can't ever be really lived down, you know." Though coach's manner was mild enough, there was look of the resolute eyes of this famous college athlete that made Phin Drayne realized how I hopeless it was to expect any consideration from him. "All right then Mr. Morton," he replied huskily. "I'll do my best on a small showing, and take what comes to me." Yet, as he walked slowly over to join the tacklers around the swinging figure, the hot blood came again to young Drayne's face. "I'll make this year a year of sorrow Gridley!" he quivered indignantly. "I'll hang on, and make believe I'm meek as a lamb, but I'll spoil Gridley's record for this year! There was in olden times a chap who had a famous knack for getting square with people who used him the wrong way. I wish I could remember his name at this moment." Drayne couldn't recall the name at the time, but another name that might have served Drayne to remember at this instant was--- Benedict Arnold. CHAPTER II A Hint from the Girls There had been nothing rapid in Dick Prescott's elevation to the captaincy of the eleven. Back in the grammar school he had started his apprenticeship in athletics. During his freshman year in High School he had kept up his training. In his sophomore year he had trained hard for and had won honors in the baseball nine. In his junior year, after harder training that ever, he had performed a season's brilliant work, playing left end in all the biggest games of the season. So now, in his senior and last year at Gridley High School he had come by degrees to the most envied of all possible positions in school athletics. The election to the football captaincy had not been sought by Dick. In his junior year it had been offered to him, but he had declined it, feeling that Wadleigh, both by training and judgement, was better fitted to lead the eleven on the gridiron. But now, having reached his senior year, Dick was by far the best leader possible. Coach and football squad alike conceded it, and the Alumni Association's Athletics Committee had approved. Dick Prescott had grown in years since first we saw him, but not in conceit. Like all who succeed in this world, he had a good degree of positiveness in his make-up; but from this he left out strong self-conceit. In all things, as in his school life, he was prepared to sacrifice himself along whatever lines pointed to the best good. Dave Darrin, of all the chums, was nearly as well fitted as was Prescott to lead, though not quite. So Dave, with Dick's own kind of spirit, fell back willingly into second place. This year Dave was second captain of the eleven, ready to lead to victory if Dick should become incapacitated. Beyond these, any of the four other chums were almost as well qualified for leadership. Ability to lead was strong in all the "partners" of Dick & Co. While they were on the field that afternoon all of the six worked as though football were the sole subject on earth that interested them. That was the Gridley High School way, and it was the spirit that Coach Morton always succeeded in putting into worthy young men. Once back in dressing quarters, however, and under the shower baths, the talk turned but little on football. As soon as they had rubbed down and dressed Dick & Co. went outside and started back to town---on foot. Time could be saved by taking the street car, but Dick and his friends believed that a brief walk, after the practice served to keep the kinks out of their joints and muscles. "What ailed old Drayne this afternoon, Dick?" asked Tom Reade. "Why, he told me that he had hoped to play quarter this season." "Regular quarter?" demanded Dan Dalzell, opening his eyes very wide. "That was what I gathered, from what he said," nodded Dick. "Well, of all the nerve!" muttered Hazelton. "The star position---for a fellow with a quitter's record!" "I was obliged to say something of the sort" smiled Dick, "though I tried to say it in a way that wouldn't hurt his feelings." "You didn't succeed very well in salving his feelings, if his looks gave any indication." laughed Greg Holmes quietly. "Drayne went over to coach afterwards," added Dave Darrin. "Mr. Morton didn't seem to give the fellow any more satisfaction than you did, Dick." "Who is to be quarter, anyway?" asked Harry Hazelton. "Why, Dave is my first and last choice," Prescott answered frankly. "But, personally, I'm not going to press him any too hard for the post." "Why not?" challenged Greg. "Because everyone will say that I'm playing everything in the interest of Dick & Co." "Dave Darrin is head and shoulders above any other possibility for quarter-back," insisted Greg, with so much conviction that Darrin, with mock politeness, turned and lifted his cap in acknowledgment of the compliment. "Then coach and the Athletics Committee are intelligent enough to find it out," answered the young football captain. "That suits me," nodded Dave. "I want to play at quarter; yet, if I can't make everyone concerned feel that I am the man for the job, then I haven't made good to a sufficient extent to be allowed to carry off the honors in a satchel." "That's my idea, Darrin," answered Dick. "I believe you have made good, and so good at that, that I'm going to dodge any charge of favoritism, and leave it to others to see that you're forced to take what you deserve." "Of course I want to play this season, and I'm training hard to be at my best," said Reade. "Yet when it's all over, and we've won every game, good old Gridley style, I shall feel mighty happy." "Yes," nodded Harry Hazelton, "and the same thing here." "That's because you two are not only attending High School, but also trying to blaze out your future path in life," laughed Dave. "Well, the rest of you fellows had better be serious about your careers in life," urged Tom. "It isn't every pair of fellows, of course, who've been as fortunate as Harry and I." "No; and all fellows can't be suited by the same chances, which is a good thing," replied Prescott. "For my part, I wouldn't find much of any cheer in the thought that I was going to be allowed to carry a transit, a chain or a leveler's rod through life." "Well, we don't expect to be working in the baggage department of our profession forever," protested Harry Hazelton, with so much warmth that Dave Darrin chuckled. Tom and Harry had decided that civil or railroad engineering, or both, perhaps, combined with some bridge building, offered them their best chances of pleasant employment in life. Mr. Appleton, a local civil engineer with whom the pair had talked had offered to take them into his office for preliminary training. because at the High School, Tom and Harry had already qualified in the mathematical work necessary for a start. No practicing civil engineer in these days feels that he has the time or the inclination to take a beginner into his office and teach him all of the work from the ground up. On the other hand, a boy who has been grounded well in algebra, geometry and trigonometry may then easily enter the office of a practicing civil engineer and begin with the tools of the profession. Transit manipulation and readings, the use of the plummet line, the level, compass, rod, chain and staking work may all be learned thus and a knowledge of map drawing imparted to a boy who has a natural talent for the work. It undoubtedly is better for the High School boy to go to a technical school for his course in civil engineering; yet with a foundation of mathematics and a sufficient amount of determination, the High School boy may go direct to the engineer's office and pick up his profession. Boys have done this, and have afterwards reached honors in their profession. So Tom and Harry had their future picked out, as they saw it. As soon as they had learned enough of the rudiments, both were resolved to go out to the far West, and there to pick up more, much more, right in the camps of engineers engaged in surveying and laying railroads. "You fellows can talk about us going to work in the baggage department of our profession," pursued Tom Meade, a slight flush on his manly face. "But, Dick, you and Dave are in the dream department, for you fellows have only a hazy notion that---perhaps---you may be able to work your way into the government academies at West Point and Annapolis. As for Greg and Dan, they don't appear to have even a dream of what they hope to do in future." "You fellows haven't been spreading the news that Dave and I want to go to Annapolis and West Point, have you!" asked Dick seriously. "Now, what do you take us for?" protested Tom indignantly "Don't we understand well enough that you're both trying to keep it close secret?" As the young men turned into Main Street the merry laughter of a group of girls came to their ears. Four of the High School girls of the senior class had stopped to chat for a moment. Laura Bentley and Belle Meade were there, and both turned quickly to note Dick and Dave. The other girls in the group were Faith Kendall and Jessie Vance. "Here comes the captain who is going to spoil all of Gridley a chances this year," laughed Miss Vance. "Hush, Jess," reproved Belle, while Laura looked much annoyed. I see you have a wholly just appreciation of my merits, Miss Jessie," smiled Dick, as the boys raised their hats. "Oh, what I said is nothing but the silly talk of him Dra-----" began Jessie lightly, but stopped when she again found herself under the reproving glances of Laura and Belle. Dick glanced at one of the girls in turn, his glance beginning to show curiosity. Laura bit her lip; Belle locked highly indignant. Prescott opened his month as though to ask a question, them closed his lips. "I guess you might as well tell them, Laura," hinted Faith Kendall. "Oh, nonsense." retorted Miss Bentley, flushing. "It's nothing at all, especially coming from such a source." "Then some one has been giving me the roasting that I plainly deserve?" laughed Captain Prescott. "It's all foolish talk, and I'm sorry the girls couldn't hold their tongues," cried Laura impatiently. "Then I won't ask you what it was," suggested Dick, "since you don't like to tell me voluntarily." "You might as well, Laura," urged Faith. "It's that Phin-----" began Jessie. "Do be quiet, Jess," urged Belle. "Why," explained Laura Bentley, "Phin Drayne just passed us, and stopped to chat when Jessie spoke to him-----" "I didn't," objected Miss Vance indignantly. "I only said good afternoon, and---" "I asked Drayne if he had been out to the field for practice," continued Laura. "He grunted, and said he'd been out to see how badly things were going." "Then, of course, Laura flared up and asked what he meant by such talk," broke in the irrepressible Jessie. "Then---ouch!" For Belle had slyly pinched the talkative one's arm. "Mr. Drayne had a great string to offer us," resumed Laura. "He said football affairs had never been in as bad shape before, and he predicted that the team would go to pieces in all the strong games this year." "We have a rule of unswerving loyalty in the history of our eleven," said Prescott, smiling, though a grim light lurked in his eyes. "I guess Phin was merely practicing some of that loyalty." "None of us care what Drayne thinks, anyway," broke in Dave Darrin contemptuously. "He wants to play as a regular, and he's slated only as a possible sub. So I suppose he simply can't see how the eleven is to win without him. But, making allowances for human nature, I don't believe we need to roast him for his grouch." "I didn't think his talk was worth paying any attention to," added Laura. "I wouldn't have said anything about it, if it hadn't leaked out." Jessie took this rebuke to herself, and flushed, as she rattled on: "I guess it was no more than mere 'sorehead' talk on Phin Drayne's part, anyway. Mr. Drayne said he had saved a good deal of his pocket money, lately, and that he was going to win more money by betting on Gridley's more classy opponents this season." "There's a fine and loyal High School fellow for you!" muttered Greg. "Suppose we all change the subject," proposed Dick good-humoredly. Two or three minutes later Dick & Co. again lifted their caps, then continued on their way. "Dick," whispered Dave, "on the whole, I'm glad that was repeated to us." "Why?" "It ought to put us on our guard?" "Guard? Against whom?" "I should say against Phin Drayne." "But he's merely offering to bet that we can't win our biggest games this year," smiled Prescott. "That doesn't prove that we can't win, does it?" "Oh, of course not." "Any fellow that will lower himself enough to make wagers on sporting events shows too little judgment to be entitled to have any spending money," pursued Prescott. "But, if Drayne has money, and is going to bet, he won't be entitled to any sympathy when he loses, will he?" "Humph!" grunted Dave. "I'd like to have this matter followed up. Any fellow who is betting against us ought not to be allowed to play at all." "Oh, it was just the talk of a silly, disappointed fellow," argued Dick. "I suppose a boy is a good deal like a man, always. There are some men who imagine that it lends importance to themselves when they talk loudly and offer to wager money. I'm not going to offer any bets, Dave, but I feel pretty certain that Drayne is just talking for effect." "His offering to bet against his own crowd would be enough to justify you in dropping Drayne from the squad altogether," hinted Greg Holmes. "Yes, of course," admitted Dick. "But we had enough of football soreheads last year. Now, wouldn't it make us look like soreheads if we took any malicious delight in dropping Drayne from the squad just because he has been blowing off some steam?" "But I wouldn't trust him on the job," snapped Dan Dalzell. "I believe Phin Drayne would sell out any crowd for sheer spite." "Even his country?" asked Dick quietly. And there the matter dropped, for the time. Had Dick & Co. and some other High School fellows but known it, however, Drayne would have borne close watching. CHAPTER III Putting the Tag on the Sneak Anything that Dick Prescott had charge of went along at leaps and bounds. Hence the football eleven was in good shape ten days earlier than Coach Morton could remember to have happened before. "Your eleven is all ready to line up in the field, now, Captain," announced coach, one afternoon not long after, as the squad came out from dressing quarters for practice. "I'm glad you think so, sir," replied Dick, a flush of pleasure mantling his cheeks. "You have every man in fine condition. Condition couldn't be better, in fact, for those of the men who are likely to get on the actual battle line. And all the work is well understood, too. In fact, Captain, you can all but rest on your oars during the next fortnight, up to your first game." "Hadn't we better go on training hard every day, sir?" inquired the young captain. "Not hard," replied coach, shaking his head. "If you do, you'll get your men down too fine. Now, there's almost more danger in having your men overtrained than in having them undertrained. Your men can be trained too hard and go stale." "I've heard of that," Dick nodded thoughtfully. "Yes," continued coach, "and I've seen school teams that suffered from training down too fine. Boys can't stand it. They haven't as much flesh in training down hard, and they haven't as much endurance as college men, who are older. Captain, you will train your men lightly, three afternoons a week. For the rest, see to it that they stick to all training orders, including diet and hygiene and no tobacco. But don't work any of the men hard, with an idea of getting them in still better shape. You can't do it." "Then I'd like to make a suggestion, Coach." "Go ahead, Captain." "You never saw a school team, did you, sir, that understood its signal work any too well?" "Never," laughed Mr. Morton. "Then I would suggest, sir, that most of our training time, from now until the season opens, be spent on drilling in the signals. We ought to keep at practicing the signals. We ought to get the signals down better than ever a Gridley team had them before, sir." "You've just the right idea, Captain!" cried Mr. Morton heartily, resting one hand around Dick's shoulders. "I was going to order that, but I'm glad you anticipated me." "Hudson," called out Prescott, "you head a scrub team. Take the men you want after I've chosen for the school team." Dick rapidly made his choice for the school team. He played center himself, putting Dave Darrin at quarter, Greg Holmes as left tackle and Tom Reade as right end. Dalzell and Hazelton were left out, but they understood, quite well, that this was to avoid showing favoritism by taking all of Dick & Co. on the star team for practice. "Let me play quarter, Hudson," whispered Drayne, going over to the acting captain of the "scrub." "Not this afternoon, anyway," smiled Hudson. "I want Dalzell." Drayne fell back. He was not chosen at all for the scrub team. Yet, as he had nearly a score of companions, out of the large football squad, he had no special reason to feel hurt. Those who had not been picked for either team lined up at the sides. There was a chance that some of them might be called out as subs, though practice in signal work was hardly likely to result in any of the players being injured. Drayne did not appear to take his mild snub very seriously. In fact, after his one outbreak before the team captain, and his subsequent remarks to the girls, Drayne had appeared to fall in line, satisfied even to be a member of the school's big squad. The ball was placed for a snap-back, and Coach Morton sounded the whistle. "Twelve-nine-seventeen---twenty-eight---four!" called Dave Darrin. Then the scrimmage was on in earnest. As soon as the play had properly developed Mr. Morton blew his whistle, for this was practice only in the signal part. Then Hudson took the ball and Dalzell called off: "Nine---eight---thirteen---two!" Again the ball was put in play, to be stopped after ten seconds. So it went on through the afternoon's work. The substitutes on the side lines watched with deep interest, for they, too, had to learn all the signal work. Within three afternoons of practice Dick had nearly all of his players so that they knew every signal, and were instantly ready to execute their parts in whatever was called for. But there was no danger of knowing the signals too well. Captain Prescott still called out the squad and gave signal work unceasingly. "The Gridley boys never jumped so swiftly to carry out their signals before, Captain," spoke Mr. Morton commendingly. "I want to have this line of work ahead of anything that Tottenville can show next Saturday," Dick replied. "I guess you have the Tottenville boys beaten all right," nodded Mr. Morton. Tottenville High School always gave one of the stiffest games that Gridley had to meet. This season Tottenville was first on the list. Prescott's young men knew that they had a stiff fight. It was to take place on the Gridley grounds---that was comfort to the home eleven. The entire student body was now feeling the enthusiasm of the opening of the season on Saturday. The townsmen of Gridley had subscribed as liberally as ever to the athletics fund. There had also been a fine advance sale of seats, and the Gridley band had been engaged to make the occasion a lively one. "You'll win, if ever the signs were worth anything, Captain," remarked Mr. Morton to Prescott, at recess Thursday forenoon. "Of course we'll win, sir," laughed Dick. "That's the Gridley way---that's all. We don't know how to be whipped. I've been taught that ever since I first entered the High School." "Pshaw!" muttered Drayne, who was passing. "Don't you believe our chances are good, Mr. Drayne?" asked Mr. Morton, smiling. "I look upon the Gridley chances as being so good, sir," replied Phin, "that, if I weren't a member of the squad, and a student of the High School, I think I'd be tempted to bet all I could raise on Tottenville." "Betting is too strong a vice for boys, Mr. Drayne," replied the submaster, rather stiffly. "And doubt of your own comrades isn't very good school spirit." "I was talking, for the moment, as an outsider," replied Phin Drayne, flushing. "Change around then, Mr. Drayne, and consider yourself, like every other student of this school, as an insider wherever the Gridley interests are involved." Drayne moved away, a half-sneer on his face. "I don't like that young man," muttered Mr. Morton confidentially to the young captain of the team. "I have no violent personal admiration for him," Prescott answered. Then the bell sounded, calling all the boys and girls back to their studies. At just about the hour of noon, a young caller strode into the yard, paused an instant, studying the different entrances of the High School building, then kept straight on and entered. "A visitor for Mr. Prescott, in the reception, room," announced the teacher in charge of the assembly room. Bowing his thanks, Dick passed out of the room, crossed the hall, entered a small room, and turned to greet his caller. A fine-looking, broad-shouldered, bronzed young man of nineteen rose and came forward, holding out his hand. "Do you remember me, Mr. Prescott?" asked the caller heartily. "I've played football against you, somewhere," replied Dick, studying the other's face closely. "Yes, I guess you have," laughed the other. "I played with Tottenville last year. I'm captain this season. Jarvis is my name." "Oh, I'm downright glad to see you, Mr. Jarvis," Dick went on. "Be seated, won't you?" "Yes; if you wish. Though I've half a notion that what I have to say may bring you jumping out of your seat in a moment." "Anything happened that you want to postpone the game?" inquired Prescott, taking a chair opposite his caller. "No; we're ready for Saturday, and will give you the stiffest fight that is in us," returned Jarvis. "But see here, Mr. Prescott, I'll come direct to the point. Is 'thirty-eight, nine, eleven, four' your team's signal for a play around the left end, after quarter has passed the ball to tackle and he to the end?" Dick started, despite himself, for that was truly the signal for that play. "Really Mr. Jarvis, you don't expect me to tell you our signals!" laughed Dick, pretending to be unconcerned. But Jarvis called off another signal and interpreted it. "From your face I begin to feel sure that I'm reeling off the right signals," pursued the Tottenville youth. "Now, I'll get still closer to the point, Mr. Prescott." From an inside pocket Jarvis drew forth four typewritten pages, clamped together and neatly folded. "Run your eye over these pages, Mr. Prescott, or as far as you want to go." As Dick read down the pages every vestige of color faded from his face. Here was Gridley's whole elaborate signal code, laid down in black and white to the last detail. It was all flawlessly correct, too. "Mr. Jarvis," said Dick, looking up, "you've been a gentleman in this matter. This is our signal code, signal for signal. It's the code on which we relied for our chance to give your team a thrashing on Saturday. I thank you for your honesty, sir." "Why, I always have rather prided myself on a desire to do the manly thing," smiled Captain Jarvis. "May I ask how this came into your possession?" demanded Dick. "It was in our family mail box, this morning, and I took it out on my way to school," replied Jarvis. "You see, the heading on the first sheet shows that the document purports to give the Gridley signals." "And it does give them, to a dot," groaned Prescott, paling again. "So I showed it to our coach, Mr. Matthews, and to some of the members of the team," continued Mr. Jarvis. "I would have brought this to you, in any case, and I'm heartily glad to say that every one of our fellows agreed that it was the only manly thing to do." "You have won the Gridley gratitude," protested Dick. "This code couldn't have been tabulated by anyone but a member of our own squad. No one else had access to this list. There's a Benedict Arnold somewhere in our crowd," continued Dick, with a sudden rush of righteous passion. "Oh, I wish we could find him. But this typewriting, I fear, will give us no conclusive evidence. Was the address on the envelope in which this came also typewritten?" "No," replied Mr. Jarvis. "I opened this communication on the street, while on my way to school. I tossed the envelope away. Then I fell to studying this document." "You must have thought it a hoax," smiled Dick wearily. "I did, at first, yes," continued the Tottenville football captain. "In fact, I was half of that mind when I left Tottenville to come here. But I was determined to find out the truth of the matter. Mr. Prescott, I'm very nearly as sorry as you can be, to have to bring you this evidence that you have a sneak in Gridley High School." "I'd far rather have lost Saturday's game," choked Prescott, "than to discover that we've such a sneak in Gridley High School. I'm fearfully upset. I wish I had any kind of evidence on which to find this sneak." "Have you any suspicions?" "That would be too much to say yet." "Of course, Mr. Prescott," continued the Tottenville youth, "you'll now have to revise all your signals. It will be a huge undertaking between now and Saturday. If you wish to postpone the game, I'll consent. Our coach has authorized me to say this." "I think not," replied Dick, "though on behalf of the team I thank you. I'll have to speak to our coach, and Mr. Morton is in his classroom, occupied until the close of the school session." "I'll meet you anywhere, Mr. Prescott, after school is over." "You're mighty good, Mr. Jarvis," murmured Dick gratefully. "Now, by the way, if we're to catch the sneak who has done this dastardly thing, we've got to work fast. We ought not to let the traitor suspect anything until we're ready to act. Mr. Jarvis, do you mind leaving here promptly, and going to 'The Morning Blade' office? If you tell Mr. Pollock that you're waiting for me, he'll give you a chair and plenty to read." "I'm off, then," smiled Jarvis, rising and reaching for his hat. "I want to shake hands with you, Jarvis, and to thank you again for your manly conduct in bringing this thing straight to me." "Why, that's almost insulting," retorted Jarvis quizzically. "Why shouldn't an American High School student be a gentleman? Wouldn't you have done the same for me, if the thing had been turned around?" "Of course," Dick declared hastily. "But I'm glad that this fell into your hands. If we had gone into the game, relying on this signal code-----" "We'd have burned you to a crisp on the gridiron," laughed Jarvis. "But what earthly good would it do our school to win a game that we got by clasping hands with a sneak and a traitor? Can any school care to win games in that fashion? But now, I'm off for 'The Blade's office---if your Mr. Pollock doesn't throw me out." "He won't," Dick replied, "I'm a member of 'The Blade' staff." "Don't go back into assembly room with a face betraying as much as yours does," whispered Captain Jarvis, over his shoulder. "Thank you for the tip," Dick responded. When young Prescott stepped back into the general assembly room his face, though not all the color had returned to it, wore a smiling expression. He stepped jauntily, with his head well up, as he moved to his seat. For fifteen minutes or more Dick made a pretense of studying his trigonometry hard. Then, picking up a pen with a careless gesture, he wrote slowly, with an appearance of indifference, this note: _"Dear Mr. Morton: Something of the utmost importance has come up in connection with the football work. Will you, without mentioning this note, and without doing anything that can sound the warning to any other student, meet me at 'The Blade' office as soon as possible after school is dismissed? I shall go to 'The Blade' office just as soon as I get away from here, and I shall await you in the greatest anxiety. "Prescott."_ This note Dick carried forward and left on the general desk. It was addressed to Mr. Morton, and marked "immediate." When the reciting classes returned, and the teachers followed, Mr. Morton read his note without change of expression. A moment later school was dismissed. "In a hurry, Dick?" called Dave, racing after his leader as the young men made a joyous break away from the school building. "Yes," breathed Prescott. "Come along, Dave. But I don't want the others, for I don't want a crowd." "Why, what-----" "Quiet, now, old fellow," murmured Dick. "You'll have a big enough surprise in a few moments." They got away together before their other chums had a chance to catch up. "From the look in your face, I'd say that there was something queer in the air," guessed Dave. "There is, Darrin. But wait until the moment comes to talk about it." Walking rapidly, the two chums came to "The Blade" office. Jarvis, who had been sitting at the back of the office, rose as the two Gridley boys entered. Dick quietly introduced Dave to the young man from Tottenville who greeted him cordially. "Now, we're waiting for one more before we talk," smiled Dick anxiously. At that moment the door opened again, and Mr. Morton entered briskly. "Now, Captain, what is your news?" called coach, as he came forward. "Why, this is one of the Tottenville team, isn't it?" "Mr. Morton, Captain Jarvis, of the Tottenville High School team," replied Dick, and the two shook hands. Then Dick drew the typewritten document from his pocket. They could talk here, for Mr. Pollock had been the only other occupant of the room, and that editor has just stepped out to the composing room. "Captain Jarvis received this in the mail this morning, sir," announced Prescott, in a voice that quivered with emotion. Coach glanced through the paper, his face showing plainly what he felt. Then Dick took the paper and passed it to Dave Darrin, who sat consumed by curiosity. "The abominable traitor---whoever he is!" cried Dave, rising as though he found his chair red hot. "And I think I can come pretty near putting the tag on the sneak!" CHAPTER IV The Traitor Gets His Deserts Mr. Morton hesitated a moment, ere he trusted himself to speak. "Yes," he murmured. "I fear we all suspect the same young man." "Phin Drayne!" cried Dave, in a voice quivering with anger. "I didn't intend to name him," resumed the coach. "It's a serious thing to do." "To sell out one's school---I should say 'yes'!" choked Darrin. "No; I meant that it is a fearful thing to accuse anyone until we have proof that can't be disputed," added Mr. Morton gravely, though his muscles were twitching as though he had been stricken by palsy. "Listen," begged Dick, "while Mr. Jarvis tells you all he knows of this dastardly business." The Tottenville captain repeated his short tale. Then Coach Morton asked several rapid questions. But there was no more to be told than Dick Prescott already knew. "I'm tremendously sorry about that envelope," protested Jarvis. "I'd give anything to be able to hand that envelope over to you, but I'm afraid I'll never see it again." "We appreciate your anxiety to help, Mr. Jarvis, as deeply as we appreciate your manliness in coming to us without an instant's delay," replied Mr. Morton, earnestly. At this moment the office boy entered with the mail sack. "Mr. Pollock!" he bellowed, tossing the sack down on the editor's desk. Then the office boy hurried to the rear of the building, intent on other duties. Mr. Pollock returned to his desk, opening the mail. The football folks in the further corner lowered their voices almost to whispers. "Letter for you, Dick," called Mr. Pollock, tossing aside an envelope. Excusing himself, Dick darted over to get his mail. In an instant he came back, with a flushed face. "Here's something that may interest you all," whispered Dick, shaking as though fever had seized him. Mr. Morton took the sheet of paper, from which he read: _"Dear Old Gridleyites: If the enclosed is a fake, it won't work. If there's really a traitor in your camp you ought to know it. Milton High School doesn't take any games except by the use of its own fair fighting devices. Decker, Captain, Milton High School Football Team."_ "And here's a duplicate set of our signals, returned by our Milton friends," went on Dick, with almost a sob in his voice. "Fortunately, Mr. Decker thought to preserve the envelope that contained our signal code. Here is the envelope, addressed in some person's handwriting." Coach Morton seized the envelope, staring at it hard. He studied it with the practiced eye of a school teacher accustomed to overlooking examination papers in all styles of handwriting. "The writer has tried to conceal his handwriting," murmured the coach, rather brokenly. "Yet I think we may succeed in tracing it back and fixing it on the sender." "Oh!" growled Dave Darrin savagely. "I believe I know on whom to fasten this handwriting right now." "I have a possible offender in mind," replied Mr. Morton more evenly. "In a case of this kind we must proceed with such absolute caution and reserve that we will not be obliged to retract afterwards in deep shame and humiliation." "I think I've done all that I can, gentlemen," broke in Mr. Jarvis. "I think it is my place, now, to draw out of this painful business, and leave it to you whom it most concerns. But I am happy in the thought that I have been able to be of some service to you. I will now state that I am authorized to offer to postpone Saturday's game, if you wish, so that you may have time in, which to train up under changed signals." "If you consent, sir," proposed Dick, turning to the coach, "we'll go on with Saturday's game just the same. There has been a big sale of tickets, the band has been engaged, and a good many arrangements made that will be expensive to cancel." "Can you do it?" asked Mr. Morton, looking doubtfully at thee young captain of the team. "It's Thursday afternoon, now." "I feel that we've got to do it, sir," Dick replied doggedly. "Yes, sir; we'll make it, somehow." So the matter was arranged. The Gridleyites followed Jarvis out to the sidewalk, where they renewed their assurances of regard for the attitude taken by Tottenville High School. Then Jarvis hurried away to catch a train home. "Now, young gentlemen," proposed Mr. Morton, "we'll go home and see whether we can engender the idea of eating any lunch, after this unmasking of villainy in our own crowd. But at half past two promptly to the minute, meet me at the High School. Remember, we've practice on for half past three." "Of all the mean, contemptible-----" began Darrin, after the submaster had left them. "Stop right there, Dave!" begged his chum. "This is the most fearful thing we've ever met, and we both want to think carefully before we trust ourselves to say another word on the shameful subject." So the two chums walked along in silence, soon parting to take their different ways home. At half-past two both chums met Mr. Morton at the High School. The submaster led the way to the office, producing his keys and unlocking the door. They had moved in silence so far. "Take seats, please," requested Mr. Morton, in a low voice. "I'll be with you in a moment." The submaster then stepped over to a huge filing cabinet. Unlocking one of the sections, he looked busily through, then came back with a paper in his hand. "I think I know whom you both suspect," began coach. "Phin Drayne," spoke Dick, without hesitation. "Yes. Well here is Drayne's recent examination paper in modern literature. It is, of course, in his own handwriting." Eagerly the two football men and their coach bent over to compare Drayne's handwriting with that on the envelope that had come back from Milton. "There has been an attempt at disguise," announced Mr. Morton, using a magnifying glass over the two specimens of writing. "Yet I am rather sure, in my own mind, that a handwriting expert would pronounce both specimens to have been written by the same hand." "We've nailed Drayne, then," muttered Darrin vengefully. "It looks like it," assented Mr. Morton. "However, we'll go slowly. For the present I'll put this examination paper with our other 'exhibits' and secure them all carefully in my inside pocket. Now, then, let us make our pencils fly for a while in getting up a revised code of signals." It was not a long task after all. From the two typewritten copies Dick copied the first half of the plays, Dave the latter. Then Coach Morton went over the new sheets, rapidly jotting down new figures that should make all plain. "Ten minutes past three," muttered coach, thrusting all the papers in his inside pocket and buttoning his coat. "Now, we'll have to take a car and get up to the field on the jump." "But, oh, the task of drilling all the new calls into the fellows between now and Saturday afternoon!" groaned Dave Darrin, in a tone that suggested real misery. "We'll do it," retorted Captain Dick. "We've got to!" "And to make the boys forget all the old calls, so that they won't mix the signals!" muttered Dave disconsolately. "We'll do it!" It was Coach Morton who took up the refrain this time. And it was Prescott who added: "We've got to do it. Nothing is impossible, when one must!" It was just twenty-five minutes past three when the coach and his two younger companions turned around the corner of the athletic grounds and slipped in through the gate. Most of the fellows were in the dressing quarters. Phin Drayne sat on the edge of a locker chest. One of his feet lay across the knee of the other leg. He was in the act of unlacing one of his street shoes when Coach Morton called to him. "Me?" asked Phin, looking up quickly. "Yes," said Mr. Morton quietly. "I want to post you about something." "Oh, all right; right with you, sir," returned Phin, leaping up and following the coach outside. "What is it?" asked Phin, beginning to feel uneasy. "Come along where the others can't hear," replied Mr. Morton, taking hold of Drayne's nearer elbow. Phin turned white now. He went along, saying nothing, until Mr. Morton halted by the outer gate. "Pass through, Drayne---and never let us see your face inside this gate again." "But why? What----" "Ask your conscience!" snapped back the coach. "You'd better travel fast! I'm going back to talk to the other fellows!" Mr. Morton was gone. For an instant Phin Drayne stood there as though he would brave out this assertion of authority. Then, seized by another impulse, he turned and made rapidly for a town-bound street car that was heading his way. "What's up?" asked two or three of the fellows of Dick Prescott. Perceiving something out of the usual, they spoke in the same breath. "Oh, if there's anything to tell you," spoke Prescott, suppressing a pretended yawn, "Mr. Morton may tell you----some time." But Mr. Morton was soon back. Knocking on the wall for attention, he told, in as few and as crisp sentences as he could command, the whole story, as far as known. "Now, young gentlemen," wound up the coach, "we must practice the new signals like wild fire. There's mustn't be a single slip not a solitary break in our game with Tottenville. And that game will begin at three-thirty on Saturday! "In reverting to Drayne, I wish to impress upon you all, with the greatest emphasis, that this must be treated by you all with the utmost secrecy until we are prepared, with proofs, to go further! If it should turn out that we're wrong in our suspicions, we'll turn and give Phineas Drayne the biggest and most complete public apology that a wronged man ever received." "All out to practice the new signals!" shouted Prescott, the young captain of the team. CHAPTER V "Brass" for an Armor Plate Thursday night and Friday morning more copies of the betrayed signals poured in upon Captain Dick. Wherever these signals had been received by captains of other school teams, it soon appeared, these captains of rival elevens had punctually mailed them back. It spoke volumes for the honor of the American schoolboy, for Gridley High School was feared far and wide on the gridiron, and there was not an eleven in the state but would have welcomed an honorable way of beating Prescott's men. Moreover, working on Dick's suggestion, Mr. Morton busied himself with securing several letters that had been received from Drayne's father. These letters were compared, Friday evening, with the copies of the signals that had been sent to other elevens. Under a magnifying glass these collected papers all exhibited one fact that the letters and the copies of the signal code had been struck off on a machine having the same peculiarities as to worn faces of certain types. It was thus rather clearly established that Phin Drayne must have used the typewriting machine that stood in his father's office. Drayne was not at school on Friday. Instead, an excuse of illness was received from him. Nor did Mr. Morton say anything to Dr. Thornton, the principal, until the end of the school week. Just after school had been dismissed, at one o'clock Friday afternoon, Mr. Morton called Dr. Thornton to the private office, and there laid before him the charges and the proofs. That fine old gentleman was overwhelmed with grief that "one of his boys" should have done such an utterly mean, wanton and dishonorable thing. "This can't be passed by, Mr. Morton," exclaimed Dr. Thornton brokenly. "If you will kindly leave the proofs in my hands, I will see that the whole matter is taken up officially." Friday afternoon the football squad met for more practice with the new signals. Friday evening each young man who was scheduled as being even likely to play the next day studied over the signals at home, then, under orders, burned his copy of the code. Saturday morning the squad met for some more practice, though not much. "I believe all of us are in trim now, sir," Captain Prescott reported to the coach. "I am rather sure all of our men know the new signals by heart, and there'll be no confusion. But, of course, for the first game, the old snap of our recent practice will be missing. It has been a hard blow to us." "If we have to lose to-day's game," muttered Mr. Morton, "I'll be almost satisfied to lose it to Tottenville, after the manly and straightout conduct of Mr. Jarvis!" "That same line of thought would make us content to go through a losing season, for all the fellows in other towns who received that betrayed code sent the information right back to us," smiled Prescott. "But we're not going to lose to-day's game, Mr. Morton, nor any other day's. Drayne's treachery has just about crazed the other fellows with anger. They'll win everything ahead of 'em, now, just for spite and disgust, if for no better reason." "Sometimes anger serves a good purpose," laughed Mr. Morton. "But it was pitiful to look at poor old Dr. Thornton yesterday afternoon. At first I thought he was going to faint. He seemed suddenly to grow ten years older. It cut him to the quick. He loves every one of his boys, and to have one of them go bad is just as painful to him as to see his own son sent to the penitentiary." "Is Dr. Thornton coming to the game this afternoon, sir?" "Yes; he has never missed one yet, in any year that he has been principal of Gridley High School." "Then we'll make that fine old American gentleman feel all right again by the grand game that we'll put up," promised Dick vehemently. "I'll pass the word, and the fellows will strain themselves to the last drop." Orders were issued to the gate tenders to throw Drayne out if he presented himself at the gate. Drayne did put in an appearance, and he got through the gate to a seat on the grand stand, but it was no fault of the gate tenders. Drayne had spent some of his spare money at the costumer's. With his trim, rather slim figure Phin Drayne made up rather well as a girl. He wore black---mourning throughout, perhaps in memory of his departed honor---and a heavy veil covered his face. In this disguise Drayne sat where he could see what would happen. At the outset it was Gridley's kick off, and for the next ten minutes Tottenville had the ball, fighting stubbornly with it. But at last, when forced half way down the field between center and its own goal line, Gridley blocked so well in the three following plays that the pigskin came to the home eleven. Dick bent over, holding the ball for the snapback, while his battle front formed on each side of him. Dave Darrin, quarter-back, raced back a few steps, then halted, looking keenly, swiftly over the field. Phin Drayne drew his breath sharply. Then his heart almost stopped beating as he listened. "Thirty-eight---nine---eleven---four!" sounded Darrin's voice, sharp and clear. "That's the run around the left end!" throbbed Phin Drayne. But it wasn't. A fake kick, followed by a cyclonic impact at the right followed. "They've changed the signals!" gulped the guilty masquerader behind the black veil. "Then they've found out." With this came the next disheartening thought: "That's the reason, then, why the coach ordered me out of the field Thursday afternoon. Morton is wise. I wonder if he has told it all around?" Gridley High School was doing some of its brilliant, old-style play now. Prescott was proving himself an ideal captain, quick-witted, full of strategy, force, push and dash, yet all the while displaying the best of cool judgment in sizing up the chances of the hard battle. But that which Phin Drayne noted most of all was that every signal used had a different meaning from that employed in the code he had mailed to the captains of the other school teams. "It was all found out, and Gridley wasn't hurt," thought Phin, gnashing his teeth. "Good luck always seems to follow that fellow Prescott! Can't he be beaten? We shall see! Prescott, my fine bully, I'm not through with you yet." The first half ended without either side scoring. Impartial onlookers thought that perhaps formidable Tottenville had had rather the better of it, but no one could tell with certainty which was the better team. When neither side scores in the first half that which remains to be determined is, which side will show the bigger reserve of vitality in the second half. And now the ball was off again, with twenty-two men pursuing and fighting for it as though the fate of the nation hung on the result. Dick, too, soon had things moving at a gait that had all Gridley standing up and boosting with all the powers of lungs, hands and feet. All that remained to interest Phin Drayne was to discover whether his late comrades had sufficiently mastered their new signals not to fail in their team work. Once in the second half there was a brief fluster. Two Gridley men went "woozy" over the same signal. But alert Dave Darrin rushed in and snatched a clever advantage out of momentary confusion. After that there was no more confusion. Gridley took the game by a single touchdown, failing in the subsequent kick for goal. Five minutes later time expired. Feeling doubly contemptible now, and sick at heart, Phin Drayne crawled weakly down from the grand stand. He made his way out in the throng, undetected. He returned to the costumer's, got off his sneaking garb and donned his own clothing, then slipped away out through a back door that opened on an alleyway. Not until Sunday afternoon did Drayne yield to the desire to get out of doors. His training life had made outer air a necessity to him, so he yielded to the desire. But he kept to back streets. Just as luck would have it, Drayne came suddenly face to face with Dr. Thornton. The good old principal had a fixed belief which followed the practice of American law, to the effect that every accused man is innocent until he has been proved guilty. In addition, the doctor had recovered a good deal from his first depression. Therefore he was able to meet this offending pupil as he would want to under the circumstances. "Good afternoon, Mr. Drayne," was Dr. Thornton's courteous greeting. "It is beautiful; weather to be out, isn't it?" "It is a perfect day, sir," Drayne replied. Once he had gotten past the principal the young wretch gave way to his exultation. "No charge has been made, then," he told himself gloatingly. "If I had been denounced, the Prin. could hardly have been as gracious. Well, hang it all, what are charges going to amount to, anyway?" At the High School Monday morning, both before school and at recess, the members of the football squad cut Drayne dead. "They suspect me, but they can't prove anything, anyway," chuckled the traitor to himself. "Brass, Phin, my boy! Brass! That is bound to win out when the clodhoppers can't prove a blessed thing." As none of the students outside of the squad showed any especial inclination to cut him, Phin felt almost wholly reassured. "It would be libelous, anyway, if the gang passed around a word that they couldn't prove," chuckled Drayne. "So I guess those that may be doing a heap of thinking will have caution enough to keep their mouths shut, anyway," That afternoon, after luncheon, Phin Drayne took a long tramp over country roads at the back of the big town. It was five o'clock when he returned. "Here's a note for you, on High School stationery," said Mrs. Drayne, putting an envelope in her son's hand. "It came some time ago." Something warned the fellow not to open the envelope there. He took it to his room, where he read the letter. It was from Dr. Thornton, and said only: _"You are directed to appear before the Board of Education at its stated weekly meeting to-night. This is urgent, and you are warned not to fail in giving this summons due heed."_ In an instant Phin was white with fear. His legs trembled under him, and cold sweat stood out on his neck, face and forehead. For some moments the young man acted as though in danger of collapse. Then he staggered over to the tap at his washbowl, and gulped down a glass of water. He paced the room restlessly for a long time, and finally went over and stood looking out of the window. "Young man," he said to himself severely, "you've got to brace, and brace hard. If you haven't any nerve, then getting square is too strenuous a game for you? Now, what can that gang prove? They can suspect, and they can charge, but my denial is fully as good as any other man's affirmation. Go before the Board of Education? Of course I will. And I'll make any accuser of mine look mighty small before that august board of local duffers!" Brave words! They cheered the young miscreant, anyway. Phin ate his supper with something like relish. Afterwards he set out for the High School building, in which the Board had its offices. Nor did his courage fail him until he had turned in through the gate. A young man, whistling blithely, came in behind him. It was Dick Prescott, erect of carriage, and brisk and strong of stride, as becomes a young athlete whose conscience is clear and wholesome. "Hullo, Prescott, what are you doing around here to-night?" hailed Drayne. But Dick seemed not to have heard. Not a note did he drop in the tune that he was whistling. Springing up the steps ahead, Dick vanished behind the big door. "Oh, of course he goes here to-night," thought Phin, with sudden disgust. "Prescott scribbles for 'The Blade' and the Board of Education is one of his stunts each week." CHAPTER VI One of the Fallen For a few moments Drayne hung about outside, irresolute. Then his native shrewdness asserted itself. "Not to go in, after having been seen here in the yard would be to confess whatever anyone wants to charge," muttered Phin. "Of course I'll go in. And I'll just stand there and look more and more astounded every time that anyone says anything. Brass, Phin---brass! Oh, I'd like to see anyone down me!" So, with all the swagger he could put on, this young Benedict Arnold of the school stepped into the Board room. As he entered, the clerk of the Board hastened toward him. "Step into this anteroom at the side, Mr. Drayne, until you're called," the clerk directed. "There will be some routine business to be transacted first. Then, I believe, the Board has a few questions it desires to ask you." Left by himself, the young man began to be a good bit frightened. He was brave enough in matters requiring only physical courage. But in this instance the culprit knew that he had been guilty of a contemptibly mean act, and the knowledge of it made a moral coward of him. "What are they doing? Trying to sentence, me to solitary confinement?" wondered the young man, when minute after minute went by without any call for him. In the Board room he could hear the droning of voices. "And that Dick Prescott is out there, sitting at a reporter's table, ready to take in all that happens," muttered Phin savagely. "Won't he enjoy himself, though?" At last it seemed to Phin as though a hush fell over those in the next room. But it was only that voices had been much lowered. Then a door opened, the clerk looking in and calling: "Mr. Drayne, will you come before the Board now?" Phin passed into the larger apartment. Seated in one chair was Dr. Thornton; in another chair Mr. Morton. And Dick Prescott was there, but gathering up his writing materials as though about to go. The chairman waited in silence until Prescott had passed out of the Board room. After the clerk had closed the door the chairman announced: "The Board is now in executive session. Dr. Thornton, we will listen to the matter which we understand you wish to bring before us for consideration." Composedly Dr. Thornton stepped to the edge of the table, standing there, resting his left hand on the table as he began to speak. In simple words, without any visible emotion, the High School principal stated what he understood of the receipt of copies of the football signal code by the captains of rival football elevens. Next Mr. Morton took the stand, so to speak, and went much more into detail. He told what the reader already knows, producing several of the copies returned by the honorable captains of other school teams. Then Mr. Morton put in evidence, with these copies of the code, copies of business letters received from Drayne's father, and presumably written on the Drayne office machine. "If you examine these exhibits, gentlemen, I think you will agree that the betrayed code and the business letters were written on one and the same machine. The use of the magnifying glass makes it even more plain." Then Mr. Morton sat down. "Now, young Mr. Drayne, what have you to say?" demanded the presiding officer. "Why should I say anything, sir?" demand Drayne, with an impudent assumption of swaggering ease. "Then you admit the truth of the charges, Mr. Drayne?" "I do not." "Then you must really have something to say." "I have heard a charge made against me. I am waiting to have it proved." "Do you admit," asked the presiding officer, "that these copies of the code were written on your father's office machine?" "I do not, sir. But, if it be true, is that any proof that I made those copies of the signal code? Is it argued that I alone have access to the typewriter in my father's office. For that matter, if I have an enemy in the High School and I must have several---wouldn't it be possible for that enemy, or several of them, to slyly break into my father's office and use that particular typewriting machine?" This was confidently delivered, and it made an undoubted impression on at least two or three members of the Board. But now Mr. Morton broke in, quietly: "I thought some such attempt as this might be made. So I waited until I saw what the young man's line of defense might be. Here is an envelope in which one of the copies was received by the captain of a rival football team. You will note that the sender, while understanding something about the use of a type machine, was plainly a novice in directing an envelope on the typewriter. So he addressed this envelope in handwriting. Here is the envelope in question, and here is one of Mr. Drayne's school examination papers, also in his own handwriting. I will ask the members of the Board to examine both." There was silence, while the copies passed from hand to hand, Drayne losing color at this point. "Be brassy!" he whispered to himself. "You'll pull through, Phin, old boy." "I am sorry to say, Mr. Drayne, that the evidence appears to be against you," declared the chairman slowly. "It may, sir," returned the boy, "but it isn't conclusive evidence." "Have you anything more to say, Mr. Morton?" asked the chairman, looking at the submaster. "Plenty, Mr. Chairman, if the Board will listen to me." "Proceed, Mr. Morton." The football coach thereupon launched into a swiftly spoken tirade against the "brand of coward and sneak" who would betray his school in such a fashion. Without naming Phin, Mr. Morton analyzed the motives and the character of such a sneak, and he did it mercilessly, although in the most parliamentary language. Nor did he look toward the boy, but Phin was squirming under the lash, his face alternately red or ghastly. "For such a scoundrel," continued Mr. Morton, "there is no hope greater than the penitentiary! He is fit for nothing else. Such a traitor would betray his best friend, or his country. Such a sneak would be dead to all feelings of generosity. The smallest meannesses must envelop his soul. Why, sir, the sender of these copies of the signal code was so mean, so small minded, so sneaking and so utterly selfish"---how Phin squirmed in his seat!---"that, in sending the envelopes through the mail he was not even man enough to pay full postage. Four cents was the postage required for each envelope, but this small-souled sneak, this ungenerous leech actually made the receivers pay half of the postage on 'due-postage' stamps." "I didn't!" fairly screamed red-faced Phin, leaping up out of his chair. "I stuck a four-cent stamp on each envelope myself! I remem-----" Of a sudden he stopped in his impetuous burst of language. A great hush fell in the room. Phin felt himself reeling with a new fright. "Then," demanded Mr. Morton, in a very low voice, his face white, "why did you deny having sent out these envelopes containing the copies of the code?" There was a shuffling of feet. Two or three of the Board laughed harshly. "Oh, well!" burst almost incoherently from the trapped boy. "When you employ such methods as these you make a fellow tell on himself!" All his 'brass' was gone now. He looked, indeed, a most pitiable object as he stood there, his lower jaw drooped and his cheeks twitching. "I think you have said about all, Mr. Drayne, that it is necessary for you to say," interposed the chairman. "Still, in the interest of fair play we will allow you to make any further statements that you may wish to make. Have you anything to offer?" "No!" he uttered, at last, gruffly. At a sign from the chairman the clerk stepped silently over, took Phin by one elbow, and led him to the door. Phin passed on out of the building, stumbling blindly. He got home, somehow, and into bed. In the morning, however, even a sneak is braver. "What can they do to me, anyway?" muttered Phin, as he dressed. "I didn't break any of the laws of the state! All anyone can do is to cut me. I'll show 'em all how little I care for their contempt." So it was not wholly in awe that Phin Drayne entered the general assembly room the next morning, a few minutes before opening time. Several of the students greeted him pleasantly enough. Phin was quick to conclude that the news had not leaked anyway, beyond the members of the football squad. Then came the opening of the session. The singing books lay on the desks before the students. Instead, however, of calling out the page on which the morning's music would be found, Dr. Thornton held his little gavel in his hand, after giving a preliminary rap or two on his desk. "I have something to say to the students of the school this morning," began Dr. Thornton, in a low but steady voice. "It is something which, I am happy to state, I have never before been called upon to say. "One of the most valuable qualities in any man or woman is loyalty. All of us know, from our studies in history and literature, many conspicuous and noble examples of loyalty. We have also, in our mind's eye, some examples of the opposite qualities, disloyalty and treachery. Outside of sacred history one of the most conspicuous examples of betrayal was that of Benedict Arnold." Every boy and girl now had his eyes turned fixedly on the old principal. Outside of the football squad no student had any idea what was coming. Phin tried to look wholly unconscious. Dr. Thornton spoke a little more on the meanness of treachery and betrayal. Then, looking straight over at the middle of the third aisle on the boys' side of the room, the principal commanded: "Mr. Drayne, stand by your desk!" Phin was up, hardly knowing how he accomplished the move. Every pair of eyes in the room was focused on him. "Mr. Drayne," continued the principal, and now there was a steely glitter of contempt in the old man's eyes, "you were displeased because you did not attain to as high honors on the football eleven as you had hoped. In revenge you made copies of the code signals of the team, and mailed a copy to the captain of nearly every team against which Gridley High School is to play this year." There came, from all parts of the room, a gasp of incredulous amazement. "Your infamy, your treachery and betrayal, Mr. Drayne, were traced back to you," continued the principal. "You were forced to admit it, last night, before the Board of Education. That Board has passed sentence in your case. Mr. Drayne, you are found utterly unfit to associate with the decent manhood and womanhood to be found in the student body of this High School. By the decision of the Board you are now expelled from this school. You will take your books and belongings and leave instantly. You will never presume to enter through the doors of this school again. Go, sir!" From Phin came an angry snarl of defiance. He tried to shout out, to tell the principal and his late fellow students how little, or less than little, he cared about their opinions. But the words stuck in his throat. Ere he could try again, a hiss arose from one quarter of the room. The hiss grew and swelled. Phin realized, though he dared not look about him any longer, that the hissing came as much from the girls as from the boys. Drayne did not attempt to bend over his desk. Instead, he marched swiftly down the half of the aisle, then past the platform toward the door. "Mr. Drayne," called Dr. Thornton, "you have not taken your books, or paper or other desk materials." "I leave them, sir," shouted Phin, above the tumult of hissing, "for the use of some of your many pauper students." Then he went out, slamming the door after him. He darted down to the basement, then waited before the locker door until one of the monitors came down, unlocked the door, and allowed Phin to get his hat. But the monitor never looked at him, or spoke. Once out of the building, Phin could keep back the choking sob and tears no longer. Stealing down a side street, where he would have to pass few people, Phin gave way to his pent-up shame. Yet in it all there was nothing of repentance. He was angry with himself---in a fiendish rage toward others. Afterwards, he learned that the books and other contents of his desk were burned in the school yard at recess, to the singing of a dirge. But, even for the purpose of making a bonfire of his books the students would not touch the articles with their hands. They coaxed the janitor to find a pair of tongs, and with this implement Phin's books and papers were conveyed to the purifying blaze. Behind the door in the privacy of his own room Phin Drayne shook his fist at the surrounding air. "I have one mission in life, now, anyway!" raged the boy. "I've got some cruel scores to pay. You, Dick Prescott, shall come in for a large share of the payment! No matter how long I have to wait and plan, or what I have to risk, you shan't get away from me!" CHAPTER VII Dick Meets the Boy-with-a-Kick Evil thoughts can never be cherished, day after day, without leading the more daring or brutal into some form of crime. Phin, the first three or four times he tried to appear on Main Street, was "spotted" and hissed by High School boys. Even the boys of the lower schools heard the news, and took up the hissing with great zest. So Phin was forced to remain indoors during the day, which drove him out by night, instead. Had he been older, and known more of human nature, he would have known that the hissing would soon die out, and thereafter he would meet only cold looks. At home, be sure Phin was not happy. His mother, a good woman, suffered in silence, saying little to her son. Phin's father, a hard-headed and not over scrupulous man of business, looked upon the incident of expulsion as a mere phase in life. He thought it "would do the boy good, and teach him to be more clever." Gridley met Milton High School and scored another victory, Milton taking only two points on a safety that Gridley was forced to make. And now the game with Chester was looming up ahead. It was due for the coming Saturday. Three times a week, Dick Prescott had his squad out for drill and practice, though he was careful to follow Mr. Morton's suggestion not to get the young men trained down "too fine." Early one evening in mid-week, Dick sat at his desk in "The Blade" office, "grinding out" some local copy. He was in a hurry to finish, for he was due to be in bed soon. Every member of team and squad was pledged to keep early hours of retiring on every night but Saturday. In another chair, near by, sat Dave Darrin, who dropped in to speak with his chum, and was now waiting until they could stroll down Main Street together. "I've just thought of something I want to do, Dick," muttered Dave suddenly. "I'll jump out and attend to it, now. Walk down Main Street, when you're through, and you'll run into me." Prescott, nodding, went on with his writing, turning out page after page. Then he rose, placing the sheets on News Editor Bradley's desk. "I'm pretty sure you'll find it all right, Mr. Bradley," declared Dick. "Now, I must get home, for I'm due in bed in half an hour." "Training and newspaper work don't go well together," laughed the news editor. "However, your football season will soon be over. This time next year you'll be through with High School, and I hope you'll be with us then altogether." "I don't know about that, Mr. Bradley," smiled Dick, picking up his hat and starting for the door. "But I do know that I like newspaper work mighty well. When a fellow is writing for a paper he seems to be alive all the time, and right up to the minute." "That youngster may come to us for a while, after he gets out of High School," called Mr. Pollock, across the room, after Prescott had, gone out. "But he won't stay long on a small daily. A youngster with all his hustle is sure to pull out, soon, for one of the big city dailies. The country towns can't hold 'em." Dick went briskly down the street, whistling blithely, as a boy will do when he's healthy and his conscience is clear. A block below another boy, betraying the hang-dog spirit only too plainly, turned the corner into Main Street. It was Phin Drayne, out for one of his night walks. Fearing that he might be insulted, and get into a fight with some one, Drayne had armed himself with one of his father's canes. The stick had a crook for a handle. Prescott caught a glimpse of the other boy's face; then he turned away, hastening on. "I'm not even worth looking at," muttered Phin to himself. Just as Dick went past, Phin seized the cane by the ferule end, and lunged out quickly. The crook caught neatly around one of Dick's ankles just as the foot was lifted. Like a flash Prescott went down. One less nimble, and having had less training, might have been in for a split kneecap. But Dick was too much master of his body and its movements. He went down to his hands, then touched lightly on his knees. Phin laughed sneeringly as Dick sprang up, unhurt. "Keep out of my way, after this---you less-than-nothing!" muttered Dick between his teeth. "I don't want to have to even hit a thing like you!" "You'll show good judgment, Mr. Big-head, if you don't try it," jeered Drayne, menacing Dick with the cane. The color came into Dick's face. Leaping forward, with all the adroitness of the born tackler, he caught that cane, just as it descended, and wrenched it out of Phin Drayne's cowardly, hand. Crack! Dick broke it in two across his knee, then tossed the pieces into the street. "You'll never be able to do anything better than a sneaky act," muttered Dick contemptuously, turning to walk on. With a smothered cry Phin Drayne leaped forward to strike Prescott down from behind. Dick was around again like a flash, one fist striking up the arm with which the sneak had aimed his blow. "Stand off, and keep away," advised Prescott coldly. "I won't; I'll thrash you!" hissed Phin. There was nothing for Dick to do but put up his guard, which he did with great promptness. Drayne danced around him, seeking a good point at which to close in. Prescott had no notion of fighting; neither did he propose to take an assault meekly. "Look out!" yelled Drayne, suddenly rushing in. "Certainly," mocked Prescott coolly. He shot up Phin's arm as easily as could have been desired. With his right he parried another blow. "Get out of this, and go about your business," advised Dick sternly. "Think I'll take any orders from you?" snarled Phin. "I'll-----" He continued to crowd in, hammering blows. Dick parried, but did not attempt to retaliate. The truth was, he felt secretly sorry for the fellow who had fallen as low as Phin. But Drayne was no coward physically, when his blood was up. It drove him to fever heat, now, to see how easily the captain of the football team repulsed him. "I'll get your wind going, and then I'll hammer you for fair!" snarled Drayne. "Mistake there, somewhere," retorted Dick coolly. But Drayne was coming in, harder and harder. Dick simply had to do something. So, after he had parried more than a score of blows the young football captain suddenly took a springy step forward, shot up Phin's guard, and landed a staggering blow on the nose. Phin began to reel. Dick hit him more lightly on the chest, yet with force enough to "follow up" and send to his knees. "Here, what's this?" called a voice, and a heavy hand seized Dick by the collar behind, pulling him back. It was Heathcote Drayne, Phin's father, a powerful man, who now held Prescott. Phin was quickly upon his feet and start forward. From across the street sounded a warning cry, followed by footsteps. "Now, I've got you!" cried Phin exultantly. He struck, and landed, on Dick's cheek. "Stop that, Phin!" shouted his father, without letting go of Dick's collar, however. Phin, however, instead of obeying, aimed another blow, and would have landed, had not another figure bounded in and taken the blow, next hurling Phin back against a brick wall. It was Len Spencer, "star" reporter of "The Blade," who had thus interfered. And now Dave Darrin was dancing in front of Heathcote Drayne, ordering: "Let go of Prescott! What sort of fair play is this?" "Mind your own business!" ordered Mr. Drayne. "I'm stopping a fight." Not an instant did impulsive Darrin waste in arguing the matter. He landed his fist just under Heathcote Drayne's left eye, causing that Heathcote to let go of Dick in a hurry. "You young scoundrel!" glared Mr. Drayne, glaring at Dave. "Opinions may differ as to who the scoundrel is," retorted Dave unconcernedly. "My own notions of fair play are against holding one of the parties in a fight so that the other may hammer him." "I'll have you arrested for this assault," stormed Mr. Drayne, applying a handkerchief to the bruised spot under his eye. "Both you and Prescott---your ruffian friend for assaulting my son. "Go ahead and do it," retorted Dave. "As it happens, your son did all the assaulting, and Prescott, who didn't care about fighting with such a thing, only defended himself. We saw it all from across the street, but we didn't come across to interfere until we had to." "I'll take some of your impudence out of you in the police court," insisted Mr. Drayne. "Yes, I would, if I were you," broke in Len Spencer coolly. "I saw this whole business, too, and I'll take pleasure in testifying against you both. Mr. Drayne, you didn't see the start of this thing, and I did. But you, at least, know that your son is a moral leper kicked out of the High School because he was not decent enough to associate with the other students. I wouldn't be surprised if he gets some of his bad qualities from you, sir" "You'll sing a different tune in court," asserted Heathcote Drayne heatedly. "So will you," laughed Len Spencer. "By the way, I see a policeman down the street. If you want to prefer a charge, Mr. Drayne, I'll blow my police whistle and bring the officer here." Spencer took a whistle from his pocket, moving it toward his lips. "Do you want the officer!" challenged the reporter. But Mr. Drayne began to see the matter in a somewhat different light. He knew much about the nature of his son, and here were two witnesses against him. Besides, one was a trusted staff writer for the local paper, and the whole affair was likely to result in a disagreeable publicity. "I'll think this all over before I act," returned Mr. Drayne stiffly, as he took his son by one arm. "Come along, Phin." As the Draynes moved away each held a handkerchief to his face. "I don't think much of fighting, and I don't like to do it," muttered Darrin, who was beginning to cool down. "But if Heathcote Drayne had had to do more fighting when he was younger he might have known how to train that cub of his to be more of a man." CHAPTER VIII Dick Puts "A Better Man" in His Place Of course Dick heard no more from the Draynes. He didn't expect that he would. Phin, however, was noticed no more on the streets of the little city. Then, in some way, it leaked out that his father had sent him to a military boarding school where the discipline was credited with being very rigid. "I guess papa has found that his little boy was none too much of an angel," laughed Dave Darrin when discussing the news with his chums. The first four games of the season went off successfully for Gridley, though all were hard battles in which only fine leadership and splendid team work by all saved the day. Two of these games had been played on the home grounds, two away from home. The fifth game of the season was scheduled to be played on the home grounds. The opponent for this game was to be Hallam Heights High School. The Hallam boys were a somewhat aristocratic lot, but not snobbish, and the Gridley young men looked forward to an exciting and pleasant game. It was the first game ever played between Gridley and Hallam Heights. Coach Morton talked about the strangers one rainy afternoon in the gymnasium. "I believe you're going to find yourselves up against a hard proposition," declared coach slowly "These young men attend a High School where no expense is spared. Some of the wealthy men of the town engage the physical director, who is one of the best men in his class. Speight, who was at college with me, is engaged in addition as the football coach. I remember Speight as one of the cleverest and most dangerous men we had at college. He could think up a whole lot of new field tricks overnight. Then again, most of the Hallam Heights boys are young fellows who go away for athletic summers. That is, they are young fellows who do a lot of boating, yachting, riding, tennis, track work, and all the rest of it. They are young fellows who glory in being in training all the year around. Speight writes me that he thinks he has the finest, strongest and most alert boys in the United States." "We'll whip them, just the same," announced Dick coolly. "Gridley will, if anyone can---I know that," agreed Mr. Morton. "You've won all four games that you've played this season. Hallam Heights has played five games and won them all. The Hallam youngsters are out to capture the record that Gridley has held for some time that of capturing all the games of the season." "Bring 'em on!" begged Darrin. "I wish we had 'em here to play just as soon as the rain lets up." "Don't make the mistake of thinking that, because the Hallam boys have rich fathers, they're dudes, who can't play on wet ground," laughed Mr. Morton. "If Hallam sends forth such terrors," grinned Dick, rising from the bench on which he had been sitting, "then we must get in trim for 'em. Come on, fellows; some of the light speedy exercises. I'll work you up to all the speed you can take care of, this afternoon." For the next ten minutes Dick was as good as his word. Then, after a brief breathing spell, Prescott ordered his men to the running track in the gallery. "Three laps at full speed, with a two-minute jog between each speed burst, and a minute of breathing between each kind of running," called out Dick. Then, after he had seen the fellows started, he turned to the coach. "If I never learned anything else from you, Mr. Morton, I think I've wholly absorbed the idea that no man is in condition unless he can run well; and that nothing will make for condition like judicious running." "As to what you've learned from me, Captain Prescott," replied the coach, "I fully believe that you've learned all that I have to teach. I wouldn't be afraid to go away on a vacation and leave the team in your hands." "Him!" smiled Dick. "Without you to back me up, Mr. Morton, I'm afraid some of the fellows might kick over the traces." "They wouldn't kick over but once," laughed the coach. "The first time any fellow did that you'd drop him from the team. And the fellows know it. I haven't noticed the young men attempting to frisk you any." "One did." "I know whom you mean," replied the submaster, his brow clouding. "But he got out of the team, didn't he?" "Yes; but I didn't put him out." "You would have put him off the team if it had been left for you to do it." As soon as he thought the squad had had enough exercise to keep them in tone, Dick dismissed them. "But every one of you do his level best to keep in condition all the time until we get through with Hallam Heights," urged the young captain. "That applies, too, not only to team members, but to every man in the squad. If the Hallam fellows are swift and terrific, we can't tell on whom we may have to pounce for substitutes." This was to be a mid-week game, taking place Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday morning word reached school that Hudson, who was down to play right guard, and Dan Dalzell, right end, were both at home in bed, threatened with pneumonia. In each case the doctor was hopeful that the attack would be averted, but that didn't help out the afternoon's game any. "Two of our prize men out," muttered Dick anxiously to Dave at recess. "And it's claimed that misfortunes always travel by threes," returned Darrin, half mournfully. "Don't!" shivered Prescott. "Let us off with two misfortunes." Afternoon came along, somewhat raw and lowering. Rain might prevent the game. Less than three quarters of the people who bought seats in advance appeared at the grounds. The sale of spot seats was not as brisk by half as it would have been on a pleasanter day. But the Hallam Heights boys came along early, bounding and full of fun and dash. They were a fine-looking lot of boys. The Gridley youngsters took to their opponents instantly. "I wonder what's keeping Dick?" muttered Dave Darrin, half anxiously, in dressing quarters. "Anyway, we won't worry about him until we have to," nodded Mr. Morton. "Our young captain is about the promptest man, as a rule, in the whole squad." "That's just why I am uneasy," grunted Dave. Hardly had he spoken when Dick Prescott came in---but limping slightly! And what a rueful countenance the young captain of the team displayed! "Suffering Ebenezer, man, but what has happened?" gasped Dave. All the other Gridley youngsters stopped half way in their togging to listen for the reply. "Nothing much," grunted Dick. "Yet it came near to being too much. A man bumped me, as I was getting on the car, and drove me against the iron dasher. It was all an accident, due to the man's clumsiness. But it barked my knee a good bit." "Let me see you walk about the room," ordered Coach Morton. He watched closely, as Dick obeyed. "Sit down, Prescott, and draw the trousers leg off on that side. I want to examine the knee." While Mr. Morton went to work the other members of the team crowded about, anxiety written on all their faces. "Does it hurt more when I press?" asked the submaster keenly. "Ah, I thought so! Prescott, you're not badly hurt for anything else; but your knee is in no shape to play this afternoon!" A wail of dismay went up from the team members. The rueful look in Dick's face deepened. "I was afraid you'd bar me out," he confessed. "I never felt so ashamed in my life." "It wouldn't be of any use for you to play, for that knee wouldn't stand it in any rough smash," declared the coach, shaking his head solemnly. "It's all off with us, then," groaned one of the fellows. "We may as well ask Hallam if they'll allow us to hand 'em a score of six to nothing on a platter, and then stay off the field." "Hush your croaking, will you?" demanded Dave Darrin angrily, glaring about him. "Is that the Gridley way? Do we ever admit defeat? Whoever croaks had better quit the team altogether." Under that rebuke the boy who had ventured the opinion shrank back abashed. "You're sure I'll be in no shape to go on, Coach?" asked Dick anxiously. "Why, of course you could go on," replied Mr. Morton. "And you could run about some, too, unless your knee got a good deal stiffer. But you wouldn't be up to Gridley form." "Have I any right to go on, with a knee in this shape?" queried Dick. "You certainly haven't," replied Mr. Morton, with great emphasis. "Dave," called the young football chief, "you're second captain of the team. Get in and get busy. Put up the best fight you can for old Gridley!" "Aye, that I will," retorted Dave Darrin, his eyes sparkling, cheeks glowing. "I'll go in like a pirate chief, and I'll break the neck of any Gridley man who doesn't do all there is in him this afternoon." "Listen to the fire eater," laughed Fenton. Dave grinned good-humoredly, but went insistently: "All right. If any of you fellows think I take less than the best you can possibly do, try it out with me." Then Darrin came over to rest a hand on Prescott's shoulder. "Dick, you'll give me any orders you have before we go on, and between the halves, won't you?" "Not a word," replied Dick promptly. "Dave, you can lead as well as ever I have done. If you're going to be captain to-day you'll be captain in earnest. I'll hamper you neither with advice nor orders." With so important a player as Dick Prescott out of the team Dave had a hard task in rearranging the eleven. In this he sought direction from Mr. Morton. Rapidly they sketched the new line-up. Darrin himself would have to drop quarterback and go to center. For this latter post Dave was rather light, but he carried the knack of sturdy assault better than any other man in the team after Prescott. Tom Reade was called to quarter. Shortly afterwards all the details had been completed. "As to style, you'll gather that from the signals," muttered Darrin. "The only rule is the one we always have---that we can't be beat and we know we can't." There came a rap at the door. Then a bushy mop of football hair was thrust into the doorway. "Talking strategy, signals or anything we shouldn't hear?" asked the pleasant voice of Forsythe, captain of the Hallam Heights boys. "Not a blessed thing," returned Dave. "Come in, gentlemen." Captain Forsythe, in full field toggery, came in, followed by the members of the visiting team, all as completely attired for work. "We're really not intruding?" asked Forsythe, after he had stepped into the room. "Not the least in the world," responded Dave heartily. "Mr. Forsythe. let me introduce you to Mr. Morton, our coach, and to Mr. Prescott, the real captain of this tin-pan crowd of pigskin chasers." "Oh, I mistook you for Prescott," replied Forsythe, as he acknowledged the introductions. "No; I'm Darrin, the pewter-plate second captain---the worst you've got to fear to-day," laughed Dave, as he held out his hand. "Why---what----anything happened?" asked Captain Forsythe, looking truly concerned. "Captain Prescott has had his knee injured, and two of our other crack men are in bed, sick," replied Mr. Morton cheerfully. "Otherwise we're all quite well." "Your captain and two other good men out?" asked Forsythe in real sympathy. "That doesn't sound fair, for we came over here prepared to put up the very best we had against you old invincibles. I'm awfully sorry." "Captain Forsythe, we all thank you for your sympathy," Dick answered, "but Captain Darrin can lead at least as well as I can. I believe he can do it better. As for the team that we're putting in the field to-day, if you can beat it, you could as easily beat anything we could offer at any other time. So, as far as one may, with such courteous opponents as you are, Gridley hurls back its defiance and throws down the battle gage! But play your very best team, Captain Forsythe, and we'll do our best in return." CHAPTER IX Could Dave Make Good? Dave Darrin, a good deal disheveled and covered with soil and perspiration on his face and neck, came striding in after time had been called on the first half. Dave's generalship had kept Hallam Heights from scoring, but Gridley hadn't put away any points, either. "You saw it all from the side lines, Dick?" Dave asked, as the chums, arm in arm, strolled into dressing quarters. "Yes." "What are your instructions for the second half." "I haven't any." "Your advice, then?" "I haven't any of that, either. Dave, any fellow who can hold those young human cyclones back as you've done doesn't need any pointers in the game." "But we simply couldn't score against them," muttered Darrin. "So I know there's something wrong with my leadership. What is it?" "Nothing whatever, Darrin. It simply means that you're up against the hardest line to get through that I've ever seen Gridley tackle. Why, yesterday I was looking over the record of these Hallam boys, and I find that they've already whipped two college second teams. But you'll get through them in the next Dave, if there's any human way of doing it. So that's all I've got to say, for I'm not out there on the gridiron, and I can't see things from the side line the same as you can on the ten-yard line. Perhaps Mr. Morton may have something to offer." But the coach hadn't. "You're doing as well as any man of Gridley could do, Darrin," the submaster assured the young second captain. "Of course, with Prescott at center, and yourself jumping around as quarter-back the team would be stronger. But in Prescott's enforced absence, I don't see how you can play any point of the line more forcefully than you've been doing." But Dave, instead of looking puffed up, replied half dejectedly: "I was in hopes you could both show me where I'm weak." "You're not weak," insisted Coach Morton. "That throws me back on thinking hard for myself," muttered Darrin. Where a weaker man would have been pleased with such direct praise Dave felt that he was not doing his duty because he had not been able to lead as brilliantly as Dick had done in earlier games. "Brute strength isn't any good against these Hallam fellows," Darrin told himself, as he returned to the field. "They're all A-1 athletes. Even if Gridley played a slugging game, it wouldn't bear these Hallam boys down. As to speed and scientific points, they seem to be our masters. Whatever we do against them, it must be something seldom heard of on the gridiron something that will be so brand new that they can't get by it." Yet twice in the half that followed Gridley barely escaped having to make a safety to save their goal line. Each time, however, Dave wriggled out of it. When there were but seven minutes left neither team had scored. Gridley now had the ball for snap-back at its own twenty-five-yard line. The most that home boosters were hoping for now was that Gridley would be able to hold down the game to no score. Dave had been thinking deeply. He had just found a chance to mutter orders swiftly. Fenton, little, wiry and swift, was to-day playing at left end, the position that Dick himself had made famous in the year before. "Eighteen---three--eleven---seven---nine!" called Tom Reade, crisply. The first four figures called off the play that Gridley was to make, or to pretend to make. But that nine, capping all at the end, caused a swift flutter in Gridley hearts. For that nine, at the end of the signal, called for a fake play. Yet the instant that the whistle trilled out its command every Gridley player unlimbered and dashed to the position ordered. Only three men on the team understood what was contemplated. Coach Morton, from the side lines, had looked puzzled from the moment that he heard the signal. Dick Prescott, eager for his chum's success, as well as the team's, stood as erect as he could beside Mr. Morton, trying to take in the whole field with one wide, sweeping glance. As Tom Reade caught the ball on its backward snap, he straightened up, tucking the ball under his left arm and making a dash for Gridley's right end. Immediately, of course, Hallam rushed its men toward that point. Yet the movements of Gridley's right wing puzzled the visitors. For all of Dave's right flankers dashed forward, making an effective interference. Surely, reasoned Captain Forsythe, Tom Reade didn't mean to try to break through by himself with the pigskin. That much was a correct guess. Tom didn't intend anything of the sort. All in a flash Reade, as prearranged, dropped the ball, punting it vigorously. Up it went, soaring obliquely over Gridley's left flank and far beyond. Just a second before the ball itself started, little Fenton had put himself in motion. By the time that the ball was in the air Fenton was past Hallam's line and scorching down the field. Now Forsythe and every Hallam man comprehended all in a flash. Fenton had caught the ball with a nicety that brought wild whoops from the Gridley boosters, now standing on their seats and waving the Gridley colors. "That little fellow looks like a streak of light," yelled one Gridley booster. The description wasn't a bad one. Fenton was doing some of the finest sprinting conceivable. Before him nothing menaced but big Harlowe, Hallam's fullback. Harlowe, however, was hurling himself straight in the impetuous way of little Fenton. It looked like a bump. There could be but one result. Fenton would have to go down to save the ball. Harlowe reached out to tackle. Fenton came to a quivering stop, just out of reach. Then, almost instantly, the little left end dashed straight forward again. But the move had been enough to fool Harlowe. Of course, he assumed that Fenton would spring to one side. Harlowe imagined that it would be a dodge to the left, and Harlowe leaped there to tackle his man. But Fenton, actually going straight ahead, fooled the calculation of his powerful adversary and got past on the clever trick. Harlowe dashed after his sly opponent. But Fenton, still almost with his first big breath in his lungs, was running as fast as ever. A man of Harlowe's size was no one to send after a greased mosquito like Fenton. So nothing hindered. Amid the wildest, noisiest rooting, Fenton stepped it over Hallam's now undefended goal line, reached down and pressed the pigskin against the earth for a touchdown. On the grand stand the noise was deafening. The whistle sounded and the flushed players of both teams came back to range up for the kick from field. Dave, his cheeks glowing, took the kick. He sent a clean one that scored one more point for Gridley. The cheering and the playing of the band still continued when the two elevens again lined up for play during the last five minutes of the game. The referee was obliged to signal to the leader to stop his musicians. Forsythe looked hot and weary. His expectation of an easy victory had come to naught. Unless he and ten other Hallam boys could work wonders in five minutes. But they couldn't and didn't. The time keeper brought the game to a close. "Gridley has handed us six to nothing," muttered Forsythe, as he led his disheartened fellows from the field. "That puts us with the other second-rate teams in the state." "A great lot of orders you needed, didn't you?" was Captain Dick Prescott's happy greeting as Dave met him beyond the side lines. "You won that game for us, just the same," retorted Dave. "I?" demanded Dick, in genuine amazement. "Yes; you, and no one else." "How?" "You refused to give me a hint. You threw me down hard, on my own resources. I saw all those hundreds of people demanding that Gridley win," retorted Dave. "What could I do? I had to make the fellows do something like what they've been doing under Dick Prescott, or confess myself a dub. I couldn't lean on a word from you, Dick. So you fairly drove me into planning something that would either carry off the game or make us look like chromos of football players. You wouldn't say a word, Prescott, that would take any of the blame on yourself! So didn't you force me to win!" "That's ingenious, but not convincing," retorted Dick, as the two chums stepped into dressing quarters. "To tell you the truth, Dave, I think a good many people now believe that you ought to be the regular captain." But Darrin only grinned. He knew better. Some of the fellows tried to praise Fenton to his face. "Quit! You can't get away with that," chuckled the fast little left end. "Some one had to take that ball and drop it behind Hallam's goal line. I was the one who was ordered to do it. If I hadn't, what would you fellows have said about me?" By the time that the Hallam Heights young men were dressed several of them came to the Gridley quarters, Forsythe at their head. "We want to shake hands," laughed Forsythe, "and to make sure that you have no hard feelings for what we tried to do to you." Dick and Darrin took this in laughing goodfellowship. "If you call this your dub team to-day," continued Forsythe, a bit more gloomily, "we shudder to think what would have happened to us had you put in your regular line-up." "There isn't any dub team in Gridley," spoke Dick quickly. "All of our fellows are trained in the same way, by the same coach, and we stake all our chances on any line-up that's picked for the day. It was hard on you, gentlemen, that my knee put me out for the day. Darrin is twice as crafty as I am." "Oh, Darrin is crafty, all right," agreed Forsythe cheerfully. "But, somehow, I like him for it." On some of the side streets Gridley boys were allowed to light bonfires that evening, and there was general rejoicing of a lively nature. From the news that had come over concerning the Hallam Heights team there had been a good deal of fear that Gridley would, on this day, receive a set-back to its rule of always winning. CHAPTER X Leading the Town to Athletics "Mr. Morton, we want a little word with you." "All right---anything to please you," laughed the submaster, looking at Dick and Dave as they came up to him in the yard at recess. "We've been thinking over a plan," Dick continued. "It has something to do with athletics, then!" guessed the submaster. "Yes, sir," nodded Dave. "High School athletics, at that," continued Mr. Morton. "There you're wrong, sir, for once," smiled Prescott. "Mr. Morton, we've been thinking of the High School gym. It's a big place. Pretty nearly three hundred gymnasts could be drilled there at once." "Yes; I know." "There's a fine lot of apparatus there," went on Dick. "It cost thousands and thousands of dollars to put that gym. in shape." "And it's worth every dollar of the cost," contended Mr. Morton firmly. "Mr. Morton," challenged Dick, "who paid for it?" "The city government," replied the submaster. "Where did the city government get the money?" "From the citizens, of course." "Now, Mr. Morton," went on Prescott, "how many of the citizens get any direct benefit out of that gym.? Only about a quarter of a thousand of High School students! Couldn't the city's money be spent so that a far greater number would have the use of and benefit from the city's big investment!" "Why," replied the submaster, looking puzzled, "the youngsters in the lower schools have their needs provided for, in some way, in their own school buildings." "True," agreed Dick. "But what of the small army of clerks and factory employees of Gridley? Aren't they citizens, even if they haven't the time to attend High School? Haven't our smaller business fry a right to the health and good spirits that come out of gymnastic and athletic work? Haven't our typewriters, our salesgirls and factory girls a right to some of the good things from the gym.? Aren't they all citizens, and isn't the gym. their property as much as it's anyone else's!" "Excellent," nodded Mr. Morton. "But how do you propose to get them interested in the use of their property, even if the Board of Education will permit it?" "The willingness of the Board of Education can be dropped out of sight," argued Dick. "The Board is the servant of the people, and must do what the people want. What Dave and I want to see is to have the High School gym. turned over to the young working people of the city in the evening time. Say, two evenings a week for young men and two evenings for the young women. We believe it will result in big gains for Gridley. When you put new life and brighter blood into the toilers, it increases the wealth of the whole city, doesn't it?" "I declare, I think it ought to," replied Mr. Morton. "But see here, how are two boys---or, let us say, two boys and a submaster---going to bring about any such result as this?" "By presenting it properly through the leading daily of Gridley," replied Prescott, with great promptness. "Have you received any assurance that Mr. Pollock, of 'The Blade,' will be for this big scheme of yours?" asked Mr. Morton. "When we've explained it all, I don't see how he can help being for it," rejoined Prescott. "If 'The Blade' takes hold and booms this idea, day in and day out, it won't be very long before evening gym. classes will be filled to overflowing. And the Board of Education would have to give way before the pressure." Then Dave took hold of the subject for a while, talking with great earnestness. Mr. Morton listened with increasing interest. "I think, boys, that you've hit upon an idea that will be of great service to our city," remarked the submaster. "Yet what put all this into your heads!" "Why, sir, it's our last year at the High School," replied Dick, smiling though speaking with great earnestness. "After four years of the fine training we've had here, Dave and I feel that it's our place to do something to leave our mark behind. We've been talking it all over, and we've hit upon this idea. Will you stand by us in it?" "Why, yes; all that I can, you may be sure. But just what do you boys expect me to be able to do!" "Why, help us form the plans and back us up in them. You are really the leader in school athletics in this town, Mr. Morton," explained Prescott. "I can quote you in 'The Blade' as to the benefits that would result in giving gym. training to workers who can't attend High School. And, in the spring, after a winter in the gym., young men and women could form outdoor squads for running and other outside training. Altogether, sir, we think we might make Gridley famous as a place where all who possess any real energy go in to keep it up through public athletics. And such classes of young men and women could have the use of our athletics field." By the time that recess was over the submaster certainly had enough thoughts to keep him busy. That afternoon Dick and Dave took Mr. Morton around to "The Blade" office. Right at the outset Mr. Pollock jumped at the idea. "Prescott," he cried, "you've sprung a big idea. 'The Blade' will feature this idea for days to come. You may have a column, or a column and a half every day, and 'The Blade' will also back it up on the editorial page. Now, go ahead and get your stuff in shape. Above all, have interviews with prominent men, especially employers, setting forth the benefit that ought to come to the young people and to the city at large. Take as your keynote the idea that the city's duty is just as great to provide physical education as it is to supply learning out of textbooks. You'll know how to go ahead on that line, Prescott." By the next day Gridley had something new to talk about. By the time three days had passed the matter was being discussed with great seriousness. Employers saw, and said that the time young men spent in a gym. would not be spent in billiard rooms or other resorts of a harmful or useless character. Young women who went to the gym. would be home and in bed early, instead of staying up most of the night at a dance. All who entered the gym. classes would begin to think about their bodily condition and plan to improve it. Improved bodies meant a better grade of work and increased pay. Dick wrote splendidly on the subject. "The Blade," editorially, gave Dick & Co. full credit for springing the idea. The Board of Education, at its next meeting, authorized the superintendent of schools to throw the High School gym., open evenings for the purpose indicated. It also voted Mr. Morton an increase of pay on condition that he take charge of the evening gym. classes for young men. One of the women teachers was granted a like increase for assuming charge of the evening gym. classes for young women. Dick Prescott, on behalf of the High School boys, guaranteed that the most skilled in athletics among the High School boys would be on hand to aid in training the young men, and in getting up sports and games for the gym. in winter, and for the athletic field in the spring. As soon as the classes were opened they were crowded to their utmost capacity. All of the younger portion of Gridley seemed suddenly anxious to go in for athletics. "Prescott and his well-known comrades of the High School appear to be leading in the very vanguard of athletics this year," stated "The Blade" editorially. Dick and his friends could not, however, give as much aid to the new scheme now as they intended to do later. They were in the middle of the football season, and that had to be carried through first of all. Yet it was a big evening for Dick, Dave and their chums when the High School gym. was thrown open for the forming of the gymnastic class for young men. Almost three hundred presented themselves for enrollment. Scores of the leading citizens were also on hand to see how the new plan would take. Among these latter was Herr Schimmelpodt, the retired contractor, who was always such an enthusiastic booster for High School athletics. "I tell you, Bresgott, it vos a fine idea of yours," cried the big German, as he stood in a corner, looking on, while Dick talked with him. "This vill keep young folks out of drouble, and put dem in health. It vill put Gridley to being twice as good a town, alretty." "Hullo, Mr. Schimmelpodt," called a young clerk, passing in trunks and gym. shoes. "Don't you get into a squad to-night? This would do you a lot of good." "Maype, if I go in for dis sort of thing, I crowd out some young mans who needs it as much as you do," retorted the German, blinking. "But don't you think you need it, also" laughed the clerk? "Now, led me see," pondered the German. "Young man, you think you gan run?" "I know I can," laughed the clerk, leaping lightly up and down on his soft gym. shoes. "I yonder if you could reach dot door ofer dere so soon alretty as I gan?" queried Herr Schimmelpodt. "Will you run me a race?" grinned the clerk. "Vell, you start, und ve see apout it." Tantalizingly, the clerk started. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. There was a great noise on the floor of the gym. Herr Sclhimmelpodt had started. He was so big that he made a good deal of noise when he traveled. But he was going like a streak, and the clerk began to sprint in earnest. It was all in vain, however. With a few great bounds Herr Schimmelpodt was close enough to reach out one of his big arms and lay hold of the fleeing clerk. That clerk stopped suddenly, with a jolt. "Vy don't you go on running, ain't it?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt. A crowd formed about them. The reason why the clerk didn't continue his running was a very good one. One of the German's big hands encircled the clerk's thin arm like a bracelet of steel. The clerk struggled, but he might as well have tried to break out of irons. "You vant me to bractise running, so dot I gan catch you, eh?" grunted the German. "You vant me to eat breakfast sawdust for a dyspepsia vot I ain't got, huh? You vant me to dake breathing eggsercises ven I can dake more air into my lungs, alretty, dan your whole body gan disblace? You vant me to do monkey-tricks mit a dumb-pell, yen I gan do things like dis?" Suiting the action to the word, Herr Schimmelpodt grasped the clerk by one shoulder and one thigh. Up over his head the German raised the unhappy young man. Herr Schimmelpodt's arms fell and rose as he "exercised" with the young man for a wand. Everything in the gym. had stopped. All eyes were on this novel performance. Roars of laughter greeted some new stunts that Herr Schimmelpodt performed with his human wand. The great German was the only one who seemed unconscious of the hurricane of laughter that he was causing. At last the German put his victim back on the floor. "Yah, young mans, I am much oblige dot you show me how I need eggsercise. I feel much better alretty." Red-faced, the clerk fled to the other side of the room, followed by the laughter of the other gymnasts. Yet Herr Schimmelpodt's good-natured performance had great value. It taught many of the young men present how far this generation has fallen behind in matters of personal strength. Mr. Morton had easier sailing after that. CHAPTER XI The "King Deed" of Daring "Yes; that performance helped a lot." Herr Schimmelpodt was prevailed upon, by Mr. Morton, to come around on another evening to show some further feats with his great strength. Around the waist-line the German was flabby; the fat rolled in heavy ridges. Feeling aware of this defect in personal appearance Herr Schimmelpodt determined to devote some of his abundant leisure to getting his belt line into smaller compass. But the German would not do this before all eyes in the public, gym. So he and some other well-to-do business men who were conscious that the years had dealt too generously by them in the matter of flesh, hired a small hall and converted it into a private gym. It was all the doings of Dick & Co., just the same. The town was ripe, now, for performances in extraordinary athletics. Fate willed it that there should be a chance. Once a year an opera company of considerable prominence appeared at Gridley for one evening. Whenever this evening came around, it was made the occasion for a big time in local society. The women of the well-to-do families turned out in their most dazzling finery. This year "Lohengrin" was to be sung at the local opera house. Dick could have obtained, at "The Blade" office, free seats for Dave and himself for this Friday night. But they were still in close training, and there was a game on for the afternoon of the day following. For that reason nine o'clock found both of the young men in bed and asleep. Near the opera house the street was thronged with carriages. Carriage after carriage drove up and discharged its load of handsomely dressed women and their more severely attired escorts. All of Gridley that could attend the opera were in evening dress. During the evening a half gale of wind sprang up. While all was light and warmth inside, outside the wind howled harder and harder. By the time that the music lovers began to pour out, the blast was furious. Leaning on the arm of her escort, as her carriage drove up to the door, one beautifully gowned woman stepped out. Over her hair was thrown a black, filmy scarf in which nestled a number of handsome diamonds. Just as she reached the curb, but before she could step into the waiting carriage, this woman gave a shriek of dismay. The gale had caught at her diamond-strewn head-covering. Like a flash that costly creation was caught up from her hair and borne on the wind. Others standing by saw the costly thing whisked obliquely up into the air. It was still ascending on the blast when it passed out of the range of vision. "O-o-o-oh! My beautiful jeweled scarf!" sobbed the woman hysterically. The crowd quickly formed about her. She was recognized as Mrs. Macey, the wife of a wealthy real estate operator. "It was careless not to have it fastened more securely, but it's no use to cry over what can't be helped now, my dear," replied her husband. "Get into the carriage and I'll see if any trace can be found of the scarf." Still sobbing, Mrs. Macey was helped into the carriage. Then Mr. Macey enlisted the help of the bystanders. In every direction the street was searched. The fronts of the buildings opposite were examined; the gratings in the sidewalk were peered through. But there was no trace, anywhere, of the jeweled scarf. "It will be worth two hundred and fifty dollars for anyone to find it and return it to me," shouted Mr. Macey. That scattered the searchers more widely still. Presently a woman friend drove home with Mrs. Macey, while her husband remained to push the search. He kept at it until two o'clock in the morning, half a hundred men and boys remaining in the search. Then Mr. Macey gave it up. The gaudy, foolish trifle was worth about five thousand dollars. As the night wore on Mr. Macey began to have a pessimistic notion that perhaps some one had found the scarf but had been too "thrifty" to turn in such a precious article for so small a reward. "I guess it may as well be given up," sighed Mr. Macey, after two in the morning. "I'm going home, anyway." The readers of "The Blade" that crisp October morning knew of Mrs. Macey's loss. There was much talk about the matter around the town. People who walked downtown early that morning peered into gutters and down through sidewalk gratings. Then, at about seven o'clock a sensation started, and swiftly grew. One man, glancing skyward, had his attention attracted to something fluttering at the top of the spire of the Methodist church, more than half a block away from the opera house. It was fabric of some sort, and one end fluttered in the breeze, though most of the black material appeared to be wrapped around the tip of the weather vane in which the spire staff terminated. "That's the jeweled scarf, I'll bet a month's pay!" gasped the discoverer. Then, mindful of the reward, he dashed to the nearest telephone office, asking "central" to ring insistently until an answer came over the Macey wire. "Hullo, is that you, Mr. Macey?" called the discoverer, a teamster. "Then come straight up to the Methodist church. I'll be there. I've discovered the jeweled scarf." "How---how many jewels are left on it?" demanded Mr. Macey. "Come right up! I'll tell you all about it when you get here." Then the teamster rang off, after giving his name. The real estate man came in a hurry, in a runabout. His wife, pallid and hollow-cheeked, rode in the car with him. To Mr. Macey the teamster pointed out the barely visible bit of black fluttering a hundred and sixty feet above the pavement. "Now how about the reward, Mr. Macey?" demanded the teamster. "That will be paid you, if you return the scarf to Mrs. Macey," replied the real estate man dryly. The teamster's jaw dropped. For the uppermost eighteen feet of the spire consisted of a stout flagpole. Below this was the sloping slate roof of the top of the steeple proper. Only a monkey or a "steeplejack" could get up there, and on a day like this, with a half gale still blowing, a steeplejack might be pardoned for declining the task. Swiftly the news spread, and a great crowd collected. Dave Darrin heard of it right after breakfast, and hurried to get Dick Prescott. Together the chums joined the crowd. "You'll have to get a steeplejack for the job, Mr. Macey," the chums heard one man advise the real estate operator. Only one was known. His home was some forty miles away. Mr. Macey tried patiently to get the man over the long distance telephone. Some member of the man's family answered for him. The expert was away, and would not be home, or available, for three days to come at least. "Never mind, Macey," laughed the friend, consolingly. "It'll wait. No one in Gridley will take the scarf. It's safe up there." "Huh! Is it, though?" snorted the real estate man. "At any minute the strong wind may unwind it and send it whirling off over the town. Or the gale may tear it to pieces, scattering the diamonds over a whole block, and not one in ten of the stones would ever be found." Mrs. Macey sat in the runabout, a picture of mute misery. Herr Schimmelpodt elbowed his way through the outskirts of the crowd and stood absorbing his share in the local excitement. "Ach! I am afraid dere is von thing dot you gan't do, Bresgott," smiled the German. "Ach! By chimminy, though, I don't know yet." "I was wondering myself whether I could make a good try at steeple climbing," laughed Dick eagerly. "The money sounds good to me anyway." "No; I don't know. I think it would be foolish," replied Herr Schimmelpodt. "I believe you could get up there, Dick," muttered Darrin, in a low voice. "Then you could, Dave." "I think I could," nodded Darrin. "And, by crickets, if you were here, Dick, I'd certainly try it." "Try it anyway, then," urged Prescott. "Not unless you balk at it," returned Darrin. "I'm not going to balk at it," retorted Dick, flushing just a bit. "But you spoke of it first, Dave, and I think you ought to have first chance at the reward." "Tell you what I'll do," proposed Darrin, seriously. "We'll toss for it, and the winner has the try." "I'll go you," nodded Prescott. Herr Schimmelpodt, regarding them both seriously, saw that they meant it. "Boys, boys!" he remonstrated. "Don't think of it yet!" "Why not?" asked Dick. "You would be killed," remonstrated the big German. "Is that the best opinion you have of us, after the way you've been praising us athletes for two years?" laughed Prescott. "I'll toss you for it, Dick," nudged Dave. "What's this?" demanded Mr. Macey. "Prescott and I are going to toss for it, to see who shall have the first chance to climb the spire and flagstaff," replied Dave. "Nonsense! Out of the question," almost exploded Mr. Macey. "It would be like murder to allow either of you to try. That's work for a regular steeplejack." "Well, what is a steeplejack?" demanded Dick. "He's a fellow of good muscle and nerve, who can stand being in high places. Either of us could climb a flagpole from down here in the street. Why can't either of us go up there, just as well, and climb from the steeple roof?" "Prescott, have you any idea of the strength of the wind up there?" demanded the real estate man. "It's blowing great guns up there!" "Get some one to toss the coin, and either you or I call," insisted Darrin. Some one told Mrs. Macey what was being proposed. "Oh, stop them!" she cried, leaning forward from the runabout. "Boys, boys! Don't do anything wildly rash like that! I'd sooner lose the scarf than have lives risked." "She needn't worry," sneered some one in the crowd. "The High School dudes are only bluffing. They haven't either o' them the sand to do a thing like that." Both Prescott and Darrin heard. Both flushed, though that was all the sign they gave. "Herr Schimmelpodt, you must have a cent," suggested Dick. "Toss it, will you, and let Darrin call the turn." Grumbling a good deal the German produced the required coin. He fingered it nervously, for a moment, then flipped it high in the air. "Tails!" called Dave. It came down heads. "Oh, well, the best two out of three," insisted Dick. "That fellow's nerve is going already," laughed some one. "He's anxious for the other fellow to get the honor." There was a grim twitching at the corners of prescott's mouth, but he said nothing. Again the coin was tossed. This time Dick called: "Heads!" He won. "I'm ready," announced Dick quietly. "I congratulate you, old fellow," murmured Dave eagerly. "And I'm going with you to the base of the flagpole! The last climb is yours you've won it!" CHAPTER XII The Nerve of the Soldier Again Mrs. Macey sought to interpose. Her husband, too, was at first against it. But, now that the die was fairly cast, Herr Schimmelpodt firmly championed the boys. "Eider von of dem gan do it---easy!" declared the big German. "You don't know dem boys----vot? Ach, I do. Dey got der brain, der nerves und der muscle." "It's a crime to let such youths attempt the thing," shivered an anaemic-looking man in the crowd. "Whichever one goes up that flagstaff will come down again faster. He'll be killed!" "Cheer up some more," advised Herr Schimmelpodt stolidly. "It don't gost you nottings, anyway. If Dick Bresgott preak his neck soon, I gif him der bulliest funeral dot any boy in Gridley efer hat." "But what good-----" began the nervous man tremulously. "Talk ist cheap," retorted Herr Schimmelpodt, with a wink, "mid dot's all I haf to bay for dot funeral. Dick Bresgott ain't fool enough yet to preak der only neck he has." At this a jolly laugh went around, relieving the tension a bit, for there were many in the crowd who had begun to feel mighty serious as soon as they realized that Dick was in earnest. Some one brought the janitor of the church. A hardware dealer near by came along with two coils of rope, which he thought might be handy. Mr. Macey went inside with the janitor and the two chums. A score or two more would have followed, but the janitor called to Herr Schimmelpodt to bar the way, which the big German readily did. Then the four inside began to climb the winding staircase to the bell loft. "Go slowly, Dick; loaf," counseled Dave. "Don't waste a bit of your wind foolishly." At the bell loft all four paused to look down at the crowd. Now up a series of ladders the four were obliged to climb, inside the spire top. This spire top was thirty-six feet above the floor of the bell loft; but eight feet from the top of the spire a window let out upon a narrow iron gallery that ran around the spire. "I---I don't believe I'll step out there," faltered Mr. Macey, who was stout and apoplectic-looking. "I don't blame ye any," agreed the janitor. "It ain't just the place, out there, for a man o' your weight and years." "Don't look down at the street, Dick," begged Dave. "Why not?" asked Prescott, deliberately disobeying. "If I couldn't do that without getting dizzy, it would be foolish to climb the pole." "Prescott, you'd better not try it," protested Mr. Macey. "Just listen to how strong the wind is at this height. I'm afraid you'll be dashed down to the ground. Gracious! Hear the flagstaff rattle." "I expected it," replied Dick, sitting down, inside the spire top. "What are you doing?" demanded the real estate man. "Taking off my shoes," Dick replied coolly. "Do you really mean to make the attempt?" "You don't think a Gridley boy would back out at this late moment?" queried Dick, in surprise. "Ye couldn't stop these younkers, now, by force," chuckled the janitor. "I certainly wouldn't care to try force," remarked Mr. Macey dryly. "These young men are too well developed." Dave was now on the floor, getting off his shoes. "What are you going to do, old fellow?" asked Prescott. "Going to follow you as far as the top of the spire," replied Darrin quietly. "Who knows but I may be able to be of some use?" Dave stepped out first on the little iron balcony. The crowd below saw him, but at the distance could not make out clearly which boy it was. Then Prescott followed. "Give me one foot," called Dave, kneeling and making a cup of his hands. Dick placed his foot, then started to climb the sloping surface of slate, Darrin aiding. As Dave straightened to a standing position Dick reached up, getting hold of the base of the flagstaff. "Hold on there, a minute," advised Dave, as his chum stood on the little ledge at the top of the spire. "And don't be foolish enough to look down into the street." Dave darted inside, picking up the lighter of the ropes. Going out on the balcony again Darrin tossed one end of the rope to Dick, who made it fast around the flagpole. Using the rope, Dave went easily up and stood beside Prescott. "There is a fearful wind here," muttered Dick, as both swayed while holding to the stout, vibrating mast. "But you can make it, old fellow." It had been the original intention in building the church to use this mast as a flag pole. Then some doubt had arisen among the members of the parish. A weather vane had been put at the top of the pole, and the question of connecting flag tackle had been left to be decided at a later date. Had the flag tackle been there now Dick could have made an easier problem of the ascent; yet, even with the rope, it would have been an undertaking from which most men would have shrunk. "I'm going to start now," said Dick very quietly. "Good luck, Dick, old fellow!" called Dave cheerily. "You'll get through." Darrin still remained standing on top of the spire after Dick had started to climb. The only way that Prescott could move upward was to wrap arms and legs around the pole. How the wind swayed, jarred and vibrated it! Once, when ten feet of the ascent had been accomplished, Dick felt his heart fail him. A momentary impulse, almost of cowardice, swept over him. Then he steeled himself, and went on and up. That staff must be more than a mile high, it now seemed to the boy, hanging there in momentary danger of his life. Dave, standing below, looking up, knew far more torment. Watching Dick, Darrin began to feel wholly responsible for the whole awful predicament of his chum. "I urged him on to it," thought Dave, with a rush of horror that his own peril could not have brought to him. "Oh, I hope the splendid old fellow does make this stunt safely!" It seemed as though thousands were packed in the street below, every face upturned. The breath of the multitude came short and sharp. Two women and a girl fainted from the strain. In a window in the building across the street a photographer poised his camera. Behind the shutter was a long-angled lens, fitted for taking pictures at a distance. Just as Dick Prescott's arms were within two feet of the weather vane the photographer exposed his plate. Dick, in the meantime, was moving in a sort of dumb way now. The keenness of his senses had left him. He moved mechanically; he knew what he was after, and he kept on. Yet he seemed largely to have lost the power to realize the danger of his position. A-a-ah! He was up there now, holding to the weathervane! His legs curled doggedly around the flagstaff. He had need now to use all the strength in his legs, for he must use one hand to disentangle the black scarf, which lay twisted about the vane just over his head. But it was the right scarf. The glint and dazzle of the diamonds was in his eyes. How the extreme end of that flag pole quivered. It seemed to the boy as though the pole must bend and snap, what with the pressure of the heavy wind and the weight of his body! Slowly, laboriously, mechanically, like one in a trance, Dick employed his left hand in patiently disentangling the black web from the trap in which it had been caught. At last the scarf was free. Most cautiously Dick lowered his left hand, tucking the jeweled fabric carefully into the inner pocket of his coat. "I---I---guess---it safe---in there," he muttered, hardly realizing that he was saying any thing. Dave, from below, had looked on, fascinated. Now that he saw the major part of the daring feat accomplished, Darrin did not make the mistake of shouting any advice to his comrade. He knew that any sudden shout might attract Prescott's attention in a way to cause him to lose his head. Slowly---oh, so slowly! Dick came down. It seemed as though, at last, he understood his danger to the full and was afraid. The truth was, Prescott realized that, with all the vibrating of the staff in the wind, his muscular power was being sapped out of him. Dave Darrin was down again, crouching on top of the spire, when Dick reached him. "Just touch your feet, Dick!" Darrin called coolly. "Then stand holding to the pole until I get down into the balcony." Dick obeyed as one who could no longer think for himself. This done, Dave slipped down the spire's slope, by the aid of the rope, until his feet touched the balcony's floor. Now he stood with upturned face and arms uplifted. "Use the rope and come down, Dick," hailed. Darrin softly. "I'm here to catch you, if you need it." Down came Prescott, holding to the rope, but helped more by Dave's loyal arms. "Help Prescott inside, you two," Dave ordered sharply. Then, after the men inside the spire top had obeyed, Dave swung himself in. He left the rope fastened above, for whoever cared to go and get it. Mr. Macey, ashen faced and shaking, stared at Dick in a sort of fascination. "I---I got it," said Dick, when he could control his voice. "Here it is, safe in my pocket." "I forgot to ask," rejoined Mr. Macey tremulously. "I'm sick of that bauble. Ever since you started aloft, Prescott, I've been calling myself all sorts of names for being a party to this thing." "Why, it's all right," laughed Dick, only a bit brokenly. "It was easy enough---with a fellow like Dave to help." "Did he go up the flagstaff, too?" demanded Mr. Macey, opening his eyes wider. "No," declared Darrin promptly. "Prescott did it." "But good old Dave was right at hand to help," Dick contended staunchly. "Get yourselves together, boys. Then we'll get down out of here," urged Mr. Macey. "I haven't done anything, but I feel as though I'd be the one to reel and faint." "Take this scarf, now, please," begged Dick, holding open his coat. The real estate man looked over the bauble that had placed two manly lives in such desperate jeopardy. The fabric was much torn, but all the precious stones still appeared to be there. Mr. Macey folded the scarf and placed it in one of his own inner pockets. "Now, let us get down out of here," begged the real estate man. "This place is giving me the horrors." "You can start ahead, sir," laughed Dave. "But we want time to put our shoes on." Two or three minutes later the four started below, going slowly over the ladder part of the route. When they struck the winding staircase they went a bit more rapidly. Down in the street it seemed to the watchers as though ages had passed since the two boys had been seen going inside from the iron balcony. But now, at last, Herr Schimmelpodt heard steps inside, so he threw open the heavy door at once. As Dick and Dave came out again into the sunlight what a mighty roar of applause and cheering went up. Then Herr Schimmelpodt, advancing to the edge of the steps, and laying one hand over his heart, bowed profoundly and repeatedly. That turned the cheering to laughter. The big German held up his right hand for silence. "Ladies und chentlemen," shouted Herr Schimmelpodt, as soon as he could make him self heard, "I don't vant to bose as a hero!" "That's all right," came with a burst of goodhumored laughter. "You're not!" "It vos really nottings vot I did," continued the German, with another bow. "True for you." "Maybe," continued Herr Schimmelpodt, "you think I vos afraid when I climb dot pole. But I wos not---I pledch you mein vord. It is nottings for me to climb flagpoles. Ven I vos ein poy in Germany I did it efery day. But I will not dake up your time mit idle remarks. I repeat dot I am not ein hero." The wily old German had played out his purpose. He had turned the wild cheering, which he knew would have embarrassed Prescott, into a good-natured laugh. He had diverted the first big burst of attention away from the boys, much to the relief of the latter. But now the crowd bethought itself of the heroes that a crowd always loves. Hundreds pressed about to shake the bands of Prescott and Darrin. "Get into my car! Stand up in front of Mrs. Macey and myself until we can get out of this crowd," urged Mr. Macey, bustling the boys toward the runabout. Mrs. Macey, whitefaced, was crying softly and could not speak. But her husband, with the two boys standing up before him, honked his horn and turned on the power, starting the car slowly. A path was thus made for their escape through the crowd, though the cheering began again. "Now, you can put us down, if you will, sir,", suggested Dick, when they had reached the outer edge of the crowd. "Not yet," retorted Mr. Macey. "Why not, sir?" "You've a little trip to make with me yet." "Trip?" "Wait a moment, and you'll see." Less than two minutes later Mr. Macey drove his car up in front of one of the banks and jumped out. "Come on, boys," he cried. "I want to get that reward off my mind." "You run in, Dick," proposed Dave, on the sidewalk. "I'll wait for you." "You'll go with me," Prescott retorted, "or I won't stir inside." So Darrin followed them into the bank. "I'm so thankful to see you boys safely out of the scrape," declared Mr. Macey, inside, "that I'm going to pay the full reward to each of you." "No you won't," retorted Dick very promptly. "You'll pay no more than you offered. Dave and I'll divide that between us." "Not a cent for me!" propounded Darrin, with emphasis. "If you don't share the reward evenly, I won't touch a cent of it either, Dave Darrin," rejoined Dick heatedly. Dave tried to have his way, but his chum won. Mr. Macey made another effort to double the reward, but was overruled. So young Prescott received the two hundred and fifty dollars in crisp, new bills, and as promptly turned half of the sum over to his chum. Now that it was safely over with, it had not been a bad morning's work! CHAPTER XIII Dick Begins To Feel Old Despite the strain of what they had gone through Dick and Dave led the Gridley boys through a fierce gridiron battle that same afternoon, and won again by a score of 13 to 5. But the people of Gridley paid little heed to the score that day, or the next. The sensation that Dick and Dave had supplied was the talk of the town, to the exclusion of other topics relating to high School boys. Mr. Pollock bought a copy of the photograph showing Dick close to the weather vane on his climb. A half-tone cut made from this photograph was printed in "The Blade." "This young man is now a member of 'The Blade' staff, reporting school and other matters," ran the comment under the spirited picture. "We believe that Mr. Prescott will continue to be a member of the staff, and to grow with 'The Blade.'" "What about that, Dick?" laughed Darrin. "I've told Mr. Pollock and Mr. Bradley that I believe my plans will carry me a good distance away from 'The Blade' office after this year," replied Dick, with a meaning smile. "If they won't believe me now, perhaps they'll wake up later." The town had not been wanting in croakers at the outset of the football season, who had predicted that Dick Prescott and his chums would "drag down" the football team and its fine traditions from past years. But the eleven, mainly under Dick and under Dave's captaincy in two fierce gridiron battles, had gone right along winning games. The last three battles had been fought out to a successful finish in November. There now remained only the Thanksgiving Day game to complete the season. By all traditions each football team in the country strives to have its biggest fight take place on Thanksgiving Day. By another tradition, every team seeks to have this game take place on the home grounds. In the latter respect Gridley lost this year. The game, which was against Fordham High School, was scheduled to take place at Fordham. Enthusiasm, however, was at top notch. Citizens hired the Gridley Band to go along with the young men and help out on noise. A special train in two sections was chartered, for some seven hundred Gridleyites had voted in favor of an evening dinner on Thanksgiving Day; they were going along to see the game. Fordham had lost two games, against exceptionally strong teams, earlier in the season, but had of late a fine record. Fordham had dropped several of its original players, putting in heavier or better men, and a new coach had been employed. The Fordham boys were now believed to be able to put up a strenuous game. "I hope you're going to win, Prescott," said Mr. Macey, meeting Dick on the street one afternoon not long before Thanksgiving. "Have you any doubts, sir?" smiled the captain of the Gridley team. "Well, you see, Fordham was my native town. I run down there often, and I know a good deal of what's going on there. Fordham's second coach has attended the last two games you played, and he has been stealing all your points that he could get." "He has, eh?" muttered Prescott. "That's news to me. Oh, well, it's legitimate to learn all you can about another team's play." "From the reports Fordham has of your play the young men over in that town are certain that they're enough better to be able to bring your scalps into camp." "Perhaps they'll do it," laughed Dick pleasantly. "We'll admit that we're about due for a walloping whenever the crowd comes along that can do it." "I am only telling you what I hear from Fordham," continued Mr. Macey. "And I'm glad you did, sir. We'll try to turn the laugh on Fordham." "Then you think you can beat 'em?" "No, sir. We never think we can. We always know that we can! That's the Gridley way---the Gridley spirit. We always win our battles before we go into them, Mr. Macey. We make up our minds that we can't and won't be beaten. It isn't just brag, though. We base all our positiveness on the way that we stick to our training and coaching, and on our discipline. Mr. Macey, this is the third year that I've been playing on different Gridley High School teams. I remember a tie game, but no defeats." "I guess Fordham will find it a hard enough proposition to down you young men," remarked Mr. Macey. "They're going to discover, sir, that they simply can't do it. Gridley never goes onto any field to get beaten." "Und dot isn't brag, neider," broke in a man who had halted to listen. "Ven dese young men pack deir togs to go away, dey pack der winning score in der bag, too. Ach! Don't I know dot? Don't I make mineself young vonce more by following dese young athletes about?" Herr Schimmelpodt looked utterly shocked that anyone should think it possible for another High School eleven to take a game from Gridley. Dick soon encountered Dave and told him the news he had gleaned from Mr. Macey. "Been sending their second coach over to watch our play, have they?" laughed Darrin softly. "That seems to show how much they fear us in Fordham." "I believe we are going to have a stiff game," muttered Prescott. "Hallam Heights and Fordham are the only two teams that think enough of the game to hire two coaches." "Well, we have Hallam's scalp dangling down at the gym.," laughed Dave Darrin. "And we'll have Fordham's in the same way," predicted Dick confidently. It barely occurred to the young captain of the team to wonder what it would mean for him if the game to Fordham should be lost. Dick would be the first captain in years who had lost a football game for Gridley. It would be a mean record to take out of High School life. But Dick gave no thought to such a possibility. "Of course we're going to wallop Fordham," he thought. "I wish only one thing. I'd like to see the Fordhams play through a stiff game just once." It was too late, however, to give any real thought to this, for Fordham's next and last game of the season was to be the one with Gridley. "Are you girls going to the game?" asked Dick, when he and his chum met Laura Bentley and Belle Meade before the post office. "Haven't you heard what the girls are doing, Dick?" questioned Laura, looking at him in some surprise. "I have heard that a lot of the girls are going to the game." "Just forty-two of us, to be exact," Laura continued. "We girls and our chaperons are to have one car in the first section. You see, we've arranged to go right along with the team. We have our seats all together at Fordham, too." "My, what a lot of noise forty-two girls can make in a moment of enthusiasm!" murmured Dave. "We can, if you give us any excuse," advanced Belle. "Oh, we'll give you excuse enough. See to it that you keep the noise up to the grade of our playing." "Mr. Confident!" teased Belle. "Why, you know, as well as we do, that we'll come home with Fordham's scalp!" retorted, Darrin. "You've heard some of the talk about Fordham's confidence in winning, haven't you?" asked Laura, a bit anxiously. "Yes," nodded Dick. "But that doesn't mean anything. You know the Gridley record, the Gridley spirit and confidence." "Still," objected Belle, "one side has to lose, and the Fordham boys have all the stuff ready to light bonfires on Thanksgiving night." "Have you any particular friends over in Fordham?" asked Dave Darrin, with a sudden swift, significant look. "No, I haven't," retorted Belle hastily. "And I hope, with all my heart, that Gridley gains the only points that are allowed. Yet, sometimes, so much confidence all the while seems just a bit alarming." "I won't say another word, then, until after the game," promised Darrin meekly. "And then-----?" "Oh, I'll turn half girl, and say 'I told you so,'" mimicked Dave good-humoredly. It would have been hard to find anyone in Gridley who would have said openly that he expected the home boys to be beaten; but there were many who knew that they were more than a bit anxious. Before the game, anyway, Fordham's brag was just as good as Gridley brag. "Won't you be glad, anyway, when the Thanksgiving game is over?" asked Laura. "Yes, and no," smiled Prescott seriously. "When I come back from Fordham I shall know that I have captained my last game on a High School team. That tells me that I am getting along in life---that I am growing old, and shall soon have to think of much more serious things. But, honestly, I hate awfully to think of all these grand old High School days coming to an end. I mustn't think too much about it until after the game. It makes me just a bit blue." "Won't you be captain of the basket ball team this winter?" asked Laura quickly. "No; I can't take everything. Hudson will probably head the basket ball team." "Why, I heard that you were going in hard for basket ball." "So I am. Mr. Morton is so busy, with the new evening training classes, that he has asked me to be second coach to the basket ball crowd. I'll undoubtedly do that." "Oh, then you'll still be leading the athletic vanguard at the High School," murmured Laura, and, somehow, there was a note of contentment in her voice. "I shall be, until I'm through with the High School," Prescott answered. "But think---just think---how soon that will come around for all of us!" CHAPTER XIV Fordham Plays a Slugging Game For half an hour before the first section of the special pulled out, the Gridley Band played its liveliest tunes. A part of the time the band played accompaniment to the school airs, which the crowd took up with lively spirit. There is a peculiar enthusiasm which attaches to the Thanksgiving Day game. This is due partly to the extra holiday spirit of the affair. Then, too, there is the high tension that precedes the last game of the season. With a team that has won every game to that point, yet often with great difficulty, the tension of spirits is even higher. As the first section of the special rolled in at the railway station the part of the crowd that was "going" began to break up into groups headed for the different parts of the train. Herr Schimmelpodt went, of course, to the car that carried the team. The boys wouldn't have been satisfied to start or to travel without him. The big German had come to be the mascot of Gridley High School. Just before the train started Herr Schimmelpodt waddled out to the rear platform of the car. In his right hand he brandished a massive cane to which the Gridley High School colors were secured. "Now, listen," he bellowed out. "Ve come back our scalps not wigs! You hear dot, alretty?" While the cheering was still going on, and while the band was crashing out music, the first section pulled out, making room for the second section. A run of a little more than an hour at good speed, and with no way stops, brought the Gridley invading forces to Fordham. At the depot, the local team's second coach awaited the players. He had two stages at hand, into which the team and subs piled. A wagon followed, carrying the kits of the Gridley boys. There were two more stages for the band. All the other travelers had to depend on the street-car service. Finding the stages rather crowded, Dick nudged Darrin, then made for the kit wagon. "I really believe we'll have more comfort, Dave," proposed Prescott, "if we get aboard this rig and ride on top of the tog bags." The suggestion was carried out at once. "I'll drive along fast, if you want," proposed the driver, "and get the togs down to the grounds ahead of your team." "If you please," nodded Dick. "Our boys will want everything ready when they reach the grounds." So the two chums were quickly carried beyond the noise and confusion. A few minutes later the wagon turned in at the Fordham Athletic grounds. The Fordham High School boys were out in the field, practicing. As seen in their padded togs they were an extra-bulky looking lot. "Great Scott!" grunted Darrin, half disgustedly. "Each one of those Fordham fellows must weigh close to a ton." "The more weight the less speed, anyway," laughed Dick good-humoredly. "And, look! I wonder how old some of those fellows are," continued Darrin. "I wonder if, in this town, men wait until they've made their fortunes and retired, before they enter High School. Why, some of these Fordham fellows must have voted for president the last two times." "Hardly as bad as that, I guess," smiled Prescott. "Still, these Fordham boys do look more like a college eleven than a High School crowd." Dave continued to gaze over at the home team, and to scowl, until the wagon was halted before dressing quarters. Here the teamster and another man made short work of carrying in all the tog-bags. A few minutes later the other fellows arrived. "Say, which team is it we're fighting to-day?" demanded Hudson. "Harvard, or Yale?" There was general grumbling comment. "I think," insisted Tom Reade, "that the Fordham team wouldn't like to stand a searching hunt into the eligibility of some of their players." "They've surely brought in some who are not regular, fair-and-square High School students," contended Dan Dalzell. There was much more talk of this sort, some of the Gridley boys insisting that Fordham ought to be compelled to account for the size and seeming age of some of the home players. "We're up against a crooked line-up, or I'll give up," muttered Greg Holmes. "Now, see here, fellows," laughed Captain Dick. "I don't believe in making any fuss beforehand. We'll just go ahead and take what comes to us." "It would be too late to make a kick after we've played," cried some one. "You fellows," continued Dick, "make me think of what I heard Mr. Pollock say to Wilcox, chairman of the campaign committee back home." "What was that?" demanded half a dozen. "Why," chuckled Prescott, "Mr. Pollock said to Wilcox: 'Now, see here, there's always a chance that the election will go our way. So never yell fraud until after the election is over.'" "I guess that's the wisest philosophy," laughed Coach Morton, who had taken no part in the previous conversation. "If that's the Fordham team," continued Dick, "it's one of pretty sizable fellows. But we'll do our plain duty, which is to pile out on to the field and proceed to stroll through any line that is posted in our way." Just before the Gridley youngsters were ready to go out for preliminary practice the big Fordham fellows came off the field. "Hullo!" piped Dave, as the Gridley boys strolled out to the gridiron. "You ought to feel happy, Dick. There's a big section of West Point over on the grand stand." Nearly two hundred young men in black and gray cadet uniforms of the United States Military Academy pattern sat in a solid block at one point on the grand stand. "No, they're not West Pointers," sighed Dick. "See here, those fellows, of course, are students at the Fordham Military institute. They wear the West Point uniform. And that's the military school that Phin Drayne went to." "The sneak!" grunted Dave. "I wonder if he's over in that bunch, now." "I'm not even enough interested to wonder," returned Prescott. "He's where he can't do us any harm, anyway." "But, if the Fordham boys put anything over us, I'll bet Drayne has things timed so that the military boys will do a big and noisy lot of boasting." "They will, anyway, if we allow them a chance," answered Dick. "Now, spread out, fellows," he called, raising his voice. In the next moment the ball was in lively play. The first time that a fumble was made a jeering chorus sounded among the military school boys. "I expected it," growled Darrin. "We don't care, anyway," smiled Dick. "Let 'em hoot! I don't draw the line until they throw things." "If they knew Phin Drayne as we do, they'd throw him first," grimaced Darrin. A minute later another hoot went up. It was plain that the military school boys had been primed for this. But the gray-clad youths, it was very soon evident, were not the only ones who had come out to make a noise. Half of the Fordham crowd present joined in the volleys of derision that were showered down on the practicing boys from Gridley. "It's nothing but a mob!" declared Darrin, his eyes flashing. "Careful, old fellow," counseled Prescott coolly. "They're trying to get our nerve before the game begins. Don't let 'em do it." This excellent instruction Dick contrived to pass throughout his team. Thereafter the Gridley boys seemed not to hear the harsh witticisms that were hurled at them from all sides of the field. Just in the nick of time the Gridley Band began playing. That stopped the annoyance for a while, for Fordham had neglected to provide a band. Yet when the Gridley High School song was started by the band, and the Gridley boosters joined in the words, the answer from Fordham came in the form of a "laughing-song," let loose with such volume that the Gridley offering to the merriment was drowned out. "I hope we can give this rough town a horrible thumping---that's all," muttered Dave, his eyes flashing. "Don't let them capture your 'goat,' and we will," Dick promised, as quietly as ever. The plain hostility of the home crowd was wearing in on more than one of the Gridley boys. Dick felt obliged to call his eleven together, and to give them some quiet, homely but forcible advice. Coach Morton followed, with more in the same line. Yet it came as a welcome relief to the Gridley youngsters when the referee and the other officials came to the field and game was called. Dick Prescott won the toss, and took the kickoff. That, of course, sent the ball into Fordham ranks. In an instant the solid Fordham line emitted a murmur that sounded like a bear's growl, then came thundering down upon the smaller Gridley youngsters. There was a fierce collision, but Gridley held on like a herd of bulls. The ball was soon down. For five minutes or so there was savage playing. Fordham played a "slugging" game of the worst kind. Several foul tackles were quickly made by home players, yet so quickly released that the referee could not be sure and could not inflict a penalty. Sly blows were struck when the lines came together. The average football captain would have claimed penalties, and fought the matter out. But Dick Prescott let matters run by. He was waiting his opportunity. So hard was the "slugging," so overbearing and ruthlessly unfair was the Fordham charge that, at the end of five minutes, Gridley was forced to make a safety, losing two points at the outset. "Yah!" sneered an exultant voice from the ranks of the military school. "That's the fine Captain Prescott we've heard about!" Tom Reade, in togs, was standing among the Gridley subs at the side line. Tom recognized, as did all the Gridley boys, the voice of Phin Drayne. "Yes!" bellowed Tom, facing the gray-clad group. "And that last speaker was a fellow who was expelled from Gridley High School for selling out his team!" It was a swift shot and a bull's-eye. The Fordham Institute boys had no answer ready for that. Half of them turned to stare at Phin Drayne, whose guilty face, with color coming and going in flashes seemed to admit the truth of Reade's taunt. "Dick," growled Darrin, as they moved forward, after the safety, to Gridley's twenty-five yard line, "these Fordham fellows are simply ruffians. They're fouling us every second, and they'll smash half our fellows into the hospital." "We'll see about that!" Dick Prescott's voice was as quiet and cool as ever, but there was an ominous flash in his eyes. CHAPTER XV "We'll Play the Gentleman's Game." At the next down Dan Dalzell held up his hand, making a dash for the referee. "I claim a foul!" he called. "Captain, this is for you," announced the referee, turning to Dick. "Be quick, if you've any complaint to make." "Come here, Dalzell," called Prescott. "What was the foul?" The Fordham players crowded about, muttering in an ugly way---all except one man, who skulked at the rear. "There's the hoodlum," continued Dan excitedly, one hand over his left breast. He pointed to the Fordham player skulking at the rear. "That fellow deliberately gave me the elbow over the heart when we came together." "What have you to say, Captain Barnes?" demanded the referee, turning to the Fordham leader. "It's not true," retorted Barnes hotly. "Daniels, come here." The matter was argued quickly and hotly, Gridley accusing, Fordham hotly denying. "Can't you Gridley fellows play with anything but your mouths?" snarled Captain Barnes. "We play a straight game," retorted Dick coldly. "We play like gentlemen." "Do you mean that we're not?" demanded Barnes swaggeringly. "So far you've played like a lot of sluggers." "See here! I've a good mind to thrash you, Prescott!" quivered Barnes. "It's always the truth that stings," retorted Dick, with a cool smile. "My fist would hurt, too." "That's what we're asking you to do---to save all your slugging and bruising tactics until after a straight and gentlemanly game has been played," retorted Dick, with spirit. Barnes clenched his fists, but the referee stepped squarely in between the rival captains. "Cut it!" directed that official tersely. "I'll do all the talking myself. Captain Barnes, return to your men and tell them that slugging and tricky work will be watched for more carefully, and penalized as heavily as the rules allow. If it goes too far I'll declare the game forfeited to the visiting team." "This is a shame!" fumed Barnes. "And the whole charge is a mass of lies." "I'll watch out and see," promised---or threatened---the referee. "Back to your positions. Captain Barnes, I'll give you thirty seconds to pass the word around among your men." "That black-haired prize-fighter with the mole on his chin tries to give me his knee every time we meet in a scrimmage," growled Hudson to Dick. "If he carries it any further, I think I know a kick that will put his ankle out of business!" "Then don't you dare use it," warned Dick sternly. "No matter what the other fellows do, our team is playing a square, honest game every minute of both halves!" The referee had signaled them to positions. The Gridley boys leaped into place. Play was resumed. In the next three plays Fordham, under the now more keenly watchful eyes of the officials, failed to make the required distance, and lost the ball. Gridley took the ball, now. In the next two plays, the smaller fellows advanced the ball some twelve yards. But in the next three plays following, they lost on downs, and Fordham again carried the pigskin. "The Fordham fellows are passing a lot of whispers every chance they get," reported alert Dave. "I don't care how much they whisper," was Dick's rejoinder. "But watch out for crooked tricks." Minute after minute went by. Gridley got the ball down to the enemy's fifteen-yard line, then saw it slowly forced back into their own territory. Now Fordham began to "slug" again; yet so cleverly was it done that the officials could not put their fingers on a definite instance that could be penalized. Bravely fighting, Gridley was none the less driven back. From the ten-yard line Fordham suddenly made a right end play on which the whole weight and force of the team was concentrated. In the mad crush, three or four Gridley boys were "slugged" in the slyest manner conceivable. Fordham broke through the line, carrying the pigskin over the goal line with a rush. Fordham boosters set up a roar that seemed to make the ground shake, but the two hundred boys from the military school took little or no part in the demonstration. Tom Reade's reply to Phin Drayne had silenced them. Swaggering like swashbucklers Fordham followed the ball back for the kick for goal. It was made, securing six points, which were added to the two received from Gridley being forced to make that safety earlier in the game. "Of all the miserable gangs of rowdies!" uttered Dave Darrin, as the teams rested in quarters between the halves. "I have two black-and-blue spots to show, I know I have," muttered Hudson. "We'll have some of our men on stretchers, if this thing keeps up," growled Greg Holmes. "What are you going to do about this business, Captain?" demanded two or three of the fellows, in one breath. "As long as we play," replied Dick Prescott, "we'll play the same gentleman's game, no matter what the other fellows do. We may quit, but we won't slug. We won't sully Gridley's good name for honest play. And we won't quit, either, until Mr. Morton orders us from the field." "You have it right, Prescott," nodded the coach. "And I shan't interfere, either, unless things get a good deal worse than they have been. But the Fordham work has been shameful, and I don't blame any of you for feeling that you'd rather forfeit the game and walk off the field." Besides being coach, Mr. Morton was also manager. At his call the team would have left the field instantly, despite any other orders from the referee. It always makes a bad showing, however, for a team to leave the field on a claim of foul playing. "All out for the second half!" sounded a voice in the doorway. The Gridley boys went, fire in their hearts, flame in their eyes. CHAPTER XVI Gridley's Last Charge "Remember, Captain Barnes!" called the referee significantly. "Why don't you talk to Prescott, too?" demanded the Fordham captain sulkily. "I don't need to." "You----don't---need to?" demanded Barnes, opening his eyes in pretended wonder. "No; Prescott and his fellows have a magnificent reputation for fair play, and they've won it on merit." "You're down on us," growled Captain Barnes. "I'm only waiting till I can put my finger on some slugging to stop the game and hand it to Gridley," retorted the referee, with a snap. "Be mighty careful, fellows; be clever," whispered the Fordham captain to his most "dependable" men. "Are we going to throw the game?" demanded the slugger who had so angered Hudson. "No; but don't get caught at anything. Better not do anything. We've got those milk-diet infants eight to nothing now. Play their own kind of kindergarten game as long as we can hold the score without rough work." Barnes's own instructions would have sufficiently stamped his team, had these orders been heard by anyone else. At the beginning of the second half Fordham played a much more honest game, and Gridley began to pick up hope that fairness might prevail hereafter. Gridley's own game, in the second half, was as swift and scientific as it had ever been. By sheer good playing and brilliant dashes Dick and his men carried the ball down the field, losing it once on downs; but after the first ten minutes of the half they kept the pigskin wholly in Fordham territory. Back and forth surged the battle. Fordham, despite its greatly superior weight and bulk, was not by any means superior when under the utmost watchfulness of a referee avowedly anxious to penalize. Yet, until the game was nearly over, Fordham managed to keep the ball away from its own goal line. Then, while the lines reformed and Dick bent over to snap back, Dave Darrin called out a signal that electrified the whole Gridley line. It called for one of their most daring plays, that Prescott himself made famous the year before. While the start, after the ball was in play, seemed directed toward the right wing of Gridley, the ball was actually jumped to little Fenton, at the left end, and Fenton, backed solidly by a superb interference, got off and away with the ball. In a twinkling he had it down behind Fordham's goal line. Then the ball went back for the kick. The band played a few spirited measures while the wearied Gridley boosters suddenly rose and whooped themselves black in the face. The kick, too, was won. "Oh, well." growled Barnes, "we have two points to the good yet, and only four minutes and a half left for the game. Don't get rough, fellows, unless you have to." As the Gridley boys sprang to a fresh line-up their eyes were glowing. "Remember, fellows, the time is short, but battles have been won in two minutes!" This was the inspiring message flashed out by Captain Dick Prescott. With all the zeal of race horses the Gridley High School boys flung themselves into their work. After a minute and a half of play, Gridley had done so much that, just before the next snapback Barnes let his sulky eyes flash about him in a way that was understood. Fordham must rush in, now, and hold the enemy back, no matter at what cost of roughness---if the roughness could be done slyly enough. Then it came, a fierce, frenzied charge. The ball was down again in an instant, and Hazelton, a Gridley man, lay on the field, unable to rise. Physicians hurried out from the side lines. "Broken leg," said one of them, and a stretcher was brought. "Have we got to stand this sort of thing?" demanded Hudson, in a hoarse whisper. "Say the word, and I'll send two of their men after Hazelton." "Don't you do it!" snapped Dick sharply. "It would disgrace our school colors and our school honor. Don't let knaves make a knave of you." Tom Reade came out on a swift run from the side lines to take Hazelton's place. "We ought to be allowed to carry guns, when we play a team like this one," blurted Tom indignantly. "We'll pay them back in the score," retorted Dick soberly, though his eyes were flashing. Dave, in the meantime, was swiftly passing some orders Dick had whispered to him. These orders, however, related to plays to come, and did not call for retaliation on Hazelton's account. Play was called sharply. "Pay in the score," became the battle cry raging in every Gridley boy's heart. Four successive plays carried the ball so close to the Fordham goal line that Barnes and his followers were in despair. They still used whatever rough tricks they thought they could sneak in under the eyes of the game's officials, and some of these made the Gridley boys ache. Then came a signal beginning with "three" which stood for reverse signal. The numerals that came after the three called for the same trick that Fenton had put through so splendidly. Again the ball started toward the right wing. This time the Fordham players were sure they understood---and like a flash massed their defense against Gridley's left. But on that reverse signal the ball continued to move at the right. Before Barnes and his followers could comprehend, another touchdown had been scored by the visitors. And then came the kick for goal, and it was a splendid success. The kick came just at the end of the second half. That kick won the game for Dick's sorely pressed team. Gridley's score, won by a cleanly played game against bruisers, stood at twelve to eight! Now, indeed, did the Gridley boosters turn themselves loose, the band leading. Barnes and his ruffians skulked back to dressing quarters, there to abuse the referee, the "Gridley kickers" and everyone and everything else but themselves. It wasn't long before some of the Fordham subs slipped out to find their cronies and sympathizers in the crowd that was slowly dissolving. Then the word was passed around: "Wait and be with us. Barnes is going to stop the Gridleys on the way to the station. Barnes is going to make Prescott fight for some things he said on the field! Of course, if you fellows get generally peevish, and the whole Gridley team gets cleaned out, there won't be many tears shed." So scores of the sort of rabble in whom such an appeal finds ready response hung about, eager to see what would turn up. CHAPTER XVII The Long Gray Column One small urchin there was, so small that he escaped notice as he hung about hearing the word passed. But that urchin was a Gridley boy who had raised the money to come and see this game. The boy possessed the Gridley spirit. As fast as his legs would carry him he raced to dressing quarters, and there told what he had heard. "Thank you, kid!" said Dick. "You're a good Gridley boy," and then he continued: "So that's the game, is it They're going to mob us, are they I guess they can do it---but, fellows, keep in mind to pass some of the blows back! When we go down in the dirt be sure that some of the Fordham fellows have something to remember us by for many a day! I'm glad Hazelton has already been sent forward in an ambulance." As Dick finished dressing and waited for the others, he saw one of the subs dropping a spiked shoe into an outer jacket pocket. "What's that for?" Dick demanded sternly. "A weapon?" "Yes," sheepishly admitted the other. "Put it in your bag, then, and let it go on the baggage wagon. Fellows, we'll fight with nothing but fists, and only then if we're attacked." "But those scoundrels will probably use brickbats," argued the fellow who had tried to drop the spiked shoe into his overcoat pocket. "No matter," rang Dick's voice, low but commanding. "If we have to, we'll fight for our lives as we fought for the game---on the square! Good citizens don't carry concealed weapons until called upon by the authorities to do it." "Bully for you, Prescott!" rang the voice of the coach. "You here, Mr. Morton?" cried Dick, wheeling and seeking the submaster. "Mr. Morton, you're not a boy, and you don't want to be mixed up in such affairs. Why don't you start-----" "My place, Captain Prescott, is with the team I'm coaching," replied the submaster. "And I think the signs are that we're going to need all the pairs of fists that we have, and, more, too." The baggage wagon came to the door. Dick, Dave and Tom coolly loaded the baggage on. The wagon started off at good speed. Then the two stages drove up to the door. "Pile in, boys!" called one of the drivers. Neither of the stage drivers was in the secret of what was likely to happen down the road. The start was made, the horses moving barely faster than a walk. By this time the athletic field was practically deserted. There was no sign of the presence of the Fordham High School team, nor of the bad element that Barnes had enlisted. It was not until the stages had proceeded nearly four blocks that Dave, sitting beside Dick on the driver's seat of the first stage, caught sight of some bobbing heads further up the road. "There they are," whispered Dave. "Lying in wait at the next corner. They'll jump out when we get there." "Let them!" muttered Dick. "They'll have to start it---but after they do-----!" The stages had almost reached the next corner. Grinning, or scowling, according to individual moods, the roughs streamed out into the, street. Gridley boys steeled themselves for a conflict, hopeless in odds of five to one! At this point a clear voice sounded in the distance. "A Company, left wheel, march!" Around another corner near by came a company of boys from the Fordham Military Institute. It was followed by a second company, a third and a fourth. Then, by a further series of commands, one company was sent, on the double quick, to march ahead of the first stage, while another company fell in behind the second stage, while the other companies formed and marched on either side of the stages. While these hasty maneuvers were being carried out the fine-looking young cadet major of the battalion lifted his fatigue cap to Dick Prescott. "Captain," called the boyish major, "you gave us such a fine exhibition of gentlemanly football that we beg leave to show our appreciation by marching as your escort of honor to the station." The rough crowd in the street had fallen back to the sidewalks, a savage mutter going up at the same time. The Military School boys were without arms, save those Nature had given them, but they, marched in solid ranks and stood for two hundred pairs of fists! So Barnes's last hope of vengeance vanished. Even his own rough followers turned to eye him in disgust. Before they left the grounds some of the Military School boys had heard a whisper or two of what Barnes planned. The soldier is drilled to fair play, and to detestation of cowardice. These young military students passed the word quickly. They left the grounds at once, but formed near by, on a side street near where they learned that Barnes and his rough mob lay in ambush. "I declare, that's the neatest, most military thing I ever saw done!" laughed Dave Darrin. "And done by the boys you made fun of as sham West Pointers!" laughed Dick quizzically. "But I didn't mean it," protested Dave, growing very red. "These are splendid fellows. Evidently they think that they, too, are entitled to say a word or two about the good name of Fordham." "You didn't like the first look of these fellows, Dave, because they had started to cheer for Fordham High School. But did you notice that they cheered no more for Fordham after Reade answered Phin Drayne so forcibly." "It's a fact that these men didn't boost any more for Fordham," assented Dave. "By the way, I have one clear notion in my head!" "What is it?" "That Phin Drayne isn't marching in these close gray ranks about us." Phin Drayne wasn't. At this moment Phin was back at the military institute, his face twitching horribly as he packed his clothing in the trunk in which it had come. For, almost instantly after Reade had called out, some of the military students around Drayne had demanded of him whether there was a shadow of truth in what Reade had said. Phin Drayne's "brass" had deserted him. He knew, anyway, that these comrades could dig up his past record at Gridley very quickly. Drayne knew that his days at Fordham were over. "It was all my confounded tongue, too," muttered Phin dejectedly. "If I had kept my tongue behind my teeth I don't believe any of the Gridley fellows would have noticed me, or said anything. Oh, dear! I wonder where I can go next!" In the meantime the Gridley High School team and substitutes, escorted with so much pomp, attracted a great deal of notice in the streets of Fordham. People turned out to cheer them, and to wave handkerchiefs and ribbons. For Fordham wasn't all bad or rough; not even the High School. The roughest element in the school had captured football---that was all. Some of these boys belonged to the wealthier families, and had been brought up to believe they could do as they pleased. This was the High School in which Phin Drayne naturally belonged. Down at the railway station the Gridley crowd and the Gridley Band awaited the coming of the team. The fine sight made by the gray military escort brought a hurricane of cheers from the Gridleyites. Just at the nick of time the leader of the band bethought himself, and signaled his musicians. As the stages drew up the band played, and the Fordham Military Institute's battalion moved into line of battalion front. Dick feelingly thanked young Major Ransom. "Oh, that's all right, Prescott," laughed young Ransom. "If we hadn't shown up at all you fellows would have given a good account of yourselves. But we had to do it. Fordham is our headquarters, too, and the honor of the town, while we live and study here, means something to all of us. Don't gauge even the Fordham High School by what happened to-day---or came near happening. There are some mighty fine fellows and a lot of noble girls who attend Fordham High School. But Barnes---he's the curse of the school population of the town." Three or four days later Dick asked Darrin: "Did you hear the outcome of the Fordham affair?" "No," Dave admitted. "I just heard it all up at 'The Blade' office. The fact that the Military School cadets escorted us in such formal manner to the railway station attracted a lot of attention in Fordham. The principal of the High School there started a quiet investigation of his own. Barnes and two other fellows on the Fordham eleven have been suspended from school until the School Board can take up their cases and decide whether they ought to be expelled. The Fordham principal has also made it plain that next year's team will have to be scanned by him, and that he'll keep out of the eleven any fellows who don't come up to the tests. There's a jolly big row on in Fordham, and Barnes isn't having any sympathy wasted on him you can just bet." "It serves him and that whole football crew just right," blazed Darrin. Hazelton's injury kept him out of school only a fortnight. The supposed break in his leg turned out to be only a sprain. While school teams like that commanded by Barnes are rare, they are found, now and then. Yet the fate of rowdy athletes in the school world is usually swift and satisfying. Other schools refuse to compete with schools that are known to put out "rough-house men." Dick & Co. had laid by their togs. They had said farewell to school athletics. In the winter's basket ball they did not intend to take part. For the baseball nine, that would begin practice soon after the new year, there was plenty of fine material in the lower classes. "I feel almost as if I had been to a funeral," snorted Darrin, when he came away from the gym. after having turned in all his togs and paraphernalia. "It's time to give the younger fellows a show," sighed Dick. "You talk as though we were old men," gibed Dave. "In the High School we are," laughed Dick. "We're seniors. In a few short months more we shall be graduates, unless-----" There he stopped, but Darrin didn't need to look at his chum. Both knew what that pause meant. CHAPTER XVIII The Would-Be Candidates The big stir came earlier than it had been expected. Every boy who has followed such matters in his own interest will appreciate what the "big stir" means. Congressman Spokes, representing the district in which Gridley lay, had a vacant cadetship at West Point within his gift, and also a cadetship at Annapolis. _"On December 17, at nine A.M., at the town hall in Wilburville, I will meet all young men who believe themselves to possess the other proper qualifications for a cadetship at either West Point or Annapolis."_ So ran the Congressman's announcement in the daily press of the district. Every young man had to be of proper age, height, weight and general good bodily condition. He must, of course, be a citizen of the United States. Every young man was advised to save himself some possible trouble and disappointment by going, first of all, to his family physician for a thorough examination. If serious bodily defects were found, that would save the young man from the trouble of going further in the matter. But at the Wilburville town hall there was to be another physical examination, which every young man must pass before he would be admitted to the mental examinations, which were to last into the evening. Dick Prescott read this announcement and thrilled over it. For two years or more he had been awaiting this very opportunity. Every Congressman once in four years has one of these cadetships to give to some young man. Sometimes the Congressman would give the chance to a boy of high social connections, or else to the son of an influential politician. A cadetship was a prize with which the Congress man too often paid his debts. Good old General Daniel E. Sickles was the first Congressman to formulate the plan of giving the cadetship to the brightest boy in district, the young man proving his fitness by defeating all other aspirants in a competitive examination. Since that time the custom had grown up of doing this regularly. It is true, at any rate of most of the states of the Union. In some western and some southern states the cadetship is still given as a matter of favor. The young man who receives the appointment goes to the United States Military Academy at West Point. He is now a "candidate" only. At West Point he is subjected to another searching series of physical and mental examinations. If he comes out of them successfully he is admitted to the cadet corps, and becomes a full-fledged cadet. The candidate must report at West Point on the first of March. If he succeeds in entering the corps, and keeps in it, four years and three months later the young man is graduated from the Military Academy. The President now commissions him as a second lieutenant in the Regular Army. Thus started on his career, the young man may, in later days, become a general. While the cadet is at West Point he is paid a salary that is just about sufficient for his needs and leaves enough over to enable him to buy his first set of uniforms and other equipment as an army officer. West Point is no place for idlers, nor for boys who dislike discipline. It is a severe training that the cadet receives, and the education furnished him by the United States is a magnificent and costly one. It costs Uncle Sam more than twenty thousand dollars for each cadet he educates and graduates from the United States Military Academy. The same general statement is true regarding the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland. In the latter institution, however, the cadet learns how to become an officer in the United States Navy. Now, here were both grand opportunities, offered together. While Dick Prescott had been waiting, hoping and praying for the cadetship at West Point; Dave Darrin had been equally wistful for the chance to go to Annapolis. "Our chances have come, old chum!" cried Dick, looking into the glowing face of Darrin. "Yes; and of course an Army or Navy officer should be a brave man. But now the chance has come, I find myself an utter coward," confessed Dave. "How so?" "I'm in a blue funk for fear some other fellow will get it away from me," confessed Darrin honestly. "And if I fail in this great ambition of my life, I'm wondering if I'll have the nerve to go on living afterwards." "Brace up!" laughed Dick protestingly. "Now, honestly, old fellow, aren't you just badly scared!" Dave demanded. "Whisper, Dave! I am," Dick admitted. "Well, there is nothing like having some one that you can confess everything to, is there?" muttered Darrin. "I guess it has done us both good to own up," laughed Dick. "But see here!" "Well?" "I simply won't allow myself to be scared." "Then you're as keen for West Point as I am for Annapolis," retorted Darrin suspiciously. "Dave, old fellow, you know what the Gridley spirit demands? You know how we and the rest of the fellows managed to win eternally in athletics? Just because we made up our minds that defeat was impossible." "That's fine," laughed Dave. "But we'll probably have to buck up against more fellows than we do on an athletic field. And probably dozens of them go in with the same determination." "I don't care," declared Prescott. "I want that West Point cadetship. I've wanted it for years, and now the chance has come. I'm going to have it!" Dave Darrin gradually succeeded in working himself into the same frame of mind. Yet there were many moments when he was tortured by doubts as to whether the "Gridley spirit" would serve in bucking a long line of young fellows all equally anxious to get to Annapolis. The first step taken by Dick and Dave was to get excused from the High School for the time. Both boys had lists of the studies and standards required for entrance to the Military Academy or the Naval Academy. Dick and Dave, each in his own room at home, spent the next few days in "boning" as neither had ever "boned" before. "But we must get three hours in the open air each day, Dave," Dick insisted. "We mustn't go up for the trial with our nerves shattered by moping all the time indoors." Only Dick & Co., and a very few friends, knew what Dick and Dave were planning. It was kept a secret. The date of the High School senior ball was set for December 17. "Can you be back in time to go to the ball?" Laura Bentley asked Prescott. "I'm afraid not, Laura. Besides, when I get back from Wilburville, I'm afraid I'll feel pretty well tired out." "You're not afraid of failing?" asked Laura anxiously. "I'm not going to allow myself to fail. Yet, even if I win, I shall be tired out after the ordeal. Wish the ball could come a couple of days alter the ordeal. I wanted to go to it and to dance with you, Laura." "I'm sorry you can't go," sighed the girl. Darrin, too, had given up all thoughts of attending the senior ball, and this was the first time that either lad had "skipped" the class ball. "It seems too bad to be away," grumbled Dave. "But I know how I'll feel on that night. If I carry off the honors for Annapolis, no mere ball could hold me! I'll need air and space. I'll be lucky if I don't get arrested on that night for building bonfires in the streets." Dave next sighed dismally and continued: "If I don't carry off the Annapolis prize, I'll feel so disappointed that I won't look anybody in the face! Dick, Dick! It's fearful, this waiting---and wanting!" "It won't seem like the class ball a bit without you two boys," declared Belle Meade, pouting, the next afternoon. "But if we get through," muttered Dave, "think of the gay, splendid times to which we can invite you at Annapolis and West Point." "Indianapolis and Blue Point are far away," murmured Belle, purposely misnaming both famous places. "_Ann_-apolis!" flared Dave "_West_ Point!" protested Dick hotly. "Don't mind Belle," begged Laura quietly. "She's the worst tease I know." "If I get the appointment to Annapolis," continued Darrin, "you'll be asking me, next, if I expect to be promoted, after a while, to he helmsman, or fireman, on some cruiser." "Well, would you expect to be!" asked Belle, with an appearance of great innocence. "Don't, Belle," pleaded Laura. "The boy are too much in earnest. It isn't fair to tease them, now. Wait until they've been at West Point and Annapolis a couple of years. Then ask them." "What would be the use then?" asked Belle dryly. "By that time our young cadets will have met so many girls that they would have to think back quite a while before they could remember our names." Laura's pretty color lessened for an instant. "Don't you believe it," broke in Dick promptly. "Just as soon as I have a right ask for cards for a West Point hop I'm going to ask for cards for Miss Bentley and Miss Deane, and their chaperon." "The same here, for Annapolis," promised Dave solemnly. "So you see, girls, you'll have to be prepared to do some traveling in the near future. "But you won't get to Annapolis, anyway, until June," replied Belle, a bit more gently. "So you won't have any Annapolis hops until next fall, will you?" "Probably not," Dave admitted. "But you won't go to Annapolis, anyway," suggested Laura, turning to Prescott. "There may be some West Point hops between then and June." "I feel pretty sure there will be," nodded Dick cheerily. "And you girls may be sure of my keeping my promise." "And I'll keep mine for the very first hop that comes off at Annapolis after I get there," Darrin assured them. The laugh was on both young men, though neither they nor their fair young companions knew it. The poor "plebe," as the first year's man at either West Point or Annapolis is known, would be in for a terrible experience at the hands of his comrades if, during his "plebe" year, he had the "cheek" to seek to attend a cadet hop. He must wait until he has entered his second year before he has that privilege. This is a wise regulation. In his first year the poor "plebe" has so bewilderingly much to learn that he simply couldn't spare any time for the cultivation of the graces of the ballroom. In his first year, he has dancing lessons, but that is all that comes his way. Greg Holmes came to Prescott with a wistful, rather sad face. "How are you coming on, Dick?" Greg asked. "Meaning what?" "Are you going to be well prepared for the examinations?" "As far as being able to pass with a decent percentage," Dick answered, "I am not all uneasy. All that worries me is the fear that some other fellow may have a slightly better percentage. That would ditch me, you know." "Oh, you'll win out," predicted Greg loyally. "And I just wish I had a chance like yours!" "Why don't you go in and try for it, then?" urged Dick generously. "No use," uttered Greg, shaking his head. "You can beat me on the scholastic examination, and I know it, Dick. The best I could hope for would be an appointment as your alternate. And your alternate to West Point isn't going to stand any show for a cadetship, Dick Prescott!" Besides the candidate each Congressman may appoint one or more "alternates." These alternates also report at West Point. If the "principal" fails there, the alternate is given a chance to make good for the cadetship. But Greg Holmes, though he was wildly anxious to go to West Point, felt certain that it would be useless to go there as Dick Prescott's alternate. "I hate to see you not try at all, Greg," declared Dick. "Why don't you try? If you beat me out there won't be any hard feelings." "I couldn't beat you out, and I don't want to, either," responded Greg. "But wait! I may have something to tell you later on." Dan Dalzell had much the same kind of a talk with Dave Darrin. Dan felt the call to the sailor's life, but hadn't any notion that he could slip in ahead of Darrin. "Even if I could, Dave, I wouldn't try it," declared Dan earnestly. "I want badly enough to go to Annapolis, and I admit it. But I believe you're just about crazy to get there." "I am," Dave admitted honestly. "But the prize goes to the best fellow, Dan. Jump in, old fellow, and have your try at it." Dalzell, however, shook his head and remained silent on the subject after that. To both Dick and Dave it seemed as though the next few days simply refused to budge along on the calendar. Certainly neither of them had ever known time to pass so slowly before. "I hope I'll be able to keep my nerve up until the seventeenth," groaned Darrin. "Surely, you will," grinned Dick. "You've got to!" "I've been studying until all the words on a page seem to run together, and I don't know one word from another," complained Dave. "Then drop study---if you dare to!" "I'm thinking of it," proposed Darrin seriously. "Actually, I've been boning so that the whole thing gets on my nerves, and stays there like a cargo of lead." "Let's pledge ourselves, then, not to study on the fifteenth or the sixteenth," urged Dick. "I'll go you, right off, on that," cried Darrin eagerly. "And we'll spend those two days in the open air, roaming around, and trying to enjoy ourselves," added Prescott. "Enjoy ourselves---with all the load of suspense hanging over our heads?" gasped Darrin. "Well, we'll try it anyway." To most people in and around Gridley the world, in these few days, seemed to bob along very much as usual. Dick and Dave, however, knew better. At last came the evening of the sixteenth! Both anxious boys turned in early, though neither expected to sleep much. Both, however, were soon in the land of Nod. But Dick awoke at half-past four on the morning of the fateful seventeenth. By five o'clock he knew that he wasn't going to sleep any more. So he got up and dressed. Dave Darrin was in his bath, that same morning, before four o'clock. Then he, too, dressed, and wondered whether every other fellow who was going into the contest to-day felt as restless. The mothers of both boys were astir almost as early. Mothers can't take these examinations, but mothers know what a son's suspense means. Dick and Dave met at the station a full twenty minutes before train time. CHAPTER XIX Tom Reade Bosses the Job "Ugh!" shivered Dave, as the chums met on the platform. "It's cold out here!" "Come inside, then, and get warm. But you're a great athlete, to mind an ordinary December morning," laughed Dick Prescott. Together they stepped into the waiting room. "What time does our train go?" asked Dave, though he had known the time of this train for the last week. "Seven-forty," replied Dick. "And it's seven-twenty, now. Whew, what a await!" "I could have stayed home a little longer," nodded Dick. "Only I told father and mother that I'd feel more like being started if I got down here this far on the way." "Sure thing," nodded Dave sympathetically. "My Dad had to hold on to me to stop my leaving the house an hour earlier than I did." Both boys laughed, though not very heartily. Each was under a terrific strain---just from wondering! "If I get through, and win out to-day," muttered Dick, "I know I shan't feel half as anxious when it comes time to take the graduating exams." "No," agreed Dave. "Then you'll know you have a chance; but to-day you can't be sure of that much." Five minutes before train time the chums were astonished at seeing another of the chums walk into the station. It was Tom Reade, looking as jovial and contented as a youngster could possibly look. "Hullo, Tom!" came from Dick. "Howdy, Tom, old man!" was Dave's greeting. "Hullo, fellows!" from Reade. "Where are you bound?" inquired Dick. "Wilburville?" "_What_?" "Fact!" Reade assured them. "Going to the exams.?" Dave demanded quickly. "Yep." "Why, you never said a word about thinking of West Point," exploded Prescott. "You were making fun of Annapolis only the other day!" asserted Dave, just as though making fun of Annapolis were one of the capital crimes. "Hang West Point!" exploded Tom Reade. "Oh! Then it's Annapolis you're after," grunted Darrin. "Sink Annapolis!" exclaimed Reade. "Then what on earth are you after?" demanded Dick. "Have you any fool idea in your head, Tom, that you can take an exam and stand a chance of getting Congressman Spokes's job away from him?" Dave asked. Tom threw himself into one of the seats, crossed his feet, thrust his hands down in his ulster pockets, and surveyed the pair before he answered: "I'll tell you what ails you two. You have a notion that the sun rises at West Point and sets at Annapolis. Now, I know a heap better, and I haven't an eye on either place. Can you fellows guess why I've taken the day off from school and why I'm going to Wilburville?" "We surely can't," declared Dave. "Well, then, I'll tell you," promised Tom amiably. "I knew you two good old chaps would be going to pieces with blue funk to-day. I knew you'd be chattering inside, and turning all sorts of colors outside. You'd try to cheer each other, but each of you is too badly scared to be of any use to the other. So I've come along to take up your minds, jolly you and stiffen your backbones alternately. That's my whole job for to-day." Looking in some amazement at Reade, the other two chums realized that good old Tom was telling the truth. "Of course, I'll admit," continued Reade, "that, if I were going on the grill to-day, I'd be worse than either of you. But I'm not. I wouldn't live in West Point, and I wouldn't be caught dead at Annapolis, so I shan't have any scares or any nervous streak to-day. I'll look after you both, the best I can, and do what little lies in my power to keep your minds off your troubles." "Well, who'd ever have thought of a thing like that but Tom Reade?" gasped Dick gratefully. "It's mighty good of you, old chum," declared Darrin fervently. "Now, then,"`resumed Reade, uncrossing his legs, "as I'm on the job to look after you, allow me to remind you that that is your train whistling at this moment." Three very jolly boys, therefore, piled out of the station building and boarded the train. Tom spoke to the conductor a moment before following the others to seats. "You see," spoke Reade, "I'm even going to the trouble to make sure that this is the right train, and not a belated express." "I never though of that," muttered Darrin, turning a bit pale. "Great Scott!" gasped Dick. "I can feel the cold sweat oozing out at the bare thought. Suppose we had been harebrained enough to get on the wrong train, and be carried so far past that we couldn't get back to Wilburville by nine o'clock!" "Drop all worry. Don't think of anything alarming, or even disconcerting," chuckled Tom. "I've taken charge of the whole job, and I guarantee everything. One of the little things I guarantee is that you'll both win out to-day." "In algebra," muttered Darrin, "I hope they won't go too deeply into quadratic equations-----" "Cut it!" ordered Reade severely. "Likewise forget it! Say, I heard a rattling good story last night. It carries a Dutchman, a poodle, a dude and an old maid. Let me see if I can remember just how it runs." With that Reade got started. He soon had his two friends started as well. They laughed until the brakeman at last thrust his head in and called: "Next station, Wilburville!" "Stop and get out, young man!" called Tom. "Do you think we don't know our way?" Then into another story plunged Tom Reade. He spun it out, purposely, until the train slowed up at Wilburville. "'Bus right up to the town hall!" cried a driver, sizing the trio up shrewdly. "Thank you; that's our auto over there," nodded Tom, pointing to a lunch wagon. Reade started the chums at a brisk walk. Of the first native they met they inquired the way. Tom was still talking at forty horse-power when they came to the town hall. "That building holds our fate!" muttered Dave, as they drew near. "Stop that!" ordered Tom. "Anyone would think that Annapolis was all the candy in the land. What are you worrying about, anyway? Haven't I taken all the responsibility for this thing upon myself? Haven't I promised you both that you shall find your little toy appointments in your Christmas stockings? Do you think I'm lying?" "But the exams!" groaned Dave. "Well, they're competitive," quoted Tom cheerily. "That's just what ails 'em!" argued Dave. "You make me think of my cousin, Jack Reade, of the militia," taunted Tom. "He's a captain. Now, Jack wanted to be appointed assistant inspector general of rifle practice. He was ordered up for his exam. Poor fellow spent three weeks, days and nights, boning for that exam. The family had the doctor in twice, for they were afraid Jack was studying himself crazy. Then the day came for the exam. Jack went into the ordeal shivering. The examiner asked Jack to write down his full name, the date of his birth, and the date of his entry into the militia. Jack answered all three questions straight, and got a hundred per cent. for his marking. Yet you fellows talk about exams as though they were really hard!" Still laughing the three passed inside. Dick Prescott had firmly resolved to do no more talking about the ordeal. But Darrin hadn't. So, after the boys had entered the building, and had climbed to the next floor, where the hall was, and had taken a look inside, Dave drew back into the corridor. "Great guns, did you look inside?" he demanded. "There are a million boys in there already." "Cheer up," soothed Tom. "Most of 'em want to go to West Point." Tom fairly forced his chums inside. The boys already there, some three-score, at least, turned to regard the newcomers curiously. "The rest of you may as well go home," announced Tom laughingly. "My friends have a first mortgage on the jobs you're after." Presently, more fellows came in. Then some more, and still more. "Let's go down and stand by the door, where we can get more air," urged Darrin. "Yes," agreed Tom. "And we'll throw out any of the rest that may have a nerve to try to step in here." Hardly had they taken their stand by the door when the three chums received a shock. For the next arrivals were Phin Drayne, and his father, Heathcote Drayne. Phin was now in attendance at the Wilburville Academy, and his father had come down, the evening before, to urge his son to try for West Point. Tom looked the newcomer over with especial disfavor. Young Drayne, like many another "peculiar" fellow, was an unusually good student. At any time Drayne would have a very good chance of coming out even with, or just ahead of, either Dick or Dave. The Draynes did not favor our three chums with any greeting, but walked on down into the hall. "Excuse me a minute," murmured Tom. "I want to find out how the land lies." Tom thereupon walked boldly over to the Draynes. "May I speak with you just a moment, Mr. Drayne?" asked Tom. "Go ahead," replied Mr. Heathcote Drayne, not over-graciously. "It is important, sir, that I speak with you aside," Tom went on. Heathcote Drayne scowled, then stepped to one side, turning and glancing down at Reade. "Well, young man, what is it?" "I thought it barely possible," continued Tom coolly, "that I might be able to offer you a hint or two worth while." "Worth whose while?" demanded Heathcote Drayne, suspiciously. "Yours. Has your son come here to compete for either the West Point or Annapolis cadetship?" "What if he has?" "Then has Phin his certificates of good character with him?" demanded Tom, his blue eyes steely and cold as he looked straight and significantly at the elder Drayne. "Confound your impudence, Reade! What do you mean?" "Just this," continued Tom readily. "Only boys of good character are eligible for West Point or Annapolis. Now, the fact is, your son was expelled from Gridley High School for a dishonorable action. Are you content to have your son try for a cadetship, with that record hanging over his head and enveloping his chances?" "Who'll know anything about that record if you don't blab?" demanded Mr. Drayne. "Why, your son would have to state where he had attended school, and furnish certificates of good character from his teachers," ran on Reade. "Now, honestly, do you think that Dr. Thornton, of Gridley High School, would furnish a certificate on which Congressman Spokes could appoint your boy to West Point or Annapolis? Because, if you think so," wound up Reade, "go ahead and put Phin in the running, to be sure." With that Tom marched off back to his chums. "What have you been up to?" asked Dick curiously. "I'm manager for you two half-witted fellows, ain't I?" queried Reade. "What have you been saying to Mr. Drayne?" asked Dave. "Just watch father and son, and see how they seem to be enjoying their talk," chuckled Tom. "There, what do you see now? I thought it would end like that." This was the first time it had occurred to the elder Drayne that his son's character would be inquired into. In fact, Mr. Drayne had had half an idea that the United States Military Academy was a place that made a specialty of reforming wild boys and making useful citizens of them. CHAPTER XX When the Great News Was Given Out At just nine o'clock Congressman Spokes came on to the platform followed by two other men. One of these latter was a town official, who, in a very few words, introduced the Member of Congress. Congressman Spokes now addressed the young men upon the vocations they were seeking to enter. He explained that neither the Military nor the Naval Academy offered an inducement to boys fond only of their ease and good times. "At either school," warned the Congressman "you will find ahead of you years of the hardest work and the strictest discipline. No boy whose character is not good can hope to enter these schools of the nation. It is not worth any boy's while to enter unless he stands ready to sacrifice everything, his own ideas and prejudices included, to the service of his country and his flag." Congressman Spokes continued in this line for some time. Then he called for the boys who wished to try for West Point to gather at the right side of the hall; those for Annapolis at the left side. "This is the first time you and I haven't been on the same side in everything, old fellow," Dick whispered smilingly, as he and Dave Darrin parted. What a hurried count the interested youngsters made! But Tom Reade, who didn't belong to either crowd, probably made the most accurate count. He discovered that sixty-two of the boys had voted for West Point. Forty-one favored Annapolis. A few young men present, like Tom, didn't care to go to either government school. "When I am ready to give the word," continued Congressman Spokes, "the young men who want to go to West Point will file out of the door at this end of the hall. In the rooms across the corridor they will find the physicians who are making the physical examinations for West Point. "The Annapolis aspirants will file downstairs and enter through the first door at the left, where other physicians will make the physical examinations for Annapolis. "The examinations by the physicians here will not be conclusive for the successful candidates. The final physical examinations, like the final scholastic examinations, will be made at West Point and Annapolis. "Now, each young gentleman who passes the physical examination will receive a signed card with his name on it. Such successful young men are then excused until one o'clock. At one o'clock sharp the young men who have certificates from the medical examiners may report for their scholastic examinations. Do not come here, however, for the scholastic examinations. West Point aspirants will report at the High School, and those for Annapolis at the Central Grammar School. "Now, at eight o'clock this evening you return here. At that hour, or as soon there after as possible, announcement will be made, from this platform, of the names of the successful young men and their alternates. Now the young men for West Point forward, the Annapolis hopefuls downstairs!" Inside of two minutes the town hall was bare, save for the presence of Tom Reade, who, with his hands in his pockets, walked about, whistling. In forty-five minutes Dick, flushed an breathless, broke in upon Tom, as the latter sat waiting patiently for his friends. "I've passed the doctors all right," announced Dick, producing his card. "That's all right, then," nodded Tom. "And the rest will be easier." Twenty minutes later Dave Darrin join them. "I've passed---that part of the trial," he proclaimed. "Then, until twelve o'clock, there's nothing to do but go out and kill time," declared Reade. "Twelve o'clock" repeated Dick. "You mean one o'clock." "I mean twelve," retorted Tom, with emphasis. "At twelve you eat; you don't gorge, but you chew and swallow something nourishing. Then you'll be in fit shape for the little game of the afternoon." Both of the chums had reason to realize the weight of their debt to jovial, helpful Reade; who was banishing care and keeping their minds off their suspense. In fact time passed quickly until it was time for Dick and Dave once more to part, to seek their separate examinations. Just forty of the boys who wanted to go to West Point had passed the doctors as being presumably fit in body and general health. Twenty-seven of the Annapolis aspirants had passed the doctors. Already three dozen disappointed young Americans were on their way home, their dream over. Tom Reade chose to walk over to the local High School with Dick. Dave found his way alone to his place of examination. Dick Prescott and the thirty-nine other aspirants were assembled in one of the class rooms at the High School. On each desk was a supply of stationery. After the young men had been seated the examination papers in English were passed around. This examination Dick thought absurdly easy. He finished his paper early, and read it through three times while waiting for the papers to be collected. History was a bit harder, but Dick was not especially disturbed by it. Not quite so with geography. Dick had had no instruction in this branch since his grammar school days, and, though he had brushed up much of late on this subject, he found himself compelled to go slowly and thoughtfully. Arithmetic was not so hard; algebra a bit more puzzling. It was after six o'clock when the examinations were finished, and all papers in. As fast as each examination was finished, however, the papers had been hurried off to the examiners and marked. Faithful Tom was waiting as Dick came out in the throng. "Congratulations, old fellow!" cried Reade, holding out his hand. "You've passed," announced Tom gravely. "Why, the examiners haven't fin-----" "They don't have to," snorted Tom. "I don't have to wait for the opinions of mere examiners. You've passed, and won out, I tell you. Now let's go look for Dave." It had been agreed that the three should meet, for supper, at the same restaurant where they had lunched. Darrin was not there yet. It was nearly seven o'clock when Dave came in, looking fagged and worried. But Tom was up on his feet in an instant, darting toward Darrin. "Didn't I tell you, old fellow?" demanded. Reade. "And my congratulations!" "If you hadn't been such a good fellow all day I might be cross," sighed Dave. "Whee! But those examiners certainly did turn my head inside out. Don't you see a few corners of the brain still sloping over outside?" "Cheer up," quoth Tom grimly. "Nothing doing. You haven't brains enough to overflow. In fact, you've so few brains that I'm going to do the ordering for your supper." "Everything I can do, now, is over with, anyway," muttered Prescott. "So I'm going to forget my troubles and enjoy this meal." Dave tried to, also, but he was more worried, and could not wholly banish his gloom. Tom succeeded in making the meal drag along until about ten minutes of eight. Then he led his friends from the restaurant and down the street to the town hall. Here, though most of the young men were already on hand, there was nothing of boisterousness. Some were quiet; others were glum. All showed how much the result of the examinations meant to them. But the time dragged fearfully. It was twenty minutes of nine when Congressman Spokes appeared on the platform and rapped for order. He did not have to rap twice. In the stillness that followed the Congressman's voice sounded thunderous. "Young gentlemen, I now have the results from all the examiners, and the averages have been made up. I am now able to announce my appointments to West Point and Annapolis." Mr. Spokes paused an instant. "For West Point," he announced, "My candidate will be-----Richard Prescott, of Gridley. The alternate will be-----" But Dick Prescott didn't catch a syllable of the alternate's name, for his ears were buzzing. But now, for the first time, Tom Reade was most unsympathetically silent. "For Annapolis, my candidate will be-----David Darrin, of Gridley. The alternate-----" Neither did Darrin hear the name of his alternate. Dave's head was reeling. He was sure it was a dream. "Pinch me, Tom," he begged, in a hoarse whisper, and Reade complied---heartily. "The young men who have won the appointments as candidates and alternates will please come to see me at once, in the anteroom," continued Congressman Spokes, who, however, lingered to address a few words of tactful sympathy to the eager young Americans who had tried and lost. "Come along, now, and let's get this over with as quickly as possible," grumbled Torn Reade. "This Congressman bores me." "Bores you?" repeated Prescott, in a shocked voice. "What on earth do you mean?" "I don't like his nerve," asserted Reade. "Here he is, giving out as if it were fresh, news that I announced two hours ago." Congressman Spokes was waiting in the anteroom to shake hands with the winners. He congratulated the candidates most heartily, and cautioned the alternates that they also must be alert, as one or both of them might yet have a chance to pass on over the heads of the principal candidates. Mr. Spokes then asked from each of the young men the name of his school principal, the address of his clergyman and of one business man. These were references to whom Mr. Spokes would write at once in order to inform himself that the lucky ones were young men of excellent character. Then the Congressman wished the young men all the luck in the world, and bade them good evening, after informing them that they would hear, presently, from the Secretary of War with full instructions for West Point, and from the Secretary of the Navy for Annapolis. "Fancy Phin Drayne passing in his references for the character ordeal!" chuckled Tom Reade, as the three chums walked down the street. "What time does the next train leave for Gridley?" suddenly demanded Dave. "In twelve minutes," answered Tom, after looking at his watch. "Let's run, then!" proposed Dave. "We can mope, and have five minutes to spare," objected Reade. "Let's run, just the same!" urged Dick Prescott. The three chums broke into a run that brought them swiftly to the station, red faced, laughing and happy. "Oh, what a difference since the morning!" sang Dick blithely. "Say, just think! West Point really for mine!" "Bosh!" grunted Darrin happily. "I'm going to Annapolis!" Then, as by a common impulse Dick and Dave seized Tom Reade by either hand. "Tom," uttered Dick huskily, "we owe you for a lot of the nerve and confidence that carried us through to-day!" "Tom Reade," declared Darrin. tremulously, "you're the best and most dependable fellow on earth!" "Shut up, both of you," growled Reade, in a tone of disgust. "You're getting as prosy as that Congressman---and that's the most insulting thing I can think of to say to either of you." The train seemed fairly to fly home. It was keeping pace with the happy spirits of the young men, who, at last, came to realize that the great good news was actually true. Neither Dick nor Dave could think of walking home from the station. They broke into a run. By and by they discovered that Tom Reade was, no longer with them. "Now isn't that just like old Tom?" laughed Darrin, when he discovered that their friend was missing. "Well, anyway, I can't wait. Here's where our roads branch, Dick, old fellow. And say! Aren't we the lucky simpletons? Good night, old chum!" Dick fairly raced into the bookstore conducted by his parents. He almost upset a customer who was leaving with a package under his arm. "Dad!" whispered Dick, leaning briefly over the counter and laying a hand on Mr. Prescott's shoulder. "I passed and won! I'm going to West Point!" A look of intense happiness wreathed his father's face and tears glistened in his eyes. But Dick raced on into the back room, where he found his mother. "All the luck in the land is mine, mother!" he whispered, bending over and kissing her. "I won out! I go to West Point when the month of March comes!" Mrs. Prescott was upon her feet, her arms around her boy. She didn't say much, but she didn't need to. After a moment Dick disengaged himself. "Mother, Laura Bentley will be glad to know this news. She's at the ball of the senior class to-night, but I'll see if I can get her father on the 'phone, and tell him the news for her." But presently it was Laura's own sweet voice that answered over the wire. "You?" demanded Dick. "Why, I thought you'd be at the ball!" "Did you think I could be happy all the evening, wondering how you were coming on with your great wish?" asked Laura quietly. "Say, oh, Dick! How did you come out?" CHAPTER XXI Gridley Seniors Whoop It Up "Oh, so many, so many congratulations, Dick!" came the response to Prescott's eagerly imparted information. "And so you missed the dance just because you could sympathize with some one else's worry?" demanded Dick. "But say! The evening is still young, as dances go. Couldn't you get dressed in a little while? Then we could both go and celebrate my good luck." "I'm dressed," came the demure answer. "What? Oh---well, now, that's nice of you-----" "I have been expecting this good news," laughed Laura. "And so I've been dressed all evening, on the chance." "And you'll go to the class ball if I come around quickly?" "It would be mean of you not to come and take me, Dick!" "I'll have to change," declared Dick. "But that never takes a boy long. Won't I be around to your house in short order, though!" Dick rang off and started to bound upstairs, but a new ting-ling sounded on the 'phone bell. "Here's another party been trying to get you," announced central. "Go ahead." "Hullo, Dick," sounded a low, pleased voice. "I hope you've called up Laura." "Just rang off, Dave." "Then you know that the girls didn't go to the class ball to-night, but just dressed and waited on the chance of hearing from us. I'm on the jump to dress, but I'll meet you there, Dick." Dick took only time to explain the change in his night's plans to his parents. Then he bounded off upstairs, but soon came down again, looking a bit dandyish in his best, and very happy into the bargain. When Dick arrived at Dr. Bentley's home an automobile stood in front of the house. Dick recognized it, however, as the doctor's machine with the doctor's man at the lever. The instant that Prescott put his finger on the bell button Laura herself opened the door. She was radiant of face and exquisite in ball costume as she threw open the door and stood framed there, the light behind her. "Oh, I'm so glad, Dick, so glad!" came her ready greeting. "Come in. I'm all ready but the wrap, but father and mother wish to be among the first to congratulate you." In the doctor's office stood Dr. and Mrs. Bentley. They greeted Dick cordially and expressed delight over his success. "But this is only the first ditch taken, you know," spoke Prescott soberly, though in military phrase. "I have my chance now; that is all. I have more than four years of hard fight facing me before I am sure that the Army can be my career." "You'll make it, Prescott, just as you've made everything you've gone after at High School," replied Dr. Bentley heartily. "But, now that we've congratulated you, we mustn't keep you an instant longer from your classmates. I had just come in with my car, and Laura told me, so I directed my man to wait. He'll take you both along the road in short order. Good night, my boy!" Laura brought her wrap, holding it out to Dick. "If you're to be a gallant Army officer," she teased, "you must learn to do this sort of thing gracefully." Blushing, Dick did his best. Then the young people went out. Dick helped his companion into the car, then seated himself beside her. "We're going to pick up Dave and Belle," Laura explained, as the car moved swiftly away. "Then we'll all go in together." One fellow had beaten them to the class ball, and that fellow was Tom Reade. How he ever did it no one will be able to guess, but Tom flew home, got into his best, and had reached the ball before these young people appeared on the scene. The happy young candidates-elect went with their companions to the cloak room. Then, Laura on Dick's arm, and Belle clinging to Dave, the two couples entered the ballroom. The strains of a waltz were floating out. Abruptly the music ceased in the middle of the air, for Reade, standing beside the director, had motioned him to cease playing. "Classmates and friends!" bellowed Reade, "it is my proud opportunity to-night to be able to be the first to announce to you some wonderful good news. To-day Dick Prescott, of ours, defeated all other competitors, and has secured the appointment from this district to the United States Military Academy!" "Wow! Whoop!" That announcement had them all going. There was one tremendous, increasing din of noise. But Tom, jumping up and down, waving both arms and scowling fiercely, finally secured silence. "Who's doing this announcing?" he demanded. "Who's master of ceremonies, if I am not. You just wait---all of you! I'll give you the cue when to turn the noise-works loose. As I just stated, it's Dick for West Point, but or, and---it's Dave Darrin for Annapolis at the same time. Yes, Dave is going to represent this district at Annapolis!" The musicians were on their feet by this time. All with a rush the sweet, proud strains rang out: _"My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing!"_ Instantly all stood at attention, the young men all over the hail holding themselves with especial erectness. Not a voice was heard until the good old refrain was through. To the two happy chums "America" had a newer, stronger meaning. The spirited air came to them with a new meaning that had never been plain before. Dick felt the tears in his eyes. Foolish, o course, but he couldn't help it! And choky Dave furtively wished that he dared reach for his handkerchief with all those hundreds of eyes turned on him. As the music came to an end the High School boys filled their lungs for a mighty cheer. Quick as a flash, however, the leader of the orchestra tapped his baton, then swung it once more, and the instruments leaped on into: "_Columbia, the gem of the ocean_!" That was for the Navy, of course, and one didn't have to keep quiet, either. Words of the song, and cheers, mingled with the musicians' strains. And then it wound up in a cheer and a mad rush of yelling that must have been heard for a mile. An impromptu reception and hand shaking followed, but to Dick and Dave, and their partners, it had more the look of a mob. It was a joyous and big-hearted mob, though, and in time it quieted down. After a very long interruption the dancing started again, and Dick and Dave were able to whirl away with their partners. As the next dance after that, started there was a sudden halt by many of the couples, and soon a roar of laughter ascended. For the orchestra had chosen, as the air, "The Girl I Left Behind Me." This air will always be associated with the United Service---the Army and Navy. It is a rollicking, jolly, spirited old tune, as it needs must be for "The Girl I Left Behind Me" is the tune that is played when the country's defenders, in war time, are marching away for the front, after just having said the last goodbye to mother, sister and sweetheart. Just now, however, the old air had none of the tragic connected with it. It was all in the spirit of fun. Laura, blushing furiously, and Belle striving to appear wholly unconscious, but striving too hard, lent all the more merriment to the moment. "It's that confounded old idiot, Tom Reade," muttered Dave to his partner. "I wonder how many more such tricks he knows!" Presently came "The Army Lancers," and that brought out a right royal good cheer. Two numbers after that, came "A Life on the Ocean Wave," and more cheers. It was after three in the morning when the gay affair broke up. But who cared for that? Class balls come but once a year. Right after "Home, Sweet Home," which wound up the ball, the orchestra added a number, "The Star Spangled Banner." Both Dick and Dave reached home pretty thoroughly tired out, after having seen their girl friends home. Neither boy rose much before noon the day following. Dick and Dave remained enrolled at High School until the Christmas Holidays, then dropped out, having ended the term. Each boy had other studies with which he wished to busy himself---studies that would have a direct bearing on the stiff entrance examinations at West Point and Annapolis. The rest of their time, until they reported at their respective National Academies, they intended to devote to these other studies to make doubly sure of their success. Dick's notification from the Secretary of War arrived on Christmas morning. "The grandest Christmas present. I ever had!" muttered Dick, gazing at the single sheet, the words on which were couched in stiff official language. Dave Darrin fumed a good deal, for it was nearly a month later before he received his notification from the Secretary of the Navy. It came at last, however, and Darrin knew what postponed happiness means. CHAPTER XXII The Message from the Unknown With the Christmas holidays Phin Drayne came home, to stay so far as school was concerned. After his unhappy experience at the Fordham Military Institute, Phin had found things almost as unpleasant at Wilburville Academy. For some reason the boys at Wilburville hadn't taken to him. Phin had come to the conclusion that he wasn't appreciated anywhere save at home, so back he came, disgusted with the idea of carrying his education any further. As a natural sequence, Drayne took to lounging about the streets. High School boys and girls no longer paid any heed to him, so he did not fear slight or insult. Two nights in every week Dick and Dave went faithfully to the High School gym. to help Mr. Morton with the new evening classes in training. One afternoon Prescott and Darrin encountered good old Dr. Thornton, the principal, who asked them how they were coming along. "We're pretty busy," Dick admitted. "Still, it does seem rather hard to us not to be connected with the High School any more." "Why, you are with us yet, and of us!" cried the principal. "I carry your names on the rolls, with 'excused' written against your names. If you don't believe that you're still of my High School boys, then drop in any day and take your places, for an hour, or as long as you please, at your old desks. You will find them still reserved for you." "Now, isn't that mighty decent of old Prin.!" demanded Dave, after the two chums had thanked Dr. Thornton, and had gone on their way. "So we still belong to old Gridley High School?" "We always shall, I reckon," declared Dick. "Gridley High School has done everything for us, and has given us our start and most of our pleasures in life." "I'm going to drop in, one of these January days," murmured Dave. "And so am I. But," added Dick, with a smile, "don't let us be indiscreet and be roped into going into a recitation. We'll find the class has been moving ahead while we've been boning over West Point and Annapolis requirements." "At all events, none of them ought to be ahead of us when we've gone four years further," contended Dave. "At West Point or Annapolis we have to grind in a way that is never required of mere college men. We ought to be miles ahead of any fellow who has just finished at High School and then has put in four years only at college." Thus the happy young egotists always talked, nowadays. To them there was really little in life that did not come through the government military academies. Phin Drayne, lounging about purposely, with the shambling gait, often saw these happy chums, and scowled after them. "Everything seems to come to them!" growled Phin. "What rot it is to say that this is a square world, and that everyone has the same chance! Why doesn't something good come my way?" The oftener Phin looked in the direction of the chums, and more particularly of Dick, the blacker did Drayne's thoughts become. "Prescott has had everything come his way ever since he entered High School," growled Phin. "And now the mucker is going off to West Point, and the government is going to stamp him 'gentleman.' A gentleman? Pooh! I'd like to show him up, as a bumptious upstart. Phin scowled fiercely for a moment, before he added: "And, by glory, I will do something to him! I'll take the conceit out of Dick Prescott!" At first it was only the purpose that formed in Drayne's dark mind. But, by dint of much thinking, he began to feel that he saw the way of working to Prescott's complete disgrace. Dick, in the meantime, was still writing occasionally for "The Blade." "I'm afraid you've slipped away from us, Dick," declared Mr. Pollock, with a wry smile. "If you go to West Point and pass the exams. there, then newspaper work is going to lose one of its bright, promising young men." "But I always told you that my plans would undoubtedly take me away from 'The Blade' when my High School life was done with," Prescott answered. "Yes; but why do you want the life of the uniform? That's what I fail to understand? Why don't you go into something connected with the pulsing everyday life of the country? Here you are, going away to bury yourself in a uniform. You'll work, of course; the Army is no place for loafers. But after all, you're only preparing for war, and you may be an old, white-haired officer before we have another war." "If that war does come in your life time," returned Dick, "you'll know what we of the uniforms have been working for all along. You'll realize, then, that an Army's biggest work isn't fighting, in time of war, but preparing in time of peace. And you'll thank every one of us when the time comes." "Oh, yes, I suppose so," smiled the editor. "But it all seems so far away. Now, here is something much more practical right at hand. Take these burglaries that have been annoying the small merchants lately. The police don't seem to be able to catch the fellow. For the last three days I've taken Len Spencer off of all other work and set him to trying to run down the burglar. Now, Len isn't afraid of much, and he's one of the brightest young reporters going. Yet Len admits he's stumped. All the while the merchants are fearing that the burglar will bring about bigger losses. Dick Prescott, if you could catch that burglar, and see him sent off where he belongs, you'd be doing a vastly greater service to the community than you possibly could by helping the country prepare for a war that is thirty or forty years away." "I wouldn't mind having a crack at the burglar scare, either," laughed Dick. "But the question is, how am I going to go about it to catch the fellow? He has baffled all the police, and even Len Spencer. What show have I for finding the rascal?" "Just the same, Dick, I believe you would catch him, if you'd set your mind and your energies to it. Will you do it? Will you put in a week trying to run down this burglar and give 'The Blade' the first chance at the story? I'll agree, in advance, to pay you for whatever time you'll put in on it for a week, if even you are not successful in running him down." "I'll think it over," Dick replied, with a quiet smile. "I'll talk it over with Dave." "There's another mighty bright young fellow!" cried the editor. "Now, why can't you get Darrin to go into it with you? I'll pay Darrin for his time, too." Dave, when the project was sprung on him, gave his hearty assent. "It won't do any harm to have a try at it, anyway, Dick," urged Darrin. "It'll wake us up a bit, too. Not that I've any real and abiding idea that we're going to catch Mr. Burglar." "If we're in earnest we're going to catch him," declared Prescott. "That's the old Gridley High School way, you know. What well start on we've got to put through." Night after night, in that cold January week, Dick and Dave slipped out late at night, and prowled about through the business district of Gridley. Very often the chums ran across the police, but both were known well to the police, and were not challenged. Indeed, the police soon learned that Dick and Dave were employed by "The Blade" for the purpose of assisting in the efforts to capture the mysterious burglar or burglars. In that week two more "breaks" happened, and each time the thief or thieves got away with valuable booty. "You youngsters don't seem to be having any luck," remarked Editor Pollock. "But keep on the case a little longer. I know you'll land something sooner or later. Keep ahead, just as if you had to score a touchdown before the half was over." So for two nights Dick and Dave kept out, with equally bad luck. One night at eleven o'clock Dick answered the home telephone. He listened in amazement, then tried to find out who his informant was, but the latter rang off promptly. "I believe that is straight," muttered Dick. "At all events, I'll look into this game for all it's worth. What if we are about to catch the thief red-handed?" Snatching up a heavy walking stick, Dick Prescott hurriedly quitted the house. CHAPTER XXIII The Plight of the Innocent If the information that had come over the wire from an unknown was correct there was not a moment to be lost in telephoning. It was a masculine voice that had sounded in the 'phone and the message was to the effect that the sender of the message had just observed two men forcing the rear entrance of Kahn's drygoods store. "And hearing that 'The Blade' is trying to catch the burglars I thought I'd just let you know," the voice had continued. "But I guess you'll have to be quick if you want a sight of the burglars. They'll probably get away in quick order." Then had come the ring-off, just as Dick had tried to get the name of his informant. Now Dick was sprinting toward the scene by the shortest route that he could think of. Kahn's store was on Main Street, but the rear entrance, used for the receipt of goods opened in off an alleyway that ran parallel with Main Street. "There can't be much time to spare," muttered Dick, looking hard for a policeman. At this late hour of the night the streets that Dick traveled in his haste were bare of pedestrians. "I wish I had had time to get Dave," though Prescott. "But that would have lost at least five minutes more. And Dave wasn't going to be ready to go out until he came around for me nearer midnight." Dick was at the head of the alley, now, an moving cautiously, eyes wide open and ears on the alert. How dark it was down in here! Dick wondered, a moment, at the keenness of vision that had enabled some neighbor to see what was going on over in this dark place. In his pocket, at the time of receiving the message, Prescott had placed a pocket electric "search-light." This he thought of, now, but he did not deem it wise to go flashing the light about unless he had to. "The first point in my information is right, anyway," muttered Dick. "The rear door of Kahn's is open." Moving in the shadow of the building, he had paused not far away from the door in question. "There were two of the fellows, the message said," muttered Dick. "In that case, I should think one would have been left outside as a lookout. However, the lookout may be just a little way inside of the door. It won't do to use my light now. I'll see if I can slip in and get close to the lookout before the thieves know there's anyone around." A step at a time Prescott softly reached the open door. He paused, listening intently. "I don't hear a sound in there. I guess I'd better take a few very soft steps inside, and see if I can discover where the rogues are. That is, unless they have already bagged their booty, and have gotten away again." Just inside of the open door, Dick halted again. He listened, but there was no sound. "These scoundrels are surely the original mice for soft moving," muttered the boy grimly. "What part of the establishment can they be in? Hadn't I better slip out and get the police? I can't learn anything in here unless I use my light." Yet Prescott didn't want to turn on that flare. The light was much more likely to show him up to the burglars than to enable him to find men who were not making a sound. So Dick penetrated a little further, and a little further, listening. As he moved he was obliged to grope his way. At last, however, he found himself confused as to the points of the compass. In this darkness, he was not even sure which was the way out. "I'll have to use the flash now," concluded Dick. Taking the long tube from one of his pockets, he pressed the button briefly, giving a flash that lasted barely a second. "What was that?" muttered the boy, with a start, as the light went out. Clearly enough, now, he heard stealthy steps. He was almost certain, too, that he distinguished the sound of low whispers. "That flash has scared the rascals," throbbed Dick Prescott. "Now, if I can only locate 'em, and get out first! I may succeed in getting the police to the scene before both get away. One of 'em, anyway, I ought to be able to floor with this heavy cane!" Transferring the light to his left hand, Dick took a strong grip of the cane. It did not eyed occur to him to be afraid in here. He was trying to trap the burglars as a piece of enterprise for "The Blade," and that was all he thought about. Suddenly there was a more decided step in the darkness. It sounded, too, right in advance of the boy who stood there guessing in the dark. "Halt, where you are!" shouted Dick. "And throw up your hands as high as you can, if you don't want to get drilled! Don't try to use your weapons, for I have the drop!" It was sheer bluff, for the only thing with which Prescott could claim the drop was his cane. Yet, in such circumstances, a bold front is half the battle. Prescott bounded forward, boldly, at the same moment turning on his light. The next moment, though he held the light, the cane dropped from his nerveless fingers. "We've got you, Prescott!" roared a voice. "And you? Of all the thundering big surprises. But we've got you! Stop all nonsense and get in line to come along with us." It was the chief of police, backed by three of his men, whom Dick now faced. They had thrown their lights on, too, so that there was now plenty of illumination. Nor was this Chief Coy, one of Dick's old time friends, but Chief Simmons, a new man appointed only a few months before. Chief Simmons was almost frantically anxious to catch the burglar or burglars, for their continued operations reflected upon his abilities as the new police chief. All in a flash young Prescott took in the horrifying idea that Chief Simmons believed him to be the real burglar. "But I-----" began Dick chokingly. "Yes, you will!" retorted Chief Simmons. "You can't put up any fight, and you can't make any denial." "I-----" "Take him, you men, and handcuff him." roared the chief. "Then we'll go through the rest of the store, and see what we can learn." Dick drew back, with a shudder, as two of the officers came toward him, intent on carrying out their chief's order. "You'd better submit, Prescott," warned the chief sternly. "We're not in a mood to stand any fooling." "But won't you listen-----" began Dick, gasping. "I'm not the trial judge," jeered Simmons. "Still, I'll listen to you all you want, later in the night. Now, stand forward!" Dick realized the folly and the uselessness of defying the police. He moved nearer to the chief, as ordered. And Prescott began to understand how black the whole affair looked for him. But how had it happened? He would have given worlds to know. "Hold your hands forward, and together," commanded Chief Simmons. Quivering, flushing with the shame of the thing, young Prescott obeyed. The officer who fitted the handcuffs to the boy's wrists felt ashamed of his work, for he had always been one of Dick's friends. The click of the steel ratchets brought Prescott back to a realization of things. "I'm not much of a catch, chief," muttered the boy. "You'd better not be content with me alone. Leave me under watch and then the rest of you had better spread through this place. I think there are others here---the men you seek." "You've confederates here, have you?" demanded Simmons, fixing his suspicious gaze on the boy. "Judkins, you watch Prescott---and mind you don't let him give you the slip. The rest of us will keep on going through this store. You say you think there are others here, Prescott?" "I think so," replied the boy. Chief Simmons raised his voice. "If there's anyone here-----" he called. "There is!" came back in a tone that made Dick Prescott start and throb with alarm. "Who---where---" asked Chief Simmons, excitedly. "Right here!" came the voice. "Hold your lights on me!" Two flash-lights at once centered their rays on the speaker, and Dave Darrin bounded forward into the light. "So you two have been working this thing as side partners, have you?" asked Chief Simmons harshly. "Great Scott, how you've fooled us, then! Like everyone else, we believed you two boys to be straight. Tell me," commanded Simmons dryly, "is Editor Pollock in this store-robbing gang, too?" "Ask Mr. Pollock yourself," Dave flung back. "I will, when I get time," retorted Simmons. "Grab Darrin and put the irons on his wrists, too!" CHAPTER XXIV Dave Gives Points to the Chief of Police "You clumsy bungler!" spoke Dave Darrin hotly. "Chief, I demand the right to speak to you for a moment." "After you're ironed and taken to the station house," snapped Mr. Simmons. "Chief, you're not afraid to step aside with me and listen to about ten words?" demanded Darrin scornfully. "And if you don't---if you go on in your bull-headed way---you'll be the scorn of the town by morning. Why don't you hear what I've got to say, instead of letting precious seconds slip by. Come! Over this way!" There was something so commanding in Darrin's voice and manner that Simmons concluded to listen for a moment. Keeping his flash-light turned on Darrin, the chief of police followed Dave. Darrin whispered something in the big man's ear. In another moment the two were whispering together animatedly. "Why didn't you come to the point before, Darrin?" demanded the chief gruffly. "Great Scott, didn't I, as soon as I could postpone your mania for having me loaded down with police chains?" "Yet how do I know you're telling me anything like the truth?" "If I'm lying, you can find it out very quickly, can't you?" demanded Darrin. "But come along, or you'll be too late. Oh, why do all the biggest slow pokes in creation get appointed to the police force?" "Come along with me, Delmar," ordered Chief Simmons, turning to one of his policemen. "The rest of you stay here---though you can pass on into the open air. Then wait there for us." "Don't you waste any time on worry, Dick," Dave called back. Prescott laughed easily. Whatever Dave had discovered, or thought he had, Darrin's chum was quite content now to await the result of all that enthusiasm. "We must not make much noise," cautioned Darrin, as he led the way swiftly, though on tiptoe. "We don't want to scare the other people cold until we have them cooped so that they can't get away. But you'd better be ready, in case they're desperate enough to try shooting!" Up the street, to the head of another alley way, Darrin led the swift chase. "Now, softer than ever," he whispered, over his shoulder, without halting. A moment later Dave halted before two stone steps that led down to a basement junk shop. Just as he did so a low voice inside could be heard, saying in barely audible tones: "I'm so anxious to know whether Prescott fell into the trap that I can hardly wait another minute." "You'd better wait until morning, or you'll tumble into something with your eyes shut, and that will mean both of us nabbed," growled another voice. "Do you think they found Prescott---that they believed in the appearances against him?" "I can't say," came the other low voice. "And I can wait. I'm not crazy on the subject, as you seem to be." "Explain this all over again, to us, won't you?" shouted the chief, pushing open the door of the junk shop and striding in, backed by the light and the revolver of Officer Delmar. "What?" screamed Phin Drayne, then sank to his knees in the extremity of his terror. "Don't either of you try to put up any fight," warned the chief. "Delmar, here are my handcuffs to put with your own. Hand me your light, and then iron both of these fellows securely." The owner of the junk shop, a man under thirty, dirty and low browed, stood cowering back against a bench. The fellow looked as though he would have fought had there been any chance to draw a weapon. But he was gazing straight into the muzzle of the police chief's weapon. An instant later both prisoners had been handcuffed, and a pistol had been taken from the clothing of each. From the junkman, too, had been taken a ring of keys. "One of these fit your door?" demanded Simmons. "Yes," growled the scowling one. "The long key." "Bring the prisoners along, Delmar," ordered the chief. "I'll lock up here. We'll come back later for a search." Out on the sidewalk Phin Drayne plucked up courage enough to find his voice. "For goodness' sake, let me go, Chief," he begged, falteringly. "I haven't done anything, although things look against me." "I guess we'll be able to put things enough against you," retorted the police official mockingly. "Think of my mother!" pleaded the wild boy. "Think of our family---one of the most respectable in town. Think of-----" "Oh, you're enough to make one tired," broke in Dave Darrin, in deep disgust. "You thought of Dick Prescott when you put up the job to have him arrested as a burglar, didn't you?" "Why, what do you mean? I didn't do anything to Dick Prescott," shouted Drayne angrily, or affecting to be angry. "Tell that to the marines," quoth Darrin contemptuously. "It was through following on your trail, Drayne, that I discovered the whole trick, and also knew just where to take the police to find you." An hour later Chief Simmons was well satisfied that he had laid the burglar scare in Gridley. Not that the new chief had had so very much to do with the result, either. The first move had been to get back to the Kahn store, where Dick Prescott was promptly freed, with the chief's hearty apologies. Over at the police station, by separating Drayne from his accomplice, Bill Stevens, the junkman, and questioning each separately, the whole story had come out, chiefly through frenzied confessions. Phin Drayne, loafing about town, and with his pocket money nearly cut off by his father, had formed the acquaintance of Stevens, who, besides being a junkman, was a very fair locksmith, though about the latter trade he had never bragged publicly. Drayne had been ripe for any move that would place him in more funds. So, first of all, he and Stevens had entered the commercial establishment of Drayne, senior. There, thanks to Phin's knowledge of the premises, they had made a very good-sized "haul." After that the pair had operated together frequently. Stevens' junk shop had offered a handy pace in which to hide the plunder. Then, as time went on, and Phin heard, by chance, that Dick and Dave were trying to catch the burglars in behalf of "The Blade,", a plan had occurred to Phin by which he might ruin Dick utterly in the eyes of the community. The whole plan had been carefully laid by Stevens and young Drayne. On this night, just after Conklin's drug store had been closed for the night, Stevens had slipped in a key that had opened a side door for him. Then the door was left closed but unlocked. At that hour of the night no one was likely to notice anyone who went in or out at the side door. And Conklin's was equipped with a public telephone. Then down to the alleyway had stolen the evil pair. Kahn's rear door had been opened with false keys and left ajar. Then Phin Drayne stole back to the junk shop, while Stevens, whose voice could not be recognized over the wire by Dick, sent the message. Next, back to where he could watch the alleyway, hurried Stevens, and hid. Stevens saw Dick Prescott slip into the alleyway, then go inside the store. That was enough for Stevens, who had slipped back and into the drug store once more, getting the police station on the wire and 'phoning to the chief that Gridley's burglars had just entered Kahn's through the rear door. Only a block and a half from Kahn's was the police station. Almost immediately the officers were on the spot, stalking---Dick Prescott. But, at the time when Dick left his own home and went down the street so hurriedly Dave Darrin had been sauntering along, to call his chum out on their nightly quest for "The Blade." Seeing Dick move so swiftly, Darrin concluded that something most unusual was about to happen. So Dave trailed swiftly in the rear. Thus it was that Darrin drew back just in time to see Bill Stevens slipping away from a hiding place at the head of that alleyway. "That does for Prescott," chuckled Stevens, half aloud. "Oh, it does, does it?" silently murmured alert Dave, and now he intently followed Stevens to the drug store, and thence back to the junk shop. Dave's next swift move was to rush back to Kahn's with the result already known. "Well, did you think the folks of Gridley would continue to believe such a charge against young Prescott?" demanded Chief Simmons of the sneak. "I knew some wouldn't, but I thought the whole affair would make such a row that Prescott would never be quite able to hold up his head in Gridley again," declared Drayne huskily. "But I thought that it would stop his thinking of going to West Point, anyway." "Instead of which," muttered Simmons dryly, "you'll get four years---or more, Drayne at some place that won't be West Point." "Oh, my father won't quite stand for that," returned Phin, a bit more loftily. "He has money and some family pride." "Money doesn't help much for confessed burglars," rejoined Chief Simmons. At that moment Heathcote Drayne, who had been roused out of bed by a policeman, came in, so white faced that Dick and Dave felt sorry indeed for the unhappy parent. But Dick didn't remain to see the meeting between father and son. Prescott and his chum hastened around to "The Blade" office. Gladly enough would both boys have kept Phin's disgrace from going before the public, but it was too big a story, locally, and was bound to come out. So Dick wrote a straight account, after which he and Dave hurried home to get the fag end of a night's rest. Gridley merchants lost but little, in the end, through the series of burglaries. Most of the plunder was recovered at the junk shop. Bill Stevens was sent to prison for a term of eight years. Phin, being only seventeen, was allowed to plead his youth. In his case justice was satisfied with his commitment to a reform school until he should be twenty-one years of age. And so ended the story of the mysterious burglaries. CHAPTER XXV Conclusion One evening about a week after these events Dick and Dave were sitting in the former's room chatting, when Greg Holmes and Dan Dalzell, apparently in great good humor, broke in upon them. "When do you go to West Point, Dick?" queried Greg. "I'm ordered to report to the adjutant there on the first of March," Prescott replied. "Mind my running up there with you?" demanded Greg. "Why, I'd be tickled to pieces, if you can afford the trip, Greg." "Oh, I guess I can," laughed the other boy. "Dad is going to pay my freight bill." "See here, you fellows, you can't have been reading the newspapers much, since you two were appointed," broke in Dan Dalzell. "What have we missed?" challenged Dave. "Why, didn't you know a thing about Senator Frayne and his appointments?" went on Dan Dalzell. "The Senator doesn't appoint from a single district. He appoints at large from the whole state. Senator Frayne announced, a while ago, two appointments-at-large, one for West Point, the other for Annapolis." "And we went up to the state capital yesterday," rattled on Greg. "We went through the examinations. The winners weren't named until this morning. You'll find it in the evening papers, later to-day. I go to West Point, and Dan goes to Annapolis." "What?" yelled Dick, leaping as high as he could jump. "Tell it to us again!" begged Darrin huskily. "Oh, it's all a fact, straight and right enough," Greg assured them happily. Then and there the four chums executed a war dance. It seemed too wonderful to believe. "But isn't Gridley the whole show?" demanded Dave presently. "Four cadetships in the same year to one little city!" "Well, we had to win 'em from other comers," retorted Greg. "And none of us are out of the woods yet. We've got to pass at West Point and at Annapolis. "This is great!" quivered young Prescott. "But wouldn't it be grand if only Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton had gotten in line, too, and gone along into the service with us? Then all of the old Dick & Co. would have been enrolled under the battle flag." "But you know what Tom told us," put in Darrin. "He said he wouldn't live at West Point, and he wouldn't be caught dead at Annapolis. Tom is all for becoming a great civil engineer---a builder of railroads and all that sort of thing." "Well, Harry Hazelton is just as bad," said Greg. "He's all for doing engineer stunts in the wilderness, too." "Here they come now," announced Dan Dalzell. Tom and Harry were heartily glad, of course, to hear of the luck that had befallen Greg and Dan. "We were just wishing that you two had fallen into the same kind of luck, and that you were going into uniform with us," declared Dick. Reade glared at Prescott. "Humph!" muttered Tom. "I thought you were a friend of mine!" "I judge it's a mighty good thing we don't all hunger for the same careers," laughed Harry. "For instance, all young fellows can't go into the United Service. There aren't jobs enough to go around. The United States Army is just about big enough to find with a good magnifying glass. As for the Navy-----" "Be careful," warned Darrin touchily. "As for the Navy," continued Hazelton, "Congress has a lot of officers trained and then seems to think that one new battleship every other year or so ought to keep the country patient." "You fellows are going to be downright happy, I know," resumed Tom. "But so are Harry and I. We finish out our High School work, and then our chance is ahead of us." "To _find_?" queried Dave. "No, sir! We've _got_ it," retorted Tom. "It came to us only recently, and Harry and I have been keeping a bit quiet, but now it is time to tell the news---just in the circle of Dick & Co." By dint of great hustling, and backed by recommendations from the local civil engineer, Reade and Hazelton had secured a chance, beginning in the coming July, to join as rodmen the engineering party that was laying a new railroad over the Rockies, in Colorado. Just before the first of March, Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes slipped quietly away, and reported at West Point. But what further happened to Dick and Greg---and there was a lot of it---must be reserved for the volumes of the new West Point series. The first volume will appear under the title, "_Dick Prescott's First Year at West Point; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray_." Later on Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell left Gridley and home for Annapolis. Their adventures will be followed up in the new Annapolis series. The first volume in this series will be entitled: "_Dave Darrin's First Year at Annapolis; Or, Two Plebes at the Naval Academy_." Nor did Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton fail of some very extraordinary adventures in their chosen career of engineering. Their career led them into some of the wild spots of the earth. It will all be told in the Young Engineer series. The first volume in this series will appear shortly under the caption: "_The Young Engineers in Colorado; Or, at Railroad Building in Earnest_." How about the other Gridley folks whose acquaintance has been so enjoyable? Fred Ripley? Well, as to Fred---when we first made his acquaintance, he was anything but an agreeable fellow, but he learned his lesson in time, and, under the wholesome influence of Dick & Co., but especially of Dick Prescott himself, Fred had become a different boy. Such is the effect of good example. As to the rest, many of them are bound to appear again, as we follow the fortunes of our Gridley boys through the tales of West Point, the annals of Annapolis and the doings of the Young Engineer Boys. So here we will leave them all for the moment, soon to renew the acquaintance of all who had any future share in the lives or thoughts of the six splendid young Americans who were once known to their classmates as Dick & Co. THE END 
12940	----	THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH OUT FOR THE PENNANT or In the Three Town League by Donald Ferguson CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. Some of the Scranton Boys II. The Man with the Cough III. Hugh has Suspicions IV. The Barnacle that Came to Stay V. Scranton Tackles Bellevue High VI. A Hot Finish VII. What Thad Saw VIII. A Bad Outlook for Brother Lu IX. Setting the Man Trap X. How Jim Pettigrew Fixed It XI. Something Goes Wrong XII. Scranton Fans Have a Painful Shock XIII. Hugh Tries His "Fade-Away" Ball XIV. Farmer Bernard Collects His Bill XV. The Puzzle is Far from Being Solved XVI. An Adventure on the Road XVII. The Wonderful News XVIII. When the Wizard Waves His Wand XIX. Scranton High Evens Matters Up XX. A Glorious Finish---Conclusion CHAPTER I SOME OF THE SCRANTON BOYS "Too bad that rain had to come, and spoil our practice for today, boys!" "Yes, and there's only one more chance for a work-out between now and the game with Belleville on Saturday afternoon, worse luck, because here it's Thursday." "We need all the practice we can get, because if that O.K. fellow, who dropped in to see us from Belleville, tells the truth, both his club and Allandale are stronger than last year. Besides, I hear they have each set their hearts on winning the championship of the Three Town High School League this season." "For one, I know I need more work at the bat. I've improved some, but I'm not satisfied with myself yet." "You've improved a whole lot, Owen!" "That's right, 'Just' Smith, he's made such progress in bunting, and picking out drops and curves and fast ones, under the watchful eye of our field captain, Hugh Morgan here, that several other fellows on the nine are below him in batting average right now, and I regret to say I'm one of the lot." The boy who answered to the name of Owen turned red at hearing this honest praise on the part of his fellow students of Scranton High; but his eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure at the same time. A bunch of well-grown and athletic-looking high-school boys had left the green campus, with its historical fence, behind them, and were on their way home. It was in the neighborhood of two o'clock, with school over for the day. Just as one of them had said, a drizzly rain in the morning had spoiled all chance for that day of doing any practice in the way of playing ball. Mr. Leonard, second principal of the Scranton schools under Dr. Carmack (who was also county supervisor, with dominion over the Allandale and Belleville schools), had consented to act as coach to the baseball team this season. He was a Princeton grad. and had gained quite some little fame as a member of the Tiger nine that swept Yale off its feet one great year. Besides Owen Dugdale, there were "Just" Smith, Thad Stevens, Hugh Morgan, Kenneth Kinkaid and Horatio Juggins in the bunch that started off from the school grounds in company, though they would presently break away as they neared their several homes. "Just" Smith had another name, for he had been christened Justin; but he himself, in answering to the calls for Smith, would always call out "Just Smith, that's all," and in the course of time it clung to him like a leech. Kenneth Kinkaid, too, was known far and wide as "K.K.," which of course was only an abbreviation of his name. Some said he was a great admirer of Lord Kitchener, who had recently lost his life on the sea when the vessel on which he had started for Russia was sunk by a German mine or submarine; and that Kenneth eagerly took advantage of his initials, being similar to those of Kitchener of Khartoum fame. Horatio Juggins was an elongated chap whose specialty, besides capturing balloon fliers out in right field with wonderful celerity, consisted in great throwing to the home plate, and also some slugging when at bat. Thad Stevens was the catcher, and a good one at that, everybody seemed to believe. He, too, could take his part in a "swat-fest" when a rally was needed to pull the Scranton boys out of a bad hole. Thad had always been a close chum of the captain of the team, Hugh Morgan. Together they had passed through quite a number of camp outings, and were said to be like twins, so far as never quarreling went. This same Hugh was really a clever fellow, well liked by most of the Scranton folks, who admired his high sense of honor. He was averse to fighting, and had really never been known to indulge in such things, owing to a promise made to his mother, the nature of which the new reader can learn if he wishes, by securing the first volume of this Series. In so doing he will also learn how on one momentous occasion the peace-loving Hugh was brought face to face with a dilemma as to whether he should hold his hand, and allow a weaker friend to be brutally mauled by the detestable town bully, Nick Lang, or stand up in his defense; also just how he acquitted himself in such an emergency. First "K.K." dropped away from the group as he came to the corner that was nearest his home. Boy-like, he sang out to the rest as he swung aside: "I'm as hungry as a bear, fellows, and I happen to know our hired girl's going to have corned beef and cabbage for noon today. That's said to be a plebeian dish, but it always appeals to me more than anything else." "Huh! you needn't boast, K.K.," said the Juggins boy, "over at _our_ house Thursday is religiously given over to vegetable soup, and I'm good for at least three bowls of it every time. Then it's also a baking day, so there'll be fresh bread rolls, as brown on the outside as nuts in November. Whew! I just can't hold back any longer," and with that Horatio started on a dog-trot through a short cut-off that would take him to a gate in the back fence of his home grounds. So presently when Owen and "Just" Smith had also separated themselves from the balance there were only Thad and Hugh remaining; nor did they waste any time in talking, for a high-school boy is generally ferociously hungry by the time two in the afternoon comes around; although at intermission, around eleven in the morning, in Scranton High they were given an opportunity to buy a lunch from the counter where a few substantial things, as well as fresh milk and chocolate, were dispensed by a woman who was under the supervision of the school directors. "Since our baseball practice is off for today, Thad," remarked Hugh, as they were about to separate, "suppose you drop over and join me. I've got an errand out a short distance in the country, and we can walk it, as the roads are too muddy and slippery for our wheels." "Yes, I have hated riding on slippery roads ever since I had that nasty spill, and hurt my elbow last winter," replied the other, rubbing his left arm tenderly at the same time, as though even the recollection after months had passed caused him to have tender memories of the pain he had endured. "Lucky it wasn't my right wing that got the crack, Hugh, because it sometimes feels sore even now, and I'm sure it would interfere with my throwing down to second. But of course I'll join you. I've nothing else that I want to this afternoon." "Mother asked me if I'd go out to the Sadler Farm for her the first chance I got, and already it's been put off too long, owing to our keeping continually at practice every afternoon this week. She gets her fresh sweet butter from Mrs. Sadler, and their horse is sick, so they don't deliver it nowadays. Look for you inside of half an hour, Thad." "I'll be along, never fear," sang out his chum, as he hurried off, doubtless smelling in imagination the fine warm lunch his devoted mother always kept for him on the back of the stove. Thad was at the back door of the Morgan house inside of the stipulated time, and being perfectly at home there he never bothered knocking, but stalked right in, to find Hugh doing something in his own room. Like most high-school boys' "dens," this apartment was a regular curiosity shop, for the walls were fairly covered with college pennants, and all manner of things connected with athletic sports, as well as pictures that indicated a love for fishing and gunning on the part of the young occupant; but every illustration was well chosen, and free from the slightest taint of anything bordering on the vulgar or the sensational. There was not a single picture of a notorious or famous boxer; or any theatrical beauties, to be seen. Evidently Hugh's fancy ran along the lines of clean sport, and healthy outdoor exercise. So the two chums started off for a walk, their pace a brisk one, because the air after that recent spell of rain was quite cool and invigorating, Indeed, once Thad even deplored the fact that Mr. Leonard had thought it best to call off practice for that afternoon. "Well," remarked Hugh on hearing him say that, "Mr. Leonard was of the opinion we were rather overdoing the matter, and might go stale. He told me so, and said that in his experience he had known more than a few teams to overdo things, and lose their best gait in too much work. He says one more test ought to put the proper fighting spirit in us, and that he feels confident we'll be keyed up to top-notch speed by tomorrow night. I think our pitcher, Alan Tyree, is doing better than ever before in his life; and those Belleville sluggers are going to run up against a surprise if they expect him to be an easy mark." In due time they reached the farm, and securing several pounds of freshly-made butter that had not even been salted, and was called "sweet butter," they started back. Thad proposed that they take a roundabout route home, just for a change; and this small thing was fated to bring them into contact with a trifling adventure that would cause them both considerable bewilderment, and be a cause for conjecture for days and weeks to come. "I smell wood smoke," remarked Thad, after they had gone about a third of the distance; "and as the wind is almost dead ahead the fire must be in that direction. There's no house in that quarter that I remember, Hugh. There, now can see smoke coming out of that thin patch of woods yonder. I wonder if they're meaning to cut those trees down and clear more land?" "No, you're away off there, Thad," remarked Hugh, just then. "I can glimpse the fire now, and there's just one chap hanging over it. Don't you see he's a Weary Willie of a hobo, who's getting his dinner ready with wet wood. Here's a chance for us to see just how the thing is done, so let's make him a friendly call!" CHAPTER II THE MAN WITH THE COUGH Thad seemed quite agreeable. "Do you know I've never come in close contact with any tramp," he went on to remark, as they turned their faces toward the patch of trees where the smoke arose, "and I've always wanted to watch just how they managed. I note that this fellow has a couple of old tomato cans he's picked up on some dump, and they're set over the fire to warm up some coffee, or something he's evidently gotten at a back door. Perhaps he'll be sociable, and invite us to join him in his afternoon meal. I guess they eat at any old time, just as the notion seizes them, eh, Hugh?" "They're a good deal like savages in that respect, I understand," the other told him. "You know Indians often go a whole day without breaking their fast; but when they do eat they stuff themselves until they nearly burst. There, he has seen us coming in, for he's shading his eyes with his hand, and taking a good look." "I hope we haven't given him a scare," chuckled Thad, "under the impression that one of us may be the sheriff, or some indignant farmer who's lost some of his chickens lately, and traced them feathers to this camping spot." The hobo, however, did not attempt to run. He watched their approach with interest, and even waved a friendly hand toward the two lads. "Why, evidently he's something of a jolly dog," remarked the surprised Thad, "and there are no chicken feathers around that I can notice. Hello, bo', getting your five o'clock tea ready, I see." At these last words, called out louder than ordinary, the man in the ragged and well-worn garments grinned amiably. "Well, now, young feller," he went on to say in a voice that somehow was not unpleasant to Hugh's ear, "that's about the size of it. I haven't had a bite since sun-up this morning, and I'm near caving in. Out for a walk, are you, lads?" "Oh! we live in Scranton," Hugh explained, "and I had an errand up beyond. We went by another road, and came back this way, which is why we sighted your smoke. Fact is, Thad, my chum here, has never seen a knight of the railroad ties cooking his grub, and he said he'd like to drop in and learn just how you managed, because he's read so much about how splendidly tramps get on." "That's all right, young feller," said the other, cheerily. "Find seats on that log yonder. I ain't got much in my larder today, but what there is will fill a mighty big vacuum in my interior, let me tell you. This here is coffee in the first can---mebbe not just what you boys is accustomed to at your breakfast tables, but good enough for me when it's piping hot. I don't take any frills with wine either, in the way of cream and sugar, leaving all that for those that sit at white tablecloths and have silver as well as china dishes. In this other can I've got some soup. Never mind where I got it; some ladies, bless their hearts, are pretty kind; and I always make it a point to carry several empty tomater cans with me wherever I go. Besides that, in this newspaper here I've got some bread, and two fine pieces of bologna sausage that I bought in a village I came through. So altogether I'm expecting to have a right swell feast pretty soon." Thad looked interested in these things. He even peeped into the two cans, and decided that wherever the tramp got that coffee it certainly could be no "slops," for it had the real odor. The warmed-over soup, too, smelled very appetizing, Thad admitted. On the whole, he concluded that tramps were able to make out very well, when they knew the ropes of the game, and how to beg at back doors. Hugh, on the other hand, was more interested in the man himself than in his limited possessions. He saw that the other was past middle age, for his face was covered with a bristly beard of a week's growth, verging on gray. His cheeks were well filled out, and his blue eyes had what Hugh determined was a humorous gleam about them, as though the man might be rather fond of a joke. He was the picture of what a regular tramp should be, there could be no getting around that, Hugh determined. He rather believed that, like most of his kind, this fellow also had a history back of him, which would perhaps hardly bear exploiting. Doubtless there were pages turned down in his career, things that he himself seldom liked to remember, giving himself up to a life of freedom from care, and content to take things each day as they came along, under the belief that there were always sympathetic women folks to be found who would not refuse a poor wanderer a meal, or a nickel to help him along his way. Apparently he had been just about ready to sit down and make way with his meal at the time the boys arrived on the scene; for he now took both tin carts from their resting places over the red embers of his fire, and opening the package produced the bread and the bologna. This latter looked big enough to serve a whole family of six; but then a tramp's appetite is patterned very much on the order of a growing boy's, and knows no limit. Having spread his intended food around him as he squatted there, the hobo gave the boys a queer look. "You'll excuse me if I don't ask you to join me, youngsters," he went on to say. "I'd do the same in a jiffy if the supply wasn't limited; besides, I don't know just what sort of a reception I'm going to meet with in your town." "Oh! no apologies needed, old chap," said Thad, quickly. "We had our lunch only an hour or so ago and couldn't take a bite to save us now. But say everything seems mighty good, if the smell counts for much. So pitch right in and fill up. We'll continue to sit here and chat with you, if you don't mind, Bill." "That's all right, governor, only my name don't happen to be Bill, even if I belong to the tribe of Weary Willies. I'm known far and wide as Wandering Lu; because, you see, I've traveled all over the whole known world, and been in every country the sun shines on. Just come from the oil regions down in Texas, because, well, my health is failing me, and I'm afraid I'm going into a decline." At that he started to coughing at a most tremendous rate. Thad looked sympathetic. "You certainly do seem to have a terribly bad cold, Lu," he told the tramp, as the other drew out a suspicious looking red handkerchief that had seen better days, to wipe the tears from his eyes, after he had succeeded in regaining his breath, following the coughing spell. The man put a dirty hand in the region of his heart and winced. "Hurts most around my lungs," he said, "and mebbe I've got the con. I spent some time in a camp where fifty poor folks was sleeping under canvas down in Arizona, and I'm a whole lot afraid I may have caught the disease there. So, being afraid my time would soon come I just made up my mind to look up a sister of mine that I ain't heard a word from for twenty years or more, and see if she was in a position to support me the short time I'd have to live." Thad heard this with evident interest. At the same time it occurred to him the stalwart tramp was hardly a fit subject for a speedy death; indeed, he looked as though he might hold out for a good many years still, except when he fell into one of those coughing spells, and seemed to be racked from head to foot with the exertion. Hugh saw that the fellow had an engaging manner, and a smooth tongue. He was trying to make out just what sort of a man this same Lu might be, if one could read him aright. Was he crooked, and inclined to evil ways; or, on the other hand, could he be taken at face value and set down as a pretty square sort of a fellow? "Listen, young fellers," remarked the still eating hobo, later on, "didn't you tell me you lived in the place called Scranton, when you're to home?" "Yes, that's so," Thad assured him. "Know anybody there, Lu, and do you want us to take him your best compliments?" The tramp grinned amiably. "I reckon you're something of a joker, younker," he went on to say. "Now, about the folks in Scranton, I suppose you boys know about everybody in town?" "Well, hardly that," Hugh told him, "since Scranton is a place of some seven or eight thousand inhabitants, and new people are constantly coming in." "All the same," added Thad, "we do know a good many, and it's just as likely we might be acquainted with your friend. What's his name, Wandering Lu?" "First place, it ain't a he at all, but a lady," the other explained, looking a little serious for once. "Oh! excuse the mistake, will you?" chuckled Thad, highly amused at the airs the disreputable looking grizzled old chap put on when he made this statement. "Well, we have some acquaintance among the ladies of the town also. They're nearly all deeply interested just now in helping Madame Pangborn do Red Cross work for her beloved poilus over in brave France. I suppose now you've traveled through that country in your time, Lu?" "Up and down and across it for hundreds of miles, afoot, and in trains," quickly replied the old fellow, "and say, there ain't any country under the sun that appeals more to me than France did. If I was twenty years younger, hang me if I wouldn't find a way to cross over there now, and take my place in the trenches along with them bully fighters, the French frog-eaters. But I'm too old; and besides, this awful cough grips me every once in so often." Even the mention of it set him going again, although this time the spasm was of shorter duration, Hugh noticed; just as though he had shown them what he could do along such lines, and did not want to exhaust himself further. "But about this lady friend of yours, Lu, would you mind mentioning her name, and then we could tell you if we happen to know any such person in Scranton?" and Thad gave the other a confiding nod as if to invite further confidence. "Let's see, it was so long back I almost forget that her name was changed after she got hitched to a man. Do you happen to know a chap who goes by the name of Andrew Hosmer?" The boys exchanged looks. "That must be the sick husband of Mrs. Hosmer, who sews for my mother," remarked Thad, presently. "Yes, I remember now that his first name is Andrew." "Tell me," the tramp went on, now eagerly, "is his wife living, do you mean, younker, this Mrs. Hosmer, and is her name Matilda?" "Just what it happens to be," Thad admitted. "So she is the lady you want to see, is she, Lu? What can poor old Mrs. Hosmer, who has seen so much trouble of late years, be to you, I'd like to know?" The man allowed a droll look to come across his sun-burned face with its stubbly growth of gray beard. There was also a twinkle in his blue eyes as he replied to this query on the part of Thad Stevens. "What relation, you ought to say, younker, because Matilda, she's my long-lost sister, and the one I'm a-hopin' will nurse me from now on till my time comes to shuffle off this planet and go hence!" The two boys heard this stunning announcement with mingled feelings. Thad looked indignant while Hugh on his part tried to read between the lines, and understand whether there could be any meaning to the tramp's declaration than what appeared on the face of it. CHAPTER III HUGH HAS SUSPICIONS "Well, old man," remarked Thad, "I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment about as soon as you strike Scranton; because if Mrs. Hosmer is your long-lost sister, she isn't in any position to help you pass the time away till you kick the bucket. Why, even as it is, she has a hard time getting along, and my mother as well as some of the other ladies give her sewing to do to help tide over. She can hardly make enough to keep herself and her husband going." The tramp shook his head sadly. "Say, I'm right grieved to hear that, son," he went on to observe, seriously. "Course it's goin' to be a hard blow to poor old Lu, after working his way up here all these months, and nearly coughing his head off at times, to find out that his only relation in the wide world ain't well off in this world's goods. But then Matilda she always was soft-hearted, and mebbe now she might find a hole in her humble home where her poor old brother could stay the short time he's got in this world of trouble and sorrow. I could do with less to eat if I had to, gents; and blood was always thicker'n water with Matilda." Thad felt indignant. The idea of this sleek-looking old rascal settling down on his poor sister, and making her support him, was too much for his temper. "Well, I'd be ashamed if I were you, Wandering Lu, to even think of letting any woman earn my living for me, no matter if she did happen to be a sister. As it is, she's hard pushed at times to get enough food together for herself and her husband." "Why, what's the matter with Andrew; why can't he do his share?" demanded the other, boldly, and Thad thought he looked disgusted at the poor prospect before him. "Mr. Hosmer is really sick," explained the boy; "and there's no humbug about his ailment, either. I heard the doctor tell my mother that it was partly due to a lack of substantial food for years. You see, the woman herself was ill for a long time, and her husband worked himself to skin and bone trying to provide for her. Then she got over her trouble, and now it's his turn to go under. He has tried to work a number of times, but fainted at his bench in the shop from sheer weakness." "Gee! I'm sorry to hear that," muttered the other, shrugging his broad shoulders as he spoke, and shaking his head from side to side, as though he feared some hope he had been cherishing was on the point of vanishing. "But then mebbe Andrew he may get better again, and be able to work at his trade, because if I really got consumption there ain't any chance for me to be doin' in this world." Thad showed signs of growing angry, but pinched his arm, and muttered in his ear: "Just hold your horses, Thad. We can't stop him, if he's set on seeing his sister, you know. And besides, perhaps they'll turn him away from the door. He's a queer sort of a chap, and I just can't quite make out whether he's a scamp or a big joke. Let's keep quiet, and see which way the cat jumps." Thad heaved a sigh, but did not say anything to the tramp that he may have had in his mind, and which possibly Wandering Lu might have resented. The man had continued his meal and was in something of a reflective frame of mind apparently. Hugh supposed he was wondering what he was going to do after coming so far in hopes of finding a snug nest for the remainder of his idle days, and meeting with a possible disappointment. "Say, young fellers, I'm going to ask a favor of you," he suddenly remarked, as he brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, signifying that he had finished his meal, and did this in lieu of using a napkin. "What is it you want?" asked Thad, a bit ungraciously, it must be confessed. "Of course, you know just where Matilda lives in Scranton," observed the man, insidiously; "and mebbe now you wouldn't mind if I walked along with so you point out her home to me when we get near it?" "Ought we do it, Hugh?" flashed Thad, turning toward his chum. "What's the harm?" asked the other, instantly. "He can soon find it by asking at some house, whether we help him or not. Why, yes, we'll accommodate you, Lu; but I wouldn't be too hopeful if I were you, about their asking you to stay over, because the times are out of joint nowadays, food getting higher every day, and money hard to pick up, since Uncle Sam's just jumped into the big war game." "But my sister Matilda she always did have a tender heart, and wouldn't see a poor stray cat go hungry if so be she had a bite of food," the tramp went on to say in the most unblushing way possible. "Unless she's changed a heap she'll let me stay a while with her anyhow. Mebbe I'll pick up some if I get good care, and can go on the road again if the worst comes. But I'm much obliged to you for saying as how you'd show me her humble home. It'll be mighty fine for a poor old rolling stone like me to get under the roof of a blood relative, which ain't been my luck for over twenty years." He hastened to gather his scanty belongings together. When the pack was complete be slung it across his back, and gave Hugh a nod. Somehow even this tramp seemed to understand that Hugh Morgan was the leader among his mates; perhaps it was his expression of firmness that told the story, for there was certainly nothing of the "boss" air about the boy to indicate as much. "I'm all ready, if you are, younkers," the tramp said. "Then we'll be off," remarked Hugh, Putting his words into action. Thad began to wonder what any of their acquaintances would say should they happen to see them in company with Wandering Lu. The tramp looked so utterly disreputable that Thad disliked being discovered with him; and yet Hugh, who looked deeper than his companion, was surprised to notice that this dirt had the appearance of being rather new and fresh. The fact caused him to take further notice of the man, about whom he felt there rested quite a little air of mystery. As they walked along the road headed for town, Thad's curiosity got the better of his dislike and suspicion. "In all this twenty years of knocking about, ail over the world, as you claim, I suppose now there have been times when you've struck pay dirt--what I mean is that I sort of think you haven't always been what you are now, just a tramp? How about that, Wandering Lu?" "What, me?" chuckled the other. "Say, I've dug gold in Alaska, hunted pearls down near Ceylon, been at work in the diamond fields out in South Africa, and in lots of other places in the world took my turn at playing for high stakes with old Dame Fortune. Why, younkers, I've had fortunes several times, and let the same slip out of my hands. Some time, mebbe, if so be, I conclude to stay around this section of country, which pleases me a heap as far as I've seen the same, why I'd like to spin you a yarn or two that'd make your eyes look as big as them there individual butter plates they use in restaurants. I've run up against heaps and heaps of queer adventures. In fact, it's a wonder I didn't die long ago with my boots on. That's what peeves me, to think a feller who's been so close to death by violence so many times should after all be snuffed out with the pesky con." Then he had another spell of violent coughing that quite aroused the sympathy of Thad afresh, while Hugh observed and took note. According to his mind, these fits of near strangulation were almost too methodical to be genuine; still, he did not wish to condemn any one without positive proof, though laboring under the impression that the said Lu could not be as far gone as he tried to make them believe. Presently they arrived in the environs of Scranton. The boys went out of their way to accommodate their disreputable looking companion, for they would have struck across by another street if going home direct. "Mrs. Hosmer lives in that small cottage ahead of us," Hugh was saying, pointing as he spoke. The tramp stared, and nodded his head. "Looks right neat, accordin' to my notion," he said. "Matilda was always a great hand for keeping things clean. Now, I rather reckon I'll like this place a heap." Thad burned with fresh indignation to hear him so coolly signify his intention of burdening the already hard pressed sister with his keep. "Oh! is that so?" he snorted, "then I kind of think you'll have to get a move on you, Wandering Lu, and remove a few pounds of superfluous earth from your face and hands." The man did not show any sign of being offended at this attack; simply looked at his hands, and grinned as he remarked: "Reckon that I will, younker; but then soap is cheap, and I wouldn't want to soil Matilda's clean sheets and towels. Yes, if I'm going to become domesticated and give up all this roving business I suppose I'll just have to clean up a bit. Wonder now if Andrew he would have an extra suit of clothes he could turn over to me. I'd sure hate to make my poor sister blush to introduce her brother looking as tough as I do just now." "There's Mrs. Hosmer coming along the street," said Hugh at that juncture. "She's got a bundle with her, so I expect she's been getting more sewing to do from your mother or mine, Thad. And that's Mr. Hosmer just opened the door to let her in. He's been watching for her, no doubt, because they say he's always been a mighty good husband, and it nearly kills him to see her working so hard while he keeps on being too weak to be at his trade. We'll meet her at the door." They walked along, and stopped just as the good woman came up. Mrs. Hosmer had snow-white hair, and a most amiable countenance. Every one who knew her understood that the poor woman possessed a big heart, and would share her last crust with a hungry man or child. Thad, gritting his teeth at what he anticipated he would see, watched the meeting. Hugh answered her pleasant greeting by saying: "We chanced to come across a man who was inquiring for you, Mrs. Hosmer, and as he asked us to show him where you lived we have fetched him along. He can speak for himself now." The woman turned to look at the tramp. Up to then she had hardly noticed him, but now something seemed to stir within her bosom. They saw her start, and bending, look more closely, at the same time turning paler than usual. "Oh! who can it be?" she said, weakly. "I seem to see something familiar about the figure, and the face, but it's impossible, for my brother Lu has long been dead." "That's where you're mistaken, Matilda, because I'm that same Luther Corbley, and still alive and in the flesh, though pretty far gone, I'm afraid," and he acted as if about to start into one of his hysterical coughing spells, then thought better of it, because Matilda was rushing toward him, dropping her bundle as she came. Paying no attention to his soiled and ragged clothes, the good woman threw her arms about the neck of her long-lost brother, and actually kissed him again and again on his rough cheek. Hugh, watching closely, could see the man assume a pleased look, and once he thought he caught Wandering Lu actually winking his left eye in his direction, as though to say: "You see, she never will let me die on the road!" CHAPTER IV THE BARNACLE THAT CAME TO STAY The man in the doorway, Andrew Hosmer, had watched this remarkable scene with a variety of emotions. He realized that something in the nature of a calamity had come upon them, for if his poor, hard-working wife had found it difficult, even with the generous help of good friends in Scranton, to provide food for the two of them, however could she manage to add still another to the household, and feed a third mouth? Still, this man was undoubtedly Luther Corbley, the brother of whom she had so often talked, and who was believed to be long since dead, because he led such an adventurous life. And surely they could not be so inhuman as to deny him at least temporary shelter, and a share of their slender meals. So, greatly to the disgust of Thad in particular, Mr. Hosmer now came forward to offer his hand to the tramp, who took it eagerly. The look on Brother Lu's face impressed Hugh as one of strange import. He could not make it out at all, and even found himself vaguely wondering whether this man might not after all be some sort of artful impostor, who, having learned about the lost brother, chose to play the part simply to be well taken care of for a time. But then surely Matilda would soon be able to tell, when she got to talking of their childhood days. A thousand things were apt to come up, and even a cunning schemer could not help betraying his vast ignorance along such lines. About this time Brother Lu seemed to have one of his periodical outbursts of violent coughing. Indeed, he rather outdid himself on this occasion, as though determined to make a good showing before his newly-found relatives, and thus enlist their full-fledged sympathy in the start. Matilda seemed fairly shocked as he strained, and writhed, and almost burst a blood vessel with his efforts. Thad stood and watched, his lip curling as though he could no longer be deceived. To him the whole thing was now very much in the nature of a fraud, a delusion, and a snare. He did not doubt the identity of Brother Lu, but as to the genuine nature of his malady, that was another question entirely, and Thad could not be impressed again. He fully believed the man was faking sickness just to gain the sympathy of these simple people, and work out the game he had in view, which Thad was convinced was to make a snug nest for himself during the rest of the summer, perhaps for all time. "Let's be going along, Hugh," he said, as he wheeled on his chum, the light of honest indignation glowing in his eyes; "this thing is making me feel sick, and I can't stand much more of it!" Hugh himself was agreeable. He intended, however, to see considerably more of Brother Lu in the immediate future, and expected to be able to gauge the fellow for what he really was. If he felt positive that there was a chance of his being an impostor, Hugh would consider it his duty to warn Mr. Hosmer, so that with the help of his wife they might catch the fellow in some sort of trap and expose him. Even though he did turn out to be the genuine article, Hugh felt that it would be a shame to have him hanging on the poor couple, and causing Matilda to work harder than ever to provide food, while possibly this able bodied tramp led a lazy sort of an existence. Accordingly the two boys strolled on, not having far to go in order to reach Hugh's home, where he could deliver the "sweet butter" he had gone out to the farm after. Just as Hugh anticipated, Thad "boiled over" as soon as they were out of earshot of the Hosmer cottage. Turning to look back he had seen the wretched hobo being tenderly escorted into the little dwelling, hardly more than a dove-cote in point of size, Matilda on one side, and her husband on the other; and the sight caused Thad to grit his teeth savagely. "I tell you it's a burning shame for that husky fraud to impose himself on that poor old couple the way he has done," grumbled Thad. "He's no more sick than I am. Didn't you see how he devoured all that food at a sitting? No man wasting away with consumption could stuff like that. And see how fat he is in the bargain; why, he'd make two of old Mr. Hosmer. Yet they are ready to take him in, feed him three meals a day, give him the best bed in the house, most likely, and for an indefinite time. Uh! thunder! it makes me furious just to think of it." Hugh was amused at seeing Thad act in this way, because it was so unlike his usual cool demeanor. Undoubtedly he was, as he had said, indignant from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. "We'll both of us keep an eye on Brother Lu," remarked Hugh, "and try to learn his little game. You know he asked us to come over and see him, when he would keep his promise to tell us some thrilling yarns about his adventures in many lands." "Oh! I've no doubt the fellow has a slick tongue in his mouth, and can spin stories that haven't a particle of foundation except in his brain. He's no ignoramus, that's sure, and if he hasn't traveled in all those countries he's read about the same, and can talk everlastingly about things he imagines he's seen." "But all the while we'll be watching to trip him up, don't you see?" the other continued. "I'll set Matilda to fixing a trap or two that will settle the question about his being the man he says he is." "Oh! I'm not thinking so much about that!" burst out Thad, "even if he is Luther Corbley, her own brother, that isn't the main trouble. It's about his fastening himself like a barnacle or a leech on them that I hate to consider. It makes me think of bow the Old Man of the Sea, after being helped by Sindbad the Sailor, refused to get off his benefactor's shoulders when asked. That's what this chap means to do, get so comfortably settled that nothing can dislodge him." "We'll see about that," snapped Hugh, his eyes sparkling now. "Some of the good people of the town who are interested in the welfare of Mr. Hosmer and his wife will object, and so Brother Lu may have to trudge along again." "I'm afraid you'll run up against a snag when you try that sort of thing, Hugh. That snag will be the affection of Matilda. She's _awfully_ tender-hearted, you can see, and would rather go hungry herself than that any one related to her should suffer, even a little. Just think of that beast being installed in their home. Every time he thinks it necessary to stir up a little extra sympathy he'll start that old gag of coughing to work again. Oh! I feel as if I could willingly help duck him in Hobson's Mill-pond, or give him a ride out of town on a rail some fine night." Hugh had to laugh at hearing this honest outburst. "No use talking, you don't seem to have much feeling for the woes of a poor old homeless tramp, Thad," he told his chum. "Well, I haven't, if you want me to give you the honest truth," said Thad, bluntly; "in my humble opinion any husky man who is willing to loaf around and let a delicate woman like Matilda Hosmer labor for his support doesn't deserve a grain of pity. Remember, Hugh, I'm not referring to her husband, who is a good fellow, and doing all he can to get his strength back again, so he can go to his trade, and allow her to take things easier. I'm going to tell my folks all about it. The women of this town ought to do something to influence Mrs. Hosmer, if she persists in letting that hulk of a lazybones stay with her, and be fed at her expense." "That might be a bright idea, in good time," assented Hugh. "Surely our mothers would know how to manage, and could get Matilda to give the man his walking papers; though on second thought I really believe she would refuse, even if they declared they would have to decline to assist her further unless she chased Brother Lu away from her cottage home. He knows her character, too, because you remember how he told us Matilda always was a tender-hearted thing, and would not stand by and see a wretched dog suffer if she could prevent it by any personal sacrifice." Thad did not reply immediately, but made a number of highly significant gestures, of a nature to cause Hugh to fancy the other were punching some fellow's head in a satisfactory fashion. And somehow actions spoke louder than words in that case. "Don't let this queer business weigh too heavily on your mind, Thad," warned the other, as they prepared to separate. "We've got a game ahead of us, remember, and it's mighty important that the catcher behind the bat should keep his wits about him." "I guess I know all that, Hugh," chuckled Thad. "Once I get to playing ball, and there's going to be nothing interfere with my work as a backstop. I'm feeling in tip-top condition right now, and everything working right expect to be a factor in bringing Belleville down into the dust day after tomorrow." "Once we get that game pulled off," observed Hugh, "and we won't have another championship one for two weeks, because Allendale and Belleville meet the next Saturday, though we expect to play another team from Jenkintown, just to keep our hands in, you know. Our next job will be to hustle with that strong Allendale combination, that broke up everything last season, and went through with only one defeat." "But next week, with nothing on our hands, Hugh, we can turn our attention to this miserable business again, can't we?" "Why, I know of no reason to prevent it," observed the other. "Let's hope that by then Brother Lu will have decided town life is too dull for him, and be once more holding down the railroad ties in his journeying through the country. I've read that it's mighty hard for a genuine tramp to settle down to any civilized sort of existence. You see, they're of a sort of migrating gypsy breed, and get as uneasy as a fish out of water when stalled for any length of time." "'Course that would settle it all beautifully," agreed Thad, with a relieved look on his honest face; "but according to my mind it would be too good to come true. That sly chap means to play the game to the limit. As long as he isn't half starved he'll hang on there, and work upon the sympathy of those poor people. The only sure way to get him dislodged would be to cut his rations short; though to do that you'd have to hurt Matilda and her sick husband. But give me a little time, and I'll fix him, that's right, I will!" If Brother Lu could only have seen and heard all this he might have been made a bit uneasy, under the conviction that his soft berth in his sister's home was not going to prove such an easy snap as the conditions seemed to imply. Hugh found himself wondering just how the fellow would take it. Brother Lu was becoming something of a mystery to Hugh, and he was already making up his mind that it would afford him great pleasure to study the rogue still further, and see what that sly gleam or twinkle in his blue eyes really stood for. "Come over tonight, Thad, and we'll talk matters over again---baseball matters, I mean, of course," Hugh called out as his chum started away. "Just as you say, Hugh, though I was expecting that you'd favor me with a call. There are a few little things that had ought to be straightened out before we hit that slugging nine over in Belleville. I hope Alan Tyree keeps up his good work in the box. Lately he's seemed to be doing finely, and Mr. Saunders declares he could mow down a lot of heavy hitters in the college league. Well, we'll know more about a heap of things when Saturday night comes around. See you later, then, Hugh!" CHAPTER V SCRANTON TACKLES BELLEVUE HIGH There was quite a big crowd at Belleville when the time came for the game to start on Saturday afternoon. Scranton had sent a hustling delegation of many hundreds of enthusiastic people, most of whom were young folks, deeply interested in the fortunes of their school team, led by Hugh Morgan. The scene was a pretty one, for, it being a warm day, the girls were out in force, dressed in all the colors of the rainbow, and waving their school pennants with a patriotic fervor that did them full credit. Then there were the groups of students belonging to each of the rival high schools, with some fellow to lead them in cheering; they promised to make it a day long to be remembered with their collective noise and hearty concerted shouting. Already the two teams were in evidence, Scranton being at practice, with the use of the field for fifteen minutes. Some were knocking out flies and fierce ground balls to the fielders; while the catcher varied the monotony of things by sending down speedy balls to second to catch an imaginary runner from first, after which Julius Hobson or Owen Dugdale would start the ball around the circuit like lightning before it reached the hand of the batter again. All this preliminary work was being watched with more or less interest by the vast crowd of spectators. There were many who pretended to be able to gauge the capacity and fielding power of a club in this stage, but experienced onlookers knew the fallacy of such a premature decision. Often the very fellows who displayed carelessness in practice would stiffen up like magic when the game was actually started, and never make a sloppy play from that time on, their throwing being like clock-work and their stopping of hard hit bounders simply gilt-edged. The umpire was on the ground, and would soon be donning his mask for work behind the bat. He was a former Yale graduate, and as he lived in Jenkintown, would not be inclined to favor any one of the three clubs representing the High School League. Besides, Mr. Hitchens was a man held high in esteem by everyone who knew him, and his decisions were not likely to be questioned, since everyone felt certain he would be strictly impartial, and say what he believed to be so. When the time limit had expired the players came in, and the two field captains were seen in consultation, as though there might be something in the way of ground rules to be settled before play was called. The crowd was so large that in several places it had worked over into the field, and a rope had to be stretched to keep the spectators from bothering the players. It was understood that a hit in a certain quarter amidst the spectators would be counted a two-bagger. To secure a home run on the Belleville grounds the batter must send his ball in a direct line for center, and far above the fielder's head. The ground has a slight slope there, and once a good start was made it was likely to elude the running fielder long enough to allow a fast sprinter to circle the bases. Hugh had never played on the Belleville grounds before, but he always made it a practice to closely examine every field before starting a game, and discovering its weak spots. Now he realized that Belleville must be well aware of that small slope, and the possibilities it had for a home run. Doubtless the Belleville boys had all been trained to aim their guns in that direction, with the hope of accumulating a number of four-base hits during the progress of a game. The visitors, not being wise to the fact, would waste much of their surplus energy in sending out hits to the side of the field where, no matter how vigorous the wallops might be, still they would only count for two bases. So Hugh gave each and every one of the boys the secret, and the "heavies" were implored to do their utmost to send their hits straight ahead, and high over the head of fielder Major, who did duty in the middle garden. They assured him they would not be found wanting when the time came, though, of course, much must depend on how they were able to gauge the slants and drops of the artful Kinsey, pitcher for Belleville. When the two high-school nines took the field they were found to consist of the following players in their batting order: Scranton High Player Position -------------------------------------- "Just" Smith Left Field Joe Danvers First Base Horatio Juggins Right Field Owen Dugdale Short Stop Hugh Morgan Third Base (Field capt.) "K.K." (Ken Kinkaid) Center Field Julius Hobson Second Base Alan Tyree Pitcher Thad Stevens Catcher Belleville High Player Position -------------------------------------- Conway Left Field Gould First Base Wright Right Field Waterman Shortstop "O.K." Kramer Third Base Major Center Field O'Malley Second Base Kinsey Pitcher Leonard Catcher Of course the home team elected to go into the field in the opening inning. This brought "Just" Smith to the bat to start things moving. Well, he proved to be the "round peg in the round hole," for what did he do but tap the very first ball up for as pretty a single as any one would want to see. This was certainly a good beginning. Joe Danvers "whiffed out" after knocking several foul strikes. That was one down, but the eager Scranton fans were saying to each other: "Notice that our fellows don't seem to have any trouble as yet in getting to Arthur Kinsey this fine afternoon! Oh! wait till they limber up, and you'll see them knock him out of the box." "Yes, just wait," some of the local rooters would call out, "and see how he mows your fellows down in one, two, three style. Arthur always starts in easy and stiffens up as he goes along. He has pitched two games in an afternoon, and won both. They do say he was better at the end of the eighteen innings than when he started. Yes, please don't take snap judgment on our poor pitcher. There, did you see how Joe Danvers nearly broke his back trying to hit a ball that didn't come within a foot of the plate. He'll have them all guessing pretty soon and eating out of his hand. The game is long, my brother, don't settle it in the first inning." Owen got in his little bunt, all right, and succeeded in advancing the runner to second, as well as saving his own bacon. So there were two on the bags, and as many down, when Hugh stepped up and took a chance at the offerings of the wily Kinsey. Hugh managed to pick out a good one and sent it like a bullet straight at the shortstop, who knocked it down; and finding that he could not reach first in time, as Hugh was jumping along like the wind, sent it over to second, where he caught Owen just by a fraction of an inch, and Mr. Hitchens waved him off; so after all the brave start, no score resulted. In their half of the first, Belleville did no better. In fact, they only got a man on first through an error on the part of Joe Danvers, who unfortunately slipped in reaching for the ball, and as his foot was not on the bag the umpire called the runner safe. But he died there, Alan Tyree cutting the next two men down as a mower in the field might the ripe grain with his scythe. Again did Scranton make a bid for a run in the next deal, but once more slipped up when hope had begun to grip the hearts of many of the anxious home rooters. In this inning "K.K." struck out, Julius Hobson was sent to the bench on a foul that Wright out in the field managed to settle under after a lively run; Tyree got a Texas league hit that allowed him to plant himself on first, and Thad slipped one over into the bleachers in right that, according to the ground rules, allowed him to go to second. With men on two bags up came "Just" Smith, who had done so bravely before; but alas! as that Belleville fan had truly said, the local pitcher had tightened up and was not such "easy pickings" now; so Smith only whiffed, and the side was out. Belleville, much encouraged, started hitting in their half of this inning. Two good blows, added to a couple of errors, allowed them to send a brace of runners around the circuit. It began to look serious for Scranton, and Hugh bade his men brace up and do something worth while. With Scranton at the bat Joe Danvers cracked out a clean single, after he had had seven fouls called on him. Juggins tried to do the same but failed to connect. Owen, after two strikes and three balls, again bunted. He succeeded in shoving Joe down to second, but it went as a sacrifice after all, because they got Owen before he could cross the initial sack. Again history repeated itself, and it seemed up to Hugh to do something to save the inning from being a goose-egg again. He braced himself for an effort. Kinsey apparently considered Hugh dangerous, and was for passing him, in hopes of being better able to strike out the next man up, "K.K." But Hugh refused to be denied, and stepping out he smote one of those curves a blow that sent it spinning far out in left, allowing Joe to come in, and placing Hugh on second. Things began to look a bit brighter now. Encouraged by the aspect, and possibly the cheers of the Scranton fans, "K.K." put one over second that allowed Hugh to reach third, no attempt being made to nip the batter at first. Then up stepped Julius Hobson. As he was so fond of saying, it was "Hobson's choice" with him, because he could not bunt, but had to hit out. Well, he succeeded in doing a mighty thing, for the ball went whizzing far over Major's head out in center, and started rolling down the little incline. Hugh and "K.K." raced home amidst thunderous plaudits, and after them came Julius, plodding along "like an ice-wagon," some of the anxious ones declared, though after all he had abundance of time to make the complete rounds. There were no more runs garnered that inning, but then Scranton was not greedy. Four against two looked mighty good to the visitors. So the game went on. It became a regular see-saw sort of affair, first one side being ahead and then the other. At the end of the seventh, after considerable excitement, the two rival nines found themselves just where they had started in the beginning of the game, for they were tied, eight to eight, and both fighting tooth and nail to keep the other from adding to the score, while also endeavoring to secure a few runs on their own account. Both pitchers had warmed to their work, however, and runs were likely to be a scarce article from that time on. When Scranton was going into the field for the beginning of the eighth inning, the vast crowd settled down for an interesting close, because when two teams are as nearly matched as these seemed to be, it is a toss-up which will win the game. CHAPTER VI A HOT FINISH "It's anybody's game so far!" one of the Scranton boys was calling out. "Well, I told you that Kinsey would grow better the longer he was in the box," laughed the local rooter, who had spoken before. "Why, he's just getting warmed up by now. Your fellows will be lucky to touch him again from now on. It's as good as sewed up already." "Don't crow too soon," Scranton told him, unflinchingly, for boys are not to be so easily bluffed; and the Scranton fellows still had great confidence in their team, led by Hugh Morgan, as strong finishers. It began to look very much like a pitchers' battle from that time on. Kinsey was fast becoming invulnerable, and batter after batter failed to connect with his wizard delivery. He would smile at them, and then proceed to give them something they were not expecting, so that the heaviest Scranton batters struck out. On the other hand, Alan Tyree was doing almost as well, and if he fell a trifle short his teammates made up the difference, for they performed splendidly. Several hummers that apparently were ticketed for two-baggers, perhaps more, were hauled down by expert fingers before they could get out of the diamond, while the fielders caught several particularly vicious flies that would have counted heavily against Scranton were they allowed to fall safely. The ninth inning saw no change, for the tie was still unbroken. This sort of thing pleased the crowd immensely, as an extra inning game always means additional excitement, and added thrills for the money. Even the tenth did not break the monotony, although at one time it looked as if Belleville might add a tally to their score, and possibly clinch matters. Leonard, their hard-hitting backstop, sent one out in short center, failing to give it enough force to take advantage of that incline back of "K.K." Then Conway, who had been hitting savagely latterly, tried to knock the cover off the ball, but only succeeded in popping up a high foul which Thad smothered in his big mitt after dancing around for several seconds, as though the twister were difficult to gauge correctly. Gould bunted unexpectedly when the stage was set for a mighty blow, with the fielders playing away out. He advanced Leonard, although caught himself, thanks to the quick work of the pitcher, who closed in on the ball, and tossed it to first ahead of the sprinting Gould. So Leonard was on second, with two out, and another slugger at the plate in the person of Wright, with Waterman to follow. Some of the Belleville boys started cheering and they appeared to be almost certain that a run was as good as counted, but for once they made a mistake, because after Tyree had gotten himself into a bad hole, with three balls and one strike called, he forced the batter to foul, and then shut him out on a dizzy inshoot that he failed to connect with, being called out by the watchful umpire. The eleventh inning saw no difference in the prevailing score, which after both clubs had had a turn at bat remained the same, eight to eight. "Why, anything is possible with those two boys going as strong as they are right now," the Belleville rooter was saying. "That pitcher of yours, Scranton, is no slouch, believe me. He isn't hardly in the same class as Kinsey, but your fellows are supporting him in great shape, and saving many a run by fine field work. But of course we'll win in the end; we're bound to. One of our boys will put in the big wallop and circle the bases on a trot, and then it'll all be over but the shouting. It's no disgrace to be whipped by a Belleville team, Scranton." "Spell able first!" taunted the visiting fan, still filled with implicit faith in his school representatives. It was now the beginning of the twelfth. Hugh had again talked to his fellows, and once more implored them to get busy with their bats. "Don't ever get the notion in your heads that you can't hit Kinsey's shoots and drops!" he told them, as Julius Hobson selected his bat, being the first man up. We've just _got_ to work a man around the circuit this inning." "If we don't we never will next time, because it's the unlucky thirteenth," remarked another, who, like many baseball players, seemed to have a touch of superstition in his make-up. "The thirteenth is as good as any other," Hugh told him, reprovingly; "and if we reach it I hope you'll not lie down on that account. Julius, you're due for a wallop, remember." "Sure thing, Hugh, watch my smoke!" chuckled the other, as he stepped blithely out and tapped his bat several times on the plate after a fashion he had, while Kinsey was eyeing him reflectively, as though trying to remember what the long and short suit of the Hobson boy was. Then he sent in a screamer which Julius as promptly sent far out in the heavens, and started running like mad for first. They could see the long-legged Conway out in left field sprinting like a huge grasshopper in hopes of getting under the soaring ball in time to set himself for the catch. As if by a preconcerted signal everybody in the grandstand and the bleachers stood up, the better to see what happened, because it was a most critical point of the game. Julius was half-way down to second and still going strong when Conway was seen to fairly leap up into the air, then take a headlong fall; after which he hastily scrambled to his feet, holding up his hand to signify that he had a ball, which he then threw in to the pitcher, amidst a roar of cheers. Even Scranton fans joined in the applause, being able to appreciate a fine bit of work, although it gave them the keenest sort of disappointment to realize that after all Julius had had all his run to second for nothing. But at least his mighty blow would serve to encourage some of his team-mates, who latterly had not been doing much with Kinsey's weird offerings. Of course, nothing was expected of the pitcher, for Tyree was a notoriously weak man at the bat. He tried the best he knew how to connect, but after three attempts had to go back to the bench. So two were down, and Thad Stevens at bat. Hugh said something to his chum as the latter stepped forward to the plate. Thad looked very grim as though he felt that the whole fate of the game rested on his young shoulders just then. He waited for his ball, had a strike called, and then connected. The sound of that blow would never be forgotten by those eager Scranton fans. It was as loud and clear as the stroke of a woodsman's ax on a hollow tree. And they saw the ball speeding away out dead ahead. Everybody started up again to watch its course, while shouts rent the air. Major was making along like mad. No use, Major, because that ball is ticketed for a home run, and nothing on earth but a collapse of the part of the fellow spinning around the bases can prevent it. When the ball struck the ground Major was not within thirty feet of it. He did not even attempt to jump up and tag the fleeting sphere as it passed far above his bead, realizing the absurdity of such a proceeding. His business was simply to recover the ball, and get it in home as rapidly as he could. But before this could be accomplished Thad Stevens was lying on the ground among his mates, panting for breath, but a pleased grin on his face, while some of the fellows were patting him happily on the back, and telling him that he had saved the day for good old Scranton High. That ended the scoring for Scranton, although "Just" Smith did manage to get on first by means of a scratch hit. Joe Danvers tried to equal the performance of the backstop, but while he met the ball and sent it far afield, unluckily. It went too high, and this enabled Major to get beneath, with the result that the fly was caught, and the side went out. The excitement started all over again when Belleville came to bat for their turn. It was plain to be seen that they had "blood in their eye," and meant to redouble their efforts to score. An error, together with two fair hits, put a couple of the locals on the bases. Only one man was down in the bargain. Everybody looked anxious on both sides, for the game was likely to be ended, one way or the other, in that same twelfth inning. A single would tie the score, a double give the game to Belleville. Hugh signaled to his infield to play close. He wanted a double play so as to put an end to the intense strain, which was beginning to tell upon every player. It was the great Conway at bat again. He looked particularly dangerous, for he had a way of standing there like a mighty warrior, flourishing his club, and watching the pitcher like a hawk. Conway had shown himself to be the most consistent hitter on the Belleville team when up against the deceptive shoots of Alan Tyree. Would he again succeed in connecting with the elusive ball, and sending one or both runners home? Tyree appeared perfectly cool, but of course he was far from being so. He delivered his first offering, and the umpire called it a ball. A second followed likewise labeled. Some thought he feared Conway so much that he meant to pass him, to take chances with Gould, who had been less able to connect with the ball. But with the third effort they heard again that suggestive "crack" as Conway struck, having finally received the ball he wanted. The crowd gave a convulsive gasp, but that was all; there was no time for anything more, so rapidly did events occur. Three runners were in motion, Conway heading down for first, Leonard making for second and O'Malley beating it along the line full-tilt toward third. Owen Dugdale was seen to leap frantically up into the air, then almost fall over with the force of the ball which he held tightly in his right band. He did not make any attempt to cut the runner down at first, partly because Conway was already out through the catch, and then things were better fixed for him closer at hand. O'malley was coming down like a hurricane. He saw what had happened and tried to get back, but Julius was at the bag and ready to take the toss like lightning. When the spectators saw him touch the bag, and that the umpire had made the motion to indicate that Leonard was easily out, a great shout arose; for the game was over. After all the intense anxiety Scranton had won the first of the series of three games which she expected to play with Belleville, unless the other team failed to take the next one there would be no necessity for playing the "rubber." So Scranton boys were able to wend their way homeward in the coming dusk, singing their school songs, and feeling all the airs of conquerors. A happy crowd it was, taken in all, and rosy visions of the future naturally filled the minds and hearts of those boys who had fought so valiantly that day to overcome the enemy. They could even look forward confidently now to the next game, which would be with Allendale, two weeks off; and some there were who already saw in imagination the championship pennant of the Three Town High School League floating from the flag-pole on the dear old campus during the Fall session of school. CHAPTER VII WHAT THAD SAW Some days passed. As there would be no championship game the coming Saturday for Scranton High the town settled back into its ordinary condition, so far as the young people went. There were afternoons for practice, of course, when the full team was expected to be on deck, and renew their acquaintance with the many intricacies of the game as taught by Coach Saunders. Still every other day the boys were at liberty to go and come as they pleased. Some made it a religious duty, as well as pleasure, to show up regularly at the ball grounds, where there were always enough fellows handy to get up a scrub game, for baseball aspirants were as thick as blackberries in August around Scranton that season. A great revival of interest in outdoor sports had struck the town, and promised to stick far into the fall and winter. On one of these off-days---it was Friday, to be exact---Thad showed up over at the home of his chum, evidently laboring under some unusual stress of excitement. Hugh had walked home with him from school, and being busy with certain things had stayed in his den for two hours or more. Then in burst Thad, his face red with suppressed news. "What's happened now?" demanded Hugh, realizing instantly that the other was in a perfect "sweat" to communicate something he had learned. "Have the Germans landed on the coast, or is little old New York being bombarded from giant airplanes? There's something amiss, I can see from your way of bursting in on me." "Oh! you know what I've been bothering my head over lately, Hugh," snapped the panting Thad. "Of course it's that hobo!" "Meaning Matilda's now quiet and respected brother Lu, eh?" the other chuckled. "Well, what's he been doing now---cut stick, and lit out, as we hoped would be the case, finding life in and around a sleepy town like Scranton too dull and commonplace to please the fastidious notions of such a wonderful world traveler?" "What! that leech clear out, and free his poor sister from the load he's gone and fastened on her? Well, it's just the contrary; he can't be shaken off, try as you will. Why, Hugh, even my respected Ma and two of her friends couldn't do the first thing toward getting Matilda to say she'd chase him off." "Oh! that's the way the land lies, is it, Thad? Then some of the good ladies of Scranton have been over trying to convince Matilda that blood isn't thicker than water, and that she is under no sort of obligation to give her wanderer of a brother a shelter, either temporary or permanent, under her little roof." "I hurried so after the show was over, Hugh, that I'm out of breath; but I'm getting the same back now, and can soon tell you all about it. In one way, it was as good as a circus, though it did make me grit my teeth to see how that miserable sinner acted. Oh! I just wished for a chance to give him a good kick or two. Why, honest, Hugh, I believe I could willingly assist in tarring and feathering a scamp like Brother Lu, who can settle down on his poor relative, and expect to be waited on and fed and treated like an invalid the rest of his life, while all the time he's as strong as anything, and as sleek as a well-fed rat!" Hugh laughed outright at the comparison. "Go to it, then, Thad, and relieve my curiosity. You've got me so worked up by now that I'll surely burst if you don't spin the whole story in a hurry." "Well, it's this way," began the other, as he fanned his heated face with a paper be picked up from Hugh's table. "I happened to know that Ma and a couple of the other ladies who have been so kind to Matilda during the last year had decided it was a duty they owed her to pay her a visit, take a look for themselves at this Brother Lu, to decide if he was really an object of pity, or a big fraud; and also advise Mrs. Hosmer that she ought to give him his walking papers right away. "Hugh, I decided not to say anything to you about it, because I knew you had laid out something you wanted to do at home this afternoon; but I was resolved to be around the Hosmer shack when the ladies called about three today, and try to learn just how the friendly scheme came out. "They showed up fine and dandy on time. I was hidden behind some bushes close by, and no sooner had they passed inside, Mr. Hosmer coming to the door to welcome them, than I found it convenient to creep up still closer. The window was open, and I could hear the chatter of women's tongues as they chatted away. Mr. Hosmer came out and went downtown on some errand; I suspect that, like the wise man he is, he smelled a rat and wanted to leave a clear field to Ma and Mrs. Lund and Miss Carpenter. Perhaps Mr. Hosmer isn't just as much in favor of entertaining Brother Lu the rest of his natural life as he may have been in the start, for he must know deep down in his man's soul that the fellow is only working his sister for his keep. "Well, anyway, I could hear them talking for a little while, after which who should come out of the house but our former hobo, Brother Lu. Say, he's actually wearing Mr. Hosmer's best suit, would you believe it, and he seems to like to pose as a sort of retired gentleman; it must be nice after getting such a precarious living walking the railway ties, and begging or stealing as he went, to drop down here in a snug nest where he has the best bed, is sure of three meals a day, wears his brother-in-law's only Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, and I guess smokes Andrew's little stock of tobacco in the bargain." Thad certainly did manage to put considerable emphasis and scorn into his vivid description of the contemptible actions of the reformed tramp. Hugh was laughing to himself over his chum's righteous indignation; nor did he have any doubt but that, given the opportunity, Thad would most heartily have assisted in a little operation calculated to furnish the said Brother Lu with a nice warm coat of down from a pillow, plastered on with a liberal coating of sticky black tar. "Of course, after he came on the scene, I lost all interest in the folks inside the cottage, and kept watching his antics," continued Thad, after giving vent to his feelings as he did. "I couldn't make out anything that was said, anyway, but it was easy to tell from the way the voices dropped after he came out that the ladies were getting in their work, and trying to show Matilda she had no business to add to her burdens. "Brother Lu, he acted like a sneak from the Start. I could see that he was taking it for a big joke, because he was grinning like everything. I guess he knew what a grip he'd managed to get on his sister, and felt sure not even a dozen ladies of Scranton could cause her to throw him out. "What did he do but slide around the wall of the house, get down on his hands and knees, and creep right under that open window, where he could hear every word that was said. What do you think of that for meanness, the skunk; now, it never occurred to me to try that dodge, you know." "I could see him as plain as anything, Hugh. He'd listen a bit, and then just as like as not hear something that tickled him a heap, for he'd double up and seem to just shake with silent laughter. Oh! I was just burning like fun, and boiling over, I was so mad to see how he carried on; because I just knew Matilda was holding the fort against all the batteries the three ladies could bring to bear, and telling them that it was her sacred duty to take care of her poor, poor brother in his last sickness, because the rough world had used him so harshly. "Well, in the end he crawled away in a big hurry, so I knew the three ladies must be coming out. Sure enough they came in sight, and both Mrs. Lund and Miss Carpenter were looking as though they felt highly indignant because Matilda she chose to stick by her good-for-nothing brother, even when they told her they could hardly be expected to go to the trouble to furnish sewing just to help feed such a lazy-looking man, and keep him in smoking tobacco. Ma, she seemed dreadfully hurt, and I guess she hardly knew what to do, for she thinks a heap of Matilda and Mr. Hosmer. "They went away, and Matilda, she stood there and looked after them sort of sad like. She knew she had offended three of her best friends, and it cut her to the quick. Still, I could see from her face that she didn't mean to turn on Brother Lu, and tell him he'd have to clear out; for she gave her head a stubborn little flirt as she turned and went indoors again. "Hugh, this thing is really getting serious, seems to me. If those ladies think it their duty to quit giving Matilda work the poor things will starve, because all they've got to depend on now is what she earns by her needle. Something ought to be done to rid her of that wart that's fastened on her bounty; if she won't give him up of her own will, then some of us ought to see to it that he's chased out of the neighborhood." "Hold on, Thad, go slow," warned the more cautious Hugh. "I feel pretty much the same as you do about it, but we mustn't think of trying any White Cap business around such a respectable town as Scranton. There's still lots of time to investigate; and if the worst comes we can appeal to the mayor to help. Perhaps the police could look up the man's record, and make him clear out on the plea that he's got a bad reputation. That would answer our purpose, and at the same time keep within the law." Thad looked wonderfully pleased. "I didn't tell you something more I saw, Hugh," he now went on to say. "When the three ladies came out, Brother Lu he managed to be there in plain sight. He tried to be polite like, and was of course seized with one of those fake fits of coughing right before them. Matilda ran to his side, and put her arm around him looking defiantly at Ma as if to say: 'There, don't you see how far gone he is, and how can you ask me to be so inhuman and unsisterly as to tell him he must go out again into the cold, cruel world that has treated him so badly?' "The ladies looked after Brother Lu as he staggered away, as if they hardly knew what to think. But it happened, Hugh, that I could watch the man from where I was snuggled down, and would you believe me, he had no sooner got behind the little building they use for a woodshed than he started to dance a regular old hoe-down, snapping his fingers, and looking particularly merry. I tell you I could hardly hold in, I was so downright mad; I wanted to rush out and denounce him for an old fraud of the first water. But on considering how useless that would be, besides giving it away that I suspected. him, and was spying on his actions, I managed to get a grip on myself again. "After things had sizzled out, Hugh, I came away, and ran nearly all the distance between the Hosmer cottage and your house, I was that eager to tell you how the land lay. And now, once for all, what can we do to bounce that fraud, and free poor Matilda from the three-big-meals-a-day brother who's fastened on her like a leech?" Hugh nodded his head as though he had been thinking while his chum continued to tell of his experiences. From his manner Thad jumped to the conclusion that Hugh might have something interesting to say, and in this he proved to be right. CHAPTER VIII A BAD OUTLOOK FOR BROTHER LU "Now that you've told me such an interesting thing about this queer tramp we ran across the other day, and who turns out to be Mrs. Hosmer's only brother," Hugh was saying, "I want to return the compliment, and explain that I've been doing a little missionary work or scouting on my own hook." Thad showed signs of intense interest. "I sort of thought you'd be wanting to cultivate his acquaintance so as to study the chap at closer range, Hugh," he hastened to say. "Well, did he entertain you with some accounts of his adventures in different parts of the world, as he promised he'd do if we'd drop around at his new home and see him?" "He certainly can talk a blue streak, once he gets started," admitted Hugh, with a little whistle. "Why, that man would have made a splendid lawyer, if he'd ever had the ambition to try; and as a promoter for land schemes he'd take the cake. But he says he was born with the wanderlust in his veins that would not let him rest anywhere for a decent length of time. No sooner would he get settled nicely, and perhaps own some big piece of land, down in Brazil once, or it may have been out in our own West, than along would come that awful yearning to be on the move again; and so, unable to resist, he would sacrifice his property, and get on the jump again." "If you could only rely on all he says, Hugh," admitted the deeply interested Thad, "he'd be a mighty interesting character; but for one, I firmly believe it's a great big lie; he's never been anywhere but around this country, and that traveling on freight-car beams, and walking the ties." "Well," Hugh went on, "he certainly has a mighty intimate acquaintance with all sorts of countries, for he can describe things in the most minute way you ever heard. He kept me fairly chained while he was talking of Borneo, Sumatra, Hong Kong, China, Japan, the Philippines, and all those far-away countries in the South Seas. If he's only read about them, the man has the most astonishing memory I ever ran across." "Oh! he's no doubt a character," admitted the skeptical Thad, as though he begrudged acknowledging even this much; "but I still believe him to be a fake. Keep right on telling me what you did, Hugh." "For that matter, I didn't do much of anything except listen to his stories, for he kept up a steady stream of talk for a whole hour or more, and covered a wide territory in that time." "I sort of think Brother Lu has conceived a liking for me which is hardly returned in the same ratio; though I confess there's something almost fascinating about the fellow." Thad acted as though alarmed. "Be careful, and keep on your guard, Hugh, or else he'll be hypnotizing you just like he seems to have done with poor Matilda and her husband. That slick tongue of his can do all sorts of stunts. Why if you don't look out we'll have you going around taking up a subscription to fit Brother Lu out with a brand new suit of togs; and perhaps buying the poor chap a bully meerschaum pipe; for it must be dreadful that he is now compelled to use one of Mr. Hosmer's old corncob affairs." His sarcasm was lost upon his chum, for Hugh laughed merrily at the gruesome picture Thad drew of his complete subjugation to the wiles of the schemer. "Of course," he continued, calmly, "I didn't forget what I was there for principally, and all the while he was talking so fluently and holding my interest, I kept watching him and trying to study his real character. Thad, I own up to failure. Once I thought I was a pretty clever hand at that sort of thing, but now I'm mixer-up, and have lost considerable confidence. "I kept changing my mind again and again. When he'd tell some of the most astonishing stories of the strange lands he'd roved through, I'd begin to say to myself that he must surely be just lying. Then the fellow'd mention some little happening that he'd describe so vividly, would you believe it, I felt the tears in my eyes, for it would be sort of pathetic. So during that whole hour I sat there and changed my mind every ten minutes, now blowing hot, and again cold. I came away in as muddled a state as I went there. His actions seem to stamp him a rogue if ever there was one; and yet, Thad, I seemed to see something different in the depths of his twinkling blue eyes." "Oh! thunder! however are we going to get rid of such a sticker?" groaned Thad, as though at a loss to know what next to do. "Listen," resumed Hugh. "Among other things he mentioned was an account of his adventures down in Texas in the big oil field there, where he said men make fortunes one day and lose them the next in speculation. He went into some details to tell me of a strange thing he had witnessed there, and among other names mentioned, he chanced to speak of a Marshal Hastings, who, it seems, is much feared by the bad men of that community. Somehow, I thought I could detect a little quaver in Brother Lu's voice whenever he spoke of this party; and, Thad, do you know, the idea flashed through my brain that perhaps he'd had an unpleasant half hour with that same Marshal Hastings himself." "I take it that you mean the officer may have warned Lu to shake the dust of that region off his brogans, and make himself scarce, if he didn't want to pull hemp; is that your idea, Hugh?" "Something along that order," came the steady reply. "At least he could not think of Marshal Hastings without some memory that was unpleasant, making him shiver." Thad's eagerness increased by jumps, and showed itself on his face, which was now lighted up with anticipation. "I'm beginning to sense something coming, Hugh," he hastened to say. "What you saw gave you a sort of idea, didn't it? You reckon right now that there may be a way to frighten this lazy loafer, so that of his own free will he'll cut stick and clear out. Well, perhaps after all something like that would be the best way to get rid of him. I don't believe the people in this civilized section of country would stand for any night-riding business like they did in the Kentucky tobacco district; or such a thing as that tar and feather picnic. So go on and tell me your scheme." "Well," Hugh continued, "you could hardly call it by such a name as yet, because the idea is hardly more than half hatched. But when he told me about the way the bad men used to shake at mention of that brave marshal's very name, and I saw him doing something along the same order, why, I began to figure out that if only Brother Lu could be made to believe Marshal Hastings was here from Texas, looking for _somebody_ he meant to take back with him, why, he might get such a bad scare he'd skip by the light of the moon between days, and never, never come back again." Thad gave his chum a vigorous pound on the back that made the other wince; but then he was accustomed to taking things of this nature from expressive Thad. "Oh! that sounds good to me, Hugh!" he burst out with. "I honestly believe you are getting close to a bully scheme that may pan out firstclass. Argument and all kinds of pleading wouldn't influence that man a bit, because he's selfish, I know he must be, or else he wouldn't burden his poor sister, and see her working for his miserable comfort every day, and all day long. But, Hugh, he could be moved by fear. If so be he has ever done anything down there in Texas that he could be arrested for, why, just the mere knowledge that this marshal, who always gets those he goes after, has come north, and is looking for some one, ought to start Brother Lu on a gallop for another distant section of country." "It might," said Hugh, reflectively, as though the exuberance of his comrade was having an effect on his mind. "It surely would," repeated Thad, pounding a fist into his other palm to express his convictions. "And, believe me, he wouldn't dare show his smiling face in these parts in a hurry again, because he'd feel pretty sure the marshal would have arranged it with the local police to notify him in case Brother Lu ever turned up. Why, Hugh, we've got the scheme right now; and it ought to work to beat the band. I can see that hobo trailing along over the ties again at a hot pace; and while poor Matilda may grieve for her brother, she'll heave a sigh of relief to know it's all over, and the ladies are her friends again." "Let's go a step further, then," insinuated Hugh, "and if we decide to try out this little plan, which you're good enough to call a scheme, how can we fix it so that the reformed hobo will take the alarm?" "That's where the hitch may come in," agreed the other boy, as he allowed three separate lines of wrinkles to gather across his forehead, which was always reckoned a sure sign that Thad Stevens was concentrating his brain power upon the solution of a knotty problem. "One thing sure, we can't very well up and inform him of the fact ourselves, or he'd understand the motive right away." "And even if a letter could be sent," continued Hugh, "how would we be able to get the right post-mark on the envelope, unless we asked the postmaster down in a town of Texas close to the oil fields to mail it for us?" Suddenly Thad started to smile. The said smile rapidly broadened into a positive grin that spread all over his face, while his eyes fairly sparkled with delight. "Hugh, I've just grabbed a bright idea!" he said, explosively. "Let's hear about it before the same gets away from you, then," his chum advised. "Listen. Perhaps you may know that I used to go some with little Jim Pettigrew more or less before you and I became such chums. Jim is considerably older than me, but his stature always made folks think he was a kid. Well, of course you also know Jim he's graduated into a regular cub reporter, as he's so fond of calling it, because that word _cub_ is used so often in the movies, when they show up a big newspaper office in New York or Chicago, and the latest greenhorn on the staff is given an assignment that allows him to make the greatest news scoop ever heard of. Jim, to tell the truth, works on our local weekly here, the _Scranton Courier_. He rakes the entire country for news, writes things up that have never occurred, so as to fill space, and draw his weekly pay, attends weddings, funerals, and all sorts of events, not forgetting baseball games and such things. "Well, Jim is still a good friend of mine, although he now feels himself so mighty important that even the mayor sends for him to communicate something he wants to appear in the next issue of the paper. The idea that flashed into my brain, you must know, Hugh, is to tell Jim of our great trouble with this pesky hobo, and enlist his aid in scaring Brother Lu off." "Suppose now, in the issue of the _Courier_ that is due tomorrow morning there appeared an interesting write-up about a certain Marshal Hastings who was visiting Scranton, having come all the way from Texas to find and take back a certain party who was badly wanted there for some serious offense; the story could give little hints that would point to Brother Lu as the man, without actually saying so. Hugh, tell me, what do you think of that for a scheme; and might it do the work, would you say?" CHAPTER IX SETTING THE MAN TRAP Hugh jumped up from his chair and clapped a cap on his head. "It's now about four o'clock of a Friday afternoon," he remarked, "and if we could only run across Jim Pettigrew, and he got interested in our story, why it might not be too late to get the little write-up arranged before they went to press tonight." Thad was all animation. "Fine! Let's rush around to the _Courier_ office and see Jim!" he hastened to say. "I've an idea he's a sort of Jack-of-all-trades there, writing up news, setting type in an emergency, and even helping turn off the limited edition of about five hundred copies of the paper that are run every week. So, as Friday night is the climax to their week's work, we're likely to find Jim there with his coat off, and on the job." They soon arrived at the small building on a side street where the local paper had its offices, and, indeed, every other thing connected with it, for that matter. "There's Jim sitting in the editor's chair," observed Thad, looking through a dusty window. "Must be Mr. Adoiphus Hanks, who owns and edits the _Courier_, is out of town just at present. Say, that would just suit us to a fraction, wouldn't it, Hugh?" "It might make things easier for us," admitted the other; and then they burst in on the important if diminutive Jim, who received them with all the airs of a metropolitan editor. "Glad to see you, boys," he told them; "just take seats, will you, and excuse me for three minutes. I'm winding up the main editorial for this week's issue. Hanks is out of town, and has left me in full charge; but then that happens frequently nowadays; and, say, some foolish people have gone so far as to say they can tell when he's absent because, well, the paper shows it; but I tell them they are only saying that to flatter me. Three minutes, boys, and I'll be at your service." Whatever it was Jim was doing on the typewriter, he continued to pound laboriously away for about that length of time. Then finishing he drew the sheet out, glanced over it, made some corrections, smiled as though highly pleased, and called out to a boy who was working a hand press to come and take it to the lone compositor, standing at his case in a distant corner of the den. "That'll make folks sit up and take notice I kind of think," said Jim, swelling out his chest with an air of great importance. "Don't ask me what it is all about, for I want it to be a surprise to the community. Read it in tomorrow's issue of the _Weekly Courier_. Now, what can I do for you, Thad, old scout? Anything connected with the Scranton High baseball team you want written up for next week? I'm always ready to favor the boys, because I used to play ball myself away back." Hugh would have liked to laugh, but he refrained, not wishing to offend Jim, who was evidently suffering from an overweening sense of his own importance, since he had graduated into a temporary occupancy of the editorial chair. Jim was considerably short of twenty at that, so it could not have been more than a year or two since he used to play ball, and train with the other boys of Scranton High. Thad got busy, and began to tell how they had first ran across the strange hobo in his camp, cooking a meal. He continued the story with a description of how the long wandering Brother Lu had been so warmly welcomed by Matilda and her sick husband, and thereupon deliberately settled down to enjoying himself at their expense. Thad was a pretty good hand at narrating a yarn, and he worked the interest up by degrees until he had Jim's eyes as round as saucers, while he hung upon every word that was spoken. Hugh only broke in once in a while to add a few sentences to something his chum said. Finally the climax was reached when Thad explained the scheme he and Hugh had concocted between them, and how much they would appreciate the assistance of Jim in this dilemma. The temporary editor pursed up his lips and looked serious. He was thinking, and gradually a grin began to creep across his thin little face. "Why, I guess it could be worked out, fellows," he finally remarked, greatly to the satisfaction of the eager Thad. "Course I can do the writeup part as easy as falling off a fence, because it comes natural for me to be able to put any old thing down on paper and hash it up in a most interesting way. I'll have a story that will make folks sit up and take notice all right." "I hope, though, Jim," said Thad, "you won't overdo the thing, because you see we haven't a peg to hang it on, since we don't know what sort of a crime the man might have done away down there in Texas to make Marshal Hastings come so far after him. You'll draw it a bit mild, won't you, Jim? Just strong enough to strike terror to the heart of that rascal, Brother Lu?" "That's all right, Thad, you leave it to me," asserted Jim, with a confidence born of experience, as well as reliance on his powers of description and invention. "Yes, I can do the thing to the king's taste. Why, in such a case it's my habit to make myself actually believe in my work. Right now I can actually see the ferocious and not-to-be-denied Marshal Hastings. I could even describe how he looks so that you recognize the picture. And say, I'll give such broad hints, without actually saying it's Brother Lu he wants, that the poor old wretch will bump himself getting out of town on the first freight that pulls in here. It's a scream of a joke; and I'm obliged to you boys for putting me up to it. I need all sorts of practice, you understand, to fit myself for a prominent post down in New York City, where I expect to land a job as a star reporter on one of the big dailies." Of course Thad and Hugh were pleased with matters so far as they had gone. "I'm in with you, boys," continued Jim, as they arose to leave the _Courier_ office, "to the limit; but there's one favor I want to ask of you in return." "Name it, Jim!" cried Thad, grasping the cold hand of the reporter, for just at that moment he felt as though willing to do almost anything in return for this real kindness on the part of his old-time associate. "Listen, then," said the other, briskly, for he at least had a rapid mind, and was in many other ways well qualified for the position which he meant to assume in the world of newspaperdom, besides, an abundance of nerve, or as Thad liked to call it, "cheek,"---"I don't believe Mrs. Hosmer ever sees our sterling paper, because the name isn't on our mailing list, or the carrier's either. But tomorrow morning I'll have Jenkins, our boy here, go around particularly to Matilda's cottage and leave a paper, telling her we are sending out a large number of free complimentary copies, hoping to induce more people to subscribe. Get that, boys?" "Yes, and it sounds good to me, Jim; you know how to work the mill, all right," said the judicious Thad, well aware of the power flattery possesses to grease the wheels of human machinery. "Well, the three of us will be in hiding close by, just as Thad was today when his mother and those other good ladies paid their unprofitable visit to the Hosmer home. If we're lucky we may see Brother Lu come dashing out of the place, and strike a blue streak for the railroad, distant half a mile or so. Should that happen, we can make up our minds it's all serene, and that Scranton, as well as his poor sister, will have seen the last of him. But you must promise to come around here and wait for me, as I may have a little business on my hands. Holding down all the positions on even a local sheet is no easy job, you must know; and I'm the PooBah of this joint right now." Willingly Thad gave the desired promise. He would have done anything else which the autocrat of the enterprise chose to demand just then, since they looked upon Jim as their main reliance. Fortunately the other did not see fit to bind them to any further promises, and when they had left the newspaper office, it was with a sense of elation such as comes after a successful venture. Thad was fairly bubbling over with delight. "Why, Hugh, I think we ought to shake hands, with ourselves over getting up such a smart little scheme as that," he broke out with, as they walked along the main street of Scranton, meeting many persons whom they knew, and most of them ready with a cheery nod or a word of recognition, for both lads were well liked by the best people of the community, and particularly those who knew boy nature best, so that they could appreciate what manly fellows the chums were. "You're a sanguine sort of chap, Thad," laughed Hugh. "Right now you believe we've as good as got Brother Lu on the run for the tall timber. Don't be too sure, or you may be disappointed. There's many a slip, remember, between cup and lip. But Jim took to the game like a terrier does to a rat, didn't he?" "It was right in Jim's favorite line of business," explained the other. "He fairly dotes on writing up imaginary things, and making them seem real. He says it's his long suit, whatever he means by that. I only hope he doesn't make it seem too ridiculous, and so overdo the matter." Hugh seemed to have pretty fair confidence in Jim's judgment. "He's a clever chap," he remarked, "and will know just where to draw the line. I could that already he had drawn upon his imagination to supply him with something in place of facts. It'll be a thrilling bit of reading, and ought to give our pet aversion a cold shiver when he gets its import. Having Marshal Hastings come away up here after him will upset all Brother Lu's plans for a soft berth during the remainder of his fast-ebbing life; and he may suddenly determine that it's better to run away and live to eat another day, than to try and stick it out here, and be landed in a Texas jail." "It'll seem an awful long time till tomorrow comes," sighed the impatient Thad. "We told him we'd be around by nine in the morning, didn't we? Well, let's call it eight-and-a-half, then. He may be able to get off earlier than he expects, and that would cut Brother Lu out of another meal at the expense of Matilda, whose supplies must be running low by now, I should judge, and her money ditto in the bargain." "Have it your own way, Thad, and drop in for me," said Hugh. "In the midst of all this fuss and feathers over that miserable hobo, we mustn't forget we promised to be on hand in the afternoon to play on the team against Mechanicsville; for you know there has been a switch, and the programme changed. That team is considered a strong aggregation from the mills over there, and, we may get our fingers burned unless we are careful. After knocking Belleville down last Saturday, it would look bad for Scranton to be snowed under by an outside nine without any reputation, as they have hardly played together this season so far." "Oh! I haven't forgotten my promise to Mr. Saunders and you, Hugh," protested the reliable backstop of the high-school team "I'm too fond of baseball to neglect any chance for playing. But we'll try and put this other affair over in the A.M., and that'll leave us free to play ball after lunch. I wonder how far away our friend, Brother Lu, will be this time tomorrow?" "Perhaps many miles," suggested Hugh, "and then again he may be taking things as easy as ever over there at Sister Matilda's cottage. It's going to be a toss-up whether our game works as we hope, or falls flat to the ground." CHAPTER X HOW JIM PETTIGREW FIXED IT When Saturday morning came, the two chums of Scranton High met as per arrangement, and as Thad expressed it, made a "bee-line" downtown. They were fairly wild to get bold of the first copy of the _Weekly Courier_ that was placed on sale. As a rule, it was delivered to the several newsstands, and at the railroad station, around eight o'clock. Then the "printer's devil," who was also the carrier, delivering copies to most of the town folks who subscribed in that fashion, would start out with a first bundle in his bag, taking his time about leaving the same at different doors. Perhaps nowadays, however, when there was likely to be a baseball game in the afternoon to enliven things, the said boy might quicken his pace a bit, so as to get through, and have a chance to witness the struggle. They were just in time to see a package delivered at the main news store, where sporting goods could also be purchased. Paul Kramer's was a place most beloved among the boys of Scranton, for the small store held almost everything that was apt to appeal to the heart of the average youth. Besides, all baseball, and in due season, football paraphernalia, as well as hockey sticks, and shin guards, the old storekeeper always carried a well-chosen stock of juvenile fiction in cloth; and those fellows who were fond of spending their spare hours in reading the works of old favorites like Optic and Alger, as well as numerous more recent additions to the ranks of authors, were to be found poring over the contents of numerous book shelves and racks, deciding which volume they would squander their latest quarter for. Then at Kramer's "Emporium" there was always a huge stock of the latest music in cheap form; and the girls had also contracted a habit of dropping in to look this over, with an eye to adding to their lists. So that from early morning until nine in the evening, on ordinary occasions, if a boy could not be found anywhere else it was "dollars to doughnuts," as Thad always said, that he was rummaging at Paul Kramer's, and lost to all the world for the time being. Eagerly, then, did Thad throw down a nickel, and snatch up the first copy of that week's issue sold that morning. It was virtually "fresh from the press"; indeed, the odor of printers' ink could easily be detected in the sheet. There was no difficulty about finding the article they were most deeply interested in. It occupied a leading place on the front page. Jim Pettigrew had certainly seen to it that the head was next door to what is known as a "scare" head; for the type was black and bold enough to attract attention the first thing any one unfolded their copy of the _Courier_. What Mr. Adoiphus Hanks would say was a question, when later on he came to look over the latest issue of the family paper, and discovered such liberties on the part of the "cub" reporter, raised for one day to the responsible position of editor. But then Jim was smooth-tongued enough to settle all that with his boss, for Jim could talk almost anyone into believing that black was white. Possibly he would think it the best policy to confide the whole story to Mr. Hanks, and explain just how it had been done in the public policy. Adoiphus was not such a bad sort of fellow, and really believed that he took a leading part in the upbuilding of the morals of Scranton; so he might forgive Jim's breaking away from the long-established policy of the family paper, which allowed of but little sensationalism. Well, it was a great story! Jim had allowed his imagination full swing, that was certain. He spoke of actually running across the stern official from Texas, and making his acquaintance under rather dramatic conditions connected with a broken-down car on the road. Then he launched forth into a vivid description of how the minion of justice confided to him the reason for his being there so far distant from the field of his customary useful and perilous operations. Sly little hints were conveyed in his mention of the rascal whom he had vowed to find, and take back with him to Texas, there to pay the penalty for breaking the laws. Why, surely the guilty conscience of Brother Lu must discover a description of himself in every word that the imaginary marshal uttered. The two boys finished at about the same time. Their eyes met in a stare, and Thad gave utterance to a whistle. "Whew! Jim is sure a dandy when it comes to write-ups, isn't he, though, Hugh?" he breathed softly, for the proprietor of the "Emporium" happened to be bustling about the place, and was evidently a bit curious to know just what there could be in that week's edition of the _Courier_ to so plainly interest Hugh and his chum. "He certainly is," admitted Hugh. "Why, you can almost see that Marshal Hastings walking before you, and looking as if he had his eagle eye fixed on you for keeps. Jim's described him so smartly that it would apply to almost any Western sheriff or marshal we've ever seen in the movies." "But just think how the cold creeps will chase up and down the spinal column of that miserable sneak of a hobo when he glimpses this article," chuckled Thad. "I can imagine him starting, and his eyes nearly popping out of his head as he gets busy devouring the whole thing. And, then, Hugh, what d'ye reckon his next move will be?" Hugh shrugged his shoulders as he slowly replied: "Honestly now, Thad, I give it up. If he's really guilty, as we believe, why, of course, he'll not wait on the order of his going, but skip out like a prairie fire, and we'll be shut of him. But there's always the doubt. In fact, we never can be sure we've struck the right nail on the head until we see Lu hitting the high places, and never even looking back." "I must read that wonderful article again," quoth the admiring Thad. "It's simply great the way Jim's written it up, and I'm sure that chap is bound to occupy an exalted place in newspaperdom down in New York one of these days when luck comes to him, and he emigrates that way." They scanned it line by line until they could almost repeat the whole story by heart, it made such a great impression on them. Thad seemed more than amused over the idea that the good folks from Scranton would swallow it whole, and believe there was really a Texan marshal in their midst, looking right and left for a desperate character who had dropped down in that quiet and respectable neighborhood, thinking he would be safe from molestation there. "Why, Hugh," he went on to say, exuberantly, "all today I warrant you hundreds of people here, women as well as boys and men, will be scanning every party who happens to be wearing a felt bat anything like the one Marshal Hastings is said to possess; and wondering if the stranger from Mechanicsville, or Allandale, or any other old place can be the wonderful Texan official, who according to Jim's graphic account has notches cut on the stocks of both his big revolvers to indicate just how many bad men he has been compelled to lay low during the course of his long and thrilling public career. Oh! I feel just as if I wanted to drop down and laugh till my sides ached, it's such a rich joke. That Jim will kill me yet with his wonderful write-ups." Hugh was apparently also highly amused, but he did not lose sight of the main facts in the case, as his next remark proved. "Remember we settled it that we'd be around to look Jim up about half-past eight, instead of nine o'clock this morning. Thad, it's getting near that time now, so perhaps we'd better be moving. Jim might feel like starting a bit early, so as to give him more time later on for his regular duties. You see, being left in sole charge of the office while Mr. Hanks is away makes him responsible for even the job printing." Thad was only too glad for an excuse for an earlier start. "If we have to do any loafing," he went on to say, philosophically, "we can put in the time at the _Courier_ office, just as well as anywhere else. I always did want to mosey around that place, and while Mr. Hanks is away, perhaps I'll have a chance to handle a few type, and watch the regular comp work like lightning. The smell of printers' ink seems to draw me, Hugh, to tell you the honest truth." Although Thad possibly did not know it at the time, that fascination has been responsible for many a noted editor's career, as the lure of printers' ink, when it gets a firm hold on any one, can seldom be shaken off in after years. Once a newspaper man and it becomes a lifetime pursuit. But then, of course, Thad might be only imagining such things, and the dim future hold out other possibilities for a career that would be far removed from an editor's chair. They found Jim on deck, and buried up to his ears in work. He seemed to enjoy it to the limit, too, for it made him appear so responsible and tickled his vanity. He grinned at seeing his two young friends. "I suppose now you've read my latest effusion, boys?" Jim remarked, with an assumption of extreme modesty, which, however, hardly suited his usual bold demeanor. Jim had all a reporter's "nerve," and could coolly face a raging subscriber who had dropped in to ask to have his subscription closed because of a certain offensive article in the last issue--yes, and likely as not Jim could soothe the ruffled feathers of the enraged man, show him how he had really been paid a compliment, and finally bow him out of the office with another year's subscription left in the shape of a dollar and a half in good money. "We've fairly _devoured_ it, Jim," frankly admitted Thad. "Why, I can repeat it off-hand right now, I've read it so often. And Jim, I want to say that it's as clever a piece of work as I ever got hold of. That terrible Texan stands out as clear as print. Everybody in Scranton will be rubbering all today, thinking they can see Marshal Hastings in each stranger in town. I congratulate you, Jim; you're a peach at your trade, believe me." Of course that sort of "gush" just tickled Jim immensely. He tried not to show it, but his eyes were twinkling with gratified vanity. It was fine to hear other people complimenting him so warmly, even though they were but boys from Scranton High. Praise is acceptable even from the lowly; and Jim made queer motions with his lips as though he might be rolling the sweet morsel over his tongue. "Glad you like it, fellows," he said, in as unconcerned a voice as he could muster to the fore. "Course there was some hurry, because I'm rushed for time, and I could have done a heap better if I really tried to lay myself out. But I guess that ought to fill the bill, and give Brother Lu a little scare, eh, Thad, old scout?" "I'm expecting he'll shake himself out of his shoes, or rather Brother-in-law Andrew's footwear," exclaimed the eager Thad. "But say, Jim, how about your going out with us, and watching him skip!" Jim looked serious. "H'm! got an awful bunch of work to do, fellows, this morning, as well as hold the editorial desk down for Mr. Hanks; but perhaps the sooner we get that little job over with the better. Yes, I'll call Philip, our boy here, who's rubbing the ink off his face and hands, and we'll all start out to finish Brother Lu's career in Scranton." CHAPTER XI SOMETHING GOES WRONG It was in this confident mood that they made their start. Philip had the copy of the _Courier_, which Jim had deftly folded so that the headlines of his startling article would be seen immediately any one picked the paper up. He was also instructed to simply say that the management of the weekly, wishing to give more citizens of Scranton an opportunity to get acquainted with the feast of good things served up every Saturday, was sending out a supply of sample copies, and that a subscription would be much appreciated. As Philip was a shrewd little fellow he "caught on" to the idea, and would without fail carry it through all right. It was not intended that any occupant of the Hosmer home should suspect the presence of the three who meant to see what happened. Thad knew just how they could advance fairly close without being seen, since he had been "playing spy" before on his own account, and was, therefore, acquainted with every bush capable of affording shelter. Accordingly, when they found themselves drawing near their intended destination, Thad was given charge of the expedition, and he seemed pleased to serve in the exalted capacity of pilot or guide. He led the way, and the other two followed as close to his heels as possible. In this manner they finally found themselves as close to the cottage as circumstances and a scarcity of sheltering bushes would allow. "Here's where I hide," whispered Thad, coming to a sudden pause, and remaining in a crouching position. "We can see everything that goes on outside the house and, if the door should be left open on such a fine warm morning, perhaps hear something that might be said inside." Both Hugh and Jim seemed quite satisfied with the prospect, if their nods could be taken for assurance. "If everything is ready, and the trap set," remarked Jim, softly, "I'll give Philip the signal we agreed on." "Go ahead, then," said Thad, eagerly, his eyes fairly dancing with expectancy; for somehow his heart seemed more than ever set on relieving poor Matilda Hosmer from the fresh load she had taken so generously on her already tired shoulders. Accordingly Jim, without raising his head above the level of the bush that concealed his body, waved his handkerchief three times. He knew that Philip would be waiting and watching for such a sign, because before they left the boy Thad had taken pains to point out to him where they expected to hide. Sure enough, hardly had Jim made the third and concluding wave than the carrier was seen to come in sight, bearing quite a load of papers; which in reality be expected to deliver on his first round to regular customers; for none of them saving that particular one were to be given away free as sample copies; and that had, as Thad expressed it, "a string tied to it." Whistling in the most unconcerned manner possible Philip walked straight up to the cottage door and knocked. The boy was playing his part to perfection, all of them saw, and Jim in particular seemed much impressed. It was Matilda herself who answered the summons. They could see that Philip was getting off the lines which he had committed to memory. Matilda asked him several questions, but she held on to the paper all the same, and seemed quite pleased at being picked out as a possible new subscriber; although times were just then too hard to admit of her indulging in such a luxury. But perhaps she thought it would be such a pleasure for "poor Brother Lu" to forget all his troubles in looking over the town paper. Thad felt sure this must be in the mind of Matilda, for she was one of those persons whose first thought is always of some one beside themselves. Philip having exhausted his schedule hastened to betake himself off before he said too much; because he was a wise boy for his years, Jim allowed. And Matilda went back into the house, glancing at the paper as she vanished from view. "Now let's hope that hammock there will tempt Brother Lu to saunter forth and take things easy while he looks over the paper," said Jim, with just a touch of eagerness discernible in his well-controlled voice; for he prided himself on always "keeping cool" under the most trying conditions. They did not have long to wait. Why, it seemed to Thad that the wonderful Jim must have some peculiar power, as of suggestion, with which he could influence other minds; for as they peeped through openings in the bushes, lo! and behold, out of the cottage door came the object of Thad's especial aversion. Yes, it was the hobo whom they had first met when he was cooking his meal in regular tramp fashion by using discarded tomato cans for receptacles to hold coffee and stew. But Brother Lu was a transformed tramp. He wore the Sunday clothes of Brother-in-law Andrew, and his face was actually as smooth as a razor could make it. In fact, he looked just too sleek and well-fed for anything; and Thad, as usual, gritted his teeth with savage emphasis to think how the fellow was imposing on the good nature of that simple and big-hearted couple. Then, too, he had the paper in his hand, which evidently Matilda had given over to him immediately she entered. He made straight for that hammock, as though he had actually heard Jim suggest such a charming possibility. "Now we're in great luck," Thad breathed, gripping Hugh by the knee, as they crouched in company behind their screen of bushes. "We can watch, and see just what effect that bombshell has on the skunk!" "Keep quiet, Thad," warned Hugh; "or he might hear you." The reformed tramp seemed to be very particular about his comfort nowadays. Time was when he could throw himself down carelessly on the hardest kind of ground and rest easy; but since he had taken to living under a roof things were different. They saw him fix the pillow in the hammock very carefully before he allowed himself to recline there. Then he raised the paper, and seemed to take a careless glance at it. Hardly had he done this than the watchers saw him start upright again. He was undoubtedly devouring the thrilling news item on the front page with "avidity"---at least, that was what Jim Pettigrew would have called it, had he been at his favorite job of "writing up" the doings of Scranton society for the past week. "Now he has got a body blow!" hissed the delighted Thad, unable to keep still any great length of time when his pulses were throbbing like mad, and his eyes round with eagerness. Brother Lu read the article through. Then he lowered the paper and seemed to be meditating, to judge from his attitude. Hugh thought he could detect something akin to a wide grin on the other's face, but then he may have been mistaken. Thad, on his part, was positive that he knew what must be passing through the mind of the man after reading that suggestive news concerning the Texan marshal who never yet allowed an intended victim to elude his clutches, and who meant to get the guilty party so badly wanted "down below." "Say, he's figuring on whether he'd best streak it as he is, or go in and gather a few things together that he may need," continued the irrepressible Thad. Even as he spoke they saw the other scramble hastily out of the comfortable hammock, and start post-haste for the open door of the cottage. Thad was as certain of what was about to happen as that he knew his own name. Hugh suspended judgment, believing that it would be unwise to jump too hastily to a decision. Besides, there were a few little suspicious things connected with the actions of Brother Lu that he did not wholly like. A minute passed, two of them, which doubtless seemed like so many hours to the confident Thad. Then they again saw the late hobo coming out. Thad stared harder than ever, and his heart felt like lead. What did it mean? he asked himself. Brother Lu did not have his hat on, nor was he carrying any sort of hastily thrown together bundle. In fact, he showed not the first sign of the dreadful alarm Thad had anticipated. He still carried the weekly paper in his hand as though he meant to look over that wonderful article of Jim's again. And what he had really darted into the house after was evident; for in the other hand he carried Mr. Hosmer's only good pipe, as well as his tobacco bag, now getting woefully depleted of its prized contents. Then, as if totally unaware of the fact that three pairs of eyes were glued upon his every slightest move, Brother Lu calmly filled the pipe, struck a match on the sole of Brother-in-law Andrew's shoe, applied the flame to the contents of the pipe bowl, and puffed out a cloud of blue smoke with all the assurance in the world. Thad nearly took a fit trying to hold in; the fact was Hugh felt constrained to lay a warning hand on his chum's arm to keep him from bursting out in such a manner as to betray them to the smug hobo. Brother Lu read the article again from beginning to end. Then he smote his knee with his open palm several times, and they could actually hear him chuckle, as if he might be highly amused. All this rather puzzled Jim, who had fully anticipated seeing the intruder making a bee-line for the railroad. Perhaps he even began to wonder whether, after all, he might not have "laid it on a little thicker" when writing up that story about the grim Texan marshal. Presently Matilda was heard calling to Brother Lu, who, leaving his hammock, sauntered into the house with all the airs of one who had arranged to take life easy from that time on. "Hey! let's beat it," mumbled the keenly disappointed Jim Pettigrew. "I've got heaps to do at the office; and I seem to tumble to the fact that, after all, our big game didn't pan out just as was expected." Thad did not have a single word to say just then. He was, in fact, too dazed to collect his thoughts. But Hugh's active mind was grappling with the matter, and he apparently seemed able to figure things out. They retreated in a strategic fashion, so that possibly no one was the wiser for their having been behind the bushes, unless Brother Lu chanced to take a notion to peep from behind some fluttering white dimity curtain. "Well, what does it all mean, do you know, Hugh?" finally burst out Thad, after they had gone far enough away to make it safe to talk in ordinary tones. "I think I have guessed why he seemed so tickled after reading the article which we figured would give him such a bad scare," said Hugh, with a grim smile. "The fact of the matter is he hoodwinked me when he told such whopping yarns about the terrible sheriff of the oil regions. There may be such a chap, all right, but his name isn't Hastings by a long shot. He just invented that name, you see; and when he read Jim's article about his being up here, he tumbled to the game." "Oh! it's rotten luck!" groaned Thad; "after all that beautiful strategy we've fallen down flat. No use talking, Hugh. Jim, that fellow is a sticker, and it begins to look as if he couldn't be budged or pried loose with a crowbar. But I'm not the one to give a thing up because I've failed once or twice; just wait till I get my third wind, and I'll settle Brother Lu's hash for him!" So they wandered back to town, sadder but wiser from their new experience. CHAPTER XII SCRANTON FANS HAVE A PAINFUL SHOCK The nine from Mechanicsburg showed up that afternoon on time. They were a husky-looking lot of young chaps, accustomed to hard toil in the mills, and with muscles that far outclassed the high-school boys. But, as every one knows, it requires something more than mere brawn to win baseball games; often a club that seems to be weak develops an astonishing amount of skill with bat and ball, and easily walks off with the victory. Mechanicsburg was "out for blood" from the very start. They depended a great deal on their slugging abilities, and declared that no pitcher the Scranton players might offer could resist their terrific onslaught. When the first inning was over at last it began to look as if their boast might be made good, for the score stood five to one. Frazer was in the box for Scranton, Hugh not wishing to use his star pitcher unless it was absolutely necessary. He was a bit afraid that something might happen to Tyree that would put him on the bench and thus they would be terribly handicapped in their first game with Allandale on the following Saturday. Now, Frazer was a pretty dependable sort of a slab artist, and if the Scranton boys had not had Alan Tyree they might have believed him a Number One. But while Frazer had a number of good curves and drops, and a pretty fair amount of speed, he seemed only able to deceive those huskies from Mechanicsburg in spurts. Between times they got at him for successive drives that netted two and three bases each. Indeed, in that very first inning the fielders of the home team were kept on the jump at a lively rate chasing smashing blows. To tell the truth, all three outs were made on enormous flies that seemed to go up almost to the very clouds, and gave "K.K." out in the middle garden, and "Just" Smith, who had charge of left field, a big run each time before they could get their hands on and hold the ball. In the second time at bat the visitors did not do as much. Perhaps Frazer managed to tighten up, and pitch better ball. He was very erratic, and could never be depended on to do consecutive good work. In every other inning the heavies could not seem to gauge his work at all, and he mowed them down. Then they would come at him again like furies, and knock his offerings to every part of the field as though he might be an amateur in the box. Hugh watched the fluctuations of the game with more or less solicitude. They could hardly afford to be beaten by a team like Mechanicsburg, he figured, as he saw Frazer "fall down" for the third time, and a catastrophe threaten. It was the sixth inning. Scranton had done more or less scoring on her side, so that the figures were mounting rapidly, and it promised to be an old-fashioned batting bee. It now stood nine to twelve in favor of the visitors; and as they had started another of their rallies no one could say what the result might be by the time Scranton once more came to bat. There was a small but noisy delegation from the other town present, and they kept things pretty lively most of the time, cheering their fellows, and hooting the slightest opportunity when Scranton failed to connect, or one of the high-school boys did not make a gilt-edged pickup. Nor were the Mechanicsburg rooters alone in this jeering. As usually happens, there were a number of fellows in Scranton who entertained feelings of jealousy toward the local nine, based on an idea that they had been purposely overlooked when the choice of players was made. Chief among these malcontents was the town bully, Nick Lang, whose acquaintance the reader has already made in a previous volume, and under exciting conditions. Nick at one time had a good chance of making the nine, for he was a hustler when it came to playing ball, and indeed, in nearly every sport; but as might be expected, he managed to display his nasty temper in practice, and Coach Saunders, who heartily disliked and distrusted the big fellow, speedily turned him down. Nick, as usual, had his two faithful henchmen along with him, Leon Disney and Tip Slavin; and the trio led the hooting whenever a chance came to rub it into Scranton. Some of the visitors hardly liked this; it smacked too much of rank treachery to please them. It was all very well for visitors to deride the home team in order to "rattle" the pitcher; but for fellows living in Scranton to indulge in this sort of thing did not seem right. Hugh believed he had had quite enough of this see-saw business. If Frazer was going to "jump" in that miserable fashion the game was as good as gone. He disliked doing it the worst kind, but he saw the appealing look Frazer shot in his direction on third when the visitors once more started their bombardment. It meant Frazer had lost all confidence in his ability to stop the threatened rally; and that he was making signs for help. So Hugh took him out. It was Alan Tyree who stepped into the box, and began to toss a few balls to the backstop, in order to limber up his arm; while the visiting batsman waited the signal from the umpire to toe the home plate, and get ready to strike. Just three times did Alan send in one of his terrific shoots that fairly sizzled as they shot past; three times the heavy batter cut the thin air with his club, and then walked over to where his companions sat in a clump, watching curiously to see how the change was going to work. Up came the next visitor on the list, who also made light with the offering of poor Frazer. Did he start a batting bee all over again? Well, not that any one could notice it. The best he could do was to fan the air on two successive occasions, and then send up a twisting foul that Thad Stevens managed to hold, after a pretty erratic chase back and forth. Now it was the loyal home fans who began to root long and hard. They scented victory, and it seemed good after so much bitter humiliation at the hands of this newly organized team, most of them strange to their positions, and capable of many fielding errors, but able to remedy this by their ability to bat. The third out followed in quick succession. Scranton sighed with relief, and the fielders had had a rest. They were really getting tired of chasing wildly after all those terrific smashes, and of seeing the big fellows running the bases at will. Hugh led off in the next inning, and the renewed confidence put in the whole team by the change of pitchers showed itself. When that inning was over the locals had reduced the lead of Mechanicsburg to one run; and they fully anticipated wiping that slight advantage out in the next round. Tyree still held them close. They knocked several fouls, and one man actually went out through Juggins in far right, managing to sprint fast enough to grapple with a soaring fly that came his way across the foul line. The rest struck out, being almost like babies in the hands of the wizard Tyree. Well, the locals not only wiped that lead out but went two better, so that it now began to look as though they had the game "sewed up," with Tyree pitching championship brand of ball, and every fellow keyed up to playing his best. Wonderful infield work saved Alan from having the first hit marked up against him in the eighth frame, for several of the hard hitters were up again, and they managed to swat the ball with a vim; but only to have Owen, or it might be Morgan on third, intercept the speeding horsehide, and whip it over to waiting Old Reliable Joe Danvers on first for an out. The game really ended with that inning, for Scranton made five runs, having a nice little batting bee of their own for a change. In the ninth the visitors got a man on first through a juggle on the part of Hobson on second, though Julius was really excusable, for the ball came down to him with terrific speed, and though he knocked it down he could not recover in time to get it across the infield so as to cut off the speedy runner. But when the visitor started to make for second Thad Stevens had him caught by two yards, his throw down being as accurate as a bullet fired from a new Government army rifle. After all, the boys were satisfied to come out of the scrimmage as well as they did, for those big Mechanicsburg chaps were terrors with their bats; and equal to making a home run at any stage of the game. It had been good practice for Scranton, every one admitted, though some confessed that their blood had actually run cold when Frazer gave such palpable signs of distress. Hugh was worried more or less. He wondered what would happen if Tyree could not play in the big game with Allandale. Frazer might redeem himself, it is true, for the pitcher that goes to the well, and is dented on one day, often comes back later on and does wonderful work. Still, as the following week passed day by day, and Saturday came closer, the field captain of the Scranton High team seemed to feel a strange premonition that there was trouble in store for them. And his fears did not prove groundless, after all, as it turned out; for there was trouble a-plenty waiting for the local team, spelled with a capital T in the bargain. The day came, and everything seemed all right as far as the weather went. It was hot enough to make the players feel at their best without causing them to wilt under the burning rays of the sun. Clouds at times also promised relief, and the immense throng that gathered on the open field where Scranton played, for there was no high fence around it, believed they were due to witness a sterling game, with the two teams well balanced. Of course Allandale had beaten unlucky Belleville easily on the preceding Saturday, while Scranton was "toying" with that aggregation of sluggers from Mechanicsburg, and almost getting their fingers burned while doing so. The "Champs," as the visitors delighted to call themselves, seemed to have an air of confidence that impressed many an anxious Scranton rooter, and made him wonder how Tyree would stand up against that mighty slab artist, Big Ed Patterson. This Allandale pitcher seemed capable of outwitting the smartest batter by giving just what he wanted least of all, as if he knew every fellow's weaknesses, and could take advantage of them at will. Then the blow fell. It cast gloom over the whole Scranton camp, as the horrible news was quickly circulated through the various groups. Boys turned to look at one another aghast, and the grins on their faces assumed a sickly yellow hue. Word had been brought to the anxious Hugh that Alan Tyree would be utterly unable to be on the field that day, not to speak of pitching. An unlucky accident after lunch had injured his left leg, and the doctor absolutely forbade his getting into uniform, or even leaving the house, under severe penalty for disobedience. It was in the nature of a dreadful calamity, after the way Frazer had been actually knocked out of the box by those crude players from Mechanicsburg. Still the game must be played, or forfeited to Allandale; and Scranton fellows are not in the habit of giving anything up without the hardest kind of a struggle. So with a sigh, and trying to appear calm, Hugh turned to his second-string pitcher. CHAPTER XIII HUGH TRIES HIS "FADE-AWAY" BALL "Are you game, Frazer, for a desperate fight?" asked Hugh, smiling in a way he hoped would inspire the other with confidence. Frazer was a bit white, but he had his jaws set, and there was a promising flash in his eyes that Hugh liked to see. His Scotch blood was aroused, and he would do his level best to hold the Allandale last-year champions down to few hits. That humiliation which Frazer had suffered in asking to be taken out of the box on the preceding Saturday had burned in his soul ever since; and he was in a fit frame of mind to "pitch his head off" in order to redeem himself. Hugh talked with him a short time. He told him all he knew about the various players on the opposing team, and in this way Frazer might be able to deceive some of the heavy batters when they came up. Unfortunately Frazer could not vary his speed and drops and curves with an occasional deceptive Matthewson "balloon ball," so called because it seems to look as large as a toy hot-air balloon to the batter, but is advanced so slowly that he strikes before it gets within reach. Hugh on his part had always practiced that sort of a ball, and indeed he had nothing else beside fair speed and this "floater." But in practice, when Hugh went into the box, he had been able to fool many of his mates, and have them almost breaking their backs trying to hit a ball that was still coming. As a last resort Hugh meant to relieve Frazer, but only after the game was irrevocably lost; for he wanted to give the other every chance possible to redeem his former "fluke." There was not any great amount of genuine enthusiasm shown by the crowd of local rooters when Frazer walked out to take his place, though many did give him a cheer, hoping to thus hearten the poor fellow, and put some confidence in his soul. If he had not been able to hold those boys from Mechanicsburg, who were reckoned only "half-baked" players, as some of the Scranton fans called it, what sort of a chance would Frazer have against the Champs, who had toyed with Belleville just a week back, and looked tremendously dangerous as they practiced now upon the local field, so as to become a little accustomed to its peculiarities? Ground rules were again in vogue, owing to the great crowd. This gave Scranton a little advantage, since they were used to playing on the home grounds, and would know just where to send the ball---providing they were able to come in contact with it, a matter in which one Big Ed Patterson meant to have considerable to say, judging from his confident manner, and the good-natured smile on his sun-burned face. Scranton fought gamely, every one was agreed to that. They started off well, for Frazer actually got through the first without a hit being made, though twice the visitors met one of his offerings with a vicious smack that sent the ball far out in center, where the watchful and fleet-footed "K.K." managed to capture each fly after a great run. And in their half Scranton did a little hitting, though it was mostly through good luck that they got one run---a Texas leaguer that fell among three players who got their signals crossed; then a poor throw down to second allowing "Just" Smith to land there in safety; a bunt that turned into a sacrifice on the part of Joe Danvers, followed by a high fly that let the runner on third come trooping home, did the business. Owen struck out, and Hugh sent up a mighty foul over in right that was caught in a dazzling fashion by the guardian of that patch. As the two clubs faced each other they ranged after this fashion, and it may be noticed that there was no change in Scranton's line-up except in the pitcher's box. The batting order was not the same, so it must be given as it came on either side: Scranton High Player Position -------------------------------------- "Just" Smith Left Field Joe Danvers First Base Horatio Juggins Right Field Owen Dugdale Short Stop Hugh Morgan (capt.) Third Base "K.K." (Ken Kinkaid) Center Field Julius Hobson Second Base Frazer Pitcher Thad Stevens Catcher Allandale High Player Position -------------------------------------- Farmer Left Field Gould First Base Wright Right Field Waterman Short Stop Norris Third Base Whipple Center Field Brown Second Base Patterson Pitcher Keeler Catcher As the game progressed it became evident that Frazer was "pitching his arm off" in the endeavor to stem the tide of defeat that inning after inning seemed bound to overtake the Scranton nine, despite their most gallant uphill fight. Allandale proved to be all their reputation had boasted, and they seemed able to work a man around the circuit nearly every inning. Splendid fielding on the part of Hugh and his mates kept the score down, but nevertheless it continued to mount, in spite of all their efforts. Frazer was beginning to show signs of exhaustion. He had tried every trick he had in his list on the batters who faced him. They had begun to solve his delivery more and more the oftener they came up. And there was a very demoralizing way about their confident attitude that no doubt added much to poor Frazer's distress. He began to believe they were just playing with him, and at a given time would fall upon his delivery, to knock the ball at will to every part of the field. Hugh knew it was coming, and he hardly felt able to go into the box himself to stem the rising tide; but anything was better than to have Frazer submerged under an avalanche of hits. "Big Ed" seemed to be getting better the longer he pitched, and just the reverse could be said of Frazer, who was on the verge of a total collapse. "Better take me out before I go to the wall, Hugh," begged the other, after the sixth frame showed the score to be six to two, with more runs looming up in the "lucky seventh" in prospect. "I'm ashamed to say I've lost my nerve. Those fellows mean to get at me in the seventh and it will be a Waterloo. I just feel it in my bones they've been waiting to lambast my offerings then, for I've seen them talking together, and laughing, as though they had a game laid out. You go in and feed them those teasers of yours. The boys will take a brace in batting, if you can hold Allandale; and in the end it may not be such a terrible calamity after all." Hugh knew it must be. Frazer had gone to the wall, and would pitch poorly if allowed to go in the box in the next inning. "I hate to do it, Frazer," he told the other, feeling sorry for him; "but any port in a storm; and it may be possible these sluggers will trip up on that balloon ball of mine, though I haven't much else to offer them." That inning the locals did a little batting on their own account, with the result that the score looked a shade better, for it was three to six when once more Scranton went into the field. When it was seen that Hugh walked to the box some of the local rooters cheered lustily, for Hugh was a great favorite. Cat-calls also greeted his appearance, coming principally from Nick Lang and his followers; though they were frowned upon by a crowd of Scranton boys, who threatened to hustle them off the grounds unless they mended their ways. As Hugh left third one of the substitutes, named Hastings, was placed on that sack. Thad gave Hugh a queer look on discovering this, and followed it with a peculiarly suggestive grin; so that Hugh understood how his chum was thinking of another Hastings with whose name they had taken undue liberties. Allandale seemed pleased to know that there was to be a change of slab artists. "All pitchers look alike to us when we've got our batting clothes on!" one of them sang out blithely, as he swung a couple of bats around, being the next man up, and desirous of making himself feel that he held a willow wand in his hands when throwing one aside and wielding the other. He was mistaken. Hugh started in without delay feeding them some of what the boys were pleased to denominate his "teasers." He soon had them hitting at thin air with might and main, and looking surprised because they failed to connect. One man, then two, went out on strikes, and neither had touched the elusive "fade-away" ball made famous by Christy Matthewson in his prime. The crowd sat up and began to take notice. What did it mean? If Hugh could only keep up his good work by varying his offerings, so as to keep those slugging Allandale fellows guessing, and Scranton began to knock the ball around a little on their own account, why, there might be something like a good game yet. The third man got a hit which should really have been an out, for "K.K.," reliable "K.K.," out in deep center, misjudged the blow, and started to run back, when he should have shot forward instantly. He could have scooped it up three feet from the ground had he done so; and while he did manage to keep the ball from getting past, the batter gained first. However, he died there, for Hugh deceived the next fellow as he had done two previous batters, and the side was out. When the eighth inning ended the score was four to six, not so very bad. The local rooters got busy, and gave Hugh a round of hearty cheers when he toed the mark in the box again. Allandale did get a run in this frame, but still Hugh struck two men out. And in their half of the eighth Scranton also tallied, making the score read four to seven. Then came the last inning. Hugh exerted himself to the utmost. One batter failed to connect, but the next got in a blow that netted him two bases. Hugh kept cool and managed to deceive the next one. Then came a mighty heave and when Juggins in far right was seen running like mad it looked as if Allandale had clinched another brace of runs then and there. But Horatio proved himself to be a hero, for he gobbled that drive, and the side was extinguished with no damage done. Scranton tried with might and main to do something wonderful in their last half of the final inning. Indeed, with two out and three on bases it looked as if there might be a fair chance, since a wallop would mean three runs to tie the score, and if Joe Danvers could only get in one of his occasional "homers" it would break up the game in favor of the local team. Joe did connect and drove out a great hit, but alas! for the eccentricities of baseball, Whipple over in right had seen fit to play far back, and after quite a gallop he managed to clutch the ball and hold it. Of course that gave Allandale the game. The Scranton boys seemed pretty "sore" over their first defeat, but considering the hard luck that had been their portion, they felt that they had not done so badly after all. "Just wait!" they told the laughing Allandale fellows, "there's another day coming when you'll have to face Alan Tyree; and the chances are two to one you'll not find that boy such easy picking. You're in great luck today, Allandale; so make the most of it. He laughs longest who laughs last; and Scranton is wagering dollars to doughnuts that it'll be our turn next!" CHAPTER XIV FARMER BERNARD COLLECTS HIS BILL "Come and go along with me, Hugh," Thad Stevens was saying, some days after the defeat suffered by Scranton High at the hands of the Champs, as he bounced into his chum's den about four in the afternoon. "Where to?" demanded the other, looking up with a smile; and then noting the eager expression on Thad's face he hurriedly added: "But I guess I can get pretty close to the mark without your telling me. You're meaning to continue your campaign against our friend, Brother Lu---how about that for a guess, Thad?" "Just what I'm up to, for a fact," asserted Thad, with his jaws shutting in an energetic fashion. "You ought to know that I never give over, once I'm worked up like that business got me. Day and night I've been trying to plan a way of ridding poor deluded Matilda and her sick husband from that sleek rascal who's fastened on them for keeps." "Well, what's new in the game, Thad?" continued Hugh, picking up his cap, and in this way proclaiming his intention of joining his chum. "Several things have happened," admitted Thad, "though honest to goodness I can't say that they have advanced the cause a whit. First of all Mom has capitulated, which word means she couldn't stand the strain any longer, worrying so about Matilda going hungry for lack of sewing to do to earn food for the three of them. So she and some of the other ladies sent out a bundle, and I've got another down at the door right now, to carry over to the Hosmer cottage." "I must say I honor your mother, Thad, for being so tender-hearted," said Hugh, warmly. "Of course you do, Hugh," sighed the other boy, "but it's too bad they had to give in before that big eater was starved out, and took to the road again, where he could always make sure of begging a full meal at back doors. Now he'll just decide to squat down and stick through the summer, yes and winter in the bargain, acting as if he might be almost dying every little while, and then recovering his appetite _wonderfully_ soon again. Oh! it makes me furious, that's what it does." "Well, as you've asked me to go along, Thad, I'll accommodate you; but have you any little scheme on foot today?" continued Hugh, leading the way toward the back door, since he under stood that his chum had left his bundle there before hunting him out. "I wish I did, Hugh," replied the other, eagerly, "but try as I may, it seems to me I just can't think up anything worth while. After that grand scheme of ours fell so flat it took all the wind out of my sails. I'm trusting mostly to luck to have something come up that we can grab hold of, so as to give him a boost." They were soon on their way. Thad talked almost incessantly, and begged his companion to try his hardest to conceive some promising plan that might turn out a shade better than the one connected with that imaginary marshal from Texas. So they presently arrived at the Hosmer cottage. Thad did the knocking. He had decided to go in at the slightest invitation, in hopes of meeting Brother Lu again, and ascertaining what the prospects were for his departing to the other world. To the surprise of both boys, when they were admitted by Matilda they discovered the object of their thoughts seated in a chair, with a thick shawl across his shoulders. He looked as though he might be a trifle ill, too. At the sight of them one of his accustomed grins came over his face, now rough again with a three days' growth of gray beard. "Hello, boys!" the reformed tramp called out, as though really pleased to see them again; "you find me under the weather this time for keeps. Had one of my little bad attacks, and just beginning to feel a shade better. Perhaps I'll go off in one of these spells some fine day, sooner or later. Matilda she's been a good nurse to me, and I'm beginning to believe I did the wisest thing ever when I decided to hunt my last remaining blood relative up, and stay with her till the end came." Matilda looked pained to hear him speak in that way, but Thad was not in the least impressed. According to his mind the other had only caught a little summer cold, and which had caused him considerable distress, with its accompanying sneezing discomforts. He did not believe it was anything serious. Determined, however, to stay a short while and study the man, in hopes of discovering some loophole through which he might be reached and made to give up his soft berth in the Hosmer home, Thad took a chair, and settled himself for a visit. Hugh asked the man a number of questions concerning his illness, and took note of the fact that every time Brother Lu had occasion to glance toward his sister a wonderfully tender gleam would come into his blue eyes. Apparently he had learned what everybody in Scranton always knew, that Matilda Hosmer was the kindest and softest-hearted creature alive. Hugh wondered whether this knowledge might not in time cause the man to feel ashamed of imposing upon her strength and generosity, so that of his own free will he would take his departure for other scenes. "Matilda is going to have a birthday in a few days," he confided to the boys, at a time his sister chanced to be in the kitchen, "and me'n Brother-in-law Andrew, we've made up our minds to surprise her with a little present. 'Course it can't be anything much, because we haven't a superabundance of ready cash; but Matilda, she's stood by her poor old wandering brother so handsomely I'd be glad to give her a whole hundred dollars, if only I possessed that sum." Thad looked surprised, indeed he may have begun to suspect that after all the grizzled old hobo might not be quite so heartless as appearances would indicate. This unexampled spirit of self-sacrifice shown by Matilda was beginning to have its influence on his hard nature. As for Hugh, he listened with considerable interest, listened and sat there, watching the play of emotions across the face of Brother Lu, and forming certain opinions of his own at the same time. While they sat there a heavy knock came at the door. Upon Matilda venturing to open the same a big man pushed his way inside, and started talking roughly in a loud, almost abusive tone. Thad recognized him as a certain well-to-do farmer and dairyman who had an unenviable reputation as a cruel taskmaster with his hired help. He was also known to be exceedingly harsh in his treatment of any with whom he had dealings, who chanced to be unable to meet their obligations to the minute. Because he had been able to accumulate his "pile," Mr. Abel Bernard seemed to believe everyone should be capable of doing the same. If they could not afford a thing they ought to do without it. He never took excuses from anyone. It was all business with Abel---pay up or quit, was his daily motto. Hugh, listening, quickly determined that a little more fresh trouble had dropped down upon the poor head of Matilda. She had been taking a quart of milk a day from Farmer Bernard, and the bill had run two months and more now. He shoved an account at her in a most savage manner, Thad thought, and the boy felt as if he could have kicked the grim dairyman with rare good pleasure to settle the account. As for Hugh, if he had chanced to have the money with him just then he would only too gladly have loaned or given it to Matilda, so that she might get rid of the abusive farmer, whose very tone was harsh and rasping. "It's my rule never to let anybody get away with more than a second month's milk," the big man was saying in that loud, abusive voice of his. "You asked me to let the account go on another spell when I handed you the same before, and now you tell me you haven't got the five dollars it calls for because some old tramp of a brother that you haven't seen for twenty years has dropped down on you, and had to be taken care of. Well, Mrs. Hosmer, I'm not helping to run a hospital, let me tell you; I've got all I can do to look after my own folks. You mustn't expect me to deliver you any more milk till you can pay this; and I hope you'll get the cash soon, too, because I've some accounts of my own I want to settle." Matilda was near tears, for such a scene as this frightened her. Poor old Mr. Hosmer tried to bustle forward and enter into the conversation; but the husky dairyman just brushed him aside as though he were no more than a child. "I'm not talking to you about it, Mr. Hosmer," he went on to say, almost brutally; "it's your wife I do business with. I'll be looking to her to settle my account. And if what I hear honest folks a-sayin' is near true, the sooner she gets rid of her disreputable brother the better for all concerned." Matilda's eyes flashed. "You need not add insult to injury, Mr. Bernard," she flashed, showing a little touch of spirit that Hugh hardly believed she possessed. "He is the only living tie to bind me with my long past childhood. We were once very fond of each other; and now that poor Luther has fallen sick, and fears he has not long to live, I mean to stand by him, no matter how people talk." Brother Lu looked as though this sort of thing gave him something akin to joy. He even shot a tender glance across at Matilda, and then a triumphant one toward the two boys, as though to say: "Didn't I tell you my sister had a tender heart?" Then he got on his feet. He really seemed a trifle weak, showing that he had actually been under the weather latterly. "How much does my sister owe you, man?" he demanded in as stern a voice as he could command. "Oh! does that interest you at all, Mister Weary Willie?" sneered the irate farmer; "well, if you want to know, my account is an even five dollars. Perhaps, now, you'll put your hand into your jeans pocket and hand out that amount with pleasure." "I've got that much tied up in my old bandanna handkerchief, it happens," said Brother Lu, to the astonishment of Thad. "It's true me 'nd Brother-in-law Andrew expected to do something different with my little fortune, but then let that pass. You wait till I get it, you grasping milk raiser." He started from the room, followed by the admiring gaze of Matilda, who evidently saw in this wonderful offer of her brother a full settlement for all the tender care and affection she had bestowed upon him during the past weeks. Presently, after a little delay, the reformed hobo came into the room. Sure enough, he was holding a brand-new five-dollar bill in his extended hand, and there was a look of actual pleasure to be seen on his grizzled face. "There you are, Mister Man," he said as he thrust the money at the farmer; "now you sign that bill in a hurry, and never show your face here again. We'll either find another party to deliver us milk, or go without." Hugh saw something that gave him an unexpected thrill. It was a simple matter, and no doubt escaped Thad's attention entirely, yet it might mean a great deal. As he looked closely at the fresh and new bank bill of the denomination of five dollars, Hugh saw that it had only three distinct creases marked across its face, as though it might have been taken from some flat receptacle like a bill-book; certainly when Brother Lu declared that he had such a bill tied up in his bandanna handkerchief he prevaricated, for it would under such conditions have been crumpled instead of looking so smooth! Hugh from that moment began to smell a rat! CHAPTER XV THE PUZZLE IS FAR FROM BEING SOLVED When, a little later on, the two chums came away from the Hosmer home, Thad seemed unusually quiet, for him. Hugh, noticing this, and wishing to ascertain whether the other had begun to get on the track of the truth, presently remarked: "What makes you so glum, Thad? Coming over you rattled away like a blue streak, and now you haven't so much as said ten words since we started back home?" "Well, to tell you the truth," admitted Thad, shaking his head after the manner of one who is sadly puzzled, "I just don't know what to say, after seeing that little affair." "Do you mean you feel badly because Matilda was so reduced in finances that she couldn't even meet a small account like her milk bill?" asked Hugh, fishing for a bite. "Why, yes, partly that," said Thad, slowly; "but it knocked me all in a heap to see that old rascal of a Brother Lu walk out with the last dollar he had in the wide world, and gladly hand it over to liquidate that same account. Say, if we didn't just know he was a bad one, I'd call that a really generous act." "Oh," chuckled Hugh, "not so very generous, after all, when you come to examine things closer. Don't forget, Thad, that he's been sponging on that poor couple for a good many weeks already; and then, if our calculations are correct, he means to fasten on them for keeps." "That's so," agreed the other, heaving a sigh as though he felt somewhat relieved in his mind to have his comrade point out a solution to the problem. "Of course, he's imposing on his relatives something shameful, and the least he could do was to toe the scratch when an emergency came along. But he did the thing up brown, I must admit." "And then again, how do we know that five dollars was every cent he had in the world?" asked Hugh, insinuatingly. "He said as much," declared Thad, instantly; and then laughed as he hastened to add: "though for that matter what would one little white lie mean to a fellow as case-hardened as an old hobo? There's another thing I'm thinking about, Hugh." "I can guess it," the second boy immediately told him. "You're wondering what it was Brother Lu meant to buy with his little fortune, eh?" "Well, five dollars isn't so _very_ much when you come to think of it, Hugh, but to a tramp it might seem a pile. But didn't he tell us he and Brother-in-law Andrew had some sort of a little scheme hatched up to give Matilda a surprise on her birthday, tomorrow, Saturday?" "Just what he did," admitted Hugh. "They've been plotting how to spend five dollars recklessly, so as to get the most for their money. Such men are apt to find heaps of enjoyment in blowing in their money a dozen times, and changing off just as often. I wouldn't be surprised a bit if they even calculated whether they could run across a nice little home that they could buy and present to Matilda for a birthday present---faithful, big-hearted Matilda." "What! for five dollars!" ejaculated Thad, and then he laughed; "but, of course, you're joking, Hugh. Still, it looks like a big sum to men who've seldom handled as much at a time; and I guess a confirmed tramp never does. I hope, though, he didn't steal that money." "What makes you say that, Thad?" "Oh! I don't know, but it looked so nice and fresh and new. Great Jupiter! Hugh, you don't think for a minute, do you, that it might have been a counterfeit bill?" Hugh shook his head. "Lots of things may turn out to be counterfeit, Thad, men as well as bank bills, but that one was perfectly good. I could even see the colored threads of silk fiber that the Government uses in the paper to protect the currency. So don't let that bother you again." "I'm glad to hear you say so, because it would be terrible if poor Matilda should get into more trouble on account of passing bad money. But is this going to alter our plans any, Hugh?" "I don't see why it should," came the steady reply. "We'll continue to do business at the old stand, shall we, then?" pursued Thad; "and try our level best to find out some way to force that leech to let go the hold he has secured on his sister?" "We'll keep on trying to learn something about Luther that will give us an advantage, so we can make him do just what we want," explained Hugh; and it might have been noticed that he was now very particular just what words he used when he spoke of the reformed tramp. "Huh! there's only one answer to that," grunted Thad; "which is to influence him to move on his way, and clear out. Scranton will never miss Brother Lu; and the wide world he loves so well beckons to him to come on. After all, once a tramp always a tramp, they say; and as a rule such fellows die in the harness." "It's really a disease, I've read, like the hookworm down South, that makes so many of the poor, underfed whites in the mountain districts seem too lazy for any use. It gets in the blood when they are boys, and they feel a strong yearning just to loaf, and knock around, and pick up their meals when and where they can." "Well, I can believe a part of that, Hugh, but the meal end is too much for me to swallow. Whoever heard of a tramp who didn't respond to a dinner-bell on a farm? Eating and sleeping are their long suits, and they can beat the world at both. When it comes to going in swimming now, they draw the line every time, for fear of taking cold, I reckon. But I own up Brother Lu Isn't a bad looker, now that he's reformed far enough to keep his face and hands clean, and wear Mr. Hosmer's Sunday-go-to-meeting suit of clothes, which just fits him by squeezing, and turning up the trouser-legs several inches at the bottom." "Yes, he isn't a bad-looking man, and if we didn't know how fierce he seemed at the time we first ran across him in the patch of woods, we'd hardly dream he'd ever been down and out. Matilda's cooking seems to agree with him." "Shucks! it agrees too well with him, and that's the trouble. Now, I wonder if there could be any way to make him sicken on his bill of fare. I'm going to think it over, and see if I can evolve a scheme along those lines." "You'll find it hard to do," suggested Hugh, "because he eats just what Andrew does, I suppose; as for Matilda, I do believe she stints her appetite so as to be able to give her sick charges their fill." "She does look thinner than before, that's a fact!" exclaimed the indignant Thad. "What a burning shame all this is, Hugh! Surely there must be some remedy for it. I've got a good notion to have a talk with Dominie Pettigrew, and spin him the whole painful story. He might find a way to separate Brother Lu from his quarry." "Take my advice, Thad, and wait a little longer," Hugh told him. "Tomorrow will be Saturday and we play Belleville again in the afternoon. Besides, didn't he tell us it was going to be Matilda's birthday, and that he and Andrew had fixed it to surprise her a little? Well, don't say anything to the Parson until next week, and by that time perhaps we'll know a heap more than we do now." Thad looked keenly at the speaker, but Hugh kept a straight face. If a glimmering suspicion that Hugh might know of something he was averse to confiding to even his best chum darted through Thad's mind just then he allowed it to slip past. "All right, Hugh, I guess it won't do any harm to hold up a few more days. Matilda has stood it so long now that it isn't going to hurt her to endure another week or so of her brother's company, and his appetite in the bargain. I'll try and forget all about it in thinking of our game with Belleville. We've just got to clinch that, as sure as anything, if we hope to have a look-in at that pennant." "We're going to do it, Thad," said Hugh, with set teeth. "Once we put Belleville in the soup for keeps we can devote our undivided attention to Allandale. They have the jump on us, of course, owing to hard luck. But, thank goodness, Alan Tyree is all right again, and he told me this morning he felt that his arm was better than ever before. That means Belleville won't be able to do anything with his delivery tomorrow afternoon." "This time we play on our own grounds," suggested Thad, "and the advantage is all in our favor. Everybody seems to think we should have an easy snap." "I rather think everybody stands for Ivy Middletown, Sue Barnes and Peggy Nolan," jeered Hugh, causing his chum to give a confused little laugh, as though the shot had gone home. "But what do girls know about baseball? It's a game of uncertainties all the way through. Many a time a pitcher, believing himself safe and invincible, because his club is away ahead, has eased up a trifle, and the other fellows start a batting bee that nearly puts the fat in the fire, and gives him the scare of his life. Belleville went down to defeat last Saturday before Allandale, and the score looks rotten, but you remember they fought like tigers." "You're right, Hugh." "And only for some hard luck they would have started a streak of hitting that might have pulled them out of the hole. Half a dozen fierce drives were taken on the run by Allandale fielders, any one of which, if sent ten feet one way or the other, would have counted for a three-bagger easily. That's how luck has a hand in defeating a team, and there's no way of denying it, either." "Well, we mean to put up our best sort of game, and not count it won till the last man goes down in the final inning," avowed Thad. "It's always wise to play safe in baseball," declared the field captain of the Scranton High team, "and take nothing for granted. Hit as hard as you can every time you're at bat, and don't allow yourself to be tempted to ease up out of sympathy for the other fellows. It's scant sympathy they'll show you, once they get at your prize pitcher, to knock him out of the box. Instead it'll be jeers, and taunts, and every sort of thing calculated to sting." "But after the game's been won?" expostulated Thad. "Oh, that's a different thing," admitted his chum. "Then we feel that we can afford to be generous without being put in a possible hole. Every true player is ready to take off his cap and give a beaten rival a hearty cheer. It sort of eases up the sting of defeat a bit, too, as all of us know." As they parted at the gate in front of Thad's home he once more returned to the subject that had such a strong hold on his mind. "If anything crops up that you think would interest me, about that tramp, of course, I mean, Hugh, please give me the sign, won't you?" Thad asked. Hugh did not seem disposed to take his chum into his confidence just then; perhaps he wanted to make more certain that his faint suspicions were well grounded before committing himself to a disclosure. "Sure I will, if I learn anything positive, Thad," he merely said; "and in the meantime we'll keep tabs on Brother Lu's eccentric actions, hoping to catch him off his guard," and later on Thad realized that these last words were rather significant. CHAPTER XVI AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD On Saturday morning Hugh had an errand that took him out of town. Once again it was to the farm where his mother secured that lovely sweet butter, without which the hot biscuits would never taste quite so fine. And as her customary supply had not turned up, with Sunday just ahead, nothing would do but that Hugh must take a little run out on his wheel, and fetch several pounds home with him. It was about half-past eight when he threw himself in the saddle and started. A more charming summer morning could hardly be experienced. The sun might be a bit hot later on, but just then the air was fragrant with the odor of new-mown grass, the neighbors' lawns having been attended to on the preceding day, but not raked up; the birds sang blithely in the hedges and among the branches of the trees, and in Hugh's soul there rested the joy that a tired high-school scholar finds when the end of the week brings a well-deserved holiday. As he rode quietly along, not desiring to be in too great a hurry, Hugh's mind somehow reverted to the last occasion when he had gone out to this same farm, in Thad's company, as it happened. He could again in imagination see the old tramp as he got his solitary meal, with the aid of those useful empty tomato cans, and the little blaze he had kindled among the trees alongside the road. Passing the spot revived these memories vividly. To think that weeks had gone and all that time Brother Lu had stuck to his guns, holding out at the humble Hosmer cottage, and eating the bread of dependence! "But something tells me the end is coming pretty soon now," Hugh muttered, as he continued on his way. It was not so very far beyond that identical spot he discovered a large car standing at one side of the road, where the woods grew quite thickly. The chauffeur sat there, idly waiting, it seemed. Hugh had more than once known the same thing to happen, when parties touring from some neighboring town stopped to eat lunch in a spot they fancied, or, it might be, to gather wild flowers. He was not much interested as he passed, with a nod to the man, who looked around at his approach, save to notice that the car was a pretty fine one, and which he remembered seeing once or twice in Scranton, always empty save for the driver. Hugh had just turned a bend lying a little away from the car when he distinctly saw some one hastily jump aside, and disappear amidst a screen of bushes growing along the road. "Now, that was queer," Hugh told himself; "whoever that fellow could be he didn't want me to see him, it looked like. And by the same token there was something familiar about him, though I only had a faint glimpse, he jumped so fast." As he slowly rode past the bushes he heard no sound. Hugh considered it good policy not to betray the fact that he had noticed anything out of the way; he did not as much as turn in the saddle, but continued to look straight ahead along the dusty white road. There was another bend a short distance away. No sooner had he turned this than Hugh was off his wheel like lightning, and running back to take a look, as though his curiosity might have been aroused. What he saw caused him to give a low whistle. Out of the bushes came a form he recognized. It was a rather compact figure upon which he gazed, and the clothes greatly resembled Brother-in-law Andrew's Sunday-best. Yes, Hugh no longer had any doubts, for the man was no other than the reformed hobo. "I've known that Brother Lu had taken to tramping about the country latterly," he muttered to himself, as he watched the other going off, apparently laughing as though greatly amused, "for a number of people have told me as much. That's all right, but why should he want to hide from me? I've got a good notion to chase after him, once he turns that other bend, and see what it all means." The idea must have appealed more and more strongly to Hugh then, for two minutes afterwards, when the form of the tramp could no longer be seen ahead, he went back to his wheel, mounted, and retraced his course until he arrived at the second abrupt curve. Again he dismounted and crept forward to see what he might discover. Strange to say, Hugh, usually steady-going Hugh, now found himself trembling all over, just as though he anticipated making a startling discovery. Well, he did. Brother Lu was in plain sight. He was just approaching the stalled car that stood at the side of the road. Watching, Hugh saw the chauffeur jump from his seat, and he plainly saluted the other most respectfully. Hugh paid particular attention to that part of the affair, because any pedestrian might have stopped to pass a few words with a car driver, or ask a question; but the pilot would hardly have made that positive sign unless there was a reason for his action. Now they seemed to be talking earnestly. Brother Lu made gestures, and Hugh took notice of the fact that he seemed to be speaking with authority, because the chauffeur constantly nodded his bead, as if to say that he understood. Then the man took something from under the front seat cushion of the car and handed it to Brother Lu. Hugh could not be positive, but he rather fancied it was a packet of folded papers. Plainly, then, there was a conspiracy afloat. Brother Lu was other than he pretended to be, and he was undoubtedly hatching up some sort of plot that had connections with the peace of mind of the two simple Hosmers who had taken him in on the strength of his claim to blood relationship. Hugh was quivering more than ever now, and his breath came in gasps as he continued to keep his eyes glued on the two figures not so far away. He wished that he were gifted with hearing keen enough to pick up what they were saying in such low tones, for then he would know everything; but this was out of the question, and he must await the subsequent turn of events. It might have been noticed, however, that the boy's eyes glistened as with a growing delight, from which it was easy to judge that he did not see anything so very terrible in these strange actions on the part of the reformed tramp. Indeed, Hugh acted very much as though inclined to "shake hands with himself," as Thad was so fond of saying, when he had cause for self-congratulation. How long they were carrying on that conversation! Once another car showed up down the road, and Hugh chuckled to notice how deftly Brother Lu assumed an humble attitude, just as though he might have simply halted to ask a question of the lordly chauffeur of the big and comfortable car. "He's a dandy, that's all I can say," muttered the amused boy, who on his part stood there as the other car whirled past, as if he might be looking for something he had lost; but on the contrary, the opposite was really the truth, because Hugh had made a great discovery and a "find" in the bargain. Now apparently the earnest conversation between chauffeur and Matilda's roving good-for-nothing brother had come to an end. The man entered the car again, turned in the road with the cleverness that comes from long handling of a touring machine, and, with a last respectful salute, his hand going to his cap military fashion, sped down the road, heading toward Scranton. Brother Lu stood there as if lost in meditation. Hugh, still watching closely, and making up his mind to have it out then and there, because he could not stand the weighty load of suspense any longer, was sure the other must be in a merry frame of mind, for he laughed several times, and even slapped his hand against his thigh in a way he had, as if to emphasize his thoughts. "Oh, you sly rascal!" Hugh was saying as he continued to observe all these significant things. "I'm beginning to size you up for what you are, all right. But just think how Thad will be stunned when I tell him all about my adventure! Why, he'll almost believe he's asleep, and dreaming it. There, I do think he's turning around as if he meant to come back this way. That suits me O.K., because I won't have to chase after him." Hugh thereupon prepared a surprise for the reformed hobo. He secured his wheel and stood just around the bend, trying to look severe and knowing, though his heart was beating like a trip-hammer, and he felt that his eyes must be fairly dancing with all the excitement. In imagination he could tell just how near the other man was as the seconds passed. Hugh wondered how Brother Lu would take it upon learning that his deep-laid schemes had been discovered. Apparently the boy did not see anything to fear, or else he would have sped away on his wheel instead of remaining to charge the other with his base deception. Then the sound of footfalls came to the waiting lad. He caught his breath, and his eager gaze was glued on the bend around which the man must speedily appear. As he walked Brother Lu had his head lowered, and consequently did not at once see that some one waited for him in the middle of the road. Indeed, he drew very near, and finally Hugh gave a sudden cough. At that the other quickly looked up, as though startled. When he saw who it was he immediately commenced to grin after his usual custom. Somehow Hugh no longer saw anything to condemn in that broad smile that covered the face of the ex-hobo; just then, in the light of the new revelation, it seemed most kindly and benign; for circumstances alter cases, and a great deal depends upon one's view-point as to whether an expression can be classed as merry or sarcastic. Brother Lu did not seem to be bothered a great deal on making the discovery he did, though he must surely have jumped to the conclusion that the boy had been spying upon his late movements. He continued to advance. Hugh could detect the light of humor in those blue orbs that had always mystified him, even when he believed the other to be the worst kind of an impostor, or human leech, capable of living upon the scanty earnings of his sister Matilda. "Hello, there, Hugh Morgan! so you concluded to turn back, did you?" the man started to say, as though inviting the other to open his batteries at once, and accuse him to his face. "Why, yes," said Hugh, trying to control his trembling voice, "I saw somebody jump into the bushes as if he didn't want me to glimpse him, and of course my curiosity was aroused; so I just dismounted and came back to the other bend. Then, when I recognized you, I determined to follow a bit. You see, Mr. Corbley, I mean to settle certain matters that have been worrying both my chum and myself a heap lately---settle them once and for all." "Which I suppose now you've done for a fact, Hugh?" remarked the other, chuckling. "I believe I have," the boy said, firmly. "You've got me sized up, all right, I imagine, lad," continued Brother Lu. "I've come to the conclusion, sir, that you are a fraud of the first water, if that's what you want to know," Hugh told him, boldly. Strange to say, the ex-tramp, instead of taking umbrage at such language, bent over almost double, and laughed so hard Hugh almost feared he was about to have one of his violent fits of coughing; but he did not. CHAPTER XVII THE WONDERFUL NEWS "I reckon sure my cake is dough now, since you've tumbled to my game, Hugh," the late tramp was saying, presently; "and there's nothing left for me to do but take you into camp, and give you the whole story from beginning to end." "I'd be glad to have you do that, Mr. Corbley," Hugh hastened to tell him. "Then let's walk back a bit. I believe we can find a nice convenient log close to the road, where we'll take things easy while I spin my little yarn. To tell you the truth, Hugh Morgan, I've taken a great liking to you and that chum, Thad. I've been sizing the pair of you up ever since I first ran across you; and say, it's given me a heap of joy to see how solicitous you both were about my hanging out at Sister Matilda's ranch, and eating her hard-earned bread. You boys have got the right kind of stuff in you, that's certain. Why, there were times when I was almost afraid that impulsive chum of yours would be wanting to jump on me, and try by main force to chase me off the ground." "We did make one try that way, as of course you know, sir," ventured Hugh. "Meaning that article in the _Weekly Courier_ about the terrible marshal from Texas, Hastings by name," laughed the other. "I've had lots of fun over that racket, son, I give you my word I have. Of course there's a sheriff down there capable of doing all those stunts your friend on the paper wrote up; but his name chances to be Rawlings and not Hastings. I must have got things a bit mixed when I told you about how he took bad men into camp, and all that. But here's the log, and we can take things easy while I confess how I'm the most tremendous impostor going." Hugh seemed eager to hear about it, nor was he apparently at all afraid. In fact he was looking at the reformed tramp as though he felt a positive affection for him now, in the light of the new revelation. "First of all, Chum Hugh," said the man, after they had settled themselves comfortably, "I want you to know that the stories I told you about my travels in foreign lands were every one of them Gospel truth. I have been all around the whole globe, and seen some queer things in my day. But let that pass, for as we are apt to see considerable of each other after this, there'll be a plenty of time for me to continue that narrative of adventure. "In the course of my travels I've really picked up several fortunes, and then lost them again almost as quickly. It didn't much matter, because I was one of those happy-go-lucky chaps who believe the world owes them a living, and which they can get any time they more than half try. "So the years went on, and all at once I awoke to find that I was getting old and gray. When a man passes sixty, lad, his thoughts begin to travel far back into the days of his childhood. So more and more I got to thinking of those who were everything to me. I knew that all of them had checked in but a sister, and her I hadn't seen for twenty years and more; though I believed she was still living. "It was down in Texas a few months ago that I had a little sick spell, and while I lay there convalescing strange fancies came into my head. I made up my mind the time had come for me to quit this foolish roaming all about the world. I couldn't expect to live a great many years more, and why not settle down to being decent and respectable, as well as do some good with my money before I cashed in? "That idea kept gripping me until I finally made up my mind to sell all my big holdings in the new oil wells. This I did, and banked the cash in New York---I won't tell you what it was, lad, but six figures would be needed to cover it, and maybe seven, if all goes well with my last sale. "But somehow an old distrust of human nature began to get a hold on me. I found myself wondering whether Matilda, if she should still be living, would welcome her long-missing brother for himself alone, or because he was close on a millionaire. "That bothered me a heap, Hugh. Finally a bright idea came to me, and I determined to fix myself up like the worst old tramp going, and pretend to be sick, as well as out of funds. The game appealed to my liking for new adventures, and---well, you know how it succeeded. You boys became connected with the affair from the start, and I'm glad of it, for I like you both. "All through these weeks I've grimly held out, though ready to call the game more than a few times when it seemed that poor Matilda was having a bigger load on her shoulders than she could carry. But I fixed up several little schemes to ease the strain, when I decided to hold back the grand disclosure till her birthday. For one thing, I hid a ten-dollar bill in her Bible, and she never could remember putting the bill there, although she tried her best. Another time I wrote a letter in a disguised hand that was signed by a fictitious name, and which said that in a long-ago deal I had got the better of her, which my conscience wouldn't allow; so to ease my mind I was enclosing a twenty-dollar bill to her to cover interest. "Say, that certainly did make her lie awake and wonder, because, of course, she couldn't remember anything of the sort; nor could Andrew. I used to listen to them talking it over again and again, and I am sure got heaps of enjoyment out of it; but I told them it was perfectly proper for them to use the money, and they did. I ate part of it up myself, Hugh. "Now, I'm getting down to hard facts, boy. I want to let you into the great secret, and your chum ditto. Could you come over to our house, say about ten this morning, and fetch that sharp-eyed Thad along with you? There'll be something about to happen then. We've already fixed it to go on a little picnic excursion and take our simple lunch along with us, just to celebrate Matilda's birthday, you see. And I'll ask you to go along, which you must agree to do, if you want to have the finest surprise of your life. How about it, Hugh?" "There's nothing that I can see to prevent us, Mr. Corbley," the boy assured him, eagerly, "and to tell the truth wild horses couldn't hold me back, after what I've already learned. I must see the end of your queer game, sir. But I'm glad that it isn't likely to interfere with our working in the baseball match, which starts at three this afternoon on the home grounds." "Oh! I assure you we'll be all through long before then, and luncheon eaten in the bargain; though it isn't going to be the simple bill of fare that Matilda'll be putting in the basket we're going to carry with us. Well, Hugh, I'm going to keep you in just a little fever of suspense until then. When you and Thad show up, try to act toward me as you've been doing right along. Don't call me Mr. Corbley, remember, for that might excite suspicions. Even poor simple but good-hearted Andrew, whose best clothes I'm wearing right now with brazen assurance, doesn't dream that I've got more than a few dollars in the wide world. He even begged me not to squander those, saying that we could have a holiday without extra expense; but say, I told him to shut up, that if I chose to spend two dollars on my only sister it was nobody's business. I really think Andrew has come to like me first-rate, though I'm a little afraid he misses his garments and has to curtail his customary smokes on my account." He laughed at the conceit until he shook all over, and Hugh, now alive to the immensity of the great surprise that awaited the gentle couple, found himself obliged to join in the merriment. Shortly afterwards Hugh started off to finish his errand. He rode with speed now because of his eagerness to get back home and look up Thad, upon whom he meant to let loose a bombshell that must fairly stagger him. It was not yet nine o'clock, and ten was the appointed hour when they were expected to join the picnic party. Hugh believed he had never in all his life felt one-half so joyous. If a fortune had come his way he could not have appreciated it as much as he did the knowledge that Matilda and Andrew were going to reap the reward of their long life of tender-heartedness in their relations with their fellows. It was simply grand, and Hugh felt that his mother must know all about it as soon as the affair had developed to the grand finale and Matilda's eyes were opened to the fact that she had all this while been entertaining an angel unawares. Thad was at home and up to his eyes in rewinding a fishing-rod that needed attention. When Hugh burst in upon him with such a glow in his face and a light in his eyes, Thad knew that something bordering on the wonderful must have occurred. Singular to say, his first remark was pretty near a bull's-eye, showing that he must have been thinking about the ex-hobo as he wound the waxed red silk around the guides of his fishing-rod. "What's happened, Hugh? Oh! have you found a way we can get rid of that sticker of a Brother Lu? Something seems to whisper to me you've struck a scheme. Pitch right in and tell me all about it, Hugh." "There has a way come up, sure enough," said Hugh, beaming on his chum, as well might the bearer of such glorious news. "After today that tramp will never eat another mouthful of food at the expense of his poor sister and brother-in-law!" "Then he's going to skip out, is he?" burst from the delighted Thad. "Bully for that! However did it happen, Hugh; and what sort of a hand in it did you have?" "I don't claim the least credit for it," he was firmly told; "and for that matter Mr.---I mean Brother Lu, isn't going to shake the dust of Scranton off his feet, yet awhile at least. Something else has happened to bring about the change. Here, I just can't hold the wonderful news in any longer, Thad. Listen!" Accordingly Hugh started to pour out the story. He had Thad sitting there and almost ceasing to breathe, so deeply interested was he in everything. When Hugh got to where he discovered the ex-tramp talking with the chauffeur of the big touring car, and seemingly with authority, Thad jumped up and began to dance around excitedly. "Oh, joy unconfined! I'm just beginning to glimpse how it's going to turn out, that's what I am, Hugh!" he exclaimed, trembling all over with the violence of his emotions. "Wouldn't that be the limit, though, if this old hobo proved to be the good fairy coming in disguise to prove the worth of the ones he meant to assist? Go on and tell me the rest, like a good fellow, Hugh. Is he very rich; where did he make all his money; was that his fine big car, and his chauffeur; was he just testing Matilda and Andrew to prove how they were true gold? It's the greatest thing that ever happened for Matilda, for Andrew; ditto for you and me, because we've had a hand in it all, haven't we, Hugh?" The rest of the amazing story was soon told. Thad shook hands with his chum again and again. He fairly bubbled over with enthusiasm. "I'm so glad, so glad, for Matilda's sake!" he kept saying. "I warrant you now that fine brother of hers has got some wonderfully big thing up his sleeve; and so we're invited to go along and see the fairy story through, are we, Hugh? How long do we have to wait before making a start for the Hosmer cottage? I wonder if Matilda'll care if we keep company with them on their picnic? First thing she'll do will be to run back and add some more to the basket, because she knows how boys can eat like a house afire. I don't see how I can stand it waiting nearly a whole hour; but then there are a hundred other questions I'm burning to ask you." Time passed while they sat there in Thad's room and talked. Hugh was compelled to relate every little incident over again, and amidst all sorts of comments on the part of the other. Finally Hugh said it was now a quarter to ten, and that they might as well be starting out, which they proceeded to do most eagerly indeed. CHAPTER XVIII WHEN THE WIZARD WAVED HIS WAND "Don't forget for a minute," cautioned Hugh, as they started on their way toward the humble cottage home of Matilda and her husband, "that Brother Lu asked us to act quite natural when we came along." "I'm on," responded Thad, though it was only with the greatest difficulty that he seemed able to repress the glow in his eyes that told of secret joy. "He means by that, you are to ask Matilda whether she's ready for another batch of sewing stuff that both of our mothers have ready, which I happen to know is the case. And then I suppose Brother Lu will ask us to join them on their little holiday outing, since he's made himself master of ceremonies for today. Say, will a hungry fish snap at an angleworm when it's dangled just in front of its nose? Well, we'll thank Brother Lu for being so kind, and as we have nothing else to do we'll accept with celerity, eh, Hugh? Is that the programme?" So talking and laughing, they walked on. Soon they arrived at the cottage, where they found the three inmates just getting ready to start forth. Matilda had a covered basket already packed. She welcomed the two lads with a happy smile. Birthdays came and went in her life just as they did with other people, only as a rule there was scant reason to celebrate them, save as they marked the fact that Matilda was "getting old." But somehow the presence of cheery Brother Lu seemed to have started something. Possibly, although Matilda could not dream of what was coming, some intuition caused her to feel that this day was to be different from any other in her past. A sense of something good impending may have thrilled her poor pulses, though if asked why she found any particular reason for smiling, and throwing off her yoke of worry for a brief spell, she could have given no intelligent answer. Brother Lu bustled up. He seemed very important, indeed. "Glad to see you, boys," he said, holding out his hand, which Thad actually seized eagerly; although just a few hours before he had been telling himself how delighted he would be to form one of a party of determined fellows who might visit the Hosmer cottage at midnight, and warn the ex-hobo to clear out of the neighborhood on penalty of having something decidedly unpleasant happen to him if he refused. But then that was before Thad had heard the wonderful story which Hugh unleashed, and fired at him as he sat there gaping and listening and slyly pinching his thigh so as to learn whether he were awake, or asleep and dreaming. "Looks like you folks might be going on a picnic somewhere?" remarked Hugh, taking his cue from something Brother Lu had said to him before. "Just what we expect to do, lads," hastily replied the other, with a wink, when he believed neither of the Hosmers was looking at him. "You see, this happens to be Tilly's birthday. She hasn't had a real one for ever so long, and Andrew and me, why, we've fixed it that she should take a holiday from her drudgery and we'd all go off for a little lark. Now, perhaps you two would like to keep us company. How about that, boys? You've been pretty kind to my sister, and we all feel that you're our good friends. What do you say about tagging along? In my walks about this section of country, I've chanced to make a few acquaintances. One of these is managing a kind of pretty place about two miles away from here; and he suggested that I fetch my sister and brother-in-law across country today. He reckoned that they'd kind of enjoy looking over the nest his employer has bought and fitted up, though he ain't really taken possession yet. Tilly, tell Hugh and Thad they'll be welcome to a snack with us at noon. This is a day we all want to remember, you know. Let tomorrow and dull care look out for themselves. That's the tramp's motto." Matilda readily complied, and she meant it from the bottom of her heart too, for she was becoming very fond of both boys. Doubtless when she carried the basket back into the house to add to its contents, she must have swept the pantry clean. But as Brother Lu said, why bother about the future when they meant to have a whole day free from carking care. Tomorrow would be time enough to take up the heavy burdens of life again. And so they started forth, chatting, and so far as appearances went, quite happy. Thad was in a fever of suppressed excitement. He felt certain that that splendid car would come into the little drama somehow or other; and for once he guessed aright. "There's a car on the side of the road that has stopped to let the driver do a little repairing, I guess," remarked Brother Lu, quite innocently. "And say, I know that man right well. We've talked several times when I was roving around seeing what the country surrounding Scranton looked like. He even calls me Lu and I know him as Jerry. He's a pretty decent sort of fellow in the bargain. Why, he even said that sometime when he didn't have the boss along with him, he'd like to give all of us a little joy ride. Tilly here told me only yesterday she never had been out in a car except once in a little broken-down flivver; and then she had to walk back home, nearly three miles. I wonder if Jerry wouldn't pick us up and take us over to the Hoover place right now. I've a good mind to ask him. Would you like it, Tilly?" Would she? Matilda's sparkling eyes proclaimed that it would give her infinite delight; and so Brother Lu, with the assurance that every ex-tramp possesses in abundance, stepped up to the man who was putting his tools away in the chest where they belonged. Jerry made an involuntary gesture with his right hand. He had been about to touch his cap respectfully, but caught himself just in time. "Hello, Jerry!" sang out the breezy one, giving the chauffeur a hearty slap on the shoulder that must have somewhat astonished him; "you told me you'd be right glad to give my folks a little joy ride if the chance ever came along. We're heading right now for the Hoover place, and would be obliged to you to give us a lift, because we'll have to walk all the way back; and brother-in-law Andrew here isn't a well man. How about it, Jerry, old top?" Jerry grinned as though enjoying the joke. "Sure I can---Lu," he managed to say, though it evidently came a bit hard for him to be so familiar with his rich employer's first name. "Just bundle in, and we'll take a round-about way there. I can give you half an hour, easy enough, and the old man need never know the difference in the gas supply." They all got in, "old man" and all, for the car had supplementary seats to be used in emergencies, being built for seven passengers. Thad and Hugh were trying hard to keep from exhibiting broad grins on their faces; though, for that matter, neither of those simple, guileless souls would have suspected the least thing had the boys laughed outright in their happiness. They had a splendid ride, and must have covered many miles while that wonderful half-hour was being used up. Matilda looked supremely happy. Now and then Hugh saw her glance rest admiringly on Brother Lu. She must have begun to believe that after all the coming of this poor sick brother of hers, who had appeared so forlorn, and with such a dreadful and alarming cough, was gradually emerging from his chrysalis stage, and becoming a full-fledged magician. Greatly to the amusement of the boys, Brother Lu would every little while ask Matilda how she liked such a car, and seemed to chuckle softly to himself when she rolled up her eyes in an expressive fashion, and declared that it surely must be getting pretty close to Paradise to be able to go about the beautiful country in such a palatial conveyance; poor Matilda had evidently been accustomed to considering it an event when she managed by great good luck to get an invitation to take a ride in an ordinary country buggy or farm wagon. Then finally they passed in through the gate of the Hoover estate. This estate had a reputation in Scranton as being the prettiest little country place around. It had belonged to a wealthy gentleman who had lately died in New York City. There were rumors that it had changed hands, though no one seemed to have heard the name of the new owner. Thad and Hugh could easily understand now why this secrecy had been maintained. They caught many a sly wink from the wizard, who sat back there with his sister and her husband, whenever they looked around. "Let's get out here," announced Brother Lu, with an air of importance that must have further awed both Matilda and Andrew. "There's my friend Billings, coming over to see who we are. I told him I wanted to show you all around this elegant place, and he agreed to pilot us about. Now, to look at him, managing this property, you'd never think that Malcolm Billings was once down and out, and the worst-looking tramp that ever took to the road; but it's true. I remember him well. We first met riding on the rods of a freight car out on the Santa Fe road. You see, some rich fellow took a fancy to Malcolm, and gave him a chance to make good; and I reckon he's a-doing that same, all right." He greeted the other familiarly as "Mal," and having been drilled in his part, the manager of the place called him "Wandering Lu," as though he could not dissociate the other from the roving life of the past. The boys, keenly watching, could see that he quickly turned his eyes on Matilda and Andrew when introduced by Brother Lu; and also that there was a light in their depths that told how he appreciated this little surprise which the other was playing. So they started to see first of all the grounds, which consisted of many acres, all in a high state of cultivation, and with flower gardens, vegetable ditto, and all manner of fine fruits, such as a rich man loves to grow on his own country place. There were even Jersey cows, and fowls of various breeds, as well as a flock of pigeons that gave Matilda more delight than anything else; for secretly it had always been a pet wish of hers to some day have a flock of doves fluttering around her head, just as she had seen the tame ones of St. Mark's in Venice do---in pictures, of course, because Matilda had never been abroad---as yet. Had either of them been in the least suspicious they might have wondered just why Jerry, for instance, had taken the big car over to the garage and started to clean it as though it really belonged there. The boys saw this, but not Matilda or Andrew, who were in a seventh heaven of rapture, and not walking on earth. Then they went to the house, where a matronly woman met them. Brother Lu, more than ever like a magician of the first water, seemed to be friendly with the housekeeper also, for he introduced his sister and the others to Mrs. Husted. She took her cue from Mr. Billings, who was also present, and tried to act as though she were condescending to agree to show these strangers through the beautiful house; but it was an exceedingly hard task for her, because she knew that with the wave of the wizard's wand this lady would henceforth become her mistress. Thad, lingering behind, could hardly contain himself. He would again and again manage to give Hugh a knock with his elbow, and gurgle something half under his breath, only to have the other shake a finger at him, and add a look of reproof. They went through the house from top to bottom. "Now, if you don't mind, Mrs. Husted, I'd like my folks to see the dining-room, for it's the best part of the whole establishment, according to the notion of men like Malcolm and me, who have known what it is to go hungry many a time during our adventurous lives." The obliging housekeeper complied with a degree of alacrity that must have still further astonished Matilda. When they entered the room, to discover a table set for just five persons and fairly groaning beneath the weight of all manner of good things, Thad drew a long breath; for now he knew that the grand announcement could not be much longer delayed. And he also knew that poor Matilda's simple luncheon, resting in the covered basket under the tree outside, would in all likelihood remain untouched. "Why, what do you think of that?" remarked Brother Lu, appearing to be very much surprised. "Here are places for just five, the number we count. Wouldn't it be a great joke now if we had the nerve to sit down, and partake of this little spread. Mrs. Husted, this is my sister's birthday, the only one she's really had, I guess, for more than twenty years. Perhaps you wouldn't mind if we celebrated the event and tried to do justice to this luncheon. Matilda, let me give you this seat of honor at the head of the table. Andrew, old scout, you are to sit opposite your wife Boys, find places, and I'll take this seat." Matilda and Andrew allowed themselves to be almost pushed into their respective chairs. They were dumb, and seemed almost in a dream. Matilda could not take her wondering eyes off this astonishing brother of hers, who now must have looked very like the fairy prince to her. She was an automaton in his hands, and he could have done anything with her. But, of course, presently she would awaken, and find it all one of those amazing dreams that so often come to tantalize the very poor. Now Brother Lu was standing there. He bent forward and looked affectionately at his sister. His eyes were sparkling still, but from quite another cause, Hugh saw; though his own orbs were also dimmed, and he had to wink very rapidly in order to keep the tears from flowing down his cheeks. "Well, Matilda, how do you like your new home?" said Brother Lu; "for henceforth you and your husband are to live here to the end of your days. It has been bought, and placed in your name. Yes, I'm going to own up, sister mine, that Brother Lu had been playing a cruel joke, but with a good object. I'm not a poor, forlorn hobo, as I led you to believe, neither am I dying by inches. I hope to live some years yet, to see the two I love drink heartily from the cup of happiness. All this is but a drop in the bucket to what is coming. You shall make up for some of the lean years you've spent so bravely, buoying up each other's courage. Yes, and that tender heart of yours, Tilly, shall be given plenty of opportunities to bring good cheer to those who are almost down and out. And boys, I'm right glad that you're here with us to see the mask removed, and Brother Lu stand out in his true colors. Matilda has stood the test, and proved to me that her heart is of pure gold. She deserves everything that is coming to her. Now, I know you boys haven't lost your appetites, if the rest of us are too happy to think much of eating; so let's get busy, and do justice to this little spread, given in honor of Tilly's birthday!" Which they accordingly did, and it would hardly be proper in any one to tell how much Thad ate, and how both of them felt that they were seeing one of the most enjoyable occasions in their entire lives. And later on the boys were taken home in the big car, to rest up a bit, so as to be in trim for the game with Belleville that afternoon. CHAPTER XIX SCRANTON HIGH EVENS MATTERS UP The match with Belleville proved a walkover for Scranton, much to the delight of all the local rooters, and the utter humiliation of the boys from the neighboring town. Tyree was at his very best, which meant that few among the Belleville batsmen could touch his slants and drops and speedy balls. They fought gamely to the very last, as all sturdy players of the National game should, hoping for a turn in the tide; but in the end found themselves snowed under by a score of eleven to two. Those runs were actually gifts, for in the end Tyree slowed up, and almost "lobbed" a few over the plate, as though wishing to take a little of the sting of defeat away; though that is never a safe practice for any pitcher to do. Still, eleven to nothing would have been rubbing it into the Belleville fellows pretty roughly. On the following Saturday Allandale had a last whirl at Belleville. This time the boys of the third town took a brace, and for a time put up quite a creditable game. Big Patterson, however, was too much for them, and after the seventh inning they lost all hope of winning. But the score was six to four, which might be considered a little hopeful. So Belleville, having lost all the games thus far played in which she took part, was consequently eliminated as a contending factor in the race for the pennant of the Three Town High School League. This left it between Scranton and Allandale. The latter team had a big advantage to start with, since they were already one game to the good. But Scranton still had faith in Tyree, and if things broke half-way decently in the next game they fully expected to make their adversaries "take their dust," as Thad expressed it. During this time, of course, the wonderful happenings at the Hosmer cottage had become town talk. Everybody was greedily drinking in such details of the story as they could manage to gather up. Acting under the directions of Brother Lu, now known to every one as the rich owner of the Hoover place, Mr. Luther Corbley, Hugh and Thad did not hesitate to relate everything they knew, which, in fact, covered the story from beginning to end. It thrilled all Scranton, and would be related many times over as weeks and months passed by. There had never been anything to compare with it in the annals of all Scranton, or any other town in the county, for that matter. Matilda and Andrew had gone to live in their new home, and the boys were told that they might always "find the latch-string out," as the genial genie of the whole undertaking assured both Hugh and Thad. He seemed to have taken a decided liking for the chums, and could not see enough of them. Many an evening did they spend over at the new home. Thad never seemed to weary of listening to the marvelous stories told by the great wanderer; nor did he any longer have the least doubt regarding their accuracy. Indeed, after seeing what marvels Brother Lu was able to bring to pass in the dull lives of Matilda and her husband, Thad would have been ready to take anything he said as Gospel truth. Then came the Saturday when Allandale had to be met for the second time. Hugh and his fellow players had worked hard through the week, under the fostering care of Coach Leonard, to put themselves in fine fettle for the hard game they anticipated lay ahead of them. Never was a boy more pampered and looked after than Alan Tyree during those last few days before the trial of skill and strategy took place between himself and Big Ed Patterson. They were forever hearing vague reports to the effect that the Allandale pitcher was excelling his own record, and that his speed had reached a point where it was attracting the attention of scouts sent abroad through the land by some of the big teams in the National and American Leagues; so that in all probability Patterson would be offered a contract calling for a stupendous salary before the fall came along. Hugh only laughed whenever these yarns reached him. "Let Patterson keep on improving," he would say lightly, "and no backstop can hold him for a minute any more than he could grapple with cannon balls. We've got some pitcher, also. Tyree is better than ever before in his life. While he may not have all the speed to burn that Patterson has, there are a few tricks in his bag that he means to uncork on Allandale. I'm sorry for those fellows when they run against Alan in his present shape. Tell them so when you see them, please." It would seem from all this talk that the battle was to be one of pitchers, for the most part. And when finally the time came for Scranton to journey over to the rival town, there to take up cudgels with Allandale High, quite a numerous host of the local people went along, bent on learning just how much truth there might be in the stories that had drifted across regarding the invincibility of Big Ed Patterson. As on previous occasions, there was a tremendous outpouring of interested spectators. If anything, it was a record crowd, and far excelled in point of numbers and enthusiasm any gathering that had cheered the Allandale team on in their two contests against Belleville. There was a reason for this, of course, since the latter team had proven to be so woefully weak that they had not thus far managed to win a single game, and were out of the race for the pennant. On the other hand, Scranton, while beaten in the first combat with the locals, had fought gamely, though terribly handicapped by the absence of their regular star pitcher. Besides, they had really beaten Belleville both times as badly as had Allandale. Everybody therefore was anticipating considerable real sport with the two pitchers on the mound pitted against each other, and the regular teams covering the various positions on the diamond. It was a cloudy day, and looked as though it might rain. Hugh noted this fact and understood just what Coach Leonard meant when he told them it would be just as well to start right in, and do some scoring. If the game should be called after a number of innings had been played, whoever was ahead would be adjudged the victor. A threatening day is not a time to put too much faith in a ninth-inning Garrison finish, because the game may never go beyond five or six turns, if the flood-gates above chance to open, and the field be deluged so as to make a continuance of play out of the question. Well, that was just what did happen, as it turned out, and Scranton boys found occasion to thank Coach Leonard for his advice, since it really gave them the decision. Patterson certainly had amazing speed when he started, and for three innings it was next to impossible to touch him; for that matter Tyree was also twirling with considerable effect, though several hits had been made, and an error allowed one run to be tallied. Then in the fourth something happened. Allandale was still striving with might and main to stretch that lone tally into several. They seemed to have a batting rally, and singular to say it was the end of the string usually considered the weakest that came to the fore. Whipple, the right fielder, knocked a terrific fly, but it was taken after a great run by Juggins. Brown followed suit, but also died through clever work on the part of "K.K." out in center. It was supposed that Big Ed Patterson as the next man up would be an easy third, because he had struck out both times at the bat. He surprised everyone, himself included, possibly, by sending out a crack that by bard base running allowed him to reach second. Then Keeler, the Allandale backstop, not to be outdone in the matter, also met one of Tyree's mystifying balls on the tip of his bat; and Patterson, who had not had time to even think of asking to get some one to run for him, had to keep galloping along in mad haste, the coach near third sending him home, which he reached after a slide. Farmer, however, struck out immediately afterwards, so that one tally only resulted from the batting rally. But the mischief had been already done. Big Ed was wheezing badly when he took his place in the box, a fact the vigilant eye of Hugh instantly noted. "This is going to be our one chance to do something, boys," he told his mates as they came in to start the fifth frame. "Big Ed is tired after that running. Work him for a pass, Owen; you know how to do it, all right." Owen apparently did, for shortly afterwards he was perched safely on the initial sack, with Hugh himself at bat, and filled with a grim determination to send the runner along, as well as plant himself on the bag. He picked out a good one, and cracked it out for a double, Owen managing to land on third. All Scranton arose and roared to "K.K." to send them both home, which he obligingly did with the nicest possible little hit that could have been made, he himself reaching second on the throw-in. Julius Hobson was now up, but he struck out, greatly to his chagrin. With the score tied, and the sky looking so threatening, Hugh was more than ever anxious that one more hit should bring in the run that might eventually win the game. Patterson realized his weakness, and tried in various ways to delay the game. He had to tie his shoe once, and then managed to toss the ball again and again to try and nip "K.K." at second. In doing so he actually let the runner make third, as O'Malley on second allowed the ball to slip out of his hands, and the agile "K.K." slid along in safety, making a great slide to the sack. Then Tyree got in the tap that scored the runner, although he himself was caught at first. Thad sent a dandy hit out past short, but was left when "Just" Smith struck out. In their half the Allandale players again tried to delay the game until the umpire threatened to call it off, and proclaim Scranton the winner nine to nothing. Then they went to work, but without avail, for the inning found Scranton just one run to the good. Play was continued, even though a fine drizzle started, that caused hundreds of the spectators to take warning and depart. At the beginning of the seventh inning, with the score the same, the rain came down in torrents and play was discontinued. Later, finding that there was no hope of the game being resumed, the umpire declared it in the favor of Scranton, and those fellows went home happy though soaked to the skin. CHAPTER XX A GLORIOUS FINISH---CONCLUSION The fact that Allandale and Scranton were tied, and that there must be played a deciding game, brought out a clause in the League contract providing for just such a possibility. It would be manifestly unfair to play this game on either grounds, even when tossing a penny for choice; because luck should not enter into such a championship any more than was absolutely necessary. So this last game was to take place on the Belleville grounds, which were adequately supplied with grandstand and bleachers, and really better adapted for holding a record crowd than either of the other fields. It turned out to be a very fine day, for which every one felt thankful, after the bitter experience over at Allandale, when so many summer hats and dresses were ruined by the sudden coming of the storm, and the long ride home. Belleville, while in mourning because of the unexpected weakness developed by her school team, proved to be a loyal sport town, for she opened her arms to the visitors, and many a flag decorated other buildings besides the high school, to prove to Scranton and Allandale folks that no bitterness was felt, since every game had been fairly lost to superior playing. That deciding game proved to be a fierce one, so far as the desperate playing on both sides went, though there was no animosity displayed on either team. All the noise made by the visiting contingents was done in a good-natured spirit of friendly rivalry. And the Belleville rooters acted impartially, cheering first one side and then the other, as good plays happened to come along. Big Ed Patterson may have been as good as ever, but Hugh and his mates seemed to have solved his speedy shoots that came hissing over the plate like cannon balls. At least they did not strike out as often as during that other game. "Familiarity sometimes breeds contempt" with regard to a baseball phenomenon in the way of a pitcher, as well as in other walks of life; and when Hugh found Patterson for a drive in the sixth frame "K.K." took courage and did likewise. Then came Julius Hobson, never having forgiven himself for striking out when the score was tied, and all Scranton had begged him to "tap one out past second, Julius; you know how to work it, old boy; you're a dandy, Julius; now win your game right here!" Julius had his revenge, for what did the boy do but knock a "hummer" clear out in far center, that it seemed the madly running Farmer would never get his hands on; and by the time the ball again entered the diamond three tallies had resulted, Julius having fairly flown the rounds, to throw himself down panting, and as happy as they ever make a baseball player. Three to one it stood now, and those figures looked pretty big to both sides, for the pitchers were doing gilt-edged work and heavy scoring seemed utterly out of the question. Allandale was game to the backbone, and they started a rally of their own when next at the bat. Tyree, however, nipped the same in the bud by getting himself out of two nasty holes when it looked as though the other team must surely push men over the plate. So the game went on, and Tyree gave no sign of falling down, standing the strain wonderfully well. Hugh felt the joyous thrill of coming victory. Many of the wildly cheering Scranton rooters boasted that they could already see Allandale handing over the pennant they had so easily won the previous summer, and which must float from the flag-pole in front of the Scranton high school another season. The finish was highly exciting. Allandale managed actually to tie the score in their half of the ninth, but Scranton still had an inning in which to do something. Thad Stevens led the batting list in the ninth; and some other heavy artillery followed close on his heels. Thad got first on a neat little hit. "Just" Smith advanced him a base with a sacrifice bunt. Then Horatio Juggins, who was seldom ever known to fail when it was up to him to do something, met one of those speedy shoots of Patterson on the end of his bat, and perched on second, while the winning tally came in. That closed the game, since Allandale had already had their turn at bat in the ninth. Juggins was the hero of the occasion, and that glorious hit of his would long place him on a pedestal in the estimation of the Scranton High scholars. Indeed, all sorts of dates would be reckoned back to "that time bully old Jug nearly knocked the cover off the ball, and handed us the championship on a silver plate." Scranton boys were more than satisfied with the success that had attended the baseball rivalry. They would be entitled to fly the pennant of victory for the next season, beginning with the fall session of school. Every student's heart must thrill more or less with honest pride as he looked back to the wonderful way in which, under such a leader as Hugh Morgan, the Scranton High spirit of outdoor sports, which had fallen to a lamentably low figure of late, had been boosted on high, so as to place the locals above every other town worth mentioning in the county. As yet, Hugh was sorry to learn, there did not seem to be much chance of a series of football games being arranged, because somehow that sport had never taken a firm hold upon the boys of the three towns. But encouraging signs gave promise that by another year some thing might be done along such lines. However, there was to be no lack of interesting events occurring in and around Scranton, as the fall came on. For some years now there had been a regular tournament of athletic sports, mostly along the line of running races, of which the boys of Scranton appeared to be especially fond. Mr. Saunders, in his capacity of teacher in the high school under Dr. Carmack, the principal, and also county supervisor, had opportunities to encourage this growing spirit among the pupils, which he did every chance he found. He featured the splendid training resulting from consistent work upon the cinder-path, and by degrees quite a lively interest was created in the idea of having a regular Marathon running race for all high-school boys, no matter where located. That this idea finally seized hold upon the good people of Scranton to such an extent that a splendid prize was offered for the successful competitor, may be guessed from the title of the succeeding story in this Series, which it is to be hoped every one reading this book will wish to secure immediately---_"The Chums of Scranton High on the Cinder-Path; or, The Mystery of the Haunted Quarry."_ THE END 
13250	----	THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH At Ice Hockey BY DONALD FERGUSON THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO. CLEVELAND, O. NEW YORK, N.Y. Copyright, MCMXIX by THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO. Printed in the United States of America by THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO. CLEVELAND, O. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. GOOD TIMES COMING II. A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP III. GIVING NICK A CHANCE IV. THE HOCKEY MATCH WITH A SCRATCH SEVEN V. THAD BRINGS SOME STARTLING NEWS VI. NOT GUILTY VII. TURNING A PAGE OF THE PAST VIII. OWEN DUGDALE'S ANNOUNCEMENT IX. AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD X. THE MYSTERY DEEPENS XI. A MOTHER'S SACRIFICE XII. TIP SATISFIES HIS CRAVING--AND LOSES XIII. THE LIVELY GAME WITH KEYPORT'S SEVEN XIV. ENCOURAGING NICK XV. WHERE THE SPARKS FLEW XVI. AT THE DEACON'S FIRESIDE XVII. A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY XVIII. IN A SAFE HARBOR AT LAST XIX. MEETING BELLEVILLE'S STRONG TEAM XX. NICK MAKES GOOD--CONCLUSION THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH AT ICE HOCKEY CHAPTER I GOOD TIMES COMING Hugh looked at the big thermometer alongside the Juggins' front door as he came out, and the mercury was still falling steadily. "It's certainly a whole lot sharper than it was early this morning, Thad. Feels to me as if the first cold wave of the winter had struck Scranton." "The ice on our flooded baseball field, and that out at Hobson's mill-pond ought to be in great shape after a hard freeze to-night, Hugh." "We're in luck this time, chum Thad. Look at that sky, will you? Never a cloud in sight, and the sun going down yellow. Deacon Winslow, our reliable old weather prophet blacksmith, who always keeps a goose-bone hanging up in his smithy, to tell what sort of a winter we're going to get, says such a sign stands for cold and clear to-morrow after that kind of a sunset. Red means warmer, you know." "I only hope it keeps on for forty-eight hours more, that's all I can say, Hugh. This being Thursday, it would fetch us to Saturday. I understand they're not meaning to let a single pair of steel runners on the baseball park, to mark the smooth surface of the new ice, until Saturday morning." "Which will be a fine thing for our hockey try-out with the scratch Seven, eh, Thad?" "We want to test our team play before going up against the boys of Keyport High, that's a fact; and Scranton can put up a hard fighting bunch of irregulars. There are some mighty clever hockey players in and out of the high school, who are not on our Seven. I guess there ought to be a pretty lively game on Saturday; and there will be if several fellows I could mention line up against us." The two boys who had just left the home of a schoolmate named Horatio Juggins were great friends. Although Hugh Morgan had seemed to jump into popular leadership among the boys of Scranton, soon after his folks came to reside in the town, he and Thad Stevens had become almost inseparables. Indeed, some of the fellows often regarded them as "Damon and Pythias," or on occasions it might be "David and Jonathan." Both were of an athletic turn, and took prominent parts in all baseball games, and other strenuous outdoor sports indulged in by the boys of Scranton High; a record of which will be found in the several preceding books of this series, to which the new reader is referred, if he feels any curiosity concerning the earlier doings of this lively bunch. Hugh was cool and calm in times when his chum would show visible signs of great excitement. He had drilled himself to control his temper under provocation, until he felt master of himself. It was the 10th of January, and thus far the opportunities for skating that had come to the young people of that section of country where Scranton was located, had been almost nil; which would account for the enthusiasm of the lads when Thad announced how rapidly the thermometer was giving promise of a severe cold spell. Scranton had two keen rivals for athletic honors. Allandale and Belleville High fellows had given them a hard run of it before they carried off the championship pennant of the county in baseball the preceding summer. Then, in the late fall, there had been a wonderfully successful athletic tournament, inaugurated to celebrate the enclosing of the grounds outside Scranton with a high board-fence, and the building of a splendid grandstand, as well as rooms where the athletic participants in sports might dress in comfort. With the coming of winter the big field thus enclosed had been properly flooded, so that it might afford a vast amount of healthy recreation to all Scranton boys and girls who loved to skate. Hitherto they had been compelled to trudge all the way out to Hobson's mill-pond, and back, which was a long enough journey to keep many from ever thinking of indulging in what is, perhaps, the most cherished winter sport among youthful Americans. The two friends had been asked around by the Juggins boy to inspect a wonderful assortment of treasure trove that an old and peculiar uncle, with a fad for collecting curios of every description, and who was at present out in India, had sent to his young nephew and namesake. These consisted of scores of most interesting objects, besides several thousand rare postage stamps. Taken in all it was the greatest collection of stamps any of them had ever heard of. And the other things proved of such absorbing interest that Hugh and Thad had lingered until the afternoon was done, with supper not so far away but that they must hurry home. Thad, apparently, had something on his mind which he wished to get rid of, judging from the way in which he several times looked queerly at his chum. Finally, as if determined to speak up, he started, half apologetically: "Hugh, excuse me if I'm butting in where I have no business," he said; "but when I saw you talking so long with that town bully, Nick Lang, this afternoon, after we got out of school, I didn't know what to think. Was he threatening you about anything, Hugh? After that fine dressing-down you gave Nick last summer, when he forced you to fight him while we were out at that barn dance, I notice he keeps fairly mum when you're around." Hugh chuckled, as though the recollection might not be wholly displeasing; though, truth to tell, that was the only fight he had been in since coming to Scranton. Even it would not have taken place only that he could not stand by and see the big bully thrash most cruelly a weaker boy than himself. "Oh! no, you're away off in your guess, Thad," he replied immediately. "Fact is, instead of threats, Nick was asking a favor of me, for once in his life." "You don't say!" ejaculated Thad. "Well, now you've got me excited there's nothing left but to tell me what sort of a favor Nick would want of you, Hugh." "It seems that for a long time he's been admiring those old hockey skates of mine," continued the other. "In fact, they've grown on Nick so that he even condescended to ask me to _sell_ them to him for a dollar, which he said he'd earned by doing odd jobs, just in order to buy my old skates. He chanced to hear me say once that my mother had promised to get me the best silver-plated hockey skates on the market, for my next birthday, which is now only a few days off. That's all there was to it, Thad." "Well," commented Thad, "we all know that Nick is a boss skater, even on the old runners he sports, and which mebbe his dad used before him, they're that ancient. He can hold his own with the next one whenever there's any ice worth using. And as to hockey, why, if Nick would only play fair, which he never will, it seems because his nature must be warped and crooked, he could have a leading place on our Seven. As it is, the boys refused to stand for him in any game, and so he had to herd with the scratch players. Even then Mr. Leonard, our efficient coach and trainer, has to call him down good and hard for cheating, or playing off-side purposely. It's anything to win, with Nick." "You're painting Nick pretty true to life, Thad," agreed Hugh; "though I'm sorry it's so, I've got a hunch that chap, if he only could be reconstructed in some way or other, might be a shining mark in many of our athletic games." "Oh! that's hopeless, Hugh, I tell you. The leopard can't change its spots; and Nick Lang was born to be just the tricky bully he's always shown himself." Hugh shook his head, as though not quite agreeing with his chum. "Time alone will tell, Thad. There might come a sudden revolution in Nick's way of seeing things. I've heard of boys who were said to be the worst in the town taking a turn, and forging up to the head. It's improbable, I admit, but not impossible." "Oh! he's bad all the way through, believe me, Hugh. But did you sell the skates, as he wanted you to do?" "No, I told him I didn't care to," Hugh replied. "I was tempted to agree when he looked so bitterly disappointed; then an ugly scowl came over his face, and he broke away and left me; so that opportunity was lost. Besides, it's best not to be too sure I'm going to get those silver-plated skates after all, though Mom is looking pretty mysterious these days; and some sort of package came to her by express from New York the other day. She hurried it away before I could even see the name printed on the wrapper." "Perhaps," said Thad a bit wistfully, "you might bequeath me your old skates in case you do get new ones. Mine are not half as good for hockey. I don't blame Nick for envying you their possession; but then it hasn't been so much what you had on your feet that has made you the swift hockey player you are, but coolness of judgment, ability to anticipate the moves of the enemy, and a clever stroke that can send the puck skimming over the ice like fury." "Here, that'll do for you, Thad. No bouquets needed, thank you, all the same. According to my notion there are several fellows in Scranton my equals at hockey, and perhaps my superiors. Nick Lang, for instance, if only he had skates he could depend on, and which wouldn't threaten to trip him up in the midst of an exciting scrimmage." "But, see here, Hugh, you were speaking just now about a chap built like Nick turning over a new leaf, and making himself respected in the community in spite of the bad name he's always had. Honestly now, do you really believe that's possible? Is there such a thing as the regeneration of a boy who's been born bad, and always taken delight in doing every sort of mean thing on the calendar? I can't believe it." Hugh Morgan turned and gave his chum a serious look. "I've got a good mind to tell you something that's been on my mind lately," he said. CHAPTER II A BULL IN THE CHINA SHOP On hearing his chum say that, Thad gripped Hugh's arm. "Then get busy, Hugh," he hastened to remark. "When you start cogitating over things there's always something interesting on foot. What is it this time?" "Oh! just a little speculation I've been indulging in, Thad, and on the very subject we were talking about--whether a really bad man, or boy, for that matter, can ever turn right-about-face, and redeem himself. You say it's impossible; I think otherwise." "Tell me a single instance, then, Hugh." "Just what I'm meaning to do," came the ready response, "but it's in romance, not history; though there are just as strong instances that can be proven. I've heard my father mention some of them long ago. But it happens, Thad, that I've been reading over, for the third time, a book we once enjoyed together immensely. We got a splendid set of Victor Hugo's works lately at our house, you remember." "Oh!" exclaimed Thad, "you're referring to his _Les Miserables_, I guess. And now I remember how you said at the time we read it together that the scene where that good priest forgave the rascally Jean Valjean for stealing his silver candlesticks and spoons, after he had been so kind to him made a great impression on your mind. But, see here, Hugh, are you comparing that sneak Nick Lang to Jean Valjean, the ex-convict?" "Yes, in a way," the other replied. "The man who had been released from the galleys, after he had served his term for stealing a loaf of bread was despised by society, which shut the door in his face. He was like a wild beast, you remember, and hated everyone. Well, by degrees, Nick is finding himself in just about the same position. Everybody looks on him as being thoroughly bad; and so he tells himself that since he's got the name he might as well have the game." "I suppose that's about the way it goes," Thad admitted. "There's no doubt of it," Hugh told him. "Several times I remember we had an idea Nick meant to reform; but he went back to his old ways suddenly. I think people must have nagged him, and made him feel ugly. But I've been wondering, Thad, what if Nick could have a revelation about like the one that came to Jean Valjean at the time that splendid old priest, looking straight at the thief when the officers dragged him back with those silver candlesticks and spoons hidden under his dirty blouse, told them the men had committed no wrong, because he, the priest, had given the silver to him; which we know he _had_ done in his mind, after discovering how he had been robbed." Thad shook his head in a dogged fashion, as though by no means convinced. "I reckon you'd be just the one to try that crazy scheme, Hugh, if ever the chance came to you; but mark me when I say it'd all be wasted on Nick." "But why should you be so sure of that?" asked the other. "The ex-convict was pictured as the lowest of human animals. Hugo painted him as hating every living being, because of his own wrongs; and believing that there was no such thing as honor and justice among mankind. It was done to make his change of heart seem all the more remarkable; to prove that a fellow can never sink so low but that there _may_ be a chance for him to climb up again, if only he makes up his mind." Thad laughed then, a little skeptically still, it must be confessed. "Oh! that sounds all very fine, in a story, Hugh, but it'd never work out in real life. According to my mind that Nick Lang will go along to the end of the book as a bad egg. He'll fetch up in the penitentiary, or reform school, some of these fine days. I've heard Chief Wambold has declared that the next time he has anything connected with breaking the law on Nick he expects to take him before the Squire, and have him railroaded to the Reformatory; and he means it, too." "Well, you can hardly blame the Chief," agreed Hugh, "because Nick and his pals, Leon Disney and Tip Slavin, have certainly made life hard for the police force of Scranton for years back. Brush fires have been started maliciously, just to see the fire-laddies run with the machine and create a little excitement; orchards have been robbed time and again; and, in fact, dozens of pranks more or less serious been played night after night, all of which mischief is laid at the door of Nick Lang, even if much of it can't be actually traced there." "Of course, what you say is the exact truth, Hugh." "Give dog Tray a bad name, and he gets it right and left," chuckled Hugh. "I've had an idea that once in a while some of the more respected fellows in town may have broken loose, and gone on night expeditions. They felt pretty safe in doing it, because every citizen would believe Nick was the guilty one. But, in spite of your thinking my idea impossible, I'd be tempted to try it out, if ever I ran across the chance. It'd settle a thing I've worried over more than a little." No more was said on that subject, though afterwards Thad had it brought to his attention again, and in a peculiar way at that. The two boys separated a little further on, each heading homeward. On the following morning it was found that their predictions concerning the weather had been amply verified. The mercury had dropped away down in the tube of the thermometer, and every youngster had a happy look on his or her face at school, as though the prospect for skating brought almost universal satisfaction. Thad, with several others, had gone out to Hobson's mill-pond to try the new ice after high school had dismissed for the week-end. Hugh wanted to accompany them very much, but he had promised his mother to spend a couple of hours that afternoon in mending something, which had gone for a long time. And once his word was given Hugh never broke it, no matter how alluring the prospect of sport might be abroad. It was about half-past three in the afternoon. Hugh sat in his den amidst his prized possessions. He was working on his lessons so as to get them out of the way, as there was some sort of affair scheduled for that evening, which he meant to attend; and he would be too tired after skating all day on Saturday to study any that night, as he well knew. Several times he glanced over to where his carefully polished and well-sharpened skates, strapped together, lay on a side table. Each look caused him to shrug his shoulders a bit. He could easily imagine he heard the delightful clang of steel runners cutting into that smooth sheet of new ice out at the mill pond; and the figures of the happy skaters would pass before his eyes. Yes, probably Sue Barnes would be there, too, with her chums, Ivy Middleton and Peggy Noland, wondering, it might be, how he, Hugh, could deny himself such a glorious opportunity for the first real good skate of the season. Then Hugh would heave a little sigh, and apply himself harder than ever to his task. When he had an unpleasant thing to do he never allowed temptation to swerve him. And, after all, it was pretty snug and comfortable there in his den, Hugh told himself; besides, that was a long walk home for a tired fellow to take, even in good company. Then he heard his mother speaking to someone who must have rung the doorbell. "Go up to the top of the stairs, and turn to the right. You will find Hugh in his den, I believe. Hugh, are you there? Well, here's a visitor to see you." Supposing, of course, that it must be one of his close friends, who for some reason had not gone off skating, and wished to see him about some matter of importance, Hugh, after answering his mother, had gone on skimming the subject on which his mind just then happened to be set. He heard the door open, and close softly. Then someone gave a gruff cough. Hugh looked around and received quite a surprise. Instead of Thad Stevens, Owen Dugdale, Horatio Juggins, "Just" Smith, or Julius Hobson he saw--Nick Lang! "Oh, hello, Nick!" he commenced to say, a little restrained in his welcome; for, of course, he could give a guess that the other had come again to try and buy his skates, which Hugh was not much in favor of selling. He shoved a chair forward, determined not to be uncivil at any rate. After that talk with Thad about this fellow it can be understood that Hugh was still bent on studying Nick, with the idea of deciding whether he did actually have a grain of decency in his make-up, such as could be used as a foundation on which to build a new structure. The outlook was far from promising. Indeed, he could not remember ever seeing Nick look more antagonistic than just then, even though he tried to appear friendly. "But then," Hugh was telling himself, "I reckon now Jean Valjean was about as fierce looking a human wild beast as that good old priest had ever seen at the time he invited the ex-convict into his snug house, and horrified his sister by asking him to sit at table with them, and spend the night there under his hospitable roof." "You wanted to see me about something, did you, Nick?" he asked the other. Nick had dropped down on the chair. His furtive gaze went around the room as if it aroused his curiosity, for this was really the first occasion when he had ever graced Hugh's den with his company. When his eyes alighted on the coveted skates Nick's face took on an expressive grin. Then he turned toward Hugh, to say, almost whiningly: "Sure thing, Hugh. I thought mebbe I'd coax you to let me have the skates, if I told you I'd managed to get another half dollar by selling a pair of my pigeons. Here's a dollar and a half; take it, and gimme the runners, won't you?" His manner was intended to be ingratiating, but evidently Nick was so accustomed to bullying everyone with whom he came in contact that it was next to impossible for him to change his abusive ways. Hugh felt less inclined than ever to accommodate him. Under other and more favorable conditions he might have been tempted to promise Nick to hand him over the skates, _for nothing_, after he had actually received the expected new ones. "I'm sorry to refuse you again, Nick," Hugh said coldly; "but at present I have no other skates, and, as I expect to take part in a hockey match with the scratch Seven to-morrow, I'll need my runners." "But there's nothing to hinder you selling me the same, say next week, that I can see; unless mebbe you're just holdin' out on account of an old grudge against me. How about that, Hugh?" Hugh was still unconvinced. "Just now I'm not in a humor to sell the skates, Nick," he said. "If I change my mind, I'll let you know about it. That's final. And when I dispose of my skates it's my intention to _give_ them away, not sell them." He turned to do something at the desk where he was sitting. Meanwhile, Nick had shuffled away, as though meaning to leave the room. When Hugh looked up he was half-way through the door, and turning to say with a sneer: "I ain't going to forget this on you, Hugh Morgan, believe me. I thought I'd give you a chanct to smooth over the rough places between us; but I see you don't want anything to do with a feller who's got the reputation they give me. All right, keep your old skates then!" With that he hurried down the stairs. And a minute afterwards Hugh, happening to glance over to the table at the side of the room, made a startling discovery. The skates had disappeared! CHAPTER III GIVING NICK A CHANCE "Why, he cribbed them after all!" Hugh exclaimed, as he jumped to his feet, and hurried over to the table, hardly able to believe his own eyes. Something caught his attention. A dirty dollar bill and a fifty cent silver piece lay in place of the skates. Then Nick had not exactly _stolen_ Hugh's property, but imagined that this forced sale might keep him within the law. Hugh at first flush felt indignant. He gave the money an angry look, as though scorning it, despite the hard work Nick may have done and sacrifices also made in order to build up that small amount. "Why, the contemptible scamp, I'll have to set Chief Wambold after him, and recover my skates!" he said, warmly for him. "Serve him right, too, if this is the last straw on the camel's back, to send him to the House of Refuge for a spell. He is a born thief, I do believe, and ought to be treated just like one." Hugh, aroused by the sense of injustice, and a desire to turn the tables on the slippery Nick, even stepped forward to snatch up his cap, with the full intention of hurrying out to see if he could overtake the thief; and, if not, continuing on until he came to the office of the police force. Then he stopped short with a gasp. He had suddenly remembered something. Into his mind rushed the details of a certain recent conversation in which he had indulged with his closest chum, Thad Stevens. Again he saw the picture of that good priest of the story, looking so benignly upon the wretched Jean Valjean, brought into his presence with the valuable silver candlesticks and spoons found in his possession, which he kept insisting his late host had presented him with, however preposterous the claim seemed. "Why, this is very nearly like that case, I declare!" ejaculated Hugh, almost overcome by the wonderful similarity, which seemed the more amazing because of the resolution he told Thad he had taken. He dropped back into his seat, with the money still gripped in his hand. He stared hard at it. In imagination he could see Nick, who never liked hard work any too well, they said, busying himself like a beaver, putting in coal for some neighbor, perhaps; or cleaning a walk off for a dime. He must have done considerable work to earn that first dollar. "Then after that," Hugh was saying to himself, "he sold a pair of his pet pigeons, and I reckon he thinks a heap of them, from all I've heard said. Yes, Nick must have wanted my old skates worse than he ever did anything in all his life. And when I refused to sell them to him he just thought he'd do the trading by himself. It's a queer way of doing business, and one the law wouldn't recognize; but, after all, it was an upward step for Nick Lang, when he could have taken the skates, and kept the cash as well. This certainly beats the Dutch! What ought I to do about it, I wonder? Of course, if I told the whole thing to mother, I suppose she'd let me have the new skates ahead of time; or I could borrow Kenneth Kinkaid's, because, after breaking his leg that way in the running race he says he isn't to be allowed to skate a bit this winter. But ought I let the scamp keep my skates?" He mused over it for several minutes, as if undecided. Then the sound of voices outside caught his attention. One seemed to be gruff and official, another whining. Hugh jumped up and stepped to a window. He could see down the street on which the Morgan home stood. Three persons were in sight, and hurrying along toward the house. One of these he recognized as his chum, Thad, who must have returned from Hobson's mill-pond earlier than he had expected. Another was the tall, attenuated Chief Wambold; and the party whom he was gripping by the arm--yes, it was none other than Hugh's late visitor, Nick Lang! "Oh, they've caught him, it seems, just like those awful police did poor, wicked Jean Valjean," Hugh muttered, thrilled by the sight; "and right now they're fetching Nick back here, to ask me if he wasn't lying when he said I'd sold or given him my skates!" He realized that, undoubtedly, by some strange freak of fortune Thad must have seen the other gloating over his prize; and recognizing the skates, for they were well-known to him, he had beckoned to the policeman who happened to be near by, with the result that Nick was nabbed before he realized his peril. Hugh had to decide quickly as to what he should do, for they were coming in through the gate even now. Once again did the wonderful story he had been reading flash before his mind. "I _must_ try it out!" he exclaimed suddenly, gripped by the amazing coincidence between this case and that so aptly described by Hugo. "I said I would if ever I had a chance. It worked miracles in the story; perhaps it may in real life, Anyway, it's going to be worth while, and give me a heap of enjoyment watching the result. So here and now I say that I've sold my skates to Nick, and that they really belong to him at this minute. But I reckon he'll be scared pretty badly when he faces me again, expecting the worst." Thad knew how to get in by the side door that opened on the back stairs; so he did not waste any time in ringing the bell. Now Hugh could hear heavy footsteps. They were coming, and the great test was about to be made. The door opened to admit, first of all, Thad, his face filled with burning indignation, and his eyes sparkling with excitement. Close on his heels the others also pushed into the room on the second floor, transformed into a genuine boy's den by pictures of healthy sport on the walls, besides college burgees, fishing tackle, a bass of three pounds that had been beautifully stuffed by Hugh himself to commemorate a glorious day's sport; and dozens of other things dear to the heart of a youth who loved the Great Outdoors as much as he did. Chief Wambold looked triumphant and grim. Nick fairly writhed in that iron clutch, and his face had assumed a sickly sallow color; while his eyes reminded Hugh of those of a hunted wild animal at bay, fear and defiance struggling for the mastery. "Stand there, you cub!" snarled the police officer, as he gave Nick a whirl into the room, closing the door at the same time, and planting his six-foot-five figure against it, to prevent such a thing as escape. It was quite a tableau. Hugh believed he would never forget it as long as he lived. But Thad, it appeared, was the first to speak. "Hugh, this skunk has gone and beat you after all!" he cried, pointing a scornful finger at the glowering Nick, who was eyeing Hugh hungrily, as if trying to decide whether or not the other would tell Chief Wambold to lock him up as a thief. "I chanced to see him pull something out that he had been hiding under his coat, and recognized your nickel-mounted skates. So I beckoned to Chief Wambold, and told him about it; he made Nick come back here to face you, and confess to the theft." Nick growled something half under his breath, that sounded like: "Didn't steal 'em, I tell you; I bought the skates fair and square from Hugh here. You're all down on me, and won't listen to a thing I say; that's the worst of it." The tall head of the Scranton police force held up something he had been carrying all the while. "Here's the skates he had, Hugh," he went on to say. "Thad tells me they are your property. He even showed me your initials scratched on each skate. Take a good look at the same, and let me know about it, will you, before I lug this sneak off to the lock-up. I reckon he's headed for the Reform School this time, sure!" At that Nick grew even more sallow than before, if such a thing were possible; and the fear in his eyes became almost pitiable. Hugh, meaning to make a straight job of his idea, calmly looked the skates over. He knew full well how Nick was watching his every action, trying to hug just a glimmer of hope to his heart that, perhaps, Hugh might be merciful, and let him off, as the skates were now once again in his possession. The shadow of the Reformatory loomed up dreadfully close to Nick Lang just then, darker than he had ever before imagined it could look. It terrified him, too, and caused him to shiver as though someone had dashed a bucket of ice-cold water over him unexpectedly. "Yes, I recognize these skates very well, Chief," Hugh told the waiting officer. "And do they belong to you, Hugh?" continued the officer, with a stern look at the cringing culprit near by, who weakly leaned against the table for support after his recent rough handling. "They _were_ my property until just ten minutes, more or less, ago, Chief," said Hugh, deliberately fixing Nick with his eye, so as to impress things on him in a way he could never forget. "Then I had an offer from Nick here to buy them. At first I was averse to letting him have them, but I changed my mind. These skates belong to Nick, Chief. You must set him free, and not hold this against him. He's going to wipe the slate clean this time and astonish folks here in Scranton by showing them what a fellow of his varied talents can do, once he sets out to go straight. And, for one, I wish him the best of success from the bottom of my heart. I hope you enjoy your skates, Nick." He held out his hand, and the astounded Nick mechanically allowed Hugh to squeeze his digits. But not one word could he say, simply stared at Hugh as though he had difficulty in understanding such nobility of soul; then, taking the skates, he went from the room. They could hear the clatter of his heels as he hurried down the stairs, as though afraid Hugh might yet repent and send the officer after him. Of course, Chief Wambold departed, shrugging his shoulders as though still more than half convinced there had been something crooked about Nick's suspicious actions. Of course Thad had to be told the whole amazing story. He shook his head at the conclusion, and went on record as being a doubter by saying: "I wish you success in your wonderful experiment, Hugh, I sure do; but all the same I don't believe for a minute the leopard is going to change its spots, or that Nick Lang, the worst boy in Scranton, can ever reform." Hugh would say nothing further about it, only, of course, he made Thad promise to keep everything secret until he gave permission to speak. If Nick made good this would never happen. That night Hugh had a jolly time, and it was fairly late when he crept into bed. As he lay there, instead of going to sleep immediately, he looked out of the window toward the west, where a bright star hung above the horizon. It seemed like a magnet to Hugh, who lay there and watched for its setting, all the while allowing his thoughts to roam back to the remarkable happening of that afternoon. "It's a toss-up, just as Thad says, whether anything worth while will come of my experiment," he told himself; "but, anyhow, I've given Nick something to think over. And if he makes the first advances toward me I'm bound to meet him half-way. I only hope it turns out like the story of Jean Valjean did. But there goes my Star of Hope down behind the horizon; and now I'd better be getting some sleep myself. All the same I'm glad I did it!" And doubtless he slept all the more soundly because of the noble impulse that had impelled him to save Nick Lang from the Reform School. CHAPTER IV THE HOCKEY MATCH WITH A SCRATCH SEVEN There was a large crowd present to watch the local hockey match that morning. Not only were Scranton High pupils interested, but many of the town folks seemed to find it convenient to stroll around to the field that, during the recent summer, had been the scene of bitterly contested baseball games. Even a number of gentlemen were on hand to criticize, and also applaud, according to what their judgment of the work of the young athletes proved to be. Some of these men had been college players, or, at least, interested in athletic sports. They hailed the awakening of Scranton along these lines most heartily. And most of them had only too gladly invested various sums in the up-building of the athletic grounds. Now that the high board-fence surrounded the large field, and the carefully planned clubhouse stood at the near end, the grounds had a business-like air. Those who knew just how to go about it had seen that the water was just the right depth, and this was now frozen almost solid. As the enclosure was limited in dimensions, it became apparent that half of the ice should be given over to the hockey players. When the game was finished the entire pond could be used by the general public. The "rink" had been scientifically measured off, and such lines as were necessary marked, after the rules of the game. The two goals in the center of the extreme ends were stationary, the posts having been rooted to the ice in some ingenious fashion, with the nets between. Hugh Morgan had been unanimously chosen to serve as leader of the Scranton Seven. He was admirably fitted for the position, since his playing was gilt-edged, his judgment sound, and he never allowed himself to become excited, or "rattled," no matter what the crisis. The other members of the team consisted of fellows who had done nobly in the stirring baseball encounters of the previous summer, and were, moreover, well up in the various angles of skating. By name they were as follows, and those who have read previous stories in this High School Series will recognize old friends in the list: Julius Hobson, Thad Stevens, Joe Danvers, Owen Dugdale, Horatio Juggins and Justin Smith, commonly known as "J. J." The scratch team consisted of some fine players in addition, boys who were swift on the wing and able with their hockey sticks. When the two teams were lined up to hear the last instructions from Mr. Leonard, who, being the physical instructor at Scranton High, had taken upon himself the duties of umpire and coach and referee all in one for this occasion, they stood as follows: _Scranton High_ _Position_ _Scratch Team_ Stevens ......... Goal ........... Anthony McGrew Hobson .......... Point .......... Frank Marshall Danvers ......... Cover Point .... Dick Travers Smith ........... Right End ...... Nick Lang Dugdale ......... Center ......... Tom Rawlings Juggins ......... Left End ....... Phil Hasty Morgan .......... Rover .......... Tug Lawrence Just before the game began there was a hasty consultation among the players opposed to the regular team. One of their members had sent word he could not come up to time, as his mother had refused to let him play. This necessitated a change of program. A substitute must be found, and as they knew that Hugh's Seven already greatly outclassed them it was of considerable moment that they pick up a player who would strengthen their team, regardless of his identity. So Nick Lang had been approached and offered the position of Right End, a very important place for swift action and furious fighting. Nick had been skating quietly by himself and evidently greatly enjoying his new skates, which many boys recognized as the pair Hugh Morgan had once owned. He had hesitated just a trifle, and then agreed to fill the vacancy. There were those who shook their heads dismally when they saw Nick the trouble-maker in the line-up. Previous experiences warned them that the game was very likely to break up in a big row, for such had been the fate of many a rivalry when rough-and-ready Nick Lang entered the lists. But Hugh, who had secretly been the first to suggest to the captain of the other Seven that Nick be chosen, somehow believed the one-time bully of Scranton might surprise his critics for once by playing a straight, honest game. Hugh, of course, was mounted on his new silver skates. He had found little difficulty in persuading his mother to advance his birthday gift a few days, after telling her the whole circumstances; and it must be said that Mrs. Morgan approved of his plan from the bottom of her heart. Mr. Leonard had often had trouble with Nick in times gone by. When he sternly told the boys before the game was started that he meant to be severe in inflicting punishment and penalties for foul or off-side work he had Nick mostly in mind. Indeed, everyone who heard what he said concluded that it was meant almost entirely for the Lang chap. Nick only grinned. Those who knew him best did not find any encouragement about his apparent good nature. Nick could "smile, and smile again, and still be a villain," as some of them were fond of repeating. The game began, and was soon in full progress, with the players surging from one end of the rink to the other, according to which side had gained possession of the puck, and were endeavoring by every legitimate means possible to shoot the little rubber disc between the goal posts, and into the net of their opponents. It was soon seen that as a whole the Scratch Team was woefully weak. Hugh's players had things pretty much their own way. Before more than half of the first twenty-minute period had been exhausted the score stood five goals for Scranton High, and none to the credit of their opponents. Then the tactics of the Scratch Team underwent a change. The captain put Nick Lang forward to oppose Hugh Morgan when the puck was again faced for a fresh start. In a fashion truly miraculous Nick managed to gain possession of the rubber, and the way in which he sent it flying before him along the ice was well worth seeing. Many started to cheer, forgetting their former antipathy toward the bully. Despite the clever work of Hugh, and others, as well as the able defense of the goal-keeper, Thad Stevens, Nick succeeded in shooting the puck between the goal posts for a score. Hugh was ready to shake hands with himself, he felt so pleased. And not once so far had Mr. Leonard found occasion to reprimand Nick on account of foul work so flagrant that it could be no accident. Many rubbed their eyes and asked their neighbors if that could really be Nick Lang, the terror of Scranton, who played like a fiend, and yet kept well within his rights? "But just wait till something happens to upset Nick," they went on to say, with wise shakes of the head. "We know how he's just bound to carry on. It's a nice game so far, but the chances are three to one it'll break up in a row yet; they always do when that fellow has a hand in the going. He wouldn't be happy without a fuss, and an attempt to win by some dirty work." When the first half had passed, and there was a recess of fifteen minutes called for the warm players to secure a little rest, the score was five to three. That looked better for a well-contested game. And so far there had not been any flagrant breaking of rules to call for condemnation on the part of the referee. Mr. Leonard himself looked a little surprised. He could not understand it, but continued to keep an extra sharp eye on the usual trouble-maker, as though expecting Nick to break loose with more than ordinary violence because he had kept "bottled up" so long. Hugh noticed another thing that interested him. During this intermission Nick skated by himself. His old cronies, Tip Slavin and Leon Disney, were on the ice, and, of course, indulging in their customary derogatory remarks concerning the playing of the Regulars, but Nick did not seem to want to join them, as had always been his habit hitherto. Twice Hugh saw the crafty Leon skate up alongside and speak insinuatingly to the other, as though trying to persuade him to agree to something; but on each occasion Nick shook his head in the negative, and broke away. Leon looked after him rather disconsolately, as though at a loss to understand what could have happened to take all the fight and "bumptiousness" out of the former bully. Then play was resumed. Hugh had taken his comrades to task during the intermission. He told them several weaknesses had developed in their team play, which should be corrected if they hoped to down the strong Keyport Seven. Nor did Hugh spare himself in making these criticisms, for he knew his own faults. It is a wise boy who does. Having tested Nick's superb playing and found it good, the captain of the Scratch Seven was willing to put him forward as their star player, even if it went against the grain to realize that they had to depend on a fellow so much in disrepute. There were several hot scrimmages, as always occur during a strenuous game of ice hockey. Even the most careful of players will sometimes err in judgment at such times, and either be reprimanded by the referee or having their side penalized on account of their too energetic work. Strange to say, Nick Lang never once caused a penalty to be inflicted on his side, though Rawlings, Hasty and Lawrence were unwitting offenders, as were also Dugdale and Hobson on the part of Scranton High. Everybody was satisfied when the game finally came to an end with the score nine to six. It was a pretty good contest, all things considered. Perhaps the Regulars did not try quite as hard as they might, since after all this was to be considered only in the light of practice, and they were more taken up with correcting certain glaring errors than in making goals. The talk of the whole game, however, was the playing of Nick Lang, who had left the ice after it was all over; but not before Hugh had congratulated him on his fine work. "How did he ever go through with it all, and never make a nasty break once?" "This must foe one of Nick's special good days, I reckon!" "He's sure a hummer, all right, when he chooses to play straight. What a pity he has that crooked streak in his make-up. Only for that Nick would be a jim-dandy hand at any old athletic sport. I wonder if it will last, or is he due to break loose, to-night perhaps, just because he's held himself in so long." These and many similar remarks passed between the astonished boys of Scranton High, but they did not seem able to understand it at all. Hugh, however, only smiled when they appealed to him, and would say nothing; but deep down in his heart he was satisfied that the seed he had sown had fallen on fallow soil and taken root. CHAPTER V THAD BRINGS SOME STARTLING NEWS "Hugh, have you heard the news this Sunday morning?" With these abrupt words Thad Stevens burst upon his chum who was feeding some long-eared, handsome Belgian hares, which of late he had taken to keeping, as it had become quite a fad among the Scranton boys. Hugh turned to look at his friend. It was plain to be seen that Thad was laboring under considerable excitement. His face was flushed as if with running, while his eyes glowed much more than was their wont under ordinary conditions. "Why, no, I haven't heard a thing except the church bells ringing, and people going past our house early this morning for mass. You know we live on a street that is largely used by those who have to get out shortly after daybreak Sunday mornings in winter. What's happened during the night? There couldn't have been a fire, because I'd have heard the bell, and been out with the rest of the boys." "Oh! you couldn't guess it in a dozen trials, Hugh. It was a regular down-right burglary that was pulled off, even if the stuff taken consisted of candy, cigarettes, and the like, as well as some sporting goods and several revolvers." Hugh looked interested. "From the way you talk, Thad, I should say it might have been Paul Kramer's Emporium that had suffered; because he's really the only man in Scranton who keeps sporting goods." "A good guess, Hugh, because Paul is the chap. They got in through a back door, and everybody says it was a pretty slick job, too," Thad went on to say. "Let's see what you're telling me," Hugh remarked thoughtfully. "If they took candy and cigarettes and sporting goods it would look to me pretty much as if the robbery was the work of unprincipled boys, rather than men." Thad stared hard at his companion. "Well, you are a wonder, Hugh, at seeing through things!" he hastily declared. "Why, that was what Chief Wambold said right away. And, Hugh, he followed it with the declaration that he guessed he could put his finger on the guilty fellows without much trouble. You know who he had in mind, of course, Hugh?" "It goes without saying that one of them would be Nick Lang," came the quick reply, while a small cloud crept over Hugh's face. "Sure thing," continued Thad, shrugging his shoulders. "When a fellow has built up a nice reputation for himself along those lines he can't blame folks for suspecting him of every single tricky piece of work that is pulled off in town. In the past Nick has been ring-leader in lots of lawless doings, and the Chief was dead certain he'd get him with the goods on this time, as he called it." "Perhaps he may, but I hope that for once Chief Wambold will find himself mistaken," said Hugh soberly, and then adding: "How did you happen to hear about it, Thad?" "Oh! I chanced to be out early this morning on an errand for mother, taking some things over to that sick colored wash-lady we have do our weekly work, and passing through the public square on my way back I saw a crowd around Kramer's place. Of course I stayed on the job, and heard all sorts of things said. But, Hugh, they've got one of the thieves, all right." "Who was he, Leon Disney?" asked the other, quickly, as he suddenly remembered the actions of the boy in question when he twice approached Nick Lang on the ice during that intermission for rest in the hockey match; and when he, Hugh, fancied Leon was entreating his former pal to do something which Nick refused to entertain. "Just who it is," said the wondering Thad. "The Chief went to his house and insisted on making a thorough search. He's a shrewd old duck, is Chief Wambold, for all his faults. He seemed to guess just where a boy like Leon would hide the spoils of a raid like this. Under the floor of the old barn on the Disney place he found about half the stuff that was taken, candy by the wholesale, cigarettes, two revolvers, and even a pair of choice hockey skates." "About _half_ you are saying, Thad; then it looks to me as if there must have been just two of the thieves, for they had divided things equally between them." "What a lawyer you would make, Hugh, or a detective either, for that matter," the other boy exclaimed. "What did Leon say when they found the stolen stuff hidden under his barn?" further questioned Hugh, deigning to smile at his chum's compliment, however. "Nary a thing would he say, except to declare himself innocent, and that he himself had heard a noise out there last night, and guessed that some enemy of his must have set up a mean game on him, wanting to get him nabbed. But say, Hugh, the Chief pulled seven packets of cigarettes out of his coat-pocket, every one stamped with the same maker's name; and nobody in Scranton handles that brand but Paul Kramer." "It looks pretty bad for Leon, I should say," remarked Hugh. "Oh! he'll get a free pass to the Reform School this time, as sure as anything!" asserted Thad; "and a good riddance of bad rubbish, most people in Scranton will be saying. Of course they'll be sorry for his mother, who is a respectable woman, and has had heaps of trouble with that good-for-nothing son of hers." "But about the other thief, Thad?" "Well, Chief Wambold said there wasn't any doubt in the wide world but that it must be Nick Lang, and I guess everybody around agreed with him, Hugh." "Did he go up and arrest Nick?" asked Hugh, deeply interested. "Just what he did, and I was along with the crowd," Thad told him. "Well, sir, you never saw such a cool customer. Nick smiled as brazenly in the face of the Chief as anything you ever saw. They searched, and searched, but never a scrap of the stolen goods could they run across." "Well, what then, Thad?" "Why, of course the Chief declared that Nick had only been some smarter than his pal in hiding the spoils where no one could find the stuff. He told Nick he would have to arrest him on general suspicion because Leon and he were such great pals, and Leon was already as good as convicted." "Yes, and what did Nick say to that?" asked Hugh. "Would you believe it, Hugh, he up and told the Chief that he could prove an alibi. You see, the robbery was done before eleven o'clock last night, because the clock that was knocked down when the thieves were rummaging around in the store had been broken, and it stopped at just a quarter to eleven. Even Chief Wambold agreed on that point." "Yes, and it was cleverly settled, I must say, Thad. But how about Nick's alibi; would the Chief accept his mother's word, knowing that the chances were Nick had slipped out of the house by a window when she supposed him to be sound asleep in his bed?" "Oh! Nick had much better proof than that, Hugh. He demanded that Chief Wambold call up old Deacon Joel Winslow, who, you know, is a man much respected around Scranton, and keeps the blacksmith shop out on the road to Allandale where it crosses the one leading to Keyport. Yes, sir, and when the officer did so from Headquarters the blacksmith weather prophet plainly told him Nick had been working alongside himself from seven until a quarter-after-eleven the night before!" Hugh laughed. It really seemed as though a load had been suddenly taken off his chest. He had begun to fear lest his experiment might have already met with its Waterloo. "I'm pleased to hear you say that, Thad, I certainly am," he remarked, "And did our wonderful Chief conclude to hold Nick after that?" "He wanted to, Hugh,--I could see that plain enough; but Nick demanded that he be set at liberty. Say, you know I'm not much of an admirer of Nick Lang, but he did bluff the tall Chief of Police good and hard. He actually told him he'd sue him for damage to his reputation if he dared to hold him when there wasn't a particle of evidence connecting him with the robbery, except that once upon a time he used to go with Leon Disney, as lots of other fellows did, too." "Then he was let go free, I take it, from what you say, Thad?" "Oh! well, the police head said he knew very well Nick was in the racket, even if he had covered his footsteps so cunningly; and even fooled Deacon Winslow. He told Nick he'd parole him temporarily, but that he might still consider himself as under arrest." "That must be a joke," chuckled Hugh. "It was silly on the part of Chief Wambold. But then, of course, Nick has made him a whole lot of trouble in the past. So only one fellow has been taken, and he refuses to tell on his pal, does he?" "Absolutely, though the Chief says he means to put Leon through the third degree, and force a confession from him. What does he mean by that, Hugh? I've seen it mentioned in the papers lots of times." "I believe in cities like New York some of the detectives act roughly with a suspected prisoner, and scare them into saying things. But a clever head of police once on a time had a smarter way of getting a confession than by rough-house tactics." "Yes? Tell me about it then," pleaded Thad. "When he had reason to believe several members of a gang were implicated in a robbery, or other crime, he would have the weakest arrested, and brought into his presence. Then, while the man sat there nervously waiting for the dreaded ordeal of an interview and looking out of a window, he would see one of his fellow gangsters taken past in charge of several plain clothes men. Of course that would give him a shock, and when the Chief turned and told him the other fellow had already promised to make a confession in order to save himself, the prisoner nearly always broke down, and told everything to get in ahead." "Well, the last I saw of Chief Wambold," continued Thad, "he was starting out to interview Deacon Winslow. You see, he believes the old blacksmith must have meant ten-fifteen instead of eleven. That would give Nick plenty of time to get back to town, so as to take part in the robbery of the Emporium." Hugh rubbed his hands together after the manner of one whose mind was completely satisfied. "I fancy he'll have all his trouble for his pains," he went on to say calmly. "Meaning that the deacon will stick to his statement, and so clear Nick of complicity in the crime--is that it, Hugh?" "We all know Deacon Winslow to be a reliable man," Hugh told him. "He is accustomed to dealing in figures, and not inclined to make a mistake about the time. I'd wager now he has something positive to settle the matter of Nick's staying there, working at the forge, and learning how to be a blacksmith, until exactly fifteen minutes after eleven." "Well," said Thad, scratching his head as though still confused, "things look pretty queer to me, and I hardly know what to believe about that Nick Lang." CHAPTER VI NOT GUILTY At that Hugh, having finished his work in connection with the care of his tame pets, turned around and faced his chum. "On my part, Thad," he was saying, quietly but sincerely, "I'm getting to be hopeful of Nick. I honestly believe that fellow has seen a great light. I think he's made up his mind to turn over a new leaf and redeem his rotten past. And I want to say here and now it's up to every boy in Scranton High to treat him decently while he's still fighting his old impulses of evil. I know I shall let him feel I believe in him, until he does something to forfeit my esteem." "That's just like you, Hugh; and I guess the rest of us ought to be ashamed to throw any stumbling block in the way of a chap who is trying to get out of his old rut. But it passes my comprehension how he can change, and play fair and square, when all his life he's been so tricky and low-down mean." "As for that, lots of men who were once down in the gutter have reformed, and proved giants in helping others to get up to respectability again. Take that Jean Valjean we were talking about the other day, who changed right-about-face, and became just as fine a man as he was bad before. You don't suppose it all came in a flash, do you?" "Why, no, of course not, Hugh. He was the lowest sort of a beast, as pictured by Hugo, with the vilest ideas concerning human nature. After he had that revelation, and saw the good priest actually tell a lie in order to save him, he woke up, and, as you said, began thinking for himself. Then the change came gradually, and he determined to work to help those who were down and out like himself." "All right," said Hugh. "This case of Nick Lang is like this, in a small way. But, Thad, do you feel like taking a walk this fine crisp winter morning?" "Just for the exercise, or have you any scheme in your mind, Hugh?" "Both, I might say. The mile walk will do us good, and then we may be able to satisfy ourselves about a few things. It is just half a mile out to the cross-roads, and Deacon Winslow's house and smithy, you know." Thad looked interested at once. "So, that's the way the wind blows, is it?" he remarked. "You want to interview the deacon, too, as well as Chief Wambold?" "But not from the same motive, Thad. On the contrary, while he went out to try and find a reason for believing Nick guilty, in spite of his alibi, I mean only to ask a few questions that will clear up a little point that is a bit muddled." "Perhaps I could guess what that is," said Thad quickly. "You're puzzled to understand why Nick should have been out there on just last night of all times, when any other would have done just as well. How about that, Hugh?" "That's one of the things I'd like to have cleared up," Hugh admitted. "Between us, Thad, I've got a pretty good notion Nick knew about this contemplated raid on Kramer's store. Perhaps in times past they may even have plotted such a thing, so as to get all the cigarettes and candy they wanted for once. I even believe he was refusing Leon and Tip Slavin, who were urging him to join in with them, when I saw him shake his head and skate away yesterday." "Go on, Hugh, you've got me interested again; sure you have." "While Nick wouldn't think of betraying his former associates, from whose company he had broken away, at the same time he was smart enough to see he would be placed under suspicion. And he must have arranged this alibi so as to prove his positive innocence. If that turns out so, it shows Nick to be a wise one." Shortly afterwards the pair were trudging along the road outside the corporation limits of the town of Scranton. It was some time before the customary church hour, and they were almost certain to find the old deacon at home, Hugh believed. On the way they met a car coming along the road. In it was Chief Wambold. Scranton had advanced far enough toward the dignity of cityhood to have an auto for the police force, since the Chief often had to go to neighboring towns on matters of business, taking a prisoner, or getting one to fetch back. He nodded to the boys as he shot past. "Doesn't look very amiable, does he?" muttered Thad. "So I rather guess he didn't get much satisfaction from the old deacon. But he's awful stubborn, is our efficient head of police; and if he can find any way to put that business on Nick's shoulders he will, take my word for it." Hugh only smiled as though he was not worrying about anything Chief Wambold could accomplish. He had known the other to make several "bone-plays" since coming to Scranton, and hence Hugh did not have a very high opinion of the official's merits, though not doubting his honesty of purpose at all. After a short time they arrived at the smithy. Deacon Winslow lived close to his shop. He was a big man, with the proverbial muscles of the blacksmith; and for many years he had been looked upon as a pillar in the church he attended. Besides this he was reckoned a good man, who could always be counted on to go out of his way to do a favor for anybody. The poor of Scranton loved him better than they did anyone they knew. His acts were often "hidden under a bushel," since he did not go around, as Thad once said, "blowing his own horn, and advertising his goodness as one would soft soap." Strange as it might seem, Deacon Winslow had taken quite a fancy to Nick Lang, and possibly he was the only respectable man in all Scranton who did. Perhaps he admired Nick's muscular build, and believed he would make a fine smith, if the husky boy only took a liking to the vocation of hammer and forge and anvil. Then again it was likely that the deacon, who was a shrewd old fellow as well as good-natured and honest, saw deeper into that bad boy's soul than ordinary people, judging from surface indications. Hugh himself was inclined to believe this might be the case. Be that as it may, Nick had been known to go out there to the Winslow shop occasionally after supper, and work alongside the old man for hours at a time. Folks considered it only another odd fad on the part of the deacon. They prophesied that he would sooner or later he sorry for having anything to do with such a good-for-nothing scapegrace as Nick Lang, who would not hesitate to play some nasty practical joke on his benefactor when the notion seized him and he had grown tired of bothering with blacksmithing. The deacon himself came to the door. He knew both lads, and asked them to step in and sit with him before his cheery fire, as he had half an hour on his hands before starting to church. Hugh plunged into the matter without waste of time. He told Deacon Winslow how he had been reading that wonderful story of Jean Valjean; and then what a strange freak of fate allowed him to play the same part that the good priest had done. Step by step he carried it along, and Deacon Winslow appeared to be deeply interested, if one could judge from the way he rubbed his hands together, and nodded his head approvingly when he learned of the motives that had influenced Hugh to act as he did. Even what had occurred on the ice on the preceding afternoon was narrated, for, as Hugh explained, he believed it had a great deal to do with the startling event that had stunned Scranton that same Sunday morning. When he had finally ended with a profession of his belief in Nick's innocence the old man once more nodded his head. His wise eyes shone with a rare delight as he gazed at Hugh. The boy could not help thinking that the good priest in the story must have been a whole lot like old Deacon Winslow; who could believe wrong of no one, boy or man, but was always finding some excuse for forgiving, even those who deceived him in business transactions. "You have done well, my lad," said the old man warmly, patting Hugh on the arm affectionately. "And rest assured Nick is entirely innocent of this crime. I have become deeply interested in that boy. He has had a bad name, it is true; but somehow I seemed to feel that there were elements of great good in him, if only he could be brought to book, and made to change his ways of life. He must have a new viewpoint of human nature, to start with. I thought I might arouse him through talking, and fatherly advice, but so far I could not see success following my labors. But you have hit upon an ingenious device, my boy, that promises wonderful results. We may yet make a second Jean Valjean of the despised Nick Lang; and that would be an achievement worthy of anyone." Hugh felt more than repaid for all he had done when he heard the old deacon say this with such warmth. "There was one thing I wanted to learn, sir, if you don't mind telling me," he went on to say. "It concerns his engagement to come out here and help you last night. Were you expecting him? Was Saturday night the one he generally took to come and help you get rid of some of your extra work that couldn't be done in the daytime, for all the horse-shoeing you have on your hands?" The deacon smiled, and Hugh really had his answer before the old man even opened his lips. All the same he was pleased to hear him say: "Up to now it has always been on Monday night Nick came out. That was more convenient for me, as a rule, and he accommodated himself to my wishes. But yesterday afternoon he dropped in to see me here, with his skates dangling across his shoulder, as if he had been skating. He said he would like very much to come for that once on Saturday night, instead of Monday; and that he had a good reason for making the change, which meant a whole lot to him." "I see," remarked Hugh; "and it was clever of Nick. You agreed, of course, sir, seeing that he was here?" "It made no particular difference to me," added the blacksmith, "and I was glad to know the lad cared enough about the work to want to make the change. So I told him to be along as usual about seven, as I had a raft of work on hand that would keep us until well on after eleven. As a fact, it was fifteen minutes after that hour when Nick started for home." "You remember that positively then, sir,--the hour, I mean?" asked Hugh. "Oh! I could swear to it," came the reply. "In the first place I heard the town clock strike eleven, and counted the strokes myself, remarking that we must shut up shop soon as it was getting close to Sunday morning. Then as he was quitting Nick asked me again just what time it was, and I consulted my reliable watch. I can see now that possibly Nick had an object in impressing the time on my mind, so I could say positively he was there at eleven, and after. I don't like the idea of his having known about the intended robbery, and keeping silent, but suppose he considered himself in honor bound to his former chums." So their interview with Deacon Winslow proved a very enjoyable one after all. Hugh felt he should like to know the big amiable blacksmith better, for he had been drawn to him very much indeed. "And," he told Thad, as they trudged back along the road to town, "the way things seem to be working, I'm more than ever encouraged to keep on with my experiment." CHAPTER VII TURNING A PAGE OF THE PAST "Do you know," mused Thad, as they continued on their way to town, "the more I see of that blacksmith the better I like him. In my opinion, he's a grand old man." "I was just going to say that myself," Hugh told him. "He makes me think of the priest in the story. And they say he loves boys--all boys." "You can't make him believe there's a boy living but who has _something_ worth while in him," Thad advanced. "Sometimes it's hid under a whole lot of trash, as Deacon Winslow calls it, and you've got to search a heap before you strike gold; but if you only persist you'll be rewarded." "His actions with regard to Nick prove that he practices what he preaches, too," said Hugh. "Well, the old man went through a bitter experience many years ago," Thad went on to say; "and he learned his lesson for life, he often says." "Why, how's that, Thad? I've heard a great many things about different people since we came to Scranton; but I don't remember listening to what happened to the old deacon long ago." "Is that a fact, Hugh? Well, I'll have to tell you about it, then. Once upon a time they had a boy, an only child; and, as happens in some families where the parents are the finest kind of Christian people, young Joel had a bad streak in his make-up. Oh! they say he gave his father no end of trouble from time to time. And it wound up in a row, with the boy doing something disgraceful, and running away from home, nearly breaking his mother's heart." "Didn't he ever come bad again?" asked the interested listener. Thad shook his head in the negative. "They never looked on his face again, either living or dead," he said. "Worse than that, they never even heard from him. It was as if Joel had dropped out of sight that night when he left a line to his mother saying he was going west to where they raised men, not sissies. And so the years rolled around, and, they say, the old lady even now sits looking into the sunset skies, dreaming that her Joel, just as she remembered him, had sent word he was coming back to visit them in their old age, and to ask forgiveness for his wrong-doing." Hugh was greatly moved by the sad tale, which, however, he knew could be easily matched in every town of any size in the country; for it is of common occurrence, with a multitude of sore hearts turning toward that Great West. "That must have been how long ago, Thad?" he asked presently. "Let me see, I should think all of forty years; perhaps forty-five would be closer to the mark, Hugh." "How sad," mused the other lad, with a shake of his head; "and to think of that poor old lady, an invalid, you said, and confined to a wheelchair, watching the sinking sun faithfully each evening as it sets, still yearning for her boy to come back. It is a dream that has become a part of her very existence. Why, even if young Joel had lived he would now be over sixty years of age, but she never thinks of him that way. The deacon, they say, is eighty-five, though you'd never believe it to see his brawny muscles and healthy complexion." "You see," continued Thad, anxious that his chum should know everything connected with the subject, now he was upon it, "the old man often takes himself to task because he didn't understand boys as he might have done, when younger. He believes he could have spared his wife her great sorrow if he had only been more judicious, and won the boy's confidence as well as his affection." "And that accounts for the deep interest he has felt in all boys ever since," Hugh was saying reflectively; "especially those who seem to have a streak of badness in them." "I suppose," Thad remarked, "it is his way of doing penance for what he considers a fault of his earlier years. Sometimes I think I'd just like to be able to follow up that chap when he ran away from home, and learn what really did become of him." "He may have met with a sad fate out West, Thad; plenty of fellows have gone out and been swallowed up in the whirlpool." "If, on the other end, he didn't, and lived for many years," continued the other, "he must have been pretty tough not to write to his poor old mother at least once in a while. I could never forgive Joel for that. But they say he had an ugly nature, and was very stubborn. Well, I'm glad the deacon has taken an interest in the reformation of Nick Lang, even if I have my doubts about his meeting with any sort of success." "Well, you may be a whole lot surprised one of these fine days, my boy," Hugh smilingly told him. "The age of miracles has passed, Hugh," remarked Thad skeptically. "Not the miracles that are brought about by a complete change of heart on the part of someone the world looks down on as a scamp," Hugh persisted. "But you're one of those who want to be shown; I reckon, Thad, your folks must have come from Missouri, didn't they?" "Wrong again, Hugh, because none of them ever saw the Mississippi, though my grandfather fought through the Civil War, and was with Grant when Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House. But I admit I am a little stubborn, and prejudiced. It runs in the blood, I suppose. The Stevens were always sort of pig-headed." "I've also heard considerable about the deacon as a weather seer, Thad; how about that? Does he manage to hit it off occasionally, so as to equal our forecaster at Washington, whose predictions come true every now and then?" "Oh! the deacon has made that quite a fad," he was told by the obliging Thad. "He doesn't confine himself to figuring out just what sort of day we'll have to-morrow, or even for the coming week. He looks ahead, and finds out from the signs of Nature what sort of winter or summer we're going to have next,--cold, mild, hot, cool, dry or rainy. And say, I've heard he hits it nearly every time." "Well, what did he say about this particular winter?" Hugh asked, with renewed interest; for such subjects always gripped his attention, because he believed some of these shrewd countrymen, who watched the weather and observed what was going on all around them, could tell better than any scientific gentleman what was liable to come along during the succeeding seasons. "He predicted a severe winter," replied Thad promptly. "Some people laughed at what he said, especially when Christmas came and went, and so far we'd had precious little of cold. But it's come along at last, and from all reports some of the most dreadful weather ever known is happening away out in the Northwest right now." "And how does the old blacksmith get his ideas--from Nature, you said, I believe, Thad?" "He studies the bark on the trees; the way the squirrels store the nuts away; and how the caterpillars weave their cocoons. Oh! he has a hundred different signs that he depends on before making up his mind. I used to laugh when I heard him talking about it, but since I've grown older I've decided that there may be a whole lot in that sort of weather prediction." "I incline that same way," agreed Hugh. "Many of the little animals of the woods are given a wonderful instinct that enables them to know what to expect. Even bees that always lay by a certain amount of honey for winter use, are said to stock up extra heavy on years when a severe winter comes along. It must be a mighty interesting study, I should think. Some time I mean to know the old deacon better, so as to get posted on his vast store of knowledge along those lines." "His wife is rather feeble now," continued Thad. "She's a fine old lady though, and as cheery as can be, considering all things." "But if, as you said, she has to move around in one of those self-propelling wheel-chairs, how does she ever get her house-work done, Thad?" "Oh! they have a girl in during the daytime," came the explanation; "though Mrs. Winslow still mixes all the cakes and bread. And, say, she does make the greatest crullers you ever tasted in your born days. I know, because that couple are always sending things out to houses where there are growing boys. Their world lies in boys only; you never hear either of them say a thing about girls." Hugh could easily understand that. He had been in numerous homes where there were only boys in the family; and the parents knew next to nothing about the delight and constant anxiety of girls. "As I like crullers about the best of any sort of cakes," he chuckled, "I think I'll have to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. Winslow. Some time I may have the pleasure of tasting her famous cooking that you rate so highly. But to turn to another subject, Thad, have you heard any more reports about those Keyport High fellows we expect to go up against next Saturday?" "Yes, I have, Hugh. Podge Huggins was over there two days back. He saw them practicing on some thin ice over a pond, and he told, me they were an exceptionally husky proposition. He also saw us work yesterday afternoon in the scratch game, and when I asked him how we compared with Keyport, why Podge wouldn't give me a straight answer; but only grinned and turned the subject." "Evidently then Podge doesn't have the confidence in his school team that he ought to feel," said Hugh, apparently not at all disturbed. "Well, we have a whole week still for practice, and ought to keep on improving. I'm hoping that Keyport may overdo it, which is always possible." "You mean too much work will cause them to go stale; is that it, Hugh?" "Physical directors and coaches are always on their guard against that, Thad. The boat team is always strongest at a certain point. If the race comes off when they attain that top-notch pinnacle, they're apt to do their very best; but should it be delayed, by weather or something else, the coach becomes alarmed, because he knows there's a great chance of their losing speed from too much nervous tension and overwork." From which talk it was evident that Hugh must have imbibed considerable valuable knowledge from Mr. Leonard, who, as a college man, ought to understand a thing or two concerning sporting matters. So the two chums continued to talk all the way back to town. Hugh had picked up a whole lot of information by making the journey out to the cross-roads. Somehow he seemed to feel drawn toward the old blacksmith, who seemed to be such a sterling character. Hugh had met him in church circles and at sociables, but, not knowing the tragedy that lay back in the deacon's younger life, he had so far failed to cultivate his acquaintance. But he was now determined to see more of Deacon Winslow, for he believed the weather prophet would be able to tell him a host of interesting things about Nature's storehouse, from which he had gleaned astonishing facts during many years' study. CHAPTER VIII OWEN DUGDALE'S ANNOUNCEMENT Another week of school had commenced, with winter now in full swing. The weather seemed to have settled down to show what it could do, after such a long delay. It was making up for lost time, some of the boys declared. But then it could hardly be too cold for fellows warmly dressed, and who had their three hearty meals a day. The poor might complain, because they suffered, especially when such spells were prolonged. Deacon Winslow was seen in town more frequently than usual, he leaving the work to the charge of his assistant for an hour or so at a time. He always carried a big basket in his wagon or sleigh; and those who knew his warm heart could easily understand that his visits were wholly at homes where there was none too much in the way of comforts and food. During the earlier days of the week the talk was pretty much of winter sports. Ice hockey occupied a prominent place in the conversations that were carried on wherever three or more Scranton High fellows clustered, to kick their heels on the pavement, or sun themselves while perched on the top of the campus fence that would go down in history as the peer of the famous one at Yale. During afternoons the hockey players gathered at the park, and each day saw them engaging in some sort of practice game,--their opponents being such fellows as could be gathered together to constitute a fair Seven. Hugh seemed satisfied with the progress made, and Mr. Leonard, too, looked as if he felt well repaid for the trouble he was taking showing them certain clever moves that might reward them in a fiercely contested match. Meanwhile the mystery concerning that robbery at Paul Kramer's Emporium had not yet been wholly solved. Leon Disney still languished in the lock-up at Police Headquarters, his folks having been unable to secure bail for him. They could not raise the amount themselves, and somehow there seemed to be no person in the whole community philanthropical enough to take chances with Leon, who was reckoned an exceedingly slippery individual, who would most likely run away before his trial came off, leaving his bondsman to "hold the bag," as the boys called it. He was just as stubborn as ever in his denial of complicity in the robbery. Leon doubtless believed that a lie well stuck to was bound to raise up friends. There are always well disposed people whose sympathies are apt to be aroused when they hear of a case like this. But Leon was not being held on circumstantial evidence. He had been caught "with the goods on him." All that loot hidden under the old barn on his place was positive proof of his guilt. Still he held out, and declared himself the victim of some base plot calculated to ruin his reputation; which was rather a queer thing for Leon to say, since the only reputation he had in Scranton was for badness. Another thing was that he still declined to betray his pal, for everyone felt positive he had had company when foraging through the cases in Paul Kramer's establishment, taking such things as naturally appeal to a boy's heart--candy, cigarettes, revolvers and sporting goods. Chief Wambold suspected one boy from the start, after finding that the former chief offender in these lines could prove a positive alibi. This was the third of the bad lot, Tip Slavin. He had even gone to Tip's humble home and made a thorough search, high and low, but without the least success. If Tip were guilty he must have been smarter than his confederate, who had hidden his share of the plunder under the loose boards of the floor of his folks' barn. Not having any evidence beyond suspicion the officer did not dare arrest Tip, who continued to loaf about his customary corners and look impudently at every fellow who stared meaningly at him when passing. Hugh himself never once doubted the guilt of Tip Slavin; though he fancied the authorities might have a hard time catching him, unless the stubborn Leon at the last, finding himself on the way to the Reform School, confessed, and implicated his companion. He and Thad were talking about that very same thing on Thursday afternoon while on the way home from the park a little earlier than usual. "Where do you think that sly Tip could have hidden the stuff, Hugh?" Thad asked, continuing their conversation. "Oh! there would be plenty of places, and no one likely to ever run across it, on one condition," replied the other. "What might that be?" demanded Thad. "If only Tip could himself keep away from his cache," he was told. "That may be his undoing, after all. You know, when an ordinary thief has done something big, and is being looked for, the smart police always ask whether he has a wife or a sweetheart; because they know that sooner or later he is bound to communicate with such a person, and so a clue may be found to his hiding-place. Well, Tip's heart will be located where his treasure is. He'll soon get a _yearning_ to indulge in some of the candy and cigarettes he's got hidden away." "Then if Chief Wambold knew his duty," snapped Thad vigorously, "he'd keep tabs of Tip day and night, and shadow him wherever he went." "That would be his best move," agreed Hugh. "You ought to post the Chief on that same sort of clever job, Hugh." "Well, I did think of that," admitted the other boy, "but somehow I hated to have a hand in railroading Tip to the Reformatory. It's true he ought to be there, for he's a terror to the whole community; but he's got a mother, Thad, and I'd hate to see her swollen eyes, and remember that I'd had a hand in parting her from her boy. It isn't as if I were paid for doing such things, as Chief Wambold is; this is hardly any business of mine, you know, and I've concluded to keep my hands off." "Well, now, somehow I don't just look at it the way you do, Hugh. Perhaps I'm not quite so tender-hearted as you are. It may be the best thing that ever happened to Tip if he is sent to the Reform School before he plunges any deeper into the mire of crime. Plenty of boys have become fine men after being sent there, to be taught what it should have been the duty of their careless or incompetent parents to put into their heads." "Do you mean that you might take a notion to drop a hint to the Chief, Thad?" "I'll think it over, and decide later," the other told him. "Perhaps I'll ask advice of Dominie Pettigrew, who's a good friend of mine, and would tell me what my duty was, not only to Tip, but to the community at large, which he had so flagrantly abused time and again." "Suit yourself about that, Thad. Perhaps, after all, you may be right, and that it would be a good thing all around if Tip could be sent away with Leon. But it's likely Leon will weaken when his trial comes off, and betray his pal; though he may give Tip a hint beforehand so he can clear out in time." "And about Nick Lang?" continued Thad. "I haven't changed my mind about him, as yet," Hugh replied sturdily enough. "So far Nick seems to be minding his own business, and having as little to do with other boys as possible. I heard Dr. Carmack say he was astonished at the difference in Nick's work in classes. He seemed particularly pleased, too, because, with all the other teachers, he's had a hard time with Nick in the past." "But in all the days we've practiced our hockey work Nick hasn't once joined the scrub team we've fought against. That's why we've been able to lick them so easily, I guess, Hugh. That fellow certainly is a wizard on runners, and would make a good addition to our Seven, if by some chance he could be squeezed in. But one of the Regulars would have to be dropped, and I think there would be some bad blood shown if anyone had to give way to a fellow who's had such a bad reputation in the past. Even now lots of people think he's only shamming reform for some deep purpose." "Lots of people are due for a surprise, then, let me tell you," said Hugh. "But, of course, just as you say, I wouldn't dare take any fellow out as long as he was working his best, and substituting Nick. It would raise a howl, to be sure. But, Thad, if the time should ever come when we're up against a hard proposition, with defeat staring us in the face, and one of our team was injured, I'd grab at Nick like a drowning man does at a plank floating near." "One lucky thing happened for us, Hugh, anyhow." "You're referring to the toss of the coin that gave us the choice of grounds for the game, and will force Keyport to journey over here on Saturday, eh, Thad?" "Yes, that's what I had in mind. Captain Mossman seemed to be a pretty fine sort of chap, too, I thought, when he dropped in on us yesterday afternoon to look the place over; because it seems he's never played before in Scranton." "Well, Scranton was hardly on the map until this year," Hugh laughed. "However, some of our neighboring towns have already learned that Scranton is alive and wide-awake." "Just what they have, Hugh, and there are other surprises coming for them, too. I noticed that you cut out all play while the Keyport chap was with us. Didn't want him to get a line on our methods, I suppose?" "It might give them a little advantage, you see, and weaken our play. Some of the Scranton boys have gone over to Keyport to see what's doing there. They bring back great reports of the confidence shown in the team; but Coach Leonard has positively forbidden any member of our Seven to make the trip. He says it smacks too much of spying to please him." "Oh! that's drawing the line pretty tight, Hugh. Lots of players in the baseball world try their level best to get a line on a pitcher who is going to oppose them, and consider it legitimate enough." "Well, they are professionals, to begin with," said the other; "and business is business with them. But, right or wrong, there's going to be no spying on our part, so long as Mr. Leonard has charge of the athletic end of the game at Scranton. You can depend on that every time." "There's Owen now; he wasn't at practice this afternoon, I wonder why?" exclaimed Thad, as they sighted another boy coming toward them. "He looks as if he might be bursting with some sort of news, Hugh. Now I wonder what he's run up against." Owen quickly arrived. His face did have an eager look, and his eyes were fairly dancing with some sort of emotion. "Hugh, I've got something to tell you!" he burst out with, at which Thad shot a knowing glance toward his chum, which said as plain as could be: "There, what did I say to you?" "All right, Owen, relieve yourself of the load right away, before you burst," Hugh went on to advise, in his pleasant fashion. "It's about a certain chap who's under suspicion right now of having been implicated in that breaking into the Kramer store and robbing it." "Tip Slavin, you mean, Owen?" asked Hugh, looking interested at once. "Yes, no other, Hugh. Well, I've discovered beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is the guilty partner of Leon Disney, just as everybody suspected!" CHAPTER IX AN ADVENTURE ON THE ROAD Thad gave utterance to an ejaculation, and then followed it up by saying: "Well, now, I like that! After all, Hugh, I may not have to bother giving the Chief that tip you mentioned, if Owen here has discovered something big. Tell us about it, Owen, please; since you've got us excited by your news." "I couldn't get over to practice this afternoon, Hugh, as of course you noticed," the other commenced to say. "But it wasn't any fault of mine, I give you my word. I had to do several things around the house for mother. One of the pipes had frozen and had to be thawed out. Then there were other jobs that kept me busy for an hour. Finally, when I began to hope I might get down a short time before you closed shop, she remembered an errand that would take me out on the road leading to Hobson's Mill-Pond. I had to go to Farmer Brown's for some butter and eggs." All this was said with such a lugubrious expression that Hugh had to laugh. "It's plain to be seen you started on that walk feeling anything but pleased, Owen," he went on to remark. "Of course you'd much rather have been skating with the balance of the crowd over at our new rink. Well, what happened?" "Just this, Hugh. I was well out of town, and walking briskly along, thinking of the game we expect to win on Saturday, when someone suddenly turned a bend ahead. I saw that it was a boy who was smoking a cigarette like everything,--yes, Tip Slavin, if you please. He discovered me at about the same second, and, say, you ought to have seen how he flipped that coffin-nail thing from his lips, and came on as bold as anything." Thad chuckled. "Huh! guess you got him dead to rights that time, Owen. Did you accuse him of being a thief?" he asked hurriedly. "Well, hardly, because, you see, I wasn't begging for a fight; and there's no doubt in the world that's what would have followed. But I made out as if I hadn't noticed anything out of the way, and just nodded careless like to Tip as we passed by." "I admire your way of grasping the situation," said Hugh impressively, "because already I can guess you had some sort of scheme in your mind to make use of your discovery." "Just what I did," chortled Owen. "I walked on, and turned the bend he had come around. Then I crept back, and peeked, taking care he didn't glimpse me. When I saw him stop as if deciding on something I was disappointed, because I expected he meant to come back after it; but then he seemed to think it not worth while, and later on passed out of sight in the distance." "And then you hunted for the cigarette he had thrown away, I suppose?" ventured Thad. "Oh! I'd noted the exact spot where he was at the time, and also on which side of the road he'd tossed the stub; so I didn't have much trouble about picking it up; after which I continued on my way. Hugh, here it is." "With that Owen took something from his pocket, carefully wrapped in the folds of his handkerchief. It turned out to be a half-smoked cigarette. Hugh fastened his eyes instantly on some small printing in blue ink, giving the name of the manufacturers down in Virginia. "It's the same make as those found under the Disney barn-floor," he said impressively; "and that alone would be proof that Tip has a cache somewhere back along the road to the mill-pond, perhaps in a hollow tree in the woods. A clever police officer could easily find it by following back Tip's trail, and learning just where he came out of the woods. I myself happen to know his left shoe has a triangular patch across the toe,--that would serve to identify the tracks anywhere." "Listen to that, will you, Owen?" gasped the wondering Thad. "If my chum here doesn't take up the line of an investigator of crime for a livelihood believe me there'll be a great loss to the world. I wonder now, Hugh, if you've got tabs on all the fellows, so that you could tell who made any footprint in the mud?" Hugh only laughed as he went on to say: "It was just a mere accident that I knew that about Tip's mended sole, and it might never happen again. But when Owen here told us about a hidden cache I only gave you my opinion as to what would be the easiest way to discover its location. But what will you do about it, Owen,--let the Chief know of your discovery, or keep mum?" "Why, I look at it this way," said the other, with a line of perplexity marked upon his usually smooth forehead; "if it was only a _suspicion_ I might keep quiet, not wanting to injure Tip, though I've got little cause to love the brute. But since I actually _know_ something that would prove a valuable clue to the officers, I'm afraid it would be what I've heard a lawyer call 'compounding a felony' if I refused to inform on Tip. How about that, Hugh? I want to do the right thing, even if I hate to be an informer." "It's up to you, Owen, and your duty is plain enough," said Hugh. "Then I ought to see the Chief, you mean?" asked the other. "I'd advise you to do so, for your future peace of mind, if nothing else," Hugh told the hesitating boy, who thereupon drew a long breath, and remarked: "I'm more than half sorry now I went back to look for this cigarette; because only for my picking up such positive evidence I needn't get into this nasty game. But I'm in now, and I'll have to shoulder my share of the responsibility, I guess. So, while the thing is still fresh in my mind, I'll trot around to Headquarters to wake up our sleeping Chief. Things have come to a pretty pass here in Scranton when boys have to lend a helping hand to the police force so as to nab a petty thief." With that Owen left them. When he had a duty to perform, however unpleasant it might be, Owen was accustomed to grappling with it, and not compromising. Thad looked after the other and remarked: "How queer things do come about, Hugh. Just to think of Owen discovering Tip sauntering along the road and smoking one of those stolen cigarettes. Pretty cute of him, too, sneaking back and hunting for the evidence. I suppose it'll wind up in Tip being locked up with Leon, and eventually going to the Reform School." "Few people will be sorry," observed Hugh, although he felt a twinge when his mind reverted to the mothers of the two boys. "I wonder what Nick thinks of it all," mused Thad. "He must realize that he had a narrow squeak of it; because, only for that sudden change of heart on his part, brought around by what you did about those nickeled skates, he might have been in the cooler right now, along with crafty Leon." As they had arrived at the point where their paths diverged, the two chums separated. Hugh had returned home somewhat earlier than customary, as he had something to do for his mother, just as Owen had admitted was the cause of his absence from the ice that same afternoon. Usually boys like to linger on the ice until long after the shades of night have settled down and time for supper is perilously near. With a jolly bonfire blazing on the bank, and the skaters going and coming all the while, the prospect is so alluring that it is indeed difficult for any lad to break away. And the father who has not forgotten his own shortcomings of long ago is apt to wisely overlook some such transgression of parental authority, when the ice beckons, and, in spite of good intentions, all outdoors seems to grip a fellow in fetters of steel. Some little time later Hugh might have been seen in a neighbor's family sleigh heading out of town. There was plenty of snow for this sort of thing, though the ice had been kept well cleared through the use of brooms handled by many willing hands. The skating had not been injured in the least, for they flooded the pond each night afresh, giving it a glittering new surface by morning. Hugh had to go a couple of miles out. He, too, was bound for a farm, to fetch back a sack of potatoes that his mother had purchased, and which should have been delivered before then, only that the one horse on the place had taken a notion to fall sick, and that rendered the farmer helpless. It was already well on toward sunset when Hugh started out. He expected to be overtaken by twilight before getting back home; but that was a small matter, since he knew the road very well, and with the snow on the ground it would not be really dark at any time. It was certainly bitter cold. Hugh wore warm gloves especially suited for driving, or any purpose when the zero mark was approached by the mercury in the tube of the thermometer. He also kept his ears well muffled up by means of a toque of dark blue worsted, which he wore under his ordinary cap. As he had on a heavy wool-lined pea-jacket that buttoned close up under his chin the boy found nothing to complain about in that cold atmosphere, for his blood coursed through his veins with all the richness of healthy youth. "But all the same," he was telling himself, as he passed an humble cottage where, through a dingy window, a lone lamp could be seen; and some children gathered about the kitchen stove, "I'm thinking this bracing weather that we boys have wanted to see so much, is pretty hard on poor folks. The world is unevenly divided, as mother often says; some have too much for their own good; and others far too little for comfort." He presently arrived at his destination. The neighbor's horse, while not at all fleet, was a steady goer, and Hugh had not allowed him to "loaf on the job" so long as he could touch the whip to the animal's broad back. The sack of potatoes was soon tucked away in the back part of the big sleigh. He also bundled some extra coverings about it, which he had brought along with him, to prevent any chance of the precious tubers freezing. A basket, with some other things, was also stowed away in the back of the vehicle; after which the boy said good-night to the farmer, and started on his return trip. Hugh was about half-way home when something occurred to excite him not a little, though at the time he did not even suspect what an intimate relation it might have in connection with certain facts that he and his chum had only recently been discussing at length. His horse suddenly gave a series of snorts, and at the same time shied to one side as if startled. Hugh gripped the lines tighter, and strained his eyes to see what was wrong, while, perhaps, his heart did start to beating faster than ordinary, although he could not be said to be alarmed in the least, only excited. A wavering figure started out toward him. Then Hugh discovered, greatly to his surprise, that it was a woman, and that she held by the hand a child of about five, a boy at that. She tried to speak to him, but seemed overcome with weakness, as though she might have been trudging along until exhausted by want of food and the severe cold. Hugh guessed that possibly the couple must have come out of a side road he had passed a few hundred feet back, for they were certainly not there when he went by on the way to the farmer's place. He saw her stretch out her hand toward him, caught the feeble words, "Help--my poor little boy!" and then, to Hugh's utter dismay, she sank to the ground in a heap! CHAPTER X THE MYSTERY DEEPENS Fortunately, Hugh was a lad equal to any occasion. Of course, he had never had an experience like this before; but somehow he seemed to understand that the first, indeed, only thing to be done, was to get the woman and child in the sleigh some way or other, and then make for home at breakneck speed. So out he jumped, and, after considerable difficulty, managed to lift the now unconscious woman into the sleigh. He had never realized until then how like lead an inert person might seem, although not heavy in reality, when possessed of life and animation. He tore the coverings off the sack of potatoes, and tucked them eagerly about his charges; for he had also placed the little fellow, now sobbing bitterly, under the possible impression that "mommy" was dead, in the sleigh. As for the potatoes they could "go hang," as he told himself under his breath; though, perhaps, they might not freeze in the brief time he meant to be on the road now. In again Hugh jumped. Old Bill felt the whip come down this time in deadly earnest, and actually jumped in his amazement. Hugh kept him going at a mad pace. He was thrilled with the importance of getting home as speedily as possible. The woman had looked so deathly white that the boy was alarmed. And how he pitied the little chap who cuddled against his side, still surging over now and then with his grief, while Hugh drove along. They struck town, and people turned to stare upon seeing Hugh whipping his horse so unmercifully. They could not understand it, and rubbed their eyes. Surely that was Hugh Morgan in the sleigh, but why should _he_ be pounding his horse, and half standing erect? If it had been a fire chief going to a blaze he could hardly have excited more comment. A boy who was walking briskly along the street with a package under his arm came to a full stop, and stared as though he thought he had taken leave of his seven senses. It was Thad Stevens, and no wonder he was amazed, having recognised his chum in the frantic driver. Thad gave vent to a whistle to relieve his pent-up feelings. Then he started on a gallop after Hugh. He could not rest easy until he had learned just what might have happened to cause his usually collected chum to act in this strange fashion. When he arrived at the Morgan home it was to find Hugh had landed the child on the little porch in front of the door. This latter was open, and his mother, together with the hired girl, stood there, trying to comprehend what Hugh was saying. Thad came panting up, and was immediately seized upon by Hugh. "Great luck! Just in time to give me a helping hand, Thad!" cried the other. "What with--the Murphies?" asked the astonished Thad; for he had known Hugh expected to go out to the farm after a sack of potatoes. "Not this time," snapped the other; "it's a poor woman who fainted from cold and exhaustion while she was trying to ask me the way somewhere. That child is hers. Come, give me a hand, Thad, and we'll carry her into the house. Mother says she must be put to bed right away, and won't hear of my taking her over to the hospital." That aroused Thad, and between them the two stout lads had little difficulty in carrying the still unconscious young woman into the warm house. Up the stairs Mrs. Morgan and the girl led them, and into the neat spare-room, reserved for favored company. Once she had been laid on the bed, after the blankets and coverings had been turned down, and the little boy was being soothed by Hugh's mother, she told the boys they could now go downstairs again, and she would report later as to what next should be done. "First carry in the potatoes, Hugh, for they are too expensive this season to let the frost get them," she went on to say, patting the little fellow, whose tears had by now ceased to run down his chubby cheeks; "then call up Doctor Cadmus, and tell him to come around immediately. I'm sorry your father is away from home just now, but I can depend on my son." The boys went out again and lugged the heavy sack of potatoes around to the cellar door, by means of which they were taken in where they would be safe from the bitter air of the winter. Then Thad was sent around to the neighbor's with the horse and sleigh, while Hugh meant to get the good physician on the wire, and hasten his coming on an urgent call. "If Mr. Jones notices that old Bill is wheezing a bit, as if he'd had a warm run of it, please explain how it happened, Thad. I wouldn't like him, after all his kindness, to think I'd whip up his horse for nothing, or just in a spirit of sport." As it was an hour when Doctor Cadmus was through with his day's calls, Hugh had the good luck to hear the physician's voice on the wire. "Mother wants you to come right over, Doctor!" Hugh told him. "Who's sick?" demanded the other, being very fond of all the Morgan family; "not your good mother, I hope, Hugh?" "No, neither of us, Doctor," the boy continued. "I ran upon a young woman and a small child when on the road after potatoes in Mr. Jones' sleigh. She fainted dead away before she could tell me who she was, or where she was going. I managed to get them both aboard, and fetched them here. Mother has put her to bed; but she is afraid a fever is coming on, and it worries her. You'll be here right away, Doctor, won't you, please?" "As fast as I can get there, my son!" came the prompt reply. If there was a touch of pride in the voice one could not wonder at it; for like a good many other people of Scranton Doctor Cadmus had conceived a great liking for Hugh; and thought there had never been another boy fashioned after his model, which, of course, was all nonsense, as Hugh often protested indignantly when he heard any such talk. Only a short time elapsed before the doctor and Thad reached the front door at the same minute. "Wait for me in the library, Thad, if you don't mind being late for your supper. Doctor, I'll show you the way upstairs," and with this remark Hugh preceded the stout little physician up to the second floor. As for Thad, he never once dreamed of "breaking away" at that most interesting stage. Suppers occurred three hundred and sixty-five times a year, with an extra one thrown in for good measure when leap-year came around; but exciting events like the one happening to Hugh were of rare occurrence. Catch him thinking of eating when there was a chance right at his door to have a hand in a thrilling drama that beat the "movies" all hollow! So Thad sat down. Hugh soon joined him. He was immediately pounced upon by his curious chum, and plied with all manner of questions. By degrees Thad "pumped him dry," and there was nothing more to tell. "We'll have to wait until she comes back to her senses," Hugh finally remarked sagely, "before we'll be able to learn anything definite about them, mother and the doctor both say." "And she's actually out of her head, is she, right now?" Thad demanded. "Yes, and keeps on saying the same thing over and over, just as if it might have been in her mind so much lately. She keeps on pleading with someone she calls grandfather, and begging him not to put them out of his heart and home, for little Joey's sake--it's always little Joey she's worrying about and not herself. The doctor says she was utterly exhausted by want of sustaining food, added to anxiety and the exposure she had suffered." "But where could she have come from, Hugh? She has never been in Scranton, you said that, and I never saw her before either. You told me the little boy can only say his name is Joey Walters; and honest to goodness, Hugh, there isn't a single family of that name in or around this town that I ever heard of." "They've been trying to get some clues out of the little chap," continued Hugh, "but without much success. All he's said so far is that they've come ever so far, and that he liked riding on the cars first-rate, only mommy cried so much and wouldn't eat every time he did. From the way he talked they suspect that the young woman may have come from the West somewhere." "She _is_ young then, Hugh?" "Yes, not over twenty-five or so, the doctor says, but frail-looking. He thinks there is nothing serious the matter with her, only that she's been underfed for a long time, and has suffered. Perhaps she's denied herself proper food so as to save up enough money to make this trip." Thad shook his head as if feeling sad over the happening; for the boy had a tender heart. "Well, I certainly hope she'll be better tomorrow, and able to tell something about herself," he went on to say, as he prepared to leave. "And, Hugh, it was fine of your mother to refuse to let her be taken over to the Scranton Hospital, when the doctor proposed such a thing." "My mother wouldn't hear of it," Hugh told him proudly. "Why, already she's in love with that little chap, and he's enough of a darling to make any woman with a heart want to mother him. Both of us seem to think we may have seen him before somewhere; or else he resembles someone we've known once on a time; but, so far, we can't imagine who or where it was. But once she comes to her senses, whether to-morrow, or some days afterwards, of course the truth will be known." "And Hugh," said the other, with one of his smiles, "if you feel that you can't wait for her to tell, suppose you start out to-morrow afternoon and try to strike a clue on your own account. That wonderful faculty you possess for investigating things ought to put you on the track." "Perhaps I may, that is, if I have time to-morrow," chuckled Hugh; "because, you know, we have our last practice at hockey before meeting those Keyport experts." "You said you felt sure she must have come out of that side road near where you met them," continued the persistent Thad. "Yes, but only because I hadn't seen them when going out to the farm," his chum explained. "They may have come out of that road; and then again it's barely possible they were trying to make a fire somewhere among the trees to keep them from freezing." "By going along that same road, and inquiring at every house you came to," Thad continued, "like as not you'd get word of them, if so be they stopped to ask directions, or a warm cup of coffee. People around here never refuse anyone who comes to their doors. Well, see you in the morning then, Hugh. Good-night!" CHAPTER XI A MOTHER'S SACRIFICE Friday afternoon had come, and the game at the park was over. Although the scratch team organized by Mr. Leonard to oppose the Regulars put up a strong fight, they were virtually "snowed under" by the splendid playing of Hugh and his six comrades. The experienced coach seemed very well satisfied. He openly complimented the lads after the contest had been carried to its finish. "You are doing splendid work, fellows," he told them, with a look of pride on his face; "and the way you played this afternoon was worthy of any Montreal Seven that ever toured the East to show how they do things up there in Canada at their favorite winter sport. And the boys who fought tooth and nail to hold you back, I congratulate them also; for they did excellent work. It was no disgrace to be beaten in that game; few hockey teams could have held their own against such fine play. Keep it up to-morrow, and there need be no doubt as to who the winners will be." It can be easily understood that Hugh and Thad were feeling in a particularly good humor then, as they started to walk to town after the game, having an errand there before going home. "I haven't had a fair chance to say a word with you to-day, Hugh," the latter broke out with, once they were alone; "and I'm awfully anxious to hear how that poor young woman at your house is coming along. Has she spoken yet, and told who she is, and where she came from?" Hugh shook his head in the negative. "Never a word as yet, Thad. Fact is, Doctor Cadmus says she mustn't be worried by questions for several days, possibly." "Then she's still wandering in her mind, is she, Hugh?" "Yes, and saying all sorts of things about her girlhood days, as well as about her husband, who, mother thinks, must have come to his death in some accident. She calls him Joey, too, just like the boy. It must be a family name, we imagine. So mother is content to wait until she is better, when she will tell all she wants us to know." "Then you didn't bother taking that wise tip I gave you, Hugh?" and Thad's voice had a little ring of disappointment about it. "Oh! I was up early this morning, and, as the road out there seemed so hard and firm, the snow being packed down solid, I just jumped on my wheel, and took a little run up in that direction. It wasn't so easy, once I struck in on that side road, but I managed to pedal along somehow." "There are a number of houses on that road, I chance to know, Hugh; the Simms live there, likewise the Thompsons and the Garrabrants." "I managed to reach those three houses," Hugh continued; "but it didn't pay me, so far as results went, though I enjoyed the run all right." "From that I imagine nobody had seen the woman and child yesterday afternoon coming along that particular road, eh, Hugh?" "No one could remember having met or seen such a person," Hugh told him; "and as strangers are uncommon in these parts they would surely have noticed her if she passed their doors. So I came to the conclusion, as I couldn't even find the marks of her shoes in the snow along the road, that she must have come over from Belleville way, and was in the woods at the time I first went by, which would account for my not meeting her." "To change the subject, Hugh, I notice that Nick still fights shy of the rest of the crowd these days. He was skating on the ice to-day; but absolutely declined to take part in the game; though Mr. Leonard, wanting to make the opposition as strong as possible so as to put us to our best licks, went over and talked with him, trying to coax Nick to join the line-up. What makes him act that way, Hugh? One would think Nick'd be glad of the chance to play." "He would, Thad, he certainly would, because he enjoys hockey as much as you or myself; but I reckon Nick, for the first time in all his life, finds himself afflicted with shyness. You see, he knows people don't, as a rule, believe in this sudden reformation. They can't have any faith in a fellow who's fooled them so often before. And that makes him want to keep away. Nick is fighting it out all by himself. If we knew all the wonderful things that he's grappling with these days I imagine we'd sympathize with the poor fellow, Thad." "Hugh, you may be right. Already I'm beginning to feel sorry for saying some of the mean things I did when first we guessed Nick was trying to turn over a new leaf. It must be terrible hard for a boy who's always been bad to change around and face the other way." "Stop and think, Thad. Take the case of that Jean Valjean, for instance. Now, he underwent a complete change of heart, and from being a beast, hating humanity, he grew to love other people, and be ready to sacrifice himself to save another. You remember how he voluntarily gave himself up to the law in that courtroom scene, just to save a miserable wretch who was about to be punished under the belief that he was the genuine Jean Valjean." "Yes, but Hugh, he was unknown when he fought his battle, and won out. Besides, he had the money he received for the silver the priest gave him, with which to get a start in the world. But Nick here is known, and people point their fingers at him with scorn, and talk openly about his playing another of his pranks." "That was just what I had in mind when I spoke, Thad. Nick has the harder row of the two to hoe. And if he wins out he'll deserve a lot of praise, I tell you. But see who's coming along here in a rig, will you?" "Why, it's good old Deacon Winslow, the blacksmith weather prophet; and, Hugh, isn't he beckoning to us right now?" "Just what he is; let's cross over and see what he wants with us," Hugh immediately went on to say; for, as has been intimated before in these pages, he had come to feel a great interest in the brawny smith, and wanted to cultivate a closer acquaintance with him; there was something so genial, so wholesome about the owner of the crossroads smithy. "Jump in and go along with me, lads," sang out Mr. Winslow, as they came up. "I'm bound around to the home of Mrs. Disney on a little errand; and, since you two are interested, I thought you might like to help me explain to the poor woman that I want to go on her boy's bail. It's a shame he has to stay in the lockup all this time, waiting for his trial to come off." The chums exchanged quick looks. "How about it, do we go along, Hugh?" asked Thad. For answer the other hopped up alongside the deacon, and, of course, Thad did likewise. Since the Disney home was not far away they were quickly at the door, and knocking for admittance. Leon's mother answered the summons. She looked frightened at seeing the huge bulk of the blacksmith there, and the two boys with him. But no sooner had he spoken in his kindly fashion than the anxious expression fled from her pale face. "Please excuse me for dropping in on you, Mrs. Disney," said the deacon, after they had been ushered into the humble sitting-room, where a wood-fire burned on the hearth; "but I just couldn't stand it any longer. I want to stand bail for your boy, so you can have him home again with you till his trial comes off." Leon's mother looked embarrassed. She twisted her apron in her nervous fingers, and seemed very near the point of tears. "Oh! it's kind of you, Deacon Winslow, indeed it is!" she finally exclaimed, as she looked up at the smiling, sympathetic big man; "but, after all I think it is better that Leon remained where he is though it almost breaks my heart to say it." Thad looked astonished, but Hugh nodded his head, as though he could understand what was back of those words so strange for a mother to speak. Deacon Winslow was also considerably surprised, it seemed. "But the bail bond is only for a thousand dollars, madam," he said; "and I can afford to put that up for his appearance in court later." "Thank you again and again for your kindness to a poor woman, and a mother, sir!" she exclaimed with a half-suppressed sob in her voice; "but there does not seem to be any doubt about my boy's guilt, much as I hate to acknowledge it. His association with that Lang boy has been his ruin. And he would be likely to run away, to try and escape his just punishment, so that the bail bond would be forfeited." "But even so it wouldn't ruin me, Mrs. Disney," continued the deacon; "and I hate to think of you sitting here, and crying your eyes out because he is locked up." She looked straight at him then, as she went on to say bravely: "But, sir, I am thinking of what will eventually become of my boy. If he runs away now he will sink lower and lower, until he commits some terrible crime, it may be. But Dominie Pettigrew tells me that if he goes to the Reform School there is a chance that he may come out later on completely changed in heart, and ready to play his honest part in the world. No, I have thought it all over, and prayed to be led to do what is best for my Leon. I cannot accept your offer, though you mean it in all kindness. For his sake I will wait until his time has expired, and continue to hope it may be the making of my poor boy." Deacon Winslow did not attempt to urge her. Indeed, he could hardly say anything, for he was half choking with emotion. But he squeezed her hand, and gave her a look that must have carried some comfort to her poor distracted heart. Once outside, the boys shook hands with the big man. Hugh was feeling more drawn towards him than ever. "I'm coming out to visit you soon, Deacon," he told the other; "I want to know you better. There are a lot of things I mean to ask you about the habits of those little animals from which you get your hints about the weather; and you told me to drop in any time I felt like it, you remember." "You'll be doubly welcome, both of you, lads!" the big blacksmith assured Hugh, as he drove away, more or less disappointed because his little plan to assist a sorrow-stricken mother had fallen through. "Say, his heart must be as big as a bushel-basket, Hugh," admitted Thad, as they walked along, heading for the open square in the center of the town. Two minutes later and Thad gave vent to an ejaculation. "It's all up now, Hugh!" he said, in a half-disappointed tone. "What is?" demanded his comrade wonderingly. "The Chief has arrested Tip Slavin, I mean. He must have heard what Owen Dugdale had to say about meeting Tip Slavin smoking a cigarette on the road to the mill-pond, and set a trap for him. He's just stopped his big car in front of Headquarters, and one of his men is lifting out a load of stuff, doubtless the plunder Tip cached in the woods up there. And the Chief has his hand on Tip's shoulder as they get out. I notice that Tip has lost his arrogant look, and seems badly scared, too!" CHAPTER XII TIP SATISFIES HIS CRAVING--AND LOSES "Let's step over and see how it happened, Hugh!" As Hugh himself was not averse to picking up some information along that same line, the two chums entered the station-house just after the Chief and his man. The latter officer had placed the large package done up in a burlap bag on the floor. He was grinning, as though considerably pleased with the final results of the raid. Chief Wambold, too, was indulging in a smile as the boys entered; he even winked one eye at Thad, as though in a particularly good humor. But there was one person present who did not seem to be in a happy frame of mind. That was Tip. He looked "in the dumps," as Thad expressed it; and on seeing the boys enter dropped his chin upon his breast in shame. All the bravado was gone from his demeanor now; he knew that with that evidence against him he was headed for the House of Refuge on a fast train. The man took him through a door into another room, the Chief's private office. From this Hugh guessed that Tip was about to be questioned at length, in the hope of his possibly implicating still a third party in the theft. "So you found his secret cache, did you, Chief?" remarked Thad boldly. "When Owen Dugdale left us he said he was going straight to you, to tell about meeting Tip on the road smoking a cigarette; and he showed us that it bore the same trademark as those stolen from Paul Kramer's place." Thad went into detail so as to let the tall Chief understand they already knew all about the discovery, and had been told, in fact, even before he was. "Yes, we took a hunt up there in the woods this morning," explained the other, with a broad smile; "and ran across some tracks that looked like Tip's. When we followed the trail it led us direct to a big tree that was hollow; and inside the cavity lay that bundle, wrapped in a burlap sack. It was almost too easy. An experienced crook would never have committed such a blunder, and left so plain a trail. Why, it looked as if we were being taken by the hand and led there." "But I guess you didn't carry away the stuff right then, did you, Chief?" Thad went on to say, a wise look on his face. "Hardly, son, hardly," replied the other, with a gesture of his hands. "That would have been too silly for anything. What we did was to back away, and cover our own footprints as well as we could. Then we hid to await developments. I left my man up there while I came back to town to conduct my business. Later in the day I once more joined him. I expected the boy might be getting hungry for a smoke about the same time Owen met him on the road. Well, he came, and we pounced down on him just when he had opened the pack, and was lighting a weed with his trembling, tobacco-stained fingers; because, just like Leon Disney, and that slick Nick Lang, Tip is a confirmed cigarette fiend, you know." "Well, for one, Nick has cut the habit out, Chief, I happen to know, for he told me so," Hugh ventured to say. The big police officer sneered, as though he refused to believe there could any good come out of the boy who bore that detested name of Nick Lang. During the whole of the time he occupied his present exalted position, Chief Wambold had been plagued by the pranks of Nick and his cronies; and, in spite of all his efforts, up to now he had been unable to fasten anything serious upon them, although he gave them credit for every piece of maliciousness practiced in Scranton during that period. "Well, perhaps some people may believe Nick didn't have a hand in this outrage," he went on to say, "but I'll never think otherwise than that it was his genius for organizing raids that was responsible for the robbery. At the least, he may have changed his mind, seeing things getting too warm in police circles here. But never forget to keep one eye open when dealing with such a slippery customer, for his repentance is only skin-deep at the best." Hugh made no reply. He knew it would have been utterly useless, because the Chief was not only a very stubborn man, but inclined to be a narrow-minded one in the bargain. So he and Thad walked out. The last they heard the officer call after them was: "Make up your minds, boys, Scranton is going to be purged now as never before. We've made a good beginning, and it'll be pretty unhealthy for anybody to start a racket from now on. Tip and Leon will be going to the Reform School inside of a few days, after they've had their trial before the Justice; and the town will be well rid of a pair of scapegraces. And thank you for what assistance you may have given us, boys." As they walked along Thad vented his feelings in the matter. "It looks as if that episode might be called closed, eh, Hugh? The evidence is so powerfully strong that neither of the boys can put up anything like a half-way decent defense. They're going to be sent away, and we'll not be bothered with the bunch again. With Nick on the mourners' bench, the old town is going to be pretty orderly for a while, until some fresh spirits break loose." "Let's hope it may be a long time before Nick has a successor," said Hugh. "This whole thing is going to be a lesson to such fellows as were inclined to run around with the street gangs, and play practical jokes nights." "I notice one thing," remarked Thad, "which is that some of those fellows who used to loaf on the street corners in summer are now coming to the club-house at the baseball park, now it's opened three nights a week. The only trouble is they haven't got half enough magazines and games there to go around, so many visit the big room to get in out of the cold these nights." "That is going to be remedied before long," Hugh told him. "Some of the men of the town, and Deacon Winslow heads the list, I understand, have arranged to spend a lot more money on certain improvements; and among other things there will be a pretty fair gymnasium, as well as more reading matter of the right sort for boys." "Now, that's news to me, Hugh!" exclaimed the delighted Thad; "queer that I hadn't heard a word about it before. But then you get wind of everything that's going on. Folks think they ought to ask your advice on all sorts of subjects. That's what it means to be the most popular boy in a town." Hugh laughed. "Thanks for the compliment, Thad," he said; "but just think of the weight of responsibility I have to stagger under, even as the captain of the Scranton Seven. Why, everybody stops me on the street, and asks the most remarkable questions. They seem to think I'm gifted with prophetic vision. They ask me to tell them just how badly we're going to whip Keyport to-morrow morning, and lots of other things that I know no more about than a baby might." "Well, have you decided to give up trying to learn where the woman with the little child came from?" asked Thad, again switching the subject in an abrupt fashion he had. "Oh! I don't know whether it will pay me to go out again, and try to trace her back to Belleville, or some such place," said Hugh. "Doctor Cadmus assured my mother she would certainly be in her rational mind inside of two days at the longest. So I reckon I had better lie on my oars, and wait. I've got plenty to bother about, as it is, with that hot game coming off in the morning." "Perhaps you're wise about that, Hugh. I know I'm a lot too impatient by half, and can't bear to wait for things to come to me. That's why I always stepped out to meet the ball when at bat; and I often caught it before the break came to make it a sharp drop." "Mother says she thinks her full name is Judith Walters, though, as far as we know now, that doesn't help any. Still, if she didn't recover, it might assist in finding her family, so they could take the boy. He's a fine little chap, and I've already made great friends with him." "You say she keeps on speaking to someone she calls grandfather, who seems likely to turn them both out of the house?" Thad persisted, as though he might be trying to figure something out. "Yes, and so we take it for granted there must be some sort of a pitiful family tragedy about the whole affair," Hugh told him. "Mother suspects she may have married some years ago against her grandfather's will; and, losing her husband suddenly through accident, she is now on her way back, to plead with a hard-hearted old man for a place under his roof. But as you say there's no family named Walters near here, and we certainly don't know of any girl leaving her home that way." "The chances are," Thad said decisively, "that she was meaning to pass through Scranton, and was heading for some other town, perhaps Allandale. You might find out if any such thing happened there some years ago; or if an old man could be found who would welcome a dear little boy named Joey." The subject being exhausted for the time being, the boys talked of something else until they finally separated, each heading for his own particular supper table. Of course, the news of Tip's arrest was soon known all over town. Most people had anticipated such an event, and professed not to be in the least surprised to hear about it. Nevertheless, the clever device of Chief Wambold, which he took care should be passed from lip to lip, so as to add to his popularity, was highly commended. And there never was a time when Scranton passed a more peaceful night than on that occasion. Already great good was coming of the breaking up of the vicious gang that had held sway much too long. With two of the members locked up, being just as good as on their way to the Reform School, and the leader forsaking his former evil practices, it looked as though the police force of Scranton would soon become fat and lazy through lack of activity. Hugh did not go out that evening. He was tired, and wished to conserve his energies so as to be in first-class trim for that lively morning brush with Keyport's Big Seven. So he spent considerable time playing with little Joey; and, being still hopeful of learning something that would afford a clue to the mysterious past of the boy's young mother, Hugh often plied him with questions. But his success was hardly flattering to his acumen, for the little fellow could not tell him anything that would be of material help. Hugh guessed that they had once been out in some mining country, from certain things the boy chanced to mention. He also had reason to believe the father had come to his death through such a catastrophe as so often happens in the mines; for the boy spoke of many families losing those they loved when "poppy" was buried in the cold ground. It was slow work, and anyone less tenacious than Hugh might have given up all hope of making a discovery. He believed, however, that if no other way arose by means of which they could find out what they sought, some time or other Joey was apt to let fall a word that might lead to discoveries. The doctor came before bedtime, and said his patient was getting along nicely. "Given one more day, and possibly by Sunday she may come into her senses again," he told them before leaving. "And then she can thank you, madam, for all your kind heart has done for her. But that little boy is a sunbeam for any house. I have half a mind to steal him myself." CHAPTER XIII THE LIVELY GAME WITH KEYPORT'S SEVEN Many a fellow in Scranton felt blue early on Saturday morning, when, jumping from his warm bed, and hastening over to a window, he looked out to discover a few flakes of snow lazily drifting earthwards. The gloomy sky seemed to be in fit condition for a heavy snowfall, that would put the hockey game with Keyport entirely out of the question. By the time breakfast was ready, however, these fugitive snowflakes had ceased falling entirely, and, shortly afterwards, the bright sun broke out, lifting the load from myriads of enthusiastic young hearts. After all, it turned out a perfectly glorious winter's day, the air being keen, but with little wind to mar the work of the contenders on the icy rink. Along about nine in the morning people began to gather at the park, paying for seats in the grandstand. Everybody was as warmly clad as possible, since it is no joke to sit for an hour or two, with the thermometer registering half-way down to zero. As before, one-half of the enclosed area was shut off from the general public, in order to afford the | hockey players the benefit of the new ice. Of course, it had been flooded on the preceding night, after the last skater had left, and this caused a splendid surface to congeal. Boys and girls came flocking to the place. Many bore skates, but there were others who only wished to witness the contest between the two rival high-school teams, as scheduled for that morning. There were hosts of other people present also; and already cars and conveyances of every description were arriving from Keyport, Allandale, Belleville, and such places, filled with eager enthusiasts, who loved a good hockey game above all sports, and would journey far afield in order to be present when one was to be played. Shortly afterwards some of the Scranton players appeared on the enclosed area. Their coming was greeted with all sorts of cries, meant, for the most part, as encouragement, and expressing a firm belief in their ability to win out. "We're pinning our faith on you boys. Dugdale, remember!" cried one fellow. "Don't let them get too big a start on you, because they're terrible fighters, once they get a lead!" came from another, who, having lived in Keyport, was supposed to know the characteristics of the boys on that team. "And, Hobson, always remember that it's the longest pole that knocks the persimmons!" whooped a third fellow student. Thad and Hugh were sitting on a low bench, adjusting their skates leisurely, and listening in an amused way to much of this friendly badinage. "The boys are certainly wanting to win this game, Hugh," chuckled Thad. "Makes me think of some of the warm sessions we had last summer in baseball contests with Allandale and Belleville. ["_The Chums of Scranton High in the Three-Town League_."] "It seems as if Scranton boys and girls have developed a voracious appetite for every kind of out-door sport lately," Hugh went on to say. "Did you hear what the committee in charge of the grounds here intends to do next week?" "Haven't heard a whisper so far, Hugh; so give me the news," pleaded the other. "Why, you know the fellows have been building bonfires here at night-times when skating. It was all very fine, but there seemed to be considerable worry about the new high fence taking fire and burning during the night. So they've concluded to run wires across from side to side, and string electric lights for use on dark nights, but only when the skating is good." Thad looked pleased. "Why, that's a boss idea; who suggested it, Hugh?" he demanded. "Oh! somebody just happened to think of it, and the committee agreed it was a good scheme," returned Hugh; but something about his manner told Thad the truth. "Huh! I can give a pretty good guess who that smart chap is; but don't bother trying to deny it, Hugh. The only bad thing about it in my mind is that we'll miss those jolly fires. It's always been so fine to skate up and stand before one, to get warm, and hear the flames crackle, while the girl you're skating with sits on a log, or something like that, to warm her feet." "Oh! well, when you want the romantic side of night-skating, Thad, you'll have to go out to Hobson's mill-pond, like you say you used to do. There, with plenty of wood handy, you can have the biggest fire you feel like making. Here, so close to town, we have to get our light in a more modern way. Now, I reckon I'm ready for any sort of a scrimmage that comes along." A shout presently announced that the boys from Keyport had arrived in a big car of the "rubber-neck" variety, with five seats across; and used for sight-seeing purposes, or any excursion where a dozen or twenty wished to go in a crowd. A little later the fellows came on the ice in a body, with their distinguishing jerseys. They appeared to be an exceedingly lively bunch, and were soon spinning about, displaying a nimbleness that excited apprehensions in many a loyal Scranton heart. As boys need little introduction, the opposing players quickly intermingled, and seemed on the best of terms. Captain Mossman and Hugh paired off, to talk over matters connected with the game. They were soon joined by Mr. Leonard, and several gentlemen, some from Keyport, others hailing from Allandale and Belleville. It was soon decided that the officials should be chosen as far as possible from neutral territory. There were to be a referee, an assistant referee, two goal umpires, as many timekeepers, and a pair of penalty timekeepers. Fortunately, Allandale and its sister town had quite a quota of former college players and gentlemen who had been members of famous hockey clubs in Canada and elsewhere when younger. They had kept in touch with the progress of events, so that they were eminently qualified to act in the various capacities to which they were now assigned by Mr. Leonard and the coach of the Keyport Seven. Hugh kept looking around from time to time. He wished to be posted as to what other promising players connected with Scranton High were on the ice, so that in case of necessity he could call on one of them to take the place of an injured Scranton boy. And when he finally noted that Nick Lang had arrived, and was on his skates, somehow Hugh seemed relieved. Deep down in his heart he believed that should he have occasion to replace a player, as the rules allowed, on account of serious injury, which is about the only excuse for such a thing, Nick would be his first choice. He wished now he had spoken to Nick about it, so that he could depend on his remaining throughout the game. There was not another fellow who would be of such great benefit to Scranton as the boy now wearing Hugh's old hockey skates. But it was too late to think of seeking him out, for the game was about to be called. When the rival teams faced each other, and listened to the last instructions of the head referee, they were found to line up as follows: _Scranton High_ _Position_ _Keyport_ Stevens .......... Goal ............ Kellogg Hobson ........... Point ........... Ackerson Danvers .......... Cover Point ..... Bell Smith ............ Right End ....... Elly Dugdale .......... Center .......... Braxton Juggins .......... Left End ........ Mossman Morgan ........... Rover ........... Jackson Hugh faced Mossman when the puck was dropped on the ice, and play began. There was a furious scramble, but Hugh came out of it first-best, for he bore away the little elusive rubber disc, and managed to carry it some distance down toward Keyport's goal before losing control. Then the fun became fast and furious, indeed. Those agile skaters whirled back and forth across the smooth ice with every imaginable turn and twist. Clever plays were continually occurring on either side, and these were greeted with outbursts of enthusiastic cheering. The crowd really seemed very impartial and sportsmanlike, considering that possibly four-fifths of it represented the local team, and might be supposed to feel prejudiced in their favor. They shouted themselves fairly hoarse over a brilliant dash on the part of Captain Mossman, whereby he outwitted his opponents, and, despite all Thad's efforts to block the play, shot the puck home in the cage for the first well-won goal of the game. Later on Owen Dugdale repeated the performance in almost as masterly a manner. The applause was, if anything, a shade more uproarous. Now the game went on evenly, with a goal apiece; but Keyport was out for scoring and would not be denied; so, in a hurry, they pushed the fighting down on Scranton territory, and put another goal to their credit, though three times did Thad balk the effort before it was accomplished. When the first twenty minutes had expired the score was six to five. Keyport was ahead, but the margin was so small that no one despaired. After the intermission they went at it once more, "hammer-and-tongs." Thus far no one had been injured seriously enough to more than delay the game a few minutes, and, before the fatal seven had expired, the fellow who had been hurt was able to take his place in the line; so no substitutes were called on. Hugh was glad of this, though he frequently shot a quick glance around to see if Nick Lang still hung about; which he certainly did, being deeply interested in the game. The second half was even more fiercely contested than the previous one had been. Scranton rallied behind Hugh, and put up a savage attack that carried them up a couple of pegs, the score then standing eight to seven; but after a bit Keyport came back and tied it again. So it remained until the limit of the game approached perilously near, and it seemed as though an extension of time would have to be granted, as the rules allowed. But at the last minute, Hugh himself carried out a daring steal of the puck; and, before the opposing players could block him, shot it into their net for the winning score. Before the players could get in position again, and the puck be faced, the whistle of the referee declared the game over, with Scranton a bare winner. The Keyport players were plainly greatly chagrined, but they proved game losers, and had not a fault to find, shaking hands cheerfully with their late opponents, and expressing a hope that a return match could be arranged on their rink at some date not far in the future. CHAPTER XIV ENCOURAGING NICK It was well on toward noon when Hugh, tired of skating for one day, started homeward. For a wonder he walked by himself, something Hugh seldom had happen; for if his chum Thad Stevens was not at his side, some other fellow, possibly several, would be sure to hurry so as to catch up with him. But Thad had been compelled to go home an hour before on some account, his folks having certain plans that forced him to accompany them immediately after lunch. Hugh was feeling a bit tired, but in good spirits, nevertheless, because of the clever victory his team had won, in which he had borne his part consistently. It always gives a boy a warm sensation around the region of his heart to realize that he has not failed those who put their faith in his ability. How many can look back with a feeling of pride to that "great day" when it was their home-run drive, or whistling three-bagger that pulled the home team out of a slump, and started a batting-bee that, eventually, won the game? Those days are marked with a red letter in the pages of memory. When part way to town, for the athletic grounds lay outside the limits of Scranton, though not far away, Hugh suddenly discovered a familiar figure just ahead of him, which, somehow, he had not noticed up to then. It was Nick Lang. He had his skates dangling over his shoulder by a strap, and Hugh could actually catch his whistle as he strode along. Somehow this told him Nick was feeling in higher spirits than had lately been the case. Perhaps he was beginning to feel a new confidence in himself, Hugh suspected. In the beginning Nick must have seriously doubted his ability to, as some of the boys would have called it, "come across, and deliver the goods," when he set out to reform his ways. He had now been keeping up the pace for more than a week. It was gradually growing easier, too, the further he went along the unfamiliar road. People did not sneer quite so much at him as in the beginning. Some even ventured to give him a half-friendly nod when they chanced to meet. And so for the first time perhaps since that day when he made up his mind, Nick was unconsciously whistling as he walked along, his thoughts busy with matters connected with his set purpose. Obeying an impulse Hugh quickened his pace. "Oh, Nick! Hold on a minute, will you?" he called out. On turning his head quickly and seeing who it was, Nick stopped short in his tracks. He was looking a little confused, yet not displeased, when Hugh reached him. Hugh thrust out his hand, and, of course, Nick had to accept it, though he did look a little awkward, because this was a new experience with him. Still, he gave Hugh's digits a fierce squeeze that might be taken as an index to his feelings toward his one-time hated enemy. "I've been wanting to have a little chat with you for some time, Nick," the other hastened to say; "but somehow every chance I got something would interfere, and the best I could do was to wave my hand, or give you a nod. Now this morning, just as I started to skate through the crowd to say something important to you, the coach called me back and said they were ready to start play. Do you know what it was I meant to ask of you this morning, Nick?" Nick looked puzzled and curious also. "I might guess it in a week, Hugh," he said, grinning; "but not right away. You see, I ain't used to having _anybody_ ask things of me. It's generally been a scowl, and a suspicious look, as if they thought I mean to play a trick on 'em if they so much as turned their heads on me. But then that's just what I used to do often enough; so I oughtn't to complain. What did you want with me, Hugh?" "I was going to ask you to stand by during the entire game, because, in case one of my players was hurt so badly that he'd have to be dropped out, rather than cut both sides down to six, I meant to put you in as substitute, no matter what position had to be filled." Nick caught his breath. His face flushed, and a glow appeared in his eyes. That expression of confidence shown in Hugh's words filled his aching heart with new encouragement. Hugh could see the muscles of his cheeks working, as though he found it difficult to control his emotions. Then Nick spoke. "That was mighty kind in you, Hugh, to think of me," he said, with just a suspicious quiver to his voice. "I'd sure liked to have played in that game; but do you think it'd have been wise to have picked _me_ for a substitute when there were plenty of other fellows on the ice competent to take the place?" "Not one able to fill your shoes, Nick, and they know it," asserted Hugh stoutly. "But then if you'd done that there'd sure have been a howl raised later on by lots of folks who still have it in for me because of the past," urged Nick, though it could be easily seen that he felt particularly pleased by what the captain of the Scranton High Seven had just told him. "Let them howl," Hugh went on to say. "There never yet was a fellow who nobly redeemed his past but what a bunch of wolves set up a howl on his heels. Don't you pay any attention to those fellows, Nick. Stick to your game through thick and thin. Every day you go on as you have been doing you win fresh friends. Even Mr. Leonard, who used to fairly detest you, is now singing your praises; and Dr. Carmack told me he was pinning his faith on you. He's a long-headed man, Nick, a very far-seeing man, who knows boys and is not easily deceived. He believes in you; so do I, and a lot of other fellows. You're going to make good, and I know it." "Well, I'm going to keep on fighting, that's all I can say, Hugh," replied Nick grimly. "I'll get there, or bust the biler trying. But sometimes I have an awful time with myself, just because I can't wholly believe folks will respect a chap who's done as many mean things as I have in the past." "You must put that out of your mind, Nick," urged the other. "Why, don't you think I'd have ten times as much respect for the fellow who's been down, and climbs up again through his own will-power, than for the one who's always been shielded from temptation, and never really proved what he had in him? Nine-tenths of the fellows who walk along so straight are kept on that road because they happen to have wise parents to watch over them; and they were never given an overpowering appetite to do wrong things." Nick drew a long breath. His eyes glistened again, and perhaps with something besides the animation that Hugh's kind and encouraging words kindled within his soul. "You see," he went on to say, presently, when he could control his voice, "I always did like to run smack up against a hard proposition. It's in my nature to want a good fight, and I reckon I've got it this time. But I'm a whole lot stubborn, too, Hugh, as likely you've learned; and I don't give up easy. Since I started to reform I'm a-going to get there if it takes a leg. Anyhow, it's a heap sight pleasanter doing it _outside_ the Reform School than inside, like some fellows I used to train with are a-going to do, it seems." All this kind of talk pleased Hugh immensely. He felt more than ever satisfied with the magnificent result of that clever little scheme of his. Reading Hugo's masterpiece had brought it about, too, and he would always have occasion to remember this when handling that volume recording the wonderful achievements of the one-time ignorant convict and human beast named Jean Valjean. Nick just then saw several other boys hurrying to overtake Hugh. He immediately evinced a desire to start off on a tangent, and head elsewhere. "I've got an errand over in town, Hugh, so I'll break away," he said hurriedly, though Hugh could easily guess the real reason for his departure. "But I want to tell you I appreciate your kindness, and if in the next hockey match there's need of a substitute, and you see fit to put _me_ in, why, I'll work my fingers to the bone to make good, sure I will." And Hugh believed it. CHAPTER XV WHERE THE SPARKS FLEW Along about three o'clock that afternoon Hugh, feeling refreshed, made up his mind he would go for a walk. There had been no positive change in the condition of the mother of little Joey. She was coming along nicely, though, Doctor Cadmus assured Mrs. Morgan, and would very likely awaken in her proper senses on the following morning. He was successfully combating the inclination towards fever, he told the good lady, and this gave Hugh's mother considerable relief. The boy was a fine little chap. Hugh had already come to feel a deep interest in him, and had played for an hour with Joey. "Why not take him out with you, Hugh, if, as you say, you're going for a walk?" asked his mother. "I'd like to," the boy said, "if you thought he could stand going such a distance as out to the Cross-roads; for I meant to drop in on Deacon Winslow. He asked me to come and see him, and perhaps stay to supper in the bargain, for he wants to have a good chat with me. And, Mother, I've been meaning to get to know that fine old man better; there's something about him that draws me. He's got such healthy ideas about everything, and is an entertaining talker when it comes to the habits of animals, and the secrets of all animated nature." "Well, I'm sure little Joey would enjoy the walk. He seems fond of being outdoors, and has been shut up here since you brought him home. And if Deacon Winslow urges you both to take supper with him, there's no reason why you should decline. He may fetch you home in his sleigh, if the child seems tired, and sleepy." Hugh decided he would do as his mother suggested. "Would you like to take a nice long walk out in the country with me, Joey?" he asked the little fellow, who had been hovering near by, and listening to all that was being said. "I like to walk," the small chap replied quickly; "but not all day, like mom and me did. Mebbe she'll be awake when we come back, Hugh?" Each time he had been allowed in the room to see his mother was when she happened to be in a deep sleep, and her ravings had ceased; so it was natural for Joey to conclude she was only making up for lack of rest. So, shortly afterwards, the two started forth, the little fellow with his hand in that of Hugh. He had come to feel the utmost confidence in this big boy who, in the time of their distress, had fetched himself and his poor fainting mother to the nice warm house, where they seemed to have the nicest things to eat he could ever remember of seeing. Hugh kept an eye about him, half hoping he might run across Thad, although the other had not expected to return before dusk. No such luck befell him, and so Hugh concluded he must carry out his original scheme, and have only the child for company during his stroll. Of course, they could not walk at a fast pace, and so it took quite a long time for them to draw near the place where the two roads crossed. Here, at a point where there was much traffic in vehicles, the smithy of the old deacon stood. Time was when he attended only to the shoeing of horses, and such other business as a blacksmith would find in his line. The coming of the auto had made him change his work to some extent; so he kept a line of rubber tires and tubes in his shop, and was capable of doing all ordinary repairing, such as might be found necessary after a minor accident to a car on the road. It was pleasant, indeed, when the wintry air was so keen, to step up to the open doors of the shop, and see that seething fire in the forge beyond the grim anvil. Mr. Winslow stood there, with his leather apron on, and his woollen sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing his brawny arms with their muscles of steel. He was working the bellows and singing softly to himself, after a habit he had when alone. Apparently, he had let his helper off earlier than customary that afternoon, for the deacon was not a hard employer, and ready to grant favors when business was not rushing. Hugh stood there and took in the striking picture, with the glowing fire in the forge, that fine, big figure of the old blacksmith standing there. The rosy light played on his strong features as he crooned his song, his thoughts possibly away back in the past, as is the habit of those who near the end of their life span. Just then little Joey sneezed. The low song of the deacon came to an abrupt end, as he turned his head and discovered the two figures in the open doorway. He recognized Hugh immediately, and a look of genuine pleasure flashed across his face. "Is that you, Hugh?" he called out, stopping work with the bellows; "and have you come out to take a bite with the old lady and myself? I'm certainly glad to see you, lad. And who might this fine little chap be?" It was only natural that a man who loved all boys, little and big, as Deacon Winslow did, should drop down on one knee and take Joey in his arms. When he looked into the little fellow's winsome face he seemed strangely moved. But then in these later days it was always so with the old man; never a child did he see but that long-hidden memories flowed again, and once more he seemed to be looking on his own boy, gone ages and ages ago. "He and his mother are stopping at our house," said Hugh, meaning to tell how he had come to find them in their extremity, later on, when possibly the child was not present to hear what he said. "I've just got a small amount of work to finish, and then I'm done for the week," said the brawny smith, as he arose again, winking very fast, it seemed to Hugh, for some reason or other. "Here's a bench you can both sit on, and watch the sparks fly from the anvil when I get my hammer busy. Likely the lad has never seen the same before, and it is always deeply interesting to children, I've found." So they made themselves comfortable. Little Joey was a bit tired after his long walk, and leaned confidingly up against Hugh, who had thrown an arm about him. The smiting of the red bar with the hammer caused a shower of sparks to fly in every direction. It was fairly fascinating, and Joey stared with all his might. Even Hugh always enjoyed seeing a blacksmith at work, and hearing the sweet-toned ring of steel smiting steel. Now and again as he worked, Deacon Winslow would ask some question. He was acquainted with the fact that the boys of Scranton High had expected to play a hockey match that morning with the Keyport team, and as no one had thus far told him how the game came out, he asked Hugh about it. From this subject the talk drifted to others, always being of a somewhat sporadic nature, caused by the smith's starting work again, after heating his iron bar sufficiently in the fire. "I'll have the night free, for a wonder," he told Hugh, with a sigh of pleasure. "I try as best I can to avoid working late on Saturday, because I want to be as fresh as possible Sundays, which are always full days for me. So when Nick wanted to come out Saturdays, I induced him to change it to an earlier night instead. By the way, how is the lad coming, on these days with his new resolutions?" Accordingly, Hugh started in to tell him how Nick was doing finely, and even repeated a part of the little talk he and the other had had that morning, while on the way to town from the park. Mr. Winslow listened intently, as he worked the bellows. "I'm very much interested in the outcome of your experiment, Hugh," he said. "It was a clever idea on your part; and now that Nick has made a start I do believe he'll see it through. I always thought he had it in him to work out his own salvation, if ever he got a fair chance. That opportunity has now dawned, and he's on the right road, Hugh; he's on the right road." "I agree with you there, sir," said the boy. "The very stubborn spirit that used to get him into so much trouble is now going to be his redemption, since he's got it harnessed up to the right sort of vehicle. The more they try to shove Nick off the track the harder he'll be apt to stick." "It was the luckiest thing that ever happened for him," continued the deacon, "when you hatched up that wonderful plan on the spur of the moment, and tried it out on him. But for that, Hugh, he'd now be locked up with his former mates, and headed for the Reform School at full speed. As it is, he is free to walk the streets, and already beginning to win the confidence of many good people in the town." Ten minutes afterwards and the brawny smith threw his hammer aside, and commenced to undo the thongs that fastened his leathern apron about his loins. "I've finished my stint, lad," he said; "and now we can go into the house, where you'll meet my better-half. I've told her so much about you, she is eager to make your acquaintance. As for this fine, manly little chap here, who seems to spring straight into my heart the more I look at him, as if he belonged there, she'll be half-tickled to death at the chance to cuddle him in her motherly arms. Alas! lad, it's been many a long, weary year since she had the privilege of loving a child of her own. Sometimes when I see her sitting there, so quiet like, and looking into the wonderfully brilliant sunset skies, I seem to know what she is thinking about, and I feel for her. It's harder on a mother, than anyone else, to lose her child as we did our poor, reckless boy." Hugh felt a queer sensation in the region of his heart when he heard the big man speak so mournfully. He realized then as never before how the heart of a parent can never fully recover from a cruel shock, such as the loss of one who as a little child had come, it was hoped, as a ray of sunlight in the lives of those who loved him. The home of the smith adjoined his shop. There was, in fact, a door that connected them, and through this Deacon Winslow now led his thrice welcome guests. Presently they found themselves in what seemed to be a cozy little sitting-room, where a wood-fire blazed cheerily on the hearth. Seated in one of those invalid wheel-chairs, which can be so easily manipulated by the occupant, after becoming expert at the job, was a most benign-looking and motherly old lady, with snow-white hair, and a face that was one of the sweetest and most patient Hugh had ever gazed upon. He knew instantly that he was going to like Mrs. Winslow just as much as he did her big husband. All the good things he had heard about her benevolence must then be true, he concluded, as he looked on her smiling face. "Mother, here's my friend, Hugh Morgan, come out to take supper with us, as I told you he'd half-promised to do," said the deacon, in his breezy fashion. "And see, he has fetched a little chap along with him who'll warm your heart as nothing else could do. This is Joey Walters, who, with his mother, is stopping at the Morgan home. Hugh didn't say whether they were any relatives of his or not; but this is a mighty winsome morsel, Mother, for you to hug." He thereupon lifted the child up in his strong hands and placed him in the lap of the old lady. Hugh noticed that she started, and stared hard at the chubby face of little Joey, just as the deacon had done; and then she turned her wondering eyes toward her husband. There was a look akin to awe in their depths, something that told how the sight of the child took her instantly back years and years to those never-to-be-forgotten days when just such a lovely little cherub had come to bless their home. Then the old lady gave a long sigh. "Oh, Joel!" she said, in a trembling voice, "how the sight of him startled me. I can shut my eyes, and think time has taken me back to our first year of wedded life. Yes, I am overjoyed at making the acquaintance of such a robust little fellow. And, Hugh, forgive me for not speaking to you before. I have heard much about you, and am pleased to know you. But, above all things, let me thank you for bringing this child out here to open the hearts of two lonely old people who live only in the past as their sun goes down toward the darkness of the night." "I'll run along now, and take my regular bath after my work," said Deacon Winslow, trying to speak cheerily, though Hugh knew very well he had been more or less affected by what his wife had just said. Left alone with the old lady, while the servant bustled in and out, laying the cloth, and setting the table, Hugh commenced an interesting conversation. She asked him a multitude of questions covering all sorts of subjects, even to that of athletic sports. "You see, the Deacon is fond of boys to an extent that it has become his one hobby," she explained, in order to let Hugh know why she felt an interest in such matters. "He spends all his spare time doing things to make growing lads happier, and more contented in their homes. People will never know one-tenth of what he's done to save boys who were going the pace. His latest protege in that line you happen to know, a hulking fellow named Nick Lang, who, I understand, has been the terror of Scranton for years. I've met him, and must say I have my doubts whether he can ever be tamed, and molded into a respectable member of society; but Joel seems to believe no boy is so bad but what he has a soft streak in him _somewhere_, if only you can find it." "Well, since he hasn't told you about the inspiration that came to me," Hugh felt constrained to say, though averse to speaking of his own successes, "I want to say that right now Nick Lang is on the road to making good." "Please tell me all about it then, Hugh?" she urged him. Accordingly, Hugh started to relate the story from the very beginning; and he had a deeply interested auditor; for Mrs. Winslow sat there in her wheel-chair, with little Joey cuddled in her arms, and one of his soft, chubby hands patting her face. CHAPTER XVI AT THE DEACON'S FIRESIDE "Hugh, I do believe you will succeed in your undertaking, and that Nick Lang is already firmly planted on the right path!" exclaimed the old lady, with considerable warmth, when the story had been brought up to date, bringing in an account of Hugh's most recent talk with the former terror of the town. "It looks encouraging, anyhow," he merely replied; though, of course; he felt a flush of boyish pride at the warm look she gave him when saying what she did. "My husband has worked with many an erring lad," she continued reminiscently; "sometimes with fair success, but only too often without, apparently, winning him away from his bad companions. But your idea was most unique. To think it all came of your reading Hugo's masterpiece, and taking it to heart. But here comes Joel; and we can soon be seated at the supper table." The more Hugh saw of this remarkably genial old couple the closer did he seem to be drawn to Deacon Winslow and his crippled wife. Indeed, Hugh soon came to the conclusion that they were the warmest-hearted pair he had ever known in all his life. Mrs. Winslow was wheeled cheerily to her appointed place at the table by her husband, who waited on her just as assiduously as though they were lately married; instead of having "trudged along life's highway in double harness," as the deacon, humorously put it, for a matter of sixty years or so. Of course, as Deacon Winslow was a deeply religious man, Hugh expected he would ask a blessing before partaking of the bountiful spread that was placed on the table; nor was he disappointed. The deacon's deep-toned voice was wonderfully musical, and to Hugh it sounded almost as though he were singing whenever he spoke. He never grew tired of hearing the old blacksmith talk; though they would not allow him to be a mere visitor, but, by asking many questions, kept Hugh in the conversation. The little fellow had been placed in a high chair. It looked of very ancient vintage, Hugh thought, when first sighting it. Seeing the look on his face the good lady of the house said in a voice that she tried to keep from vibrating: "It was our Joel's chair; somehow we have managed to keep it intact through all the years. There was a time when I dreamed of some day seeing this boy seated at my table in his father's high chair. But your small friend, Hugh, fills a long vacant spot. I could almost fancy he belonged there, he seems so like----" Deacon Winslow must have seen that his wife was getting on forbidden ground, for just at that moment he broke in with a question that demanded an answer from Hugh; and so the subject was dropped. But Hugh understood, and he felt his boyish heart throb with genuine sympathy for this splendid couple, who had yearned to have a house full of children, but somehow found their dearest wish set aside by a mysterious decree of Providence. They had a merry time at the table. Little Joey was as bright as Hugh had ever known him to be, and fairly captivated the aged pair with his prattle. The old lady in particular hung upon his every word, as though in an ecstacy of delight. She anticipated his childish wants, and, really, little Joey could never have sat down to such a bountiful feast as on that memorable occasion. Then the meal being ended they repaired again to the cheery fire. The deacon put on fresh wood, and the crackle of the blaze was very delightful on that cold night. Hugh had already spoken of the long walk ahead of him, and how, perhaps, he had better postpone his visit for another occasion, so as to get the child back home before it grew too late. "Don't think of it, son," said Deacon Winslow instantly, and in a tone that would not be denied. "When the time comes I'll hitch my horse to the big sleigh; we'll wrap the child up as snug as a bug in a rug; and be over to your house in a jiffy. What if he does get a bit drowsy; let him take a nap. I'm sure he'll be safe in the loving arms of grandma." At his mention of that last word the old lady hugged the child, and bent her wrinkled kindly face close to his cheeks; but Hugh believed it was to hide the rush of sacred emotions that swept over her. Then they talked. By degrees Hugh got his host started on the subject that was nearest his heart, and which had to do with the wonderful habits of all the small, wild animals of which the deacon had made a life-long study. "It's a wonderfully fascinating subject, Hugh," the old blacksmith philanthropist went on to say, as he started in. "I took it up just as a fancy, but as the years went by it became a habit that grew on me more and more. Yes, I have had an amazing lot of pleasure out of my observations. As the good wife here will tell you, I've spent hours on hours at night, hidden in the woods, with a light fixed on some nest of a muskrat or gopher or fox, just to learn what the cunning little varmint did betimes; when of rights I should have been in my bed getting rested for another hard day's labor at my forge." "His holidays have always been taken up in the same way," interrupted Mrs. Winslow, smiling lovingly at her husband, whose heart she evidently could read as though it were a printed book. "At first I begrudged him the time, but later on I knew it was taking his thoughts away from subjects that we were trying to keep out of our minds, and I never tried to hold him back." "It was my study of the habits of these small animals and birds that gave me what little faculty I may possess for prophesying the weather ahead," continued the old man. "They seldom, if ever, go wrong. If I've hit it wrong now and then, the fault was mine, not theirs. I had failed to properly interpret their actions, that was all." So he went on to tell Hugh many deeply interesting experiments he had undertaken along those lines. He also had a fund of wonderful anecdotes, many of them quite humorous, connected with his little friends of fur and feather. The more Hugh heard him tell the greater grew his interest. He resolved that at some time in the not distant future, when an opportunity came along, he, too, would begin to pay more attention to the multitude of interesting things that could be discovered in almost any woods, if only the observer kept his eyes about him, and did nothing to alarm the timid inmates of various burrows and hollow trees. So an hour passed, all too quickly. Once Hugh took out his little nickel watch, as if under the impression that it must be getting near time for him to think of saying good-night; though he hated to leave such a jolly fireside, and the fine couple. "Please don't think of going home yet, Hugh," said the old man, looking distressed at once. "The night is young, and I don't know when I've enjoyed anyone's company as I have yours. My dreams in the long ago were for just such a son as you. I envy your parents, my lad. Providence, however, saw fit to turn my activities in another direction; and I have done the best I could to be of some little help to other people's sons. I only bitterly regret that I am able to do so little." "But I'm afraid the child may become too much bother for your good wife, sir," Hugh was saying, although already deciding he would remain longer. The deacon laughed softly. He put out his big hand, and gently touched Hugh on the sleeve. "Look yonder, lad!" he went on to say; "does that strike you as if a heavenly little sunbeam like the boy could ever be too much trouble for her? See how her dear face is lighted up as she bends over him. He's gone fast asleep in her arms, as contented as though with his own mother. Ah! lad, it was a kindly act, your fetching that tiny bit of humanity out to visit us. You have made her almost happy again for once." Hugh, looking, saw that the old lady was paying no further attention to them, or listening to what they were saying. She touched the sweet face of the child, and pressed her withered lips against his soft skin. If a tear fell on the little fellow's head, was it to be wondered at? He saw her open his clothes at the neck, as though the heat of that blazing fire might be a little too much, in her matronly estimation. The deacon, too, was looking as though his heart might be in his eyes. Such a spectacle as that must have been of rare occurrence at his fireside, deeply as he regretted it. Then he started talking again, for he had been in the midst of an unusually interesting description at the time he drew the boy's attention to the beautiful picture at the opposite side of the fireplace. And Hugh, becoming wrapped up in the amusing episode for the moment forgot all about little Joey and the loving soul who had him held in her arms. What the blacksmith was telling related to a thrilling happening he had experienced on one occasion, when lying out in the woods watching for a certain timid little rodent to commence moving around. At the time the deacon had one of those new-fangled hand electric torches with him, which he meant to use when the proper moment arrived. Hearing voices drawing near he thought it best to warn the darkies who were advancing in time, for, otherwise, they threatened to walk directly over him in the pitch darkness. When, however, he flashed his light suddenly toward them, he must have given them the fright of their lives, for they uttered howls, and fled precipitately, despite his reassuring calls. "I afterwards learned," said the deacon, smiling broadly at the amusing recollection, "that the three men were those colored players who constitute the band you young people always have at your barn dances, Daddy Whitehead, the leader, and his able assistants, Mose Coffin and Abe Skinner. They really believed they had met something supernatural in the woods, when taking a shortcut home, after attending a dance somewhere out in the country. And, really, I never had the heart to undeceive the poor ignorant chaps. But I warrant you they kept to the highway after that terrible experience with ghosts." Hugh laughed at the mental picture of those three aged musicians, one with his fiddle, another carrying a 'cello, and the third an oboe, "streaking" it through the dark woods madly, possessed of a deadly fear lest their time had come, and that they were pursued by something from the spirit world. He was just about to make some remark when the words froze on his lips. Mrs. Winslow had given vent to a cry. It thrilled Hugh strangely, as though he feared some agonizing pain had suddenly gripped the old lady. Both he and the deacon were instantly on their feet. As they glued their eyes on the figure across on the other side of the broad hearth they saw that she was sitting there with a marvelous look on her wrinkled face--a look that seemed to tell of sheer amazement, exceeding great joy, incredulity, and many other like emotions that Hugh could not stop to analyze. CHAPTER XVII A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY "Joel, come to me quickly!" they heard her gasp, as though she were almost suffocating; and both of them hastened to her side. "What has happened, wife?" cried the alarmed deacon. "Oh! tell me, am I awake, or dreaming, husband?" she went on to say thickly. "See what the child is wearing about his dear chubby neck! Surely we ought to know that tiny gold locket. It carries me far back through the long, weary, waiting years to the day I clasped it about his neck--my baby Joel!" The deacon snatched the object from her quivering hand. He stared hard at it, as though he, too, might suspect he were asleep, and that it was all but a vision of a disordered mind. Hugh was trembling, he hardly knew why. Something seemed to rush over him, something that thrilled him to the core. He had felt a touch of the same sensation when the good old lady let him look at the pictures in her family album, and pointed to one of her baby boy; although at the time he could not fully grasp the idea that appealed so dimly to his investigating mind. Then Deacon Winslow found his voice, though it was thick and husky when he went on to say hastily: "Yes, it does look mighty like the one you had for the boy; and we never found it again, you remember, after he--left home; so we thought he had taken it along with everything else he owned. But wait, wife, don't jump at conclusions. It is next to impossible that this should be the tiny chain with the plain gold pendant that you bought for our little Joel. Surely there must have been many others like it made." Apparently, he was sorely afraid lest the bitter disappointment would follow. The blasting of those new, wild hopes of hers might have a bad effect on the old lady. That was why the deacon tried to keep her from being too sanguine, even though he himself was possibly hugging suddenly awakened rapturous dreams to his heart. "There may have been others, Joel!" she cried exultantly; "but look on the back of the medallion. I feared it might be lost some day, Joel, so I scratched his initials there. My glasses are too moist for me to see well; look and tell me if you can make out anything, husband!" Even Hugh held his breath while the deacon turned the tiny medallion over in his hands. Then he snatched up a reading glass of considerable power from the table, and held it close to the object in his quivering clutch. They heard him give a cry, and it did not hint at disappointment. "Oh! Joel, are the three letters there?" she begged piteously, as she hugged the still calmly sleeping child closer and closer to her heart. "Something I can see, wife, although it is very faint," he told her. "But then think of the many years that have elapsed. The scratches must have been very lightly done at best. Hugh, your eyes are younger than mine; and, besides, I'm afraid there are tears dimming my sight. Look, and tell us what you see!" It was a picture, with those two old people so eagerly hanging on the decision of the clear-eyed youth. Hugh used the glass, for he wanted to make certain. It would be doubly cruel if by any mistake on his part those anxious hearts were deceived. "I can plainly make out the first initial, which is J beyond question," he almost immediately said. At hearing that the deacon cast a swift look toward his wife, which she returned in kind. Neither of them could find utterance for a single word, however, such was the mental strain under which they labored. "The last letter looks like a W," continued Hugh. "Yes, now that I've rubbed it with my finger I am positive of that. As for the middle one, I think it must be either an O or a C, though it's rather hard to say." Deacon Winslow gave a deep sigh. "And our boy's middle name was Carstairs, named after his mother's family!" he hastened to say. Then they exchanged more wondering looks. It was very like a miracle, the bringing of the little child into the home of that couple whose fireside had so long awaited the coming of such a sunbeam. Deacon Winslow turned almost fiercely on Hugh, and gripped his sleeve. "You must tell us more about the boy," he said. "Who is he, and where did he come from? Those are vital things for us to learn. We could never know peace again if this mystery were not made clear. So tell us, Hugh, tell us as quickly as you can, so that we may learn the best, or the worst." He saw that they were strangely shaken, and Hugh wisely believed it best to reassure them in the very beginning. "First of all, sir," he started to say, "I begin to believe it may be what you would wish most of all. This boy who so much resembles your own child of the past is likely to turn out his son or perhaps grandson, for his mother's name is Walters, we've learned. You ask me where I found him, and I meant to tell you later on, never dreaming that it would interest you more than casually. I picked him and his mother up Thursday evening just at dusk, when I was coming home from a farm in a sleigh, where I had been to get a sack of potatoes. The young woman was trying to ask me something when she swooned away." "Go on, lad, go on!" pleaded the deacon hoarsely, as Hugh paused for breath. "Of course, the only thing I could do was to get them into the sleigh and whip up the horse," Hugh continued. "Once I reached home my mother would not hear of the poor thing being taken to the hospital. She had her put to bed and the doctor called in. Since that time she has been threatened with fever; in fact, is partly out of her head, though Doctor Cadmus says he believes she will be sensible by to-morrow morning. She was simply half-starved, and dreadfully worried about something." "But could you not hear a few random words she uttered that would give you some idea as to her identity, and where she came from?" asked the deacon. "Besides her name, which seemed to be Walters, she has said nothing that gives us a clue, save that we imagine they must have lived somewhere in the West." "In the West--and our Joel started for that section of the country!" gasped the old lady, still patting the curly head on her lap lovingly. "And then the lad's name is very similar," broke in the deacon. "Are you sure, Hugh, if isn't Joel? Might not the child have simply given the baby pronunciation of Joey?" "I think that would be very likely, sir," admitted the boy readily. Again the agitated couple exchanged looks. Hugh would certainly never forget the joyous expression that sat upon both faces. It was as though Heaven had opened to them, and given them back the child of their younger years. The deacon dropped down on his knees. One arm went around his aged wife and the little fellow she cuddled in her lap. In sonorous tones he lifted up his voice and gave thanks from the depths of his heart for the great mercy shown to them that night. Hugh was deeply affected. He believed some invisible hand must have guided him when he took that sudden notion to have the child go walking with him, his mother having suggested that it might do the little chap good to get an airing after being shut up in the house all day long. His mind raced back, and once more he marshalled all the facts, as far as he knew them, before him. Yes, there did not seem to be any reason to believe such a thing as a sad mistake could be made. That boy certainly had the Winslow blood in him; why, he greatly resembled the Joel of more than fifty years back, as shown in that old-time daguerreotype. Then Deacon Winslow once more rose to his feet. His face was fairly radiant, as was that of his wife. "I believe I can understand how this comes about," he was saying, just as if he might have had a revelation as he prayed there. "It is no accident, but the hand of a special Providence. Our petitions have been heard, and this is the answer; so the last few years of our lives may be made happy by the sight of our own flesh and blood. My poor service has come up as a memorial before Heaven. And let us hope that tomorrow, when that poor girl comes into her senses again, she will be able to tell us all of the wonderful story." "There is one thing I should have mentioned, sir, which slipped my mind," Hugh went on to say just then. "Always in her delirium she seems to be pleading with someone not to deny her a place under his family roof with her little Joey. And it is to an imaginary _grandfather_ she is appealing, so pathetically that I have seen my mother crying time and again, for very sympathy." "A grandfather, and cruel at that!" said the old man, shaking his head, while the tears rolled unheeded down his furrowed cheeks. "At least, that does not apply to me. She will learn presently that we stand ready to take her into our hearts and home as our own. Oh! it seems too good to be true, this blessing that has come to us to-night. And, Hugh Morgan, you must always be associated in our minds with this realization of our utmost hopes, which of late years we have not even dared whisper to each other." He wrung the boy's hand until Hugh almost writhed under the pressure; while the happy "grandma" continued to devour the plump, rosy-cheeked face of her charge with her eyes, as though she could not tear her gaze away. Long they continued to sit there and talk, always upon that one subject, because everything else must be subordinated to the wonderful revelation that had come to them, to prove that truth is often stranger than fiction. Three times did Hugh suggest that he had better be heading towards home: but they pleaded with him to stay "just a little longer"; for their starved hearts found it hard to let the newly found treasure out of sight, even for a short time. "But I must really be going," Hugh finally told them. "It is now after ten, and mother will be worrying about the child, not knowing, of course, that he has found a new protector, two of them, in fact. You can both come over after breakfast in the morning, and visit the boy. If his mother has regained her senses, and the doctor permits it, you will be able to settle the matter once and for all by seeing her." So with that they had to rest content. The child was bundled up warmly, and tenderly placed in the sleigh by his huge grandfather, after the old lady had kissed his forehead and cheeks a dozen times. Then they were off, and shortly afterwards arrived at the Morgan home. Deacon Winslow insisted on carrying the tiny chap indoors; after which he hastened back, to sit up most of the night with his wife, talking of the wonderful thing that had come to bless them in their old age. And Hugh, on his part, had a deeply interested auditor in his mother, as he spun the yarn that equaled anything he had ever read in the Arabian Nights. CHAPTER XVIII IN A SAFE HARBOR AT LAST Hugh had finished breakfast on Sunday morning, and was out looking after a few pets he had in the way of Belgian hares and homing pigeons, when he heard his mother calling him. "Coming, Mother!" he answered hack, thinking on the spur of the moment he was needed to look after the furnace or steam boiler, from which the hired girl did not always succeed in getting the best results on particularly frosty mornings. She waited for him just inside the door. Hugh saw immediately that his first surmise was wrong, for there was a look on her face to tell him it was no trivial matter she had to communicate. "What is it, Mother?" he asked quickly. "She is asking for you, Hugh," he was told. Then he suddenly remembered about the young mother who had lain there since Thursday evening, and out of her mind with fever. "Oh! then the good old Doc was right!" Hugh exclaimed; "he said, you know, that he felt sure she'd be in her right senses by Sunday morning. You've been talking with her, have you, Mother?" "Yes, and relieving her immediate curiosity and alarm," he was told. "Naturally, she was full of wonder when she awoke to find herself in a strange room, with no little Joey near by. She thought it was the hospital, and that the cold had claimed him for a victim. But I soon calmed her fears, and she knows now all about how she came here; and also that her boy is still sleeping happily close by; for he is taking a long nap this morning, after his dissipation of last night." "But, you didn't say anything about the deacon and his dear old wife, did you?" continued Hugh. "Not a word, my son. I wished you to be the one to convey the glad news to that poor young mother. She wanted to ask me further questions, but I avoided committing myself. She did come from the Far West, it appears. Her money ran out just too soon and they had to leave the train at a station this side of Waldron Falls. She was go determined to reach Scranton before night that she actually started out afoot, it seems, despite the cold and the snow-covered roads. Several kind-hearted men gave them lifts on the way; but it was a long journey, and she became exhausted before reaching her destination. But come with me, Hugh; she wishes to thank you face to face." Hugh did not like that part of it. As a rule, he ran away from such scenes; but in this case he knew that would never do, since he wished to learn further concerning Joey and his mother; and, besides, had some pleasant information to tell her that must cheer her heart amazingly, and also hasten her recovery. So he followed his mother into the spare room where the young woman lay. She had been propped up with extra pillows by Mrs. Morgan while they talked, though kept well covered up. Indeed, the loving hands of the older lady had succeeded in placing a warm, knitted sack upon her arms and shoulders, Hugh saw. She looked eagerly at the boy. Her face was not so feverish as before; indeed, he could see without being a physician that the patient was much better. "And this is Hugh?" she said, in a voice that trembled. "Yes, I seem to remember your face, and how you listened to me trying to tell you how much I wanted to get to Scranton before I fell sick, for I could feel it coming on. And your mother tells me you carried us both home in your sleigh. It was a generous heart that could take an utter stranger in, as you have done, and care for her as if she were your own flesh and blood. Please let me thank you, Hugh, from the bottom of my heart." Hugh took the hand she extended; but he was careful not to give it one of his customary vigorous squeezes; she looked so wan and frail that he knew he must hold himself in check. "Oh! it was a mighty little thing for anyone to do, Mrs. Walters," he said, in some confusion, but speaking the name with a purpose in view. "How did you know that was my name, Hugh?" she asked immediately. "You mentioned it, my dear, in your delirium," explained Mrs. Morgan; "and then, besides, Joey told us that much." "And did I tell you anything more in my ravings?" she asked, looking worried. "Only something about a certain grandfather whom you seemed to think might not receive you as you ardently hoped when you started forth on this long journey," the older lady told her. "But then you did not know what was in store for you. Sometimes great blessings, as well as dire calamities, spring upon us without the least warning. Hugh, I shall leave the telling to you from this point on." The young mother looked from one face to the other. "Oh! what is it?" she almost gasped. "You are keeping something from me I ought to know. Please tell me, Hugh, I beg of you. If it is good news I shall be so very grateful, for little Joey's sake mostly. Everything I do, everything I think of, is in connection with my darling child." "Then I hope you will forgive me if I'm rushing things too fast!" exclaimed the eager boy, unable to restrain his news longer; "but little Joey spent two hours last evening asleep in the loving arms of his great grandmother; while Deacon Winslow again and again embraced both, and gave thanks for the great blessing that had come to his fireside!" How her eyes sparkled when she heard what he said. If Doctor Cadmus had been in the room just then he might have cautioned them against too much excitement, lest the fever return; but surely such glorious news could not do harm, with her heart singing songs of thanksgiving. "Oh! tell me all about this wonderful thing!" she cried; "how could you guess my secret, if I did not betray it in my delirium? Now that you have said this much I must know all about it. Please go on, Hugh!" He needed no such urging when the words were ready to fall in a stream from his lips. So Hugh commenced, and rapidly sketched the strange happenings of the preceding evening--how he had taken the little fellow with him for a walk, and stopped at the smithy to see the sparks flying upwards in showers; of the invitation to take supper, and spend an hour in chatting with the deacon and his good wife. Then, quick on the heels of this he told how Mrs. Winslow, while holding Joey in her arms so lovingly as he slept in his innocence, had suddenly made that amazing discovery in connection with the baby chain, and smooth medallion, shaped like a locket. She lay there with her eyes closed, eagerly drinking in every word the boy uttered. The unrestrained tears crept unheeded down her cheeks; but Mrs. Morgan did not worry, because only too well did she know these were tears of overpowering joy; and not of grief. Finally the story was all told, and she opened her eyes, swimming as they were, to look fondly at each of them in turn. "What happiness has come into my life!" she said, with a great sigh; and, evidently, the load of years had rolled from her heart. "And how grateful I must always be to the kind friends who have brought it to me and mine. I can never do enough to show you how I appreciate it all." Then Hugh thought himself privileged to ask a few questions in turn, wishing to thoroughly satisfy himself with regard to several points that were as yet unexplained. She told them how her husband had lost his life; and that, when she and the boy faced poverty, the resolution had come to her to go East and try to find the relatives whom she had only lately learned were located somewhere near Scranton. She had come across an old and time-stained diary kept by her mother's father, who, of course, was the runaway son of Deacon Winslow; and thus she learned how he had left his home in the heat of anger, and never once communicated with his parents up to the time of his death, which occurred a short three years after his marriage. It was all very simple, and supplied the missing links in the chain. After she had told them these things once more she asked Hugh about the aged couple. That was a subject the boy could talk about most enthusiastically for a whole hour, he was that full of it. And the happy look on her face told how like balm to her heart his words came. "And they are coming to see you early this morning," he finally assured her. "I wouldn't be surprised if either of them has had a single wink of sleep last night for counting the minutes creep by, they are that anxious to claim you and Joey." Just then the doorbell rang. Hugh laughed, as though he had been expecting such a happening; in fact, he had heard the sound of sleigh runners without creaking on the hard-frozen snow, and suspected what it signified. "There they are this minute!" he exclaimed; "shall I run down and let them in, Mother? And ought they come right upstairs?" "Have them take off their wraps first, and warm their hands at the radiator," she wisely told him, thinking of the invalid who would soon be in their embrace. It was a very brief time before he ushered them into the room. First the old lady was assisted across the floor, for she could hardly walk, even when so determined to come over, and greet her granddaughter. And when her arms were twined around the weak little figure on the bed, and she pressed her to her matronly bosom, Joey's mother broke down in hysterical sobs, and, in turn, twined her arms about the neck of her newly found relative. The old deacon looked radiant. He kissed her on the forehead, and tried to say something appropriate, but was compelled to turn his head aside and blow his nose vigorously, for his emotions overpowered him. Presently, however, they were able to talk rationally, and then it was all settled how Joey and his mother were to live with the old couple, and be their very own always. Everything was explained, and Hugh finally found himself able to "break away," being consumed by a desire to run across lots to Thad's house, and tell him the wonderful story. There is no need of accompanying Hugh on his errand, and seeing how Thad took the amazing news. Of course, he was simply thunder-struck, and delighted also beyond measure. He must have made Hugh tell the full particulars as many as several times, for they were all of an hour together. But then, Thad's folks had been called in, and told how after all these years a descendant of Deacon Winslow had come back to the old roof-tree, to make the happiness of the aged couple complete. Of course, the story was soon known all over Scranton, and everybody rejoiced with the beloved old blacksmith who had so long been the best friend of the boys of the neighborhood. But Hugh, who was really the hero of the occasion, was congratulated by everybody for being the means of re-uniting these lonely souls, and incidentally providing Little Joey with a good home. CHAPTER XIX MEETING BELLEVILLE'S STRONG TEAM Another week rolled around, and once again school had closed for the Saturday and Sunday period of rest from studies. It seemed as though luck favored the young people of Scranton this season, so far as fair weather went. There had been no snowfall of consequence during the entire week; and now Saturday opened with fair skies, as if inviting them to go forth and enjoy themselves to their full bent. The great hockey game with Belleville High was to take place in the neighboring town, as Captain Kramer (known far and wide simply as "O. K.," because those were his initials) had drawn the long straw in settling this matter with Hugh, and was, therefore, given the choice of territory, according to custom. Really no one in Scranton was sorry. They had held the last match there on the new rink, and could not expect to have a monopoly of these happenings all through the season. Besides, they had a splendid lake over at Belleville, which would be considerable of an attraction to the young people of Scranton, whom fortune had not treated so kindly, since they had formerly been compelled to trudge several miles to Hobson's mill-pond when they wished to skate, swim, or fish; though now, of course, they had the newly flooded area in the baseball park for diversion. A great many went over to Belleville in every manner of vehicle. Sleighs were in great demand, but, besides these, cars could be seen by dozens on the highroad leading to the rival town, situated some ten miles away. It must needs be something over which they had no control that could keep any Scranton High boy or girl away from Belleville that Saturday morning. The very atmosphere seemed to be charged with electricity, and was calling them to hasten away, to join the throngs already pouring forth, bent on giving encouragement to those gallant young athletes representing their school, who had as yet not tasted of defeat on the ice that season. The lake just outside of Belleville was quite extensive, and could not be insulted with the name of "pond," for it ran at least a mile in length, and half that in width. While the ice was no longer as smooth as had earlier been, the case, still it seemed in fair condition. Besides, the Belleville boys had managed to flood that section to be given over as a rink; and ordinary skaters were warned to keep off, so that it might not be all "cut up" with sharp runners before the match was started. The Belleville team looked dangerous. They were, of course, pretty much the same fellows whom Scranton High had met the preceding summer on the baseball diamond; some of them had also taken part in the athletic tournament late in the Fall, accounts of which events will be found duly chronicled in earlier volumes of this series. When all the preliminaries had been settled good-naturedly, the rival teams lined up to hear the last instructions of the referee. This party was the same gentleman who had officiated with such satisfaction in the game with Keyport on the preceding Saturday. Here is the list of players, and the positions they occupied, Scranton having kept the identical Seven with which the last game had been so cleverly won, though many people were of the opinion they had a much more difficult proposition before them in the Belleville boys: _Scranton High_ _Position_ _Belleville_ Stevens ......... Goal ............ Leonard Hobson .......... Point ........... Wright Danvers ......... Cover Point ...... "O. K." Kramer Smith ........... Right End ........ Gould Dugdale ......... Center ........... Waterman Morgan .......... Rover ............ Conway Juggins ......... Left End ......... Haggerty The game had hardly begun before Hugh realized that those Belleville fellows had determined to down the visitors, if it took every ounce of strenuous ability they possessed. Previous defeats at the hands of Scranton High rankled in their hearts, and they were grimly resolved, "to do or die," as one of them told Thad Stevens while chatting before the game was called. They made a whirlwind beginning, and had scored two goals before the visitors began to "find" themselves. This would never do, Hugh determined. He gave his players a signal that called for a spurt, and himself led the way by capturing the puck, and shooting it into the cage of their opponents amidst loud footings of great joy from the loyal and now anxious Scranton rooters. Juggins distinguished himself also immediately afterwards by a lightning play that amazed the Belleville spectators. He dodged all interference and when finally too hard pressed, managed to send the rubber disc across to Dugdale, who continued the good work by shooting it into the charge of Hobson; and, almost before Leonard could try to stop its flight, it had gone with a crash into the cage for the second goal on Scranton's side. Things began to look brighter. If Belleville could play brilliant hockey through the coaching of an efficient instructor, the visiting team knew a few things also, which were calculated to surprise their rivals. Of course, most, if not all of the Belleville Seven had attended the game on the preceding Saturday, their own match for that day, which they had easily won, coming off in the afternoon. Consequently, they had studied the methods of the Scranton boys, and believed they would be able to profit by their knowledge later on. But Hugh had been wise to this fact, and posted Mr. Leonard, the coach; who, meanwhile, taught them a few new little wrinkles that were calculated to disturb the calculations of Belleville when the time came for the meeting. As in football, ice hockey presents a fruitful field for diplomacy and clever tactics; and the wisest general usually manages to carry his team to victory over those who may be much more nimble skaters and even smarter with their sticks, but not so able in the line of strategy. Belleville also took a "hunch," as some of the boys called it, and again forged to the front. Indeed, they scored three times against one more goal for the visitors; and when the first half of the match had been finished the game stood at five to three against Scranton. Hugh was in a dilemma. He knew that to win out he must have an infusion of new blood, for those husky players of the local school were too rapid for the Scranton boys. But, according to the rules of the game, substitutes can only be allowed in case of serious injury. So, unless one of his player chanced to be hurt in such a way as to necessitate his withdrawal from the game there could be no changes made in the line-up. This is so hedged about with safeguards against fraud that even if a player is hurt he must be examined by someone competent to say whether he may be able to commence work again inside of seven minutes; and if so, the game must proceed. Should he be excused from further participation in the contest his captain may have the privilege of putting in another man; or, if he chooses to play with only six on the ice, the other side must also eliminate a player, so as to make the line-up equal. Perhaps some of Hugh's comrades must have guessed what was gripping their leader around that time. Nothing else could have induced Smith, for instance, to say, as he did to Hugh, while they were resting in preparation for the last half of the game to start in: "I'm awfully ashamed of that rotten run I made, Hugh, when you handed me the rubber so handsomely. If I'd known my business as I should I'd have landed it in the wire cage as snug as anything. But I fumbled, and that Conway got it away from me, the robber. I'm no good, Hugh; and I'd give a heap if only you could kick me out of the game, and get a better substitute." "It can't be done, Just," Hugh told him; "a player has to be pretty badly hurt to be dropped, you know, and a substitute taken on. Cheer up, and get a fresh start. Two goals shouldn't be a hard job for us to tackle, once we get going at our old pace. There are a few tricks left in the bag still, before we reach the bottom." "But, see here, I'm pretty lame at that, after the stumble and fall I had, Hugh," said "Just" Smith eagerly; "perhaps the referee would let me throw up my job if he saw how badly my shin has been scraped." "Oh! you're in pretty good shape still, 'Just,' and you know it," remarked Hugh, smiling at the evident determination of his friend to sacrifice himself for the general good. "When we start play again we'll try the last dodge Mr. Leonard taught us, and see if it'll work for a goal. It's clean sport, and nothing tricky, you know." So "Just" Smith shrugged his shoulders, and did not seem at all happy, though he let the matter drop. Hugh wondered, though, what that grim look on his face meant, and, later on, had a hazy idea that he had found out. The game started again. Encouraged by their success, Belleville again took matters in their own hands and forced the fighting. There were several weak places in the Scranton High line-up. Many who diagnosed the play were of the opinion that the game was already as good as lost. Then came a most violent scrimmage, into which "Just" Smith plunged with the utmost recklessness, as though determined to wipe out all his former mistakes in some brilliant playing. Suddenly the referee's whistle called the game. Something had happened to bring about a stoppage of play. A fellow was down on the ice, with half a dozen others bending over him. It was "Just" Smith, and he was apparently badly injured in the bargain. A doctor was speedily called, who pronounced it a fracture of the leg, and decided that the player would have to be taken home immediately for a physician's attention. As "Just" Smith passed his captain, being carried by two husky players to a waiting car that would convey him home, he actually had the nerve to grin in Hugh's face. A suspicion came into the latter's mind to the effect that the player had purposely taken terrible risks in the hope that he might be disabled, so that a substitute could be put in his place; though, of course, Hugh tried to banish this thought as soon as it gripped him. "Get your substitute, Hugh, or else we'll have to drop a man!" called the Belleville captain; and Hugh glanced apprehensively around; then broke through the dense crowd, and seized upon a skater who had been hovering near. It was Nick Lang! "We need another player, Nick!" Hugh exclaimed eagerly; "and I want you to help get the team out of this nasty hole, for the sake of good old Scranton High. So don't say you won't, but come along, and do your level best to bring us out ahead!" CHAPTER XX NICK MAKES GOOD----CONCLUSION The look upon the face of Nick Lang when Hugh spoke in this way told the leader of the Scranton Hockey Seven he would fight with might and main to turn the tables on the winning Belleville team. Nick's hour had struck! The long-awaited opportunity to prove the genuine nature of the change that had taken place within his heart had arrived. He was going into play as one of the Regulars; he had been especially picked for that important service among twenty likely lads who only too gladly would have accepted a chance to distinguish themselves in such an emergency. Accordingly Nick had a large letter S fastened to his jersey, to mark the side on which he fought, so that the referee might easily know where he belonged. One word from the coach as he strode forward Nick would never forget as long as he lived; it was a word of confidence; and, remembering how Mr. Leonard had at one time detested and distrusted this boy, it meant everything to Nick. The game started again after the lapse of seven minutes. Belleville considered that they had "the edge" on the visitors, and immediately went at it as though bent on adding considerably to the number of goals marked to their credit. But almost immediately it was discovered that the infusion of new blood had somehow altered the complexion of things greatly. Thanks principally to the marvelous agility and strategy of Nick, a goal was shot inside of two minutes. It was immediately followed by another, this time Nick winning the score without the least help from anyone. Wild applause rang out from parts of the crowd, where, of course, Scranton rooters mostly congregated. How sweet those cheers must have sounded in the ears of Nick Lange, who for years had only earned the hoots and jeers of his fellows in Scranton, on account of their distrust, and his own evil ways. Why, the Belleville folks sat up and rubbed their eyes. They had never dreamed that any fellow not a professional player could prove himself such a marvelous wizard on steel runners. Nick fairly dazzled them with his speed, his eccentric twistings when hotly pursued, and the clever way in which he kept that rubber disc just in front of his hockey stick, always carrying it along toward the point where he meant to strike for goal. And when he did make that stroke vain were the frantic efforts of the usually dependable Leonard to block its amazing passage; for almost before he swung he heard the plug of the puck landing in the wire cage which he was especially set to guard, and knew that another tally had been added to Scranton's growing score. The conditions had changed, and the shoe was now on the other foot. Thanks to the fine playing of Nick Lang Scranton was now ahead, and it seemed extremely doubtful whether Belleville would have another chance to make a single tally. The boys were plainly disconcerted by the excellent work of the substitute, and seemed to have lost much of that aggressive spirit so absolutely necessary in ice hockey in order to win games. They played almost sullenly, as if realizing that it was all over but the shouting. Vain were the efforts of Captain Kramer to put new life in his followers. He himself fought more desperately than ever, and once even succeeded in taking the puck away from the triumphant Nick, the only one who attained that glory; only to lose it immediately afterwards to Owen Dugdale, who transferred it to Stevens by way of Hobson; and then it plunged into the cage, despite Leonard's mad attempt to stay its swift flight. "Who's this you Scranton boys have thrown into the game?" demanded one chagrined Belleville gentleman, as he saw what a radical change Nick's coming had made in the affair on the ice rink. "He plays suspiciously like a certain Canadian I saw last winter, who set everybody in New York City wild with his work. Is Jean La Rue visiting anybody in Scranton; and have you rung him in on us to-day, to send our poor chaps down to defeat?" "Don't you believe it, Mister," chortled a boy standing near by, whose jersey was decorated with the letters "S. H. S.," standing, of course, for Scranton High School. "That fellow is only our Nick Lang, who was born and brought up in our home town. The place was never proud of that face until this great day, because Nick, you see, has been the worst boy ever known in Scranton. Why, his escapades would take a week to tell you. He used to be the terror of everybody, the bully all boys feared and shunned. But it seems like Nick has turned over a new leaf. Folks didn't all believe in his change of heart; but after to-day, say, Nick could own the whole town if he was so minded. I'd give a heap if I was standing in his shoes this same day. He'll be a hero, as sure as he used to be the town scapegrace!" It was just that way up to the time the referee signaled that the last half of the game had been played to a finish. Nick seemed capable of doing almost as he pleased. Whenever he got possession of the puck it was, as one enthusiastic Scranton boy whooped, a "regular procession." The Belleville lads just couldn't touch him. His actions bewildered them, so that they were continually becoming mixed up with their own side when they thought to corner Nick and the puck. The score? Well, it seemed too bad that after such a brilliant beginning Belleville should fall so low, and see the terrible figures, thirteen to seven, marked up against them. In the annals of sport, as chronicled at Scranton High, that contest would always be known as the "Battle of Winchester," just because, as in the Civil War, when the Union army was in retreat and demoralized, the coming of a single man, General Phil Sheridan, caused them to turn about, and presently win a conclusive and overwhelming victory. And Nick Lang had been the Phil Sheridan for Scranton on that glorious day! Nick tried to make a "grand sneak" as soon as the game finished, but the crowd would have none of that, hemming him in so that he could not run; and then for the first time in all his life the one-time bully of Scranton tasted of the joys of popularity. Fellows wrung his hand who had always treated him with disdain. He was slapped on the back and praised to the skies. Why, even Sue Barnes, Ivy Middleton, Peggy Noland, and a lot of other school-girls seemed proud to shake hands with Nick, who was as red in the face as a turkey gobbler, and rendered quite breathless trying to answer the myriad of sincere congratulations that were showered on him. But by the happy light in his eyes Hugh knew the die was cast, once and for all. Having tasted of the sweets of popularity and honest praise, nothing on earth could now tempt Nick to fall back again to his former ignoble ways. His foot was firmly planted on the second round of the ladder, and he had his aspiring eye on the better things nearer the top. The deacon had come over to see the game. He and Hugh went home together, and the talk was mostly concerning the wonderful reformation of Nick Lang. "I'm hoping to have Nick come to me when he leaves school," the good old man was saying. "He has the making of a clever blacksmith in him, and I'd dearly like to turn over my shop to him some day not far in the future; because it's almost time the old man retired, now that he has a sunbeam coming to his house, which is going to take up much of his attention." So it seemed that Nick's future was assured, if so be he cared to take up that honorable trade, by means of which the deacon had accumulated his little fortune. As for the two former pals of Nick, Tip Slavin and Leon Disney, in due time they were convicted of the robbery of Paul Kramer's store, and sent away to the excellent State institution, to remain there until they had reached the age of twenty-one. There was at least a fair hope that long before that time arrived one or both of the boys would have learned a trade and decided to live a respectable life in the future; for many lads who were deemed uncontrollable at home, under the lax training they received there, have been fashioned into splendid men because of the strict discipline at the Reform School. There is little more to add to make our story complete. Joey and his mother were soon installed under the hospitable roof of the deacon, where they found themselves the objects of love and devotion. The miseries of the past would soon be forgotten in the great happiness that had come to them. And certain it is that no one would be a more welcome guest there than Hugh Morgan, because it was partly through his efforts that this joyous event had been made possible. Since Scranton High had taken such a leading part in the outdoor sports so beloved by all wide-awake boys, it could be set down as certain that the fellows in Allandale and Belleville would not be content to let them rest upon their well-earned laurels, but would strive with might and main to excel them on the diamond, the cinder-path, the football gridiron, or some other field of athletic endeavor. That many fiercely contested games would result was a foregone conclusion; and it is to be hoped that we shall have the privilege of meeting the readers of this volume in the pages of subsequent books, where some of those exciting happenings may be set down in an interesting manner. THE END 
13251	----	THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH On the Cinder Path BY DONALD FERGUSON THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO. CLEVELAND, O. NEW YORK, N. Y. Copyright, MCMXIX by THE WORLD SYNDICATE PUBLISHING CO. Printed in the United States of America by THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO, CLEVELAND, O. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE FIVE NUT FORAGERS II. ON THE OLD QUARRY ROAD III. TALKING OF GHOSTS IV. IN TRAINING FOR THE GREAT TOURNAMENT V. TREACHERY IN THE AIR VI. THE PROWLER VII. CAUGHT IN THE ACT VIII. LEON PROMISES TO REFORM IX. SCRANTON IN GALA ATTIRE X. WHEN MUSCLES COUNTED XI. THE CRISIS IN CLAUDE'S LIFE XII. STARTLING NEWS FROM THE JUGGINS BOY XIII. TO THE RESCUE OF "K. K." XIV. THE SEARCHING PARTY XV. PROWLING AROUND THE QUARRY XVI. A FRIENDLY "GHOST" XVII. SCRANTON'S "OPEN HOUSE" DAY XVIII. THE GREAT MARATHON RACE XIX. ON THE FINAL MILE OF THE COURSE XX. THE BOY WHO WON--CONCLUSION THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH CHAPTER I THE FIVE NUT FORAGERS The bright October sun was half-way down the western sky one Saturday afternoon. Two-thirds of the Fall month had already gone, and the air was becoming fairly crisp in the early mornings. All around the forest trees were painted various shades of bright scarlet, burnt umber brown and vivid gold by the practiced fingers of that master artist, the Frost-King. Flocks of robins and blackbirds were gathering rather late this year, preparatory to taking their annual pilgrimage to the warm Southland. They flew overhead at times in vast numbers, making a tremendous chatter. A noisy bunch of crows cawed unceasingly amidst the treetops as a large, lumbering old automobile passed along the country road, the same filled with lively boys, and also a number of sacks stuffed to their utmost capacity with what appeared to be black walnuts, shell-bark hickories, butternuts, and even splendid large chestnuts. Apparently, the strange and deadly blight that was attacking the chestnut groves all through the East had not yet appeared in the highly favored region around the town of Scranton, in which place the boys in question lived, and attended the famous high school where Dr. Carmack, also supervisor of the entire county schools, held forth. The five tired lads who formed this nutting party we have met before in the pages of previous stories in this series; so that to those who have been fortunate enough to possess such books they need no lengthy introduction. First, there was Hugh Morgan, looking as genial and determined as ever, and just as frequently consulted by his comrades, because his opinion always carried considerable weight. Then came his most intimate chum, Thad Stevens, who had played the position of backstop so successfully during the summer just passed, and helped to win the pennant for Scranton against the other two high schools of the country, situated in the towns of Allendale and Belleville. Besides these two, there was included in the party a tall chap who seemed to be acting as chauffeur, from which it might be judged that he had supplied the means for taking this nutting trip far afield; his name was Kenneth Kinkaid, but among his friends he answered to the shorter appellation of "K. K." Then came a fourth boy of shorter build, and more sturdy physique, Julius Hobson by name; and last, but far from least, Horatio Juggins, a rather comical fellow who often assumed a dramatic attitude, and quoted excerpts from some school declamation, his favorite, of course, being "Horatio at the Bridge." It was "K. K." who got up the annual foraging expedition on this particular year, and promised that they should go in style in the antiquated seven-passenger car belonging to his father, who was a commercial traveler, which car "K. K." often used, when he could raise the cash to provide sufficient gasolene at twenty-five cents per gallon. But on this momentous occasion each fellow had chipped in his share pro rata; so that the generous provider of the big, open car was not compelled to beg or borrow in order to properly equip the expedition. For ten days and more previously some of the boys had industriously interviewed the farmers who stood in the market-place during the early mornings, selling the products of their acres. Doubtless numerous good mothers wondered what caused such an early exodus from warm beds those days, since farmers had a habit of getting rid of their produce at dawn, and driving off home while most schoolboys were indulging in their last nap. But, by various means, they had learned just where the nuts grew most plentifully that season; and quite a list of available places had been tabulated: to the Guernsey Woods for blacks; plenty of shagbarks, and some shellbarks to be gathered over at the old Morton Place, where no one had lived these seven years now; and they said the chestnuts away up in that region miles beyond the mill-pond was bearing a record crop this season, as if to make amends for lean years a-plenty. Scranton was one of the few places where the boys still yearned after a goodly supply of freshly gathered nuts to carry them through a long and severe winter. Somehow they vied with one another in the gathering of the harvest of the woods, and often these outings yielded considerable sport, besides being profitable to the nutters. On one momentous occasion the boys had even discovered the hive of a colony of wild bees, cut the tree down, fought the enraged denizens by means of smoke and fire, and eventually carried home a wonderful stock of dearly earned honey that would make the buckwheat cakes taste all the sweeter that winter because of the multitude of swellings it cost the proud possessors. Hugh had been coaxed to join the party; not that he did not fully enjoy such enterprises, but he had laid out another programme for that afternoon. All through the morning these same lads had been hard at work on the open field where Scranton played her baseball games, and had such other gatherings as high-school fellows are addicted. Here a fine new cinder path had been laid around the grounds, forming an oval that measured just an eighth of a mile, to a fraction. All through the livelong day on Saturdays, and in the afternoons during weekdays, boys in strange-looking running costumes of various designs could be seen diligently practicing at all manner of stunts, from sprinting, leaping hurdles, engaging in the high jump, with the aid of poles; throwing the hammer; and, in fact, every conceivable exercise that would be apt to come under the head of a genuine athletic tournament. For, to tell the secret without any evasion, that was just what Scranton designed to have inside of another week--a monster affair that included entries from all other schools in the county, and which already promised to be one of the greatest and most successful meets ever held. Hugh and his chums were every one of them entered for several events; indeed, it would have been like looking for a needle in a haystack to try and find a single Scranton boy above the age of ten, and sound of wind, who had not taken advantage of the generous invitation to place his name on the records, and go in for training along a certain line. Those who could not sprint, leap the bars, throw hammer or discus, or do any other of the ordinary stunts, might, at least, have some chance of winning a prize in the climbing of the greased pole, the catching of the greased pig, the running of the obstacle race, or testing their ability to hop in the three-legged race, where each couple of boys would have a right and left leg bound together, and then attempt to cross a given line ahead of all like competitors. So even when they started out after lunch the whole five were a bit tired; and a vast store of nuts, like the one they were fetching home, cannot be gathered, no matter however plentiful they may be on ground and trees, without considerable muscular effort on the part of the ambitious collectors. Consequently, every fellow was feeling pretty stiff and sore about the time we overtake them on the way home. Besides, most of them had zigzag scratches on face and hands by which to remember the wonderfully successful expedition for several days. Then there was Julius Hobson with a soiled handkerchief bound around his left thumb, which he solicitously examined every little while. He had, somehow, managed to catch a frisky little squirrel, which, wishing to take home, he had imprisoned in one of his side pockets that had a flap; but, desirous of fondling the furry little object, he had incautiously inserted his bare hand once too often; for its long teeth, so useful for nut-cracking, went almost through his thumb, and gave his such an electric shock that in the confusion the frightened animal managed to escape once more to its native wilds. Hugh, as he went along toward home, was really taking mental notes concerning the lay of the land, and with an object in view. He was entered for the fifteen-mile Marathon race (an unusually long distance for boys to run, by the way, and hardly advisable under ordinary conditions), and one of the registering places where every contestant had to sign his name to a book kept by a judge so as to prove that he had actually reached that particular and important corner of the rectangular course, had been the quaint little old road tavern just half a mile back of them. "You're wondering just why I'm so curious about the country up here, I can see, fellows," Hugh was saying about the time we meet them; "and, as we all belong to the same school, and our dearest wish is to see Scranton High win the prize that is offered by the committee in the Marathon, I don't mind letting you in. I know something about this country up here, and have traced on a surveyor's chart the ordinary course a fellow would be apt to take in passing from the second tally post, that old tavern back of us, along this road to the canal, and from there across the old logging road to Hobson's Pond, where there's going to be the last registering place before the dash for home. Well, I've figured it out that a fellow would save considerable ground if he left this same road half a mile below, and cut across by way of the Juniper Swamp trail, striking in again along about the Halpin Farm." His remarks created no end of interest, for there were several others among the bunch who had also entered for that long-distance race; and, naturally, they began to figure on how they might take advantage of Hugh's discovery. It was all for the honor and credit of good old Scranton High; so that it really mattered little just which fellow crossed the line first, so long as he "saved the bacon." "It sounds pretty fine to me, Hugh," said Julius, "only I don't like one thing." "What's that, Julius?" demanded the Juggins boy. "By following that Juniper Swamp trail and the old road Hugh mentions, we'd have to pass close to that deserted stone quarry; and say, the farmers all vow it's sure haunted." CHAPTER II ON THE OLD QUARRY ROAD When Julius made this assertion, the other fellows looked at each other in what might be said to be a queer way. In fact, they had all heard certain absurd stories told in connection with the old quarry that had not been worked for so many years that the road leading to it across country had grown up in grass and weeds. Some adventurous boys who went out there once declared it was a most gruesome place, with pools of water covered with green scum lying around, and all sorts of holes looking like the cave Robinson Crusoe found on his island home to be seen where granite building rocks had been excavated from the towering cliffs. It was K. K. who laughed first, actually laughed scornfully, though Julius took it all so seriously. Thad Stevens followed with a chuckle, after his peculiar fashion. "You give me a pain, Julius, you certainly do," ventured K. K. "To think," added Thad, assuming a lofty air of superior knowledge, "of a fellow attending Scranton High believing the ridiculous yarns these uneducated tillers of the soil and their hired help pass around, about there being some sort of a genuine _ghost_ haunting the old quarry--why, it's positively silly of you, Julius, and I don't mind telling you so to your face." "Oh, hold on there, fellows!" expostulated the other boy; "I didn't say that I really and truly believed any of those awful stories, did I? But so many different persons have told me the same thing that, somehow, I came to think there _might_ be some fire where there was so much smoke. Of course, it can't be a ghost, but, nevertheless, there are queer goings-on about that deserted quarry these nights--three different people, and one of them a steady-going woman in the bargain, assured me they had glimpsed moving lights there, a sort of flare that did all sorts of zigzag stunts, like it was cutting signals in the air." "Hugh, do you think that could be what they call wild-fire, or some folks give it the name of will-o'-the-wisp, others say jack-o'-lantern?" demanded Horatio Juggins, who had been listening intently while all this talk was going on. "I'd hardly like to say," replied Hugh thoughtfully. "As a general thing that odd, moving light is seen in low, damp places. Often it is noticed in graveyards in the country, and is believed to be induced by a condition of the atmosphere, causing something like phosphorescence. You know what a firefly or lightning bug is like, don't you, Horatio? Yes, and a glow-worm also? Well, they say that there are black-looking pools of stagnant water lying around the old quarry; and yes, I think the lights seen might come from just such conditions." "That sounds all very well, Hugh," continued Julius, "but what about the terrifying cry that sometimes wells up from that same place?" "A cry, Julius, do you say?" exclaimed Horatio, his eyes growing round now with increasing wonder and thrilling interest, "do you really and truly mean that, or are you only joshing?" "Well," the narrator went on to say soberly, "two fellows told me they'd heard that same shriek. One was hunting a stray heifer when he found himself near the quarry, and then got a shock that sent him on the run all the way home, regardless of trees he banged into, for it was night-time, with only a quarter-moon up in the western sky. The other had laughed at all such silly stories, and to prove his bravery concluded to venture out there one night when the moon was as round as a cartwheel. He got close to the deserted workings when he too had a chill as he heard the most outlandish cry agoing, three times repeated, and----well, he grinned when he confessed that it took him just about one-fifth the time to get back home that he'd spent in the going." "Whee! perhaps there may be some sort of wild animal in one of the caves they tell about up there?" ventured Horatio. "I'm not a believer in ghosts, and I don't consider myself a coward, either; but all the same it'd have to be something pretty big to induce me to walk out there to that same lonely quarry after nightfall. Now laugh if you want to, K. K." "Well," interrupted Hugh, just then, "we're approaching the place right now where that old quarry road I spoke of starts in. I'd like ever so much to take a look at that same quarry, by daylight, mind you. Is there any objection, fellows, to our testing out that road right now? It used to be a pretty fair proposition I've been told, so far as a road goes, and I think we could navigate the same in this car. K. K. how do you stand on that proposition, for one?" "Count me in on anything that promises an adventure, Hugh," came the prompt reply. "There is plenty of gas in the tank, and if we do get a puncture on the sharp stones we've got an extra tube along, with lots and lots of muscle lying around loose for changing the same. That's my answer, Hugh." "Thad, how about you?" continued the shrewd Hugh, well knowing that by making an individual appeal he would be more apt to receive a favorable response, because it goes against the average boy's pride to be accounted a weakling, or one addicted to believing old wives' fairy stories of goblins, and all such trash. "Oh, count me in, Hugh," responded the other, with an indifference that may possibly have been partly assumed; but then Thad Stevens was always ready to back his enterprising chum, no matter what the other suggested. "Horatio, it's up to you now!" Hugh went on remorselessly, as K. K. stopped the car at a signal from the other, and faint signs of what had once been a road were to be distinguished just on the left. "Majority rules, you know," said the wise Juggins boy, "and already three have given their assent; so it's no back-out for little Horatio." "Course I'll agree, Hugh," quickly added Julius, when he saw that the other had turned toward him. "I'm just as curious as the next fellow to see that old haunted quarry--in the daytime, of course. Besides, everybody knows there isn't any such thing as a ghost. All such stories, when they're sifted down, turn out to be humbugs. Sometimes the moving spectre is a white donkey browsing alongside the road. Then again I've heard of how it was a swing that had a white pillow left in it by the children, and the night wind caused it to advance and retreat in a _terrible_ way. Hugh, let's investigate this silly old business while we're on the spot." And by these wonderfully brave words Julius hoped to dissipate any notion concerning his alleged timidity that may have lodged in the brains of his chums. So K. K. started up again, and by another minute the old car had passed in among the trees, with the overgrown brush "swiping" against the sides every foot of the way. It was necessary that they proceed slowly and cautiously, because none of them had ever been over that long disused road before, and all sorts of obstacles might confront the bold invaders of the wilds. Hugh was using his eyes to good advantage, and at his advice the others did the same. It was a good thing the car was old, and that it mattered nothing how those stiff branches scraped against the sides during their forward progress. K. K. knew how to manage, all right, and, although the trail was quite rough in places where the heavy rains had washed the earth away, and left huge stones projecting, he was able to navigate around these obstacles successfully. Twice they came to low places where water ran, and there was some danger of the heavy car becoming mired. At such times several of the boys would jump out, and after investigating the conditions perhaps throw a mass of stones and pieces of wood in, to make what Hugh called a sort of a "corduroy road" across the swampy section of ground. It was all very interesting in the bargain, and, for the time being, the boys even forgot the fact that they were exceedingly tired. Then they seemed to be gradually ascending a grade, where the road turned out to be somewhat better. "I imagine we're getting close to the quarry now, fellows," Hugh informed them; "if what I was told is true. It will lie over here on the right; and only for the dense growth of trees with their foliage still hanging on, we might see the cliff forming the background of the quarry right now." Julius and Horatio looked around them with increasing interest, and perhaps a slight flutter of unusual vigor in the region of their hearts. It was about as gloomy a scene as any of them had ever gazed upon. Years had elapsed since work in the stone quarry had been abandoned, and Nature, as usual, had done her best to hide the cruel gashes made in her breast by man; the trees had grown and spread, while bushes and weeds extended their sway so as to almost choke everything around. The distant cawing of the crows sounded more gruesome than ever amidst such surroundings; but there was no sign of bird-life to be seen. It was as though the little feathered creatures found this region too lonely even for their nest building. Not even a red or gray squirrel frisked around a tree, or boldly defied the intruders of his wilderness haunt. "There, I just had a glimpse of the place through an opening!" suddenly announced Hugh; "I calculate that we'll soon come in plain sight of the whole business, for this road leads straight across the dumps, I was told, and then on again in the direction of Hobson's Pond." The sun was passing behind the first cloud of the whole day just then. Somehow the added somber conditions had an effect on all the boys; for, with the temporary vanishing of the king of day, the shadows around them appeared to grow bolder, and issue forth from their secret retreats. "Ugh! this is certainly a fierce place for a fellow to visit, say around midnight," K. K. was forced to admit, for he was the essence of candor at all times. "Wild horses couldn't drag me up here at such a time as that," said Horatio, as he looked ahead, and shivered, either with the chill of the air, or from some other reason, he hardly knew himself. "Hugh, would you try it if someone dared you to?" demanded Julius suddenly, taking the bull by the horns, so to speak. "I don't think I would, on a dare," replied the other calmly, yet deliberately, as he smiled at the speaker; "but if there was any good and sufficient reason for my doing the same, I'd agree to come alone, and spend a whole night in the deserted quarry. However, I'm not particularly _hankering_ after the experience, so please don't try to hatch up any wild scheme looking to that end. If you want to come, Julius, you're welcome to the job." Julius shuddered, and looked a bit pale at the very thought. "Oh! I wasn't even dreaming of it, Hugh," he hastened to declare. "I'd much prefer to being asleep in my own comfy bed at home when midnight comes around, and the last thing on earth you'd catch me doing would be out hunting spooks." It was just as Julius finished saying this that they received a sudden shock. A loud and thrilling sound, not unlike a human shriek, came to their ears, filling each and every boy in the car with a sense of unmitigated horror. It was so exceedingly dreadful that K. K. involuntarily brought the auto to a full stop, and then turned a face filled with mingled curiosity and awe upon his comrades. CHAPTER III TALKING OF GHOSTS "That was no crow cawing, boys, believe me!" ejaculated K. K. "Crow! Well, I should say not!" added Horatio instantly. "If you asked me right to my face I'd mention a donkey braying. Gee! but it was fierce!" "But what would a donkey be doing away up here at the old quarry, where there hasn't been a stroke of work done these many years; tell me that?" demanded Julius defiantly. "I don't believe it was a donkey," said Hugh, shaking his head, as though he, too, found himself exceedingly puzzled; "but I'm not in a position to explain the thing. That was certainly a queer noise, for a fact." "Extraordinary!" assented Thad Stevens. "Well, I should call it perfectly awful!" Horatio clipped in. "Horrible would be a better word to describe it," eagerly followed Julius, who, it must be confessed, was trembling all over; of course, not with fear, or anything like that, but just because of excitement, he assured himself. "And," continued the sensible Hugh, "if that's the sort of noises these farmer folks have been hearing right along, I don't wonder some of them have been nearly scared out of their wits. It was bad enough in broad daylight, with the sun shining; so what must it have seemed like in the moonlight, or when it was pitch dark?" "Wow! excuse me from coming up here after dusk," muttered Julius. "I'm no ghost-hunter, let me tell you. I know my weak points, and seeing things in the night-time used to be one of the same. They had a great time breaking me of it, too. Even now I sometimes dream of queer things when I've got the nightmare, after eating too big a Thanksgiving dinner; and when I wake up suddenly I'm all in a sweat, and a poor old moth fluttering at the window will give me a start, thinking it's the tiger getting in my East Indian bungalow." "Well, what's the program, Hugh?" asked K. K. "Shall I start up again, so we can continue our journey along this tough old road; or do you want to get out, and take a hunt around the quarry for the thing that gave those yawps?" "Get out?" repeated Julius, in a sudden panic; "not for Joseph. Don't count on _me_ for any such silly business. I came up here to get walnuts and such; and I'm meaning to stick close to my engagement. Side issues can't tempt me to change my mind. Guess I know when I'm well off." "It's been several minutes since we heard that sound," Hugh went on to remark; "and, so far, it hasn't been repeated." "Oh! it came three times, you remember, Hugh," suggested K. K.; "and, like in baseball, I reckon it's three times and out. Whatever it was let out those screeches it's certainly quieted down. How about going on now, Hugh?" "If I was alone," mused the other, "I really believe I'd be half tempted to take a prowl around, and find out if I could what all the row meant. I never like to pass anything up, when my curiosity is excited." "Oh, come back again some other time, Hugh, when you're not booked for getting home!" sang out Horatio. "If you put it to a vote I don't believe anybody in this bunch would seem wild to back you up right now. Fact is, I can hear our supper-bell calling me ever so loud. Hey! boys, how about that?" "Let's get a move on!" Julius hastened to reply, so that there could be no mistaking his sentiments, at least. Julius was followed by K. K., although the latter shrugged his shoulders as he added: "Perhaps it looks timid in us doing what we mean to, but really this is none of our business, and we might get in some trouble bothering around here. I read about a house that was said to be haunted, which story a daring reporter said he'd investigate. He spent a night there, and actually captured the ghost, who turned out to be just an ordinary man, living on a place adjoining the haunted estate. He owned up to being the pallid specter that had been giving the house such a bad name; and said he wanted to buy the property in for a song, as it would find no other purchaser if it had such an evil reputation. Now, maybe somebody wants this quarry for thirty cents, and this is his way of scaring other would-be purchasers away. We don't want to butt in on any such game, you see." Hugh and the others laughed at such a clever explanation. "Whatever the truth may be," said Hugh, "I hardly believe it'll turn out anything like that, K. K. But you might as well start on. We're only losing time here, and it seems as though the _thing_ doesn't mean to give as another sample of that swan song." "For which, thanks!" sighed Julius. "I know music when I hear it, and if that's what they call a song of the dying swan excuse me from ever listening to another. I can beat that all hollow through a megaphone, and then not half try." So the chauffeur started up, and they were soon moving along the rough road that had once, no doubt, been kept in repair, when the heavy wagons carried out the building stone quarried from the hillside, but which was now in a pretty bad shape. Two minutes afterwards and the road took them directly alongside the quarry dump, where the excavated earth had been thrown. They could now see the cliff rising up alongside. It looked strangely bleak, for, of all things, there can hardly be a more desolate sight than an abandoned stone-quarry, where the weeds and thistles have grown up, and puddles of water abound. Of course, the boys all stared, as they slowly wound along the road in full view of the entire panorama that was being unrolled before their eyes. They noted how in places there seemed to be deep fissures along the abrupt face of the high cliff. These looked like caves, and some of them might be of considerable extent, judging from their appearance. "If this great old place chanced to be nearer town," said K. K., managing to get a quick glimpse, although, as a rule, he needed all his attention riveted on the rough road he was trying to follow, "I reckon some of the fellows would have high times exploring those same holes in the hill." "It's just as well then it's as far distant as happens to be the case," Hugh told him; "because the doctors in Scranton would have broken arms and legs galore to practice on. That same old quarry would make a dangerous playground." "Oh!" That was Julius uttering a startled exclamation. He gripped Horatio so severely by the arm that he must have pinched the other. At any rate, Horatio gave a jump, and turned white; just as though his nerves had all been stretched to a high tension, so that anything startled him. "Hey! what did you do that for?" snapped Horatio, drawing away. "Think you're a ghost, Julius, and feel like biting, do you? Well, try somebody else's arm, if you please." "But didn't any of the rest of you see it?" gasped the said Julius, not deigning to quarrel over such a trivial thing as a pinch. "See what?" asked Steve, still staring hard at the quarry, which they were by now fairly well past. "Well, I don't know exactly what it was," frankly admitted the disturber of the peace. "But it moved, and beckoned to us to come on over. You needn't laugh, Steve Mullane, I tell you I saw it plainly right over yonder where that big clump of Canada thistles is growing. Course I'm not pretending to say it was a man, or yet a wolf, but it was something, and it sure did move!" Hugh was looking with more or less interest. He knew how things appear to an excited imagination, and that those who believe in uncanny objects seldom have any trouble about conjuring up specters to satisfy their own minds. So all of them, save, perhaps, the driver, kept their eyes focussed on the spot mentioned by Julius until the first clump of trees shut out their view of the old stone quarry and its gruesome surroundings. "I looked as hard as I could," said Horatio, "but never a thing did I see move. Guess you've got a return of your old malady, Julius, and you were seeing things by daylight, just as you say you used to in the dark." "The only explanation I can give," spoke up Hugh, and, of course, every one lent a willing ear, because, as a rule, his opinions carried much weight with his chums; "is that while Julius may have seen something move, it was only a long, feathery plume of grass, nodding and bowing in the wind. I've been fooled by the same sort of object many a time. But let it pass, boys. We've turned our back on the old quarry now, and are headed for the road again, two miles above Hobson's mill-pond. I only hope we find it better going on this end of the abandoned trail. This jumping is hard on the springs of the car, and also on our bones." "For one," said Julius, "I hope never to set eyes on the place again." "Oh! that's silly talk, Julius," commented K. K. "Here's Hugh, who means to take a run out this way again as soon as he can, so as to time himself, and learn just what he can save by cutting across country in the big race. And I wouldn't be surprised if he put 'Just' Smith up to the dodge, in addition to Horatio here and myself, all being entered as contestants in the big Marathon race." "I certainly feel that way, K. K.," admitted Hugh firmly. "It strikes me this is going to be worth trying. If one of our crowd can save time by taking this route, while the other fellows go all the way around by road, that same thing may give Scranton High the clinching of the prize. It's all fair and square, too, for the conditions only demand that the runners refuse all sorts of lifts while on the road, and register at each and every tally place designated. If they can cut a corner they are at liberty to do so." "Oh! well," said Julius; "I'm not entered in the Marathon, luckily enough, so you see there's no need of my prowling around this spooky place again. I haven't lost any quarry, that I know of; and Scranton is a good enough place for me to do my athletic exercises in. But, Hugh, if you should happen to find out about the thing that emitted all those frightful squawks, I hope you'll promise to let us know the particulars." "I can promise that easily enough, Julius," the other told him; "though, just at present, my only concern is to gain time by this cut-off, and so win the big event for our school. Now suppose we drop this subject, and return to something pleasant." They continued to bump along the rocky road with its deep ruts. At times K. K. had to make little detours in order to navigate around some obstacle which could not be surmounted; for time had not dealt lightly with the quarry road, and the rains and wintry frosts had played havoc with its surface. But, eventually, they sighted light ahead. Steve was the first to glimpse an opening, and announce that the main highway leading down to Scranton must be close at hand. His words turned out to be true, and soon afterwards they issued forth from the covert and found themselves upon the turnpike, headed for home. Hugh turned around to mark the spot well in his mind, though he knew that it was to be the exit, and not the entrance, to the short-cut, in case he concluded to utilize the quarry road when the great race was on. CHAPTER IV IN TRAINING FOR THE GREAT TOURNAMENT It was an afternoon on the following week, after school hours, and the athletic field bordering the outskirts of the town of Scranton afforded a pretty lively spectacle. Indeed, it could be readily seen that the approaching tournament had taken a great hold upon the young people of the town. Scores of boys were busily engaged in various exercises, under the watchful eye of Mr. Leonard, the assistant principal under Dr. Carmack. This determined-looking young fellow was a college graduate, and had taken considerable interest in all manner of athletics; indeed, it was well known that he had played on one or more of the college teams during his course, and won quite an enviable reputation for good work, though hardly reckoned a brilliant star. Many who did not expect to participate in any of the numerous events had gathered to watch what was going on; and, besides, there were clusters of pretty high-school girls on the side lines, chattering like magpies, and venting their opinions regarding the chances certain favorites among their boy friends appeared to have in the way of winning a prize. Scores were busily engaged in running around the cinder-path, taking the high jump, trying the hurdles, so as to perfect themselves against the coming Saturday when the wonderful event was to come off; sprinting for the short races of fifty, or a hundred yards; throwing the discus or the hammer, and numerous other lively doings. Among these participants there were a number whom the reader of previous volumes in this series will readily recognize, and possibly gladly meet again. There was Alan Tyree, for instance, whose masterly pitching had done so much to land the pennant of the Three Town High School League that season for Scranton; Owen Dugdale, the efficient shortstop of the local nine; "Just" Smith, whose real name it happened was Justin, but who seldom heard it outside of school and home. He was a fleet runner, and had ably filled the position of left fielder when Scranton carried the school colors to victory over Allandale in that last heart-breaking game. Besides these, Joe Danvers was on deck, doing all sorts of wonderful stunts at throwing the hammer and taking the long jump, for Joe delighted in a variety of specialties and did not confine himself to any one particular thing; also might be seen one Claude Hastings, a chap who was a regular monkey in his way, and who always kept the crowd laughing by his antics, such as might be expected of a prize clown at the big Barnum and Bailey circus. Yes, and there was Nick Lang, as big as life, running like the wind around the cinder-path and looking as though he might have a pretty fair chance to carry off some sort of prize. Nick had for a long time been the town bully. He was not a rich man's son; in fact, Nick's folks were poor, and some people even thought the big, overgrown boy should be at work helping to keep the wolf from the door, instead of still attending high school and making himself a nuisance to decent folks through his delight in practical jokes and his bullying propensities. But even those who detested Nick Lang the most were willing to admit that he was a pretty fair athlete and could even have excelled along several lines if only he were able to control that nasty temper of his and "play fair." There were two other fellows, who were cronies of Nick's, and who, apparently, had entered for some of the events, because both Leon Disney and Tip Slavin were in evidence and hard at work practicing. Nick secretly hated, even as he also feared, Mr. Leonard, because the under-teacher had once cowed him and made him "eat humble pie" before the whole class; but, being a wise as well as pugnacious boy, Nick managed to keep his feelings under control, and when Mr. Leonard was around he usually behaved himself. Later in the afternoon, when most of the boys out for practice had become more or less tired from their exertions, they gathered here and there in little bunches to exchange "chaff," and express their opinions concerning various matters that had a bearing on the coming tournament. So Hugh Morgan found himself in a cluster that contained several of his chums, as well as a sprinkling of other fellows. A trio of lively highschool girls hovered near, and occasionally joined in the conversation. They were Sue Barnes, whom Hugh usually counted on as his partner when any dance was given in the country, or at singing-school during the winter evenings; Ivy Middleton, Thad's choice for company, because she was both jolly and genial; and pretty Peggy Noland, whom Owen Dugdale liked, as had also Nick Lang, though the latter had of late been badly snubbed by the scornful Peggy because she could not stand for his rowdy ways. "Mr. Leonard says he's fully satisfied with the way most of the fellows are showing up," Joe Danvers was saying, about that time. "Well, we can't afford to loaf, for a fact," remarked Just Smith, soberly. "Let me tell you something, fellows. I was down in Paul Kramer's sporting emporium just last evening, when who should walk in but Big Ed. Patterson, the Allandale pitcher, who came so near to downing us last summer. He looks as fine as silk, and told me privately he calculates on carrying off that prize offered for hammer throwing, because that is his pet hobby, you see. Yes, and more than that, he said they were all crazy up at his 'burg' over the big meet, boys being out practicing every sort of stunt, even to road-running by moonlight." "That sounds good to me," Hugh observed, not appearing to show any sign of alarm over the stirring news. "It means we'll have a wonderfully successful affair. Who carries off the prizes is a matter for the different schools to take care of, and those of us who believe in clean, honest sport only hope the best fellows win." "Huh!" grunted Owen Dugdale, "it goes to show that Allandale is all worked up over losing the baseball pennant to Scranton, and means to get even by carrying off the majority of the prizes our committee has offered for the dozen or more events to be contested for." "But he also informed me," continued the bearer of news, "that over in Belleville they were just as much excited as in his town, so that every fellow who'd entered for any event, even to climbing the greased pole or the sack race, was diligently practicing his particular stunt. Oh! it's just going to be the greatest athletic tournament ever held in this section of the country, believe me." Some of the more timid among the boys seemed to think that Scranton would come out second-best when the great meet was a thing of the past; but others only found themselves more determined than ever to win, after learning how their rivals had entered into the affair with heart and soul. Hugh's often-expressed motto that the "best man should win" found an echo in the majority of their hearts, and they vied with each other in promising to give every ounce of ability to doing Scranton High credit. Mr. Leonard came around to have a few words with his boys. He was a great favorite with the majority of the scholars under his charge, and to his clever method of coaching they attributed considerable of their success on the diamond of recent months. If only his rules were strictly adhered to it was possible that Allandale and Belleville might be due for another rude surprise when they came over, bent on carrying off the majority of the high honors. "It is going to be no easy sledding for anybody,--remember that, fellows," the athletic instructor went on to say, after he had been told how both adjoining towns entered in the meet were striving with might and main to excel in every sort of event. "No matter who wins he'll only get there by doing his level best. That's all Scranton High asks of her representatives. Let there be no loafing, and if some of our good friends from A and B succeed in carrying away a few of the prizes, why, we'll know they earned the right, and are welcome to their reward. And now, I'd like to see you runners try one more ten-minute sprint, every one of you in a bunch, as a sort of wind-up for the day." Accordingly they ran off to the starting-point and lined up, each assuming his particular favorite crouching attitude, which he seemed to think best fitted for a speedy "get-away" when the signal was given. They ran like colts, and some displayed amazing speed, considering that they had been diligently working out on that same cinder-path for over two hours, with little intermissions between for resting. Those who expected to take part in the Marathon did not attempt to compete with those fleet sprinters, though if they were pressed doubtless they too could give quite an exhibition of fast running. But Mr. Leonard had taken great pains to inform them that the successful long-distance runners always take things moderately easy in the beginning of a race, preserving as much vigor as possible for the gruelling finish. The chief idea was to keep just behind the pace-maker, and be ready to rush to the front when on the home-stretch. The fellow best able to preserve his full powers for that last half-mile dash would be the one to carry off the honors. Nick Lang was there with the rest, watching Hugh out of the tail of his eye, as if he considered that in the other he would find his chief competitor; possibly he hoped to be able to pick up valuable points by keeping watch and ward on Hugh. Hugh had even consulted Mr. Leonard with regard to making use of his knowledge concerning that "cut-off." In fact, he wanted to lay any doubts that may have arisen in his own mind concerning its being perfectly legitimate that he should profit by such knowledge. The athletic instructor assured him he was keeping fully within the conditions of the race in so doing. "It is any competitor's privilege to go over the route as often as he pleases," was the way Mr. Leonard put it; "and so long as he conforms to the rules, such as keeping on his own feet every yard of the way, accepting no lift from wagon or car, and registering faithfully at the several stations provided, he has done all that is expected of him. If by crossing a field he thinks he can cut off fifty feet or more he is at liberty to make the attempt, although it may cost him dear, through his meeting with some unexpected obstacle in his progress, which would not have occurred had he stayed by the road. Some fellows might believe they could do better than trying to cross by way of that overgrown quarry road. Yes, you are keeping well within the letter of the law in choosing your own way of going, Hugh. Have no fears on that score, my boy." Mr. Leonard liked Hugh Morgan exceedingly; though that was not to be wondered at, because Hugh was one of those boys who would never stoop to do a tricky thing, no matter what allurements it held out; he always "played square," and even won the high regard of his rivals in many cases. When the October sun had reached the horizon the multitude of contestants and spectators commenced to string back to town, for it would soon be getting near supper time; and no fellow likes to be late at the table, especially when he feels as hungry as a bear, after exercising so violently for hours. Hugh was starting off alone, when Thad Stevens called out that he'd like the other to "hold up a minute," until he could overtake him; because it happened he had something to communicate which he thought Hugh ought to know. CHAPTER V TREACHERY IN THE AIR "Hugh, it looks to me like there's a hen on," was what Thad Stevens said, as he joined his chum. "That's a queer remark for you to make, Thad," the other chuckled; "after seeing what's been happening here on our athletic field this afternoon, I'd be likely to say there were a good many score of hens setting, each hoping to hatch out one of our dandy prizes next Saturday." "Oh! you understand that I mean something crooked going on, Hugh," Thad hastened to add. "That sounds serious enough. What do you know, Thad? The chances are ten to one if anything in the way of trickery is contemplated I can put my hand on the fellow who's guilty of the same." "Sure thing, Hugh, and his name is Nicholas in the bargain. They call him Young Nick, to distinguish him from his father who's dead and gone; but sometimes people say he's a regular Old Nick when it comes to playing mean jokes, and getting into trouble of all kinds." "What's Nick Lang been up to now, Thad?" "Oh! just spying on you, for one thing!" exclaimed the other angrily. "He's welcome to chase around after me as often as he pleases," said Hugh; "much good will it do him, I'm thinking. But tell me, why should he go to all that bother, when my going-out and coming-in don't interfere with his happiness a whit?" "Hugh, Nick is on to your scheme for making use of that short-cut across by way of the old deserted quarry!" "You don't tell me?" Hugh observed. "Well, I came near speaking to him about it myself, Thad. You see, Nick is entered for the Marathon, just the same as a number of other Scranton High boys are. If K. K., Just Smith, and several other fellows are to have the benefit of that cut-off, if they choose to avail themselves of it, why shouldn't Nick be included, I've been asking myself? Yes, and I'd about concluded it was my duty to let him know; but if, as you say, he's found out for himself I'll be saved all the bother of telling." "He followed you across yesterday, Hugh. By a mere accident I heard him telling Tip Slavin, and he seemed to think it a good joke, because you never once suspected he was spying on you from behind trees and bushes. Why, he says he followed you clear across to the road again." Hugh shrugged his shoulders. "Then I give Nick full credit for carrying out a clever piece of business. I never once remember suspecting that anybody was around. But, Thad, what's worrying you? There isn't anything about that discovery to excite you." "Hugh, that boy means to do something mean, and it's got a connection with the short-cut quarry road in the bargain!" Hugh turned and looked at the speaker a little gravely. "I suppose now you've got some good reason for making that accusation, Thad?" he ventured. "Yes, I have," came the quick reply. "I heard him say something to that other sneak which I couldn't just catch, but it started Tip laughing like everything. He slapped a hand down on his knee, and went on to say: 'Fine, Nick, finer than silk! I bet you he'll be as mad as hops if he finds himself caught in such a trap, and loses the race. You can depend on me every time. My affair comes off right in the start, and I can easy get out there on my wheel long before the first runner heaves in sight. I'll coach Pete Dudley in his part, just as you were saying. It's the greatest trick you ever hatched up, Nick, the very greatest!' Now, you can judge for yourself, Hugh, whether it's safe for you to try to cross by that same quarry road when the big Marathon race is on." Hugh seemed lost in thought for a brief interval. When he spoke again there was a settled look of grim determination on his face that Thad could easily understand, knowing the other as well as he did. "It isn't my way to show the white feather when the first cold wind starts to blowing, Thad, and no matter what Nick is planning to do I'm not going to give him the first chance to profit by my discovery of that short-cut route from road to road." "That means you decline to be shoved off the path, does it, Hugh?" "If I start in that race, as I expect to," Hugh told him, "I intend to make use of that short-cut, no matter if a dozen Tip Slavins, and Pete Dudleys are lying in wait to trip me up. But I'm much obliged to you all the same, Thad, for your warning. I'll be on my guard from this time on, and they're not going to trap me with my eyes blinded, I tell you that." Thad seemed to be lost in thought himself for a minute or so. Possibly he was trying to figure out how he could best serve his comrade in such an emergency. The gloomy woods surrounding the old quarry did not possess any attraction in the eyes of Thad Stevens. Though he had not shown the same degree of alarm as Horatio and Julius at the time they heard those remarkable sounds, so like human shrieks, nevertheless, Thad felt no hankering after another similar experience. Still he would brave much in order to help the chum whose interests were so dear to his own heart. He did not say what was in his mind, only looked a bit wise, as he once more turned to Hugh, as though his mind had been finally made up. "Just as you think best, Hugh," he went on to say quietly. "It may be that one or more of the other fellows will be taking advantage of that same old road, and there's safety in numbers, you know, they say. Nick is likely to get his fingers burned if he attempts any of his silly tricks. What do you suppose now he could plan to have those chaps do? They wouldn't want to really hurt you, because that might get them in bad with Captain Wambold, our police head. Can you think of any fool play he'd be apt to conjure up, such as might make Tip say it was the best and slickest scheme he'd ever heard about?" "Nick has so many wild ideas that he's likely to attempt nearly anything," said Hugh. "If he could find a good place where a runner would have to keep to the road I even believe he'd try to dig a deep pit, and cover the same over, just as the wild-animal catchers do in Africa, when they go out after big game for the menageries and zoos." "Why, would that work, do you think, Hugh?" cried the startled Thad, mentally picturing his chum crashing through a false roadbed, and dropping down into a deep hole from which, alone and unaided, he could not hope to escape until much time had elapsed, and all hope of winning the big Marathon was lost. "It might have done so if I hadn't chanced to possess a wide-awake chum, who gave me due warning, and caused me to keep a sharp lookout. As it is, if I glimpse a suspicious spot in my path I'll fight mighty shy of the same; or by a big leap give it the go-by. Of course, there might be other ways in which they could hope to detain me, such as dropping down on my shoulders from a tree, and with their faces covered so I couldn't recognize them." Thad looked grave. "Yes, they could do that, for a fact," he admitted. "Seems to me you'll have to keep one eye aloft all the while, Hugh, while the other is watching the ground for treachery. I must say this is a fine state of affairs. Not only does Scranton High have to go smack up against all the best runners of Allandale and Belleville, but be on the lookout for treachery at home besides. I'd give something to be one of a bunch of indignant fellows to take Nick Lang and his two pals out to the woods some fine night, and give the same a coat of tar and feathers, or else ride them on a rail. They're a disgrace to the community, and Scranton ought to take them in hand right away. That boy will set the town on fire yet I'm thinking, with his desperate tricks." "He will, unless he soon sees a light, and turns over a new leaf," admitted Hugh, who, it seems, had an idea of his own in connection with the said Nick, which, perhaps, he might find an opportunity to work out one of these days; but which he did not care to confide to his chum, because he knew Thad would be apt to consider it impossible, perhaps foolish. "There they go now, Hugh," suddenly remarked Thad in an undertone. "You see, he has both Tip and Leon along with him, and they're grinning as they look over this way. I warrant you Nick has been elaborating on that fine scheme of his; and, in anticipation, they can already see you held up in that lonely place, kicking your toes at the bottom of a miserable pit, or else tied to a tree." "Don't scowl so savagely, Thad," warned Hugh. "There's no need of letting them understand we're on to their game. The advantage always lies in catching the other fellow off his guard. Let's laugh while we walk past, as if we'd been figuring out how a certain prize was already dangling close to our fingertips." So Thad managed to "take a brace," profiting by the sage advice of his comrade; and, as they passed Nick and his two cronies, Hugh remarked as pleasantly as he could: "I've been watching you run to-day, Nick, and I honestly believe you are right up with the top-notchers in the game. There may be some surprises next Saturday for those who think they've got it all figured out who's going to win the prizes. And Nick, as far as I'm concerned, I'd like to see you take the long-distance prize, honestly and cleanly, if I can't get it myself. You're a representative of Scranton High, Nick, and we're all out to see the old school do herself proud." Nick seemed taken aback by these hearty words on the part of the fellow whom he had so long sought an opportunity to injure. He shot a hasty glance, accompanied by the uplifting of his heavy eyebrows, toward his companions, who, thereupon, catching a sly wink, perhaps, both chuckled audibly as though amused. "Oh! I've already as good as copped that Marathon prize," Nick went on to say, at the same time thrusting out his chin in his customary aggressive and boastful fashion. "I calculate to give the folks some surprise by the ease with which I'll come in away ahead of the next competitor. There'll be a wheen of those who also ran, bringing up the tail of the procession. Long-distance is my best suit, and I've waited a while to show up certain chaps in this town who think they are just the thing. Don't worry about me, Morgan; Nick Lang generally gets there when he throws his hat into the ring." At that the other two laughed uproariously, as though they thought the joke too good for anything. Possibly they took Nick's reference to "those who also ran" to mean Hugh Morgan particularly; and in their minds they could see him desperately trying to break his bonds; or climb up out of the deep pit into which he had gone crashing when the covered mattress, formed of slender twigs and dead leaves, had given way under his weight. Hugh and Thad walked on, the latter fairly boiling with illy-suppressed anger. "That fellow always gives me a pain, Hugh," he was saying, as they increased the distance separating them from the still merry trio in the rear. "He is really the meanest boy you could find in all the towns of this country. But fellows like him sometimes catch a Tartar; so, perhaps, it might happen in this case," and Thad, who evidently had something on his mind, would not commit himself further, as they walked on in company. CHAPTER VI THE PROWLER There had been considerable of a change in connection with the big open field where the boys of Scranton were allowed by the town council and mayor to play baseball, and also football, since summer waned. Somehow the success that attended the work of Scranton High in the battles of the Three Town League, as narrated in an earlier volume of this series, seemed to have stirred up many of the leading citizens. Besides, Mr. Leonard, the efficient under-principal of the high school, with a genuine love and sympathy for all boys in his heart, had kept things at boiling pitch. Consequently there was, first of all, a move made to lease that splendid field for a long term of years, from the owner, so that the young people of Scranton might have some central place to gather for all sorts of outdoor games and sports. So subscriptions were started looking to collect a fund with which not only to erect some sort of decent grandstand, but a building that would contain a number of conveniences such as most athletic grounds and similar institutions can boast. This building had now been completed, and the boys were in full possession. It contained, among other things, a score and more of lockers, where the one who paid a small fee could keep his "fighting togs," as Thad Stevens was wont to term his baseball clothes, or it might be the scanty raiment he wore when exercising on the athletic field, running, or boxing, or wrestling. Each boy who hired such a locker, of course, carried the key to the same; and when engaged in practice work rested easy in the belief that his street garments were securely taken care of. There was also a shower-bath and a pool in the building, as well as several other conveniences that could be used in the summer time during the hot weather. The boys arranged to take turns in shifts with regard to keeping the building clean, and thus far the scheme had worked very well; for the town did not care to go to the extra expense of hiring a custodian. Besides this, a high fence was ordered to be built around the entire grounds, for most other towns had their athletic fields enclosed. It would keep the rowdy element from disturbing the players when any game was in progress; and, as a small admission fee might often be asked, having one or two gates through which admission to the grounds could be obtained would facilitate matters greatly. But this was not all. Scranton had awakened to the fact that Nature had been rather unkind to her young people, in that there was no large lake, or even so much as a small river close by her borders. When the boys and girls of the town felt inclined to skate after a sharp freeze along about New Year's Day, they had to walk all the way out to Hobson's mill-pond, situated between half and two-thirds of a mile away. This was not so bad for some of the sturdy chaps, but there were others who disliked taking such long tramps, especially after violent exercising for hours, it might be, on the ice. So, after mature deliberation, and receiving valuable suggestions from Mr. Leonard, as well as others who had seen similar things successfully carried out in various places, it had been arranged to flood the field after winter had fully set in. Then, during the time of severe weather, the young folks would have a splendid sheet of ice right at their doors, a comfortable retreat into which they could go to warm up, or to put on and remove their skates. Here various games were expected to be indulged in, as the weather permitted; and already a fine hockey Seven had been organized, under the leadership of Hugh Morgan, with a promise of many exciting games against rival teams. The high board fence was being erected, but would hardly be completed before Spring; still, it gave an air of business to the grounds, and the boys had already begun to congratulate themselves over the great stride forward Scranton had taken in the way of catering to her rising population. Of course, there were those in the town--you can always find a few in every community--who seriously objected to so much "good money being wasted," as they termed it, on such trivial things, when Scranton really needed an up-to-date library building in place of the poor apology for one that had to serve. These people, doubtless from worthy motives, though they were short-sighted in their opposition, lost no opportunity for running down the entire enterprise. The person who, perhaps, had more influence than any of the others, and was more vehement in deriding the "foolish expenditure of funds along such silly lines, instead of trying to elevate the standard of reading among Scranton's young people," was the rich widow, Mrs. Jardine. She had a son named Claude, whose life was rendered miserable by the lofty ambition of his mother to make him a genius. She never ceased talking upon all sorts of elevating subjects; and where other boys were allowed to lead normal lives, and have lots of innocent if strenuous fun during vacations, and holidays, poor Claude led a life of bondage. He was rather an effeminate-looking boy, tall and slender, with a face entirely destitute of color such as would indicate abounding spirits and good health; but it was no wonder, everyone knew how he was being made such a "sissy" of by his doting "mamma." Despite all this there seemed to be a spark of ordinary boyish spirits concealed under Claude's superior airs. He sometimes stood and watched the other fellows engaged in playing prisoner's base, or some such rough-and-tumble game, with envy. Once upon a time his mother, chancing to pass along the street in her fine car, was horrified to discover her darling Claude actually taking part in some "rowdy game," in which he scrambled with the rest just as vehemently, and was, moreover, even worse off than the other boys with regard to soiled garments and disheveled hair. Evidently the long suppressed spirit of the lad had broken bounds, and for once he allowed himself to be natural. The other fellows never tired of telling how she had called to him almost frantically, as though she believed he had become inoculated with some deadly germ, and must be contaminated, bundling the boy into the car, and actually crying with dismay when she found that he actually had a scratch upon his nose, which had been bleeding. But it was also noticed that Claude grinned at his late fellow wrestlers as he was borne triumphantly away, as though to emphasize the fact that he had, at least, enjoyed one real period of excitement in his life, to remain as a bright spot for many days. Hugh had often wondered whether there might not be some way through which this deluded mother might be shown what a terrible error she was making in bringing up her boy to be so inane and useless. He needed physical development more than any other fellow in Scranton High. Constant feeding upon lofty ideas, and never given a chance to develop his muscles, was wrecking his health. Mr. Leonard had even gone to Mrs. Jardine and entreated her to let him undertake a moderate programme of athletic exercises with Claude; but he might as well have tried to lift the high-school building as to make her change her set ideas. Hugh and Thad had been out on a particular night after supper, visiting another boy who chanced to live on the outskirts of town. He had received a wonderful collection of curios from an uncle living out in India, after whom he had been named; and upon being especially invited over to view these things, which included a wonderful assortment of rare postage stamps, the two chums had made it a point to accept, being greatly interested in all boyish "hobbies." That was how they happened to be passing along the road close to the athletic grounds about half-past nine o'clock that same night. There was a fair moon shining, but objects appeared more or less misty, as often occurs under such conditions. The boys had about exhausted their vocabulary of words that express delight, in examining the many things of interest shown by "Limpy" Wallace, who was a cripple, and had to use a crutch, he being also a great admirer of Hugh Morgan, whom he considered in the light of a hero. Besides this, both boys were unusually tired after the exertions of the day, and Thad frequently yawned in a most terrific fashion, as he walked homeward. Probably these were the main reasons for their unnatural silence, as they stalked along side by side; since it is seldom that two lads will refrain from exchanging opinions on some subject or other, when in company. Afterwards, in the light of what happened, they were inclined to believe that it was exceedingly fortunate they had lapsed into this queer condition of silence, for, otherwise, they would have missed something that proved unusually interesting, as well as afforded them more or less excitement. It was Thad who discovered it first. Perhaps he chanced to be looking that way while Hugh was star-gazing. At any rate he gripped his chum suddenly by the arm. "Sh! Hugh, what's that yonder, a skulking dog, or a fellow half bent over?" was what Thad whispered in the ear of his chum. Both of them had come to a full stop, under the impulse of the moment; and Thad was pointing a little to the right, which was where the building erected on the athletic grounds stood, dimly seen in the mysterious moonlight. So Hugh, staring quickly, made out the object indicated by his companion. Really, he could hardly blame Thad for asking such a question, because at first it was next to impossible to determine whether it was a four-footed creature, or a human being who, for some good reason, was trying to make himself appear as small as possible. But as Hugh continued to look he saw the other raise himself to his full height, as though to take a cautious survey of his surroundings. Then he knew that it was no canine prowling around to discover scraps thrown aside by the carpenters working on the board fence, as they ate their noon lunch. "It's a human being all right, Thad," Hugh whispered, in such a low tone that even the sharpest pair of ears going could never have caught the sound ten feet away. "Man, or boy, Hugh?" asked Thad, copying the example set by the other, and even bending his head so that his lips might come closer to Hugh's right ear. "Can't make that out," he was told. "But what in the wide world is he trying to do?" pursued Thad, his curiosity now fully aroused, as the unknown again started to move forward, pursuing the same strange cautious tactics as before. "That's what we ought to find out," Hugh told him. "I don't like the way he's sneaking around here. It looks as if he might be up to some game." "Oh! perhaps it's a tramp," suggested Thad, as the idea dawned upon his brain. "He may be meaning to break into the building, to sleep there to-night. I wouldn't put it past a hobo to steal anything he could find left in the lockers. Hugh, it's up to us to put a kink in his rope. Let's chase after him before he disappears." CHAPTER VII CAUGHT IN THE ACT "Hold on, Thad," continued Hugh, as he put a restraining hand on the shoulder of his more impulsive chum, "we've got to be careful, or else he'll learn how we're meaning to spy on him. Bend over, and do the grand sneak act." "He's headed straight for the building, Hugh!" breathed the other, as he complied with the directions given by the one whom he was accustomed to look upon in the light of a leader. "That's right, and I guess he's meaning to crawl inside, if only he can find a window that's been left unfastened. Steady now, Thad; he's stopped under one right now!" They continued to crouch there and watch what went on, their eyes glued upon the dimly seen figure of the unknown. Greatly to the surprise of Thad, the party stepped to one side, and seemed to be dragging back a heavy plank, not of any vast length, but sufficiently long to reach the window when placed on a slant. "Say, did you notice how he seemed to know just where that plank was lying, Hugh?" asked Thad deliriously. "Seems like he must have been spying out the land by daylight beforehand." "You're right there," whispered Hugh; "and he acts as if he felt pretty certain that particular window would be unfastened, in the bargain." "Hugh, that settles it," added the other sturdily, as though now fully convinced. "Yes, settles what, Thad?" "Why, it's a _boy_, don't you see, and he must have left that window unlatched on purpose this afternoon when some of the fellows were shutting up." "Wait and see," advised Hugh, although almost convinced of the same thing himself. The test was not long in coming. They could see the other "shinning" up the sloping plank, as any athletic boy would be apt to do, without any particular trouble. Now he had reached the window, and Thad held his breath in suspense. He sighed as he heard a slight squeaking sound. Evidently the sash which was supposed to be fastened every night through ordinary prudence, had given way to his hand, when he exerted some pressure. "He's going in, Hugh!" Thad observed, again laying a quivering hand on the arm of his comrade, and then following these words with a low exclamation of startled wonder: "Oh! look there, what's that queer glow mean?" Hugh understood readily enough. "Why, he's got one of those little handy electric torches, you see, and is using it so as to get his bearings inside the building." "Guess you're right, Hugh," admitted the other; "and there, he's crawling over the sill now, as sure as anything. Oh! the skunk, what can he be up to?" "We'll try and find out," said Hugh, with his usual promptness. "Now he's gone further from the window let's be moving along. That plank ought to make it easy sledding for fellows like us." Indeed, it would be hard to find a couple of more athletic boys than Hugh and his chum. Their intense love for every type of outdoor sport had kept them in splendid physical condition, so that their muscles were as firm as those of an athlete in training. To make their way up that sloping board and reaching the open window was likely to prove a mere bit of child's play with such fellows. Hugh was the first to ascend. When he had raised himself so that he could peep over the window ledge and see within the building he apparently found the coast clear; for Thad, coming along just behind, received a gentle prod with a toe, twice repeated, which he knew to be a signal that all was well. By the time Thad arrived the other was already well within the room, having slipped across the window-sill without making the slightest sound. All was dark around them, but further on they could see that weird shaft of light moving this way and that, indicating the spot where the unknown intruder just then happened to be located. "He's making for the locker room, don't you see, Hugh?" Thad ventured, with a perceptible quiver to his low voice. "Sure thing, and he knows where he's going, in the bargain," the other went on. "Of course, it's no hobo, then," continued Thad. "That scamp knows every foot of ground under this roof. You can see it by the way he keeps straight on. Hugh, do you think it might be Nick Lang?" After all, it was only natural for Thad to jump to this conclusion, because of the evil reputation enjoyed by the boy he mentioned. Nick Lang had been the bully and the terror of Scranton for years. There was seldom a prank played (from stealing fruit from neighboring farmers, to painting old Dobbin, a stray nag accustomed to feeding on the open lots, so that the ordinarily white horse resembled the National flag, and created no end of astonishment as he stalked around, prancing at a lively rate when the hot sun began to start the turpentine to burning), but that everybody at once suspected Nick of being the conspirator. Possibly he may not have always been the chief offender; but give Dog Tray a bad name and he gets the blame of everything that happens calculated to outrage the respectability of the law-abiding community. "I thought of him at first," replied Hugh, "but it strikes me that chap isn't of Nick's build. You see his light leaves his figure pretty much in the dark; for he's using it principally to show him the way, so he won't stumble over any chair, and make no end of a row." The two had been stealthily creeping forward all this while, and were, therefore, gradually diminishing the distance separating them from the bearer of the electric hand-torch. Thad had evidently been consulting his memory concerning something, for presently he again whispered in his chum's ear: "Then mebbe it might be Leon Disney, Hugh. Seems to me that sneak would be just the one to try some mean trick like this. And, besides, I happen to know he bought one of those little vest-pocket lights down at Paul Kramer's store only three nights ago, because I saw him testing them and heard him say he'd take it." "Yes, that looks significant, I must say, Thad. But I'm trying to make out what he's done with his head. Don't you notice he's got it bundled up with a sort of woollen comforter or something like that?" "Why, so he has," replied the other; "I tell you what, Hugh, he's hoping to hide his face, so if he's discovered prowling around in here no one can say positively that they recognized him. Leon is up to all those sly tricks. He gets ideas like that out of the stories he's so fond of soaking in." "Keep still now, Thad, and we'll creep closer," warned the other. They really had their hands full endeavoring to advance upon the prowler without making any sort of sound that would arouse his suspicions. Hugh realized that if anything of this sort occurred the other would instantly throw the full glow of his little electric torch in their direction, and, of course, immediately discover their presence. If such a thing happened it might interfere with their suddenly arranged plan of campaign, and prevent the capture they contemplated, which would be a grievous disappointment to both boys. The unknown party had come to a standstill. He stood there in front of the long row of new lockers in which the boys who meant to take part in the principal events of the great athletic tournament kept their possessions, without which they would be more or less handicapped in their practice work. Thad had made another important discovery; indeed, it struck him as so significant that he could not forbear dragging Hugh down so that he could place his lips against the other's ear and whisper: "It's _your_ locker he's trying to open, Hugh, don't you see?" Hugh, of course, had already noted this circumstance, and felt duly thrilled, for really it struck him as something more than an accident, and along the lines of a deep design. Doubtless, his active brain started to wrestle with the problem as to why any one should wish to open his locker, since the only things he kept there consisted of his running jersey and trunks and shoes. Could it be possible that this was only some small piece of spite-work engineered by his old and inveterate enemy, Nick Lang, and ordered carried out by one of the bully's cronies; while Nick himself made certain to be in good company, so he could easily prove an alibi if accused of the mean trick. It seemed almost too contemptible to be true, since Hugh could easily purchase other garments down at the sporting-goods store in Scranton. Still, some mean natures are small enough to love to give "stabs" that might annoy the recipient; and boys sometimes grow so accustomed to certain articles of wearing apparel that being compelled to "break in" a new pair of running shoes might lose Hugh the great race! He gritted his teeth as a wave of indignation swept over him. Really it was high time this contemptible spirit of annoying those he chose to look upon in the light of enemies was crushed in Nick Lang. He had carried on with a "high horse" too long already, and, for one, Hugh felt as though combined action should be taken against him by the respectable fellows of Scranton High. But it was far from Hugh's intention to stand there and see his locker robbed by such an unprincipled fellow as Leon Disney, if, indeed, the skulker proved to be the party they suspected. Possibly Hugh moved too soon, for it would have been much wiser had he waited until the sneak thief actually had the locker open, and disclosed his full intention. Urged on to action by his indignation, Hugh started forward. Thad, realizing that it was his chum's intention to do something radical, skipped off a little to the right. He fancied that should the skulker take the alarm and try to flee, making for the open window in the rear, he was apt to turn aside and try to pass by; so his move was intended to block this little game. It turned out to be needless, for so interested was the fellow with the flash-light in his work of inserting a key in the lock, and trying to turn it, that he did not appear to notice anything wrong until Hugh was close at his elbow. Then, as Thad slipped around to one side to cover all lines of retreat, Hugh reached out a hand and caught hold of the fellow by the shoulder. At the same time he exclaimed in a severe voice: "Well, what are you doing here, I want to know, trying to break into my locker?" The other gave a tremendous start, and a low, bubbling cry, half of fright, and also of disgust, came from his lips. The woollen muffler fell from about his face, and, although he snapped off the light just then by a movement of his thumb, the others had glimpsed his features. Thad had evidently hit the target in the bull's-eye when he mentioned his suspicions concerning the probable identity of the skulker. It was Leon Disney! CHAPTER VIII LEON PROMISES TO REFORM The startled boy struggled to get free, but Hugh had taken a firmer grip upon his person, and saw to it that he could not squirm loose. "Quit your kicking!" cried Thad, indignantly, when one of the fellow's shoes came in rough contact with his own shins; "or we'll start something along the same lines! We know you, Leon Disney, so there's no use trying to hide your face." Leaning over, Thad groped around until he managed to find the hand that held the little electric torch. This latter article he tore from the grasp of Leon, and immediately pressed the button that caused the battery to work. The intense darkness around them was dissipated to some degree. Thad threw the glow directly into the face of the fellow Hugh was holding. Leon stopped his desperate struggles. He realized that the game was up so far as trying to keep his identity a secret; and, being a most resourceful sort of chap, he now resorted to another little scheme which he had undoubtedly thought out, to be used in case he was discovered, and cornered, while on his night mission. "Oh! is that you, Hugh?" he burst out, in a shaky voice. "Say, you gave me an _aw_ful scare! I thought it must be some old tramp that grabbed me, sure I did. It's all right now, Hugh, and I'm not wanting to clear out, since I know who you are. That's Thad, too, I reckon, holding my little flash-light. How you did startle me, though. I never dreamed anybody was around here when I started to come back after my watch." "What's that you say?" gasped Thad; "your watch? Tell that to the marines, Leon Disney!" "But it's so, I tell you. Thad, it sure is," persisted the other tenaciously, as though he had laid all his plans for just such an "accident," whereby his attempt to rob Hugh's locker would be held up. "I believe I must have forgotten to take it out of my locker this evening when I was dressing, after hard work on the field, running, and practising throwing the hammer. I never noticed it till long after supper, and I was afraid of what my dad would say when he asked me for it in the morning, to take back to the store where he got it, to exchange for another. So, Hugh, don't you see, the idea came to me that mebbe I might be able to get in the building out here if a window happened to be unfastened; which turned out to be the case, you know." "Yes, the very _first_ window you tackled in the bargain, Leon; how fortunate for you!" sneered the unbelieving Thad. "And say, you ought to know that this isn't your locker, because the numbers are painted big enough on the door for anybody with only one eye to see." Even this did not appear to disconcert the other boy. He was a slippery sort of customer, who always seemed able to find some sort of ready excuse, or a way to "climb down a tree" when caught in the act. He turned, and stared at the number 16 plainly on the door. Then he grinned at Thad as he hurriedly went on to explain further; for his inventive faculties seemed without end when they were exercised in order to get him out of any bad scrape: "Well, that shows my first guess was the right one after all. You see, Hugh, I knew my number was either 16 or 19, and, for the life of me, I couldn't tell which. Of course, if the first belongs to you when my number is 19, I was foolish to change my mind; though, of course, even if the key opened your locker I'd have known my mistake right away. No harm done, I hope, Hugh?" Thad made a low, growling sound, as though he put not the slightest faith in the story Leon was telling. He knew the other to be utterly unprincipled, and a willing tool in the hands of Nick Lang; indeed, there were some things about the sneaky Leon that blunt, honest Thad hated worse than the bullying propensities of the other boy. "So you really and truly left your watch in your locker, did you?" he demanded, with a perceptible sneer in his tones. "I think I did; in fact, I'm certainly hoping so," Leon hastily replied; "because if it doesn't happen to be there I don't know where I could have lost it; and I'll get a fine turning over from dad in the morning when he asks me for the same to take back, and exchange for one that keeps decent time." "Oh!" continued the still skeptical Thad, thinking to corner Leon, "then, perhaps, you'll prove your words by showing us the inside of your locker right now? Number 19 it would be, you said; well, here it is, on a direct line with Hugh's locker. Get busy with your key, Leon, and open up!" Possibly Thad was confident that the other would not venture to do as he demanded. He may have expected him to invent some handy excuse for not complying; but then the other had already laid the foundation for a reasonable sense of disappointment in case no watch was forthcoming when the locker was opened; since he said he _hoped_ he might have forgotten it when dressing, and not lost it on the way home that evening at dusk. Leon started to obey with alacrity, as though he had no fears. His key immediately opened the door, and this, upon being swung aside, revealed a bundle of old athletic garments hastily thrown in without regard to neatness. These Leon commenced to eagerly take out, one at a time. He was careful how he handled them, as though fearful lest he might toss the silver watch out, to land on the floor with disastrous results. As he picked up such various articles of wearing apparel as used by an athlete in training, Leon continued to air his grievances, as though he meant Hugh to understand how utterly impossible it was for him to have intended any mean thing by breaking open a locker other than his own: "It was silly of me getting those numbers mixed in my head, of course; but then a figure nine is only a six turned upside down, you see. I was so worked up over missing my clock that I just couldn't think straight at all. Well, it isn't under that jersey, anyhow; nor yet covered by those trunks. I remember now I pushed it away back, so I couldn't drag it out. There's an old sweater I use when I'm overheated, and afraid of taking cold; mebbe now it's under that." Reaching further in, Leon caught hold of the article in question, and carefully drew it toward him. Then he as cautiously lifted the torn sweater; and, as Thad turned the glow of the flash-light directly into the box they all saw the watch reposing in the corner, just as the boy had left it. Leon made a clutch for his property. He over-did the matter, Hugh thought, acting in an exuberant fashion. "Oh! mebbe I'm not joyful over getting my hands on you again, you poor old time-keeper!" he exclaimed, as he snatched the silver watch up and shook it, as though any fault could be attached to the article in question. "A fine chase you've given me to-night; and playing the part of sneak-thief in the bargain; but then, of course, you believe what I told you, now, Hugh, since you've seen that the watch was in my locker?" Hugh did not care to fully commit himself, it seemed, judging from the way in which he went on to say: "We've seen you recover your watch all right, Leon; and it was in your locker just as you said; but whether you forgot it, or left it there on purpose, is a question I'm not prepared to settle." Of course there was no further excuse for Hugh keeping that grip on Leon's shoulder, so he released his hold, and the other gave a sigh as of relief at this evidence of a change in policy on the part of his captor. "Say, I wish you'd do me a great favor, Hugh," Leon went on to say, as though he believed in the old maxim that it is wise to "strike while the iron is hot." "As to what?" demanded the one addressed in this whining way. "What's the use of saying anything about this business?" Leon went on eagerly. "It certainly wouldn't do any good, and I proved to you that I did enter here just to recover my watch, didn't I? But mebbe it might get to my dad's ears, how I'd gone and been so careless about looking after my property. You see, he told me that if I lost this birthday present he'd not get me another watch till I graduated from high school; and say, I'm beginning to lose all hope of that ever happening in my case. But you will keep mum about it, won't you, Hugh; just to save me from getting up against it rough with my strict dad?" It sounded like a reasonable request, Hugh must have thought. Besides, no matter what the intentions of Leon may have been, there had really been no harm done, owing to the fact of their being drawn to the spot by discovering his skulking figure dimly outlined in the moonlight. Hugh considered before committing himself to making any reply. He did not believe most of what the other so glibly declared, partly because he knew very well that Mr. Disney was not a strict parent at all, but a most indifferent one, or he would never have allowed his young hopeful to go in the company of Nick Lang, and take part in many of the other's practical jokes. Some of these had bordered on a serious nature, like the time the electric current was shut off abruptly when the graduation exercises were going on at night-time in the big auditorium in the high-school building; and the ensuing utter darkness almost created a panic among the audience, composed principally of women and young people, the wires having been severed, it was later discovered, at a point where they entered the building. "I'll say this, Leon," he finally told the waiting boy; "I'll keep quiet about this little thing for three days, and then feel free to mention it, if the necessity arises. I'll make a further bargain with you to this effect; you fight shy of the company of Nick Lang after this, and I'll hold my tongue as long as I understand that you've cut his acquaintance; otherwise, I'll feel free to speak; and there are lots of people in this town who'll believe you had some dark motive back of your breaking into this building to-night. Your reputation is against you, Leon, you understand. Another fellow might enter here, and everybody would believe what he said; but you've long ago lost the confidence of everybody worth while in Scranton. Is it a bargain, then?" Leon replied with alacrity; but then that was no sign that he meant to keep his word. He had been caught in a downright lie on many another occasion; so Hugh did not place much reliance on his promise to reform. "Oh! as to that, Hugh," said the crafty Leon, "I've been figuring on cutting away from Nick for a long time now, and I guess I'll do it. He's got me in lots of nasty scrapes, you understand, and then just laughs at me. I'd have given him the shake long since, only he threatened to whip me black and blue if I ever did. But this would be a good chance to try it out. Yes, I'll promise you to try and break away from Nick; and I hope you'll keep mum about my coming here to-night. If you don't mind, Thad, I'd like to have my flashlight now. And I ought to be going back home in the bargain, because dad doesn't like me to be out nights unless he knows where I'm at." Thad chuckled as though he considered this last remark in the light of a joke; for Leon roamed the streets until a late hour every night he chose; but, as there was no need of their staying longer, they passed out of the window, and headed toward their respective homes. CHAPTER IX SCRANTON IN GALA ATTIRE That was, indeed, a busy Friday with the students of Scranton High. Lessons had been tabooed entirely, for what was the use of trying to hold the attention of the scholars upon dry subjects when their thoughts continually roamed afield, and seemed concerned only with what great things were scheduled for the next afternoon? Still, they gathered at school, which was a sort of general headquarters where the various committees appointed could consult, and go forth to the work assigned to their particular charge. The girls were just as enthusiastic as the boys, and demanded equal representation upon a number of the said committees, especially the ones designed for the welcome and entertainment of the vast crowds expected to be present from neighboring towns and villages. It was going to be an event long to be remembered in Scranton, and the town dressed in gala attire in honor of the occasion. Flags and banners were being displayed as though a great wave of patriotism had overwhelmed the place. If a stranger had suddenly dropped down on the town just then he must have believed American soldiers were on the fighting line across in France, and that news had been cabled over to the effect that they had met the enemy in their first engagement, and won a decisive victory. The fairly good town brass band had promised to be on hand, and play during the best part of the afternoon. Then there would be a host of refreshment booths at which Scranton's fairest daughters would preside, accompanied in each instance by a matron of mature years, to lend dignity to the occasion. Here the good folks from Allandale, Belleville and other places, who honored the town with their presence would always be warmly welcomed, and given a cup of delicious tea, coffee or chocolate, as they preferred, accompanied with sandwiches galore, and even cake. Meanwhile it was planned that those who meant to take part in any of the events on the long programme should have a last "workout" that Friday afternoon. Saturday morning it was intended they should rest up, so as to be in the pink of condition when the meet opened at one o'clock. That might seem to be an early hour, as some had argued, but the programme was so extended that there was a possibility of darkness creeping up on them before the fifteen-mile Marathon, the greatest event of the day, had been fully completed. During that energetic morning at school, when boys and girls were hustling to carry out the part of the work entrusted to them, Hugh had managed to keep an eye on Leon Disney from time to time. He felt pretty certain that the tricky boy had no intention of fulfilling the promise he had made under duress, and while a threat of exposure hung over his head, like the famous sword of Damocles, suspended by but a single hair. Leon watched Hugh also, and tried to act in a manner calculated not to arouse suspicion; but Hugh understood from his actions how matters probably stood. Leon had, of course, managed to see Nick Lang before coming to school, and explain to him what a bad fix he had managed to get himself in when caught in the act of breaking into Hugh Morgan's locker at the athletic grounds building. No doubt it had been artfully arranged between the precious pair that Leon was to seem to keep his distance away from Nick; and if at any other time the latter joined a group amidst whom Leon chanced to be standing the other was to immediately move away in an ostentatious fashion that would cause Hugh to believe he meant to keep his given word. But several times Hugh felt certain he detected sly winks exchanged between Nick and his apparently estranged pal; which could only mean that Leon was playing a double game. Still Hugh did not bother telling anyone about the affair of the preceding night. No harm had really been done, fortunately, and Leon might hold his evil propensities in check for a while if he had reason to fear disclosure. The committees were wearing their badges proudly, and every member seemed desirous of doing everything in his or her power to render the athletic tournament a wonderful success. Nothing like it had ever been attempted in the county, and for that reason they were compelled to look up all manner of accounts in papers and magazines, in order to do things properly. Mr. Leonard was a great help, for he, being a Princeton graduate, and interested in all manner of athletics for years, had kept in touch with such things. Then from various other unexpected sources assistance cropped up. Why, even old Doctor Cadmus, the leading physician of Scranton, proved to be a walking encyclopedia of knowledge concerning the management of such an event; and it turned out that several times long years before, in another community entirely, he had had full charge of just such a tournament; also that he had many articles laid away telling of the modern innovations that had displaced the older method of doing things. After lunch the young people began to gather on the field by squads and battalions, and it was soon quite an animated sight, with the girls circulating around in gaily dressed bunches, and the various candidates going through their various stunts under the personal supervision of Mr. Leonard. There had been more or less talk concerning the advisability of allowing school boys to undertake such a long Marathon race. Fifteen miles, many thought, was far too strenuous an undertaking for lads as yet in their teens. Full-fledged athletes only run twenty miles in all the famous long-distance races, and even at that numbers of them do not finish, the task being too much for them. But Mr. Leonard was of a different opinion, and he had his way. One thing, however, he did insist on. This was that each and every candidate entering for the Marathon fetch along with him a paper from his family physician, stating that he had undergone a rigid examination to ascertain whether he was in the pink of condition, and without the slightest heart trouble. Doctor Cadmus gladly examined all the Scranton fellows free of charge, and it was given out to the neighboring towns, from whence aspiring runners hailed, that the lack of such a physician's certificate would debar any candidate from the race. Hugh, along with several other fellows, intended to take a run of from seven to ten miles over the course that Friday afternoon. They did not wish to follow out the entire course, as that might injure their prospects for the next day, so Mr. Leonard convinced them. But half the distance would be apt to keep their muscles in good trim. Before making a start, however, Hugh wished to hang around, and watch what the other fellows were doing. He was deeply interested in the hammer throwing, as well as the sprinting, and, after seeing how well the boys acquitted themselves, felt more than ever assured that Scranton High would pull down quite a number of the fine prizes offered to successful competitors. It was while things were thus booming that a car rolled past on the main road leading out of town. Hugh noticed it particularly, for he chanced to be over at that side of the extensive field. There was a chauffeur at the wheel, and in the tonneau a lady and a boy sat, in whom Hugh quickly recognized Claude Jardine and his mother. She held her face deliberately away from the bright scene, as though appalled to know that so many parents in Scranton were so unwise, almost foolish, as to allow their sons to participate in such antics; and their daughters to attend the same. But Hugh chuckled when he saw Claude give a quick look up at his mother, as if to make certain she was not looking; after which he leaned forward and stared hard and eagerly at the wonderful picture that athletic field presented. Hugh had good eyesight, and he could detect the longing expression in the effeminate features of the boy whose mother seemed bent on making him a weakling and a "sissy." "Poor Claude, I certainly do pity you," Hugh was telling himself as the big car rolled on amidst a cloud of dust. "Deep down in your heart you are yearning to be as other natural boys are, who have red blood in their veins. If your dad had lived I warrant there'd be a different story to tell, because they say he liked all kinds of healthy sport; but, somehow, Mrs. Jardine has taken a dislike to such things that seems to keep growing stronger all the time, until it's become a regular mania with her. But unless she changes her mind there'll be a day coming when she'll bitterly regret it all. I suppose now, if she had a daughter she'd prevent her from associating with Sue, and Ivy, and Peggy, as well as all the other high-school girls whose mothers actually allow them to go to dances with us boys, and even cheer the Scranton players in a rattling good baseball game." There was an air of feverish expectation rampant throughout the whole town, and wherever young people got together the talk was of nothing else save the great event on the programme for the next day. Even many older persons seemed to have become infected with the sporting virus, because memories of other days were being recalled; and it was remarkable how many elderly men had once been deeply interested in just such things, though, of course, along somewhat less modern lines. Then again there was an undercurrent of talk that carried a thrill along with it. Stories that could not be confirmed, but were believed more or less, began to be circulated to the effect that some irresponsible parties meant to start something during the tournament that was calculated to bring disrepute upon the town of Scranton. It was even darkly hinted that the partly built, new, wooden fence had been set on fire as a lark; and squads of curious boys and girls even circulated along its entire length, bent upon ascertaining if such a thing could really be true. When they failed to find any evidence of a fire, they were still unconvinced; for, of course, it would be policy on the part of the management to conceal all traces, so as to save the good name of the town. These rumors could not be traced to any particular source, but there are always a certain number of persons who delight to circulate such stories, and, perhaps, unconsciously, add a little to the same with each and every additional telling, until a trivial happening becomes a colossal thing. That the committee in general charge of the great undertaking cherished some sort of fear that some daring outrage might be attempted by boys who were not connected with the high school was evident from the fact that they had had warning notices printed at the office of the _Weekly Courier_, notifying all boys who might contemplate playing any sort of practical joke during the holding of the carnival that Chief Adolph Wambold, the head of the local police, would have his entire force on the grounds, and such offenders would be harshly treated, if detected. The afternoon was well along when Hugh was approached by "Just" Smith, one of the candidates who meant to try for the Marathon prize. "Several of the boys are meaning to start off on that seven-mile spin, Hugh," the other announced as he came up; "and they want you to come along. We can start together, and then separate, as we feel disposed;" and, as this suited Hugh, he agreed. CHAPTER X WHEN MUSCLES COUNTED There were four of them who made the start, Hugh, "Just" Smith, Horatio Juggins, and "K. K.," the Kinkaid boy. Three of the bunch had been fielders in the baseball nine that carried off the championship pennant of the three-town high-school league the preceding summer; and, having been known as great runners, it was only natural that they had felt impelled to enter for the long-distance race. An equal number could be expected from both Allandale and Belleville, so that with others who would feel disposed to, at least, be in at the start, though calculating to fall out after a few miles had been run, possibly a full score would toe the string at the time the great Marathon was called. In an event of this nature a big "field" adds to the excitement of the occasion; and it is often noticed that those who have no intention of finishing usually look the most confident during the preparations for making the grand start. Well, they have no hope of getting any fun out of the race after losing sight of the crowd, and so they mean to take what they can beforehand. Talking is almost tabooed during such a race, since every breath lost in useless conversation saps so much energy. Even on a trial run Mr. Leonard had advised the boys to separate as soon as possible, and keep some distance apart, mostly to obviate this temptation to exchange views; so that each candidate could conserve every atom of his powers. So it came about that by the time two miles had been run Hugh found himself absolutely alone. Hugh had left the main thoroughfare, and was passing along a byroad that would take him around through the hilly country, until the Scranton turnpike was again reached. The other fellows had the option of doing as Hugh did, or they could continue on further, and, perhaps, get a lift back home on some farmer's wagon, or possibly a car bound for Scranton. Hugh had an idea, however, that one of them was coming along the same road a mile or more behind, and that it would turn out to be "Just" Smith. Some words the other chap had uttered when they were together before starting forth on the run gave Hugh this impression, though he could not be positive about it. At the time, it gave him little concern; but then he could not look into the immediate future, and see what it held for him. The coming of "Just" Smith would yet turn out to be an event of the first magnitude in Hugh's humble opinion; as the reader will soon learn. Hugh was jogging along nicely, and had long ago caught his second wind. He kept "tabs" upon himself, in order to know just how his energy held out, and if he was likely to be in condition for the gruelling finish that might become necessary, over the last half mile of the long course, should a visiting runner threaten to head the list with the goal in sight, and the thousands of eager spectators bursting out with cheers calculated to thrill the heart, and give fresh impetus to wearied limbs. On the whole, Hugh felt fairly well satisfied with himself. He knew he had gone about as fast as ordinary runners would care to travel, who wished to conserve their strength toward the close of the race; and that he was holding back a good reserve stock of energy. Yes, he believed he was at his best, and if he failed to land the prize it was because some fellow was a better runner than he could ever hope to be. Just then he heard a sound that gave him a sudden thrill. It was like a faint human cry for help, uttered in a weak voice, and seemed to come from his right. Hugh stopped short. His first inclination was to instantly dash from the road and endeavor to discover what caused that cry. Then he had a wave of suspicion dart over him. Could this be a sly trick on the part of some enemy, meant to lure him into the brush and rocks, where he could, perhaps, be overpowered? But Nick, as well as his two satellites, Leon Disney and Tip Slavin, had been on the grounds at the time Hugh started his run, for he had taken particular notice of this fact; consequently, it was hardly likely that they could be concerned in any practical joke; and certainly no other fellow would be guilty of such a thing. That decided Hugh. He left the road, and started toward the spot where he judged that strange sound had welled forth. The country was exceedingly rough just there, and he fancied that some sort of deep gully, possibly a precipice, might lie off on his right, judging from the aspect of the land. Not hearing the sound again, Hugh uttered a loud hello. Then, as he continued to press hastily forward, he once more caught the beseeching cry. It had an agonizing strain to it, and Hugh could plainly make out the words: "Help! Oh! help! help!" Someone was evidently in trouble, Hugh decided, accelerating his pace as well as the conditions of the rough surface of the ground permitted. He had taken pains to locate the cry this time, and was, therefore, altering his course just a little. Again he called, and once more received a reply, more fearful than before: "Hurry! Oh! hurry, before it gives way, and I'm lost!" It sounded more like the voice of a girl than anything else. Hugh was thrilled at the bare thought of one of the opposite sex being caught in a trap whereby life itself was imperiled. He had been ascending all this time. From a single look, which he cast over his shoulder, he could see the road he had lately come along, trace its course, in fact, until it was lost at a bend half a mile away. He noted that a runner had just turned that same bend, and was jogging along in a rhythmic, contented fashion, as though satisfied with the progress he was making; although "Just" Smith would have to speed up considerable on the morrow if he wished to be anywhere near the head of the procession when the race neared its close. Hugh, somehow, fixed the fact of his comrade's presence on his mind. He even mentally figured just how long it was likely to take the other to reach the spot where he himself had left the road; for, perhaps, that circumstance might loom up large in his calculations. Then he arrived at the brink of what seemed to be a precipice. The presence of this told Hugh plainly the nature of the task that awaited him. Someone had undoubtedly fallen over the brink, and was, even then, hanging on desperately to some jutting rock or bush that represented the only hope of safety from a serious fall. He threw himself down and thrust his head out over the edge. What Hugh saw was enough to give any boy a thrill of horror. Some ten feet below the top a human figure sprawled, kicking with his legs in the endeavor to find a brace for his feet. He was clinging to a bush that seemed to be growing from the face of the precipice, and which Hugh could see was slowly but surely giving way, one root after another losing its grip in the soil and rocky crevices. Hugh recognized the imperiled boy instantly, though utterly amazed at his discovery; he could not understand for the life of him how Claude Jardine, of all fellows in Scranton, could be placed in such a dreadful predicament. But Hugh did not waste a single precious second in trying to solve that puzzle; it could be all made plain after he had managed to save the poor chap. "Stop kicking, and keep perfectly still, Claude!" he instantly called. "But it's going to give way, and let me drop!" wailed the terrified boy. "It'll do that all the sooner if you keep moving as you are," Hugh told him sharply, with the tone of authority that one accustomed to command might use. "I'm coming down after you, so don't be afraid. Can you hold on just ten seconds more?" "I'll try to, but, oh! hurry, please!" came the trembling answer. Already Hugh was passing over the edge. He took care not to make a false movement, for the precipice was all of forty feet in depth, and a fall on the rocks below was bound to be a serious matter. To lower himself to where the imperiled boy clung he had to take advantage of numerous projecting points of rock that offered him a foothold, or a place where he could hang on with his hands. Hugh was as nimble as any boy in Scranton, which fact proved of great advantage to him just then. Had it been otherwise, he might have himself fallen, and there would then have been a double tragedy. Somehow, through Hugh's mind flashed the memory of how Claude's doting mother had always, on every occasion, condemned all athletic exercises that were intended to build up the muscles, and give new power to the body. It seemed the irony of fate that the life of her precious boy was now going to hang upon the ability of Hugh Morgan to sustain himself, and the weight of another, there upon the face of that rocky precipice! Perhaps in times to come Mrs. Jardine would discover how false her ideas were, and experience a radical change of heart. The opportunity which Hugh had once sighed for had come to him in a most wonderful way. He succeeded in making his way down in safety, though once he slipped, and had a thrill of alarm pass over him. Now he found himself alongside Claude. The boy's face was the color of ashes; Hugh had never looked upon a corpse in all his life, but he could not help comparing Claude's pallid countenance to one. He was glancing around with the eye of a general who lets nothing, no matter how trivial, escape him. Just a foot below Claude's dangling toes there was a narrow ledge. If only both of them could find lodgment upon this; and have some hold above for their hands, they might maintain their position until Hugh's shouts attracted "Just" Smith to the spot, and he could do something to aid them. "Listen, Claude," he said earnestly. "There's a way to save you, if only you keep your head about you. 'Just' Smith is coming along the road, and I'll shout out to guide him here so he can help us." "But--the bush is going to give way right off!" gasped the terrified boy. "Well, below us there's a ledge where we must plant our feet, and hold on," continued Hugh, convincingly. "I'm going to drop down to it now. Then you must try to lower yourself along the bush, inch by inch, until you feel the ledge under you. Don't be afraid, because I mean to grab hold of you; but when you feel me touching you, above all things don't let go above, or you'll throw us both down. Now, be ready, Claude; and, remember, it's going to be all right. Keep cool!" Of course, Hugh only said that last to reassure the poor chap. Claude was already cold with fear, as cold as an icicle, in fact; and quaking with fear in the bargain. It was easy enough for Hugh to drop down another foot or so, until he felt the solid little ledge under him. Indeed, had it been necessary, such an agile fellow very likely might have continued all the way down to the base of the precipice. His next move was to find a firm hold for his left hand, to which he could continue to cling while he sustained much of the weight of the other boy, after the weakened roots of the bush gave way entirely. Claude was trying to do what he had been told, though in rather a bungling fashion. Inch by inch he allowed the bush to slip through his hands, looking down as well as he was able at the same time, in order to ascertain just how near he might be to that same ledge Hugh had told him of. CHAPTER XI THE CRISIS IN CLAUDE'S LIFE Hugh kept a watchful eye on that bush. He knew it was going to give way presently, when, unless Claude had managed to secure a fresh grip on some object with his poor scratched hands, he was likely to be dashed downward. Fortune was, however, kind in that respect, for there chanced to be a nice projection of rock, somewhat in the shape of a horn, just in the right place for Claude to seize upon, and which would help sustain his weight. Hugh knew very well, though, that most of the burden would fall upon him; and he, therefore, prepared to accept it. "Here, reach out with your left hand, Claude, and take hold of this rock. Your feet are both safely anchored on the ledge. Keep up your grit, and everything will be all right yet. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Claude?" "Yes, I do, Hugh," chattered the other, for his teeth were rattling together in a way that reminded Hugh of the "Bones" at the end of a minstrel line; if he had ever seen a Spanish stage performance he would have said they made a sound like castanets in the hands of the senorita who gave the national Castilian dance. Claude really managed to carry out that part of the task with a fair amount of success. His other hand still gripped the bush, which continued to gradually give way under the long and severe strain. Hugh braced himself. He had taken as firm a hold as was possible, and had his other arm thrown around Claude. "Steady, now, Claude, it's almost gone. When you feel it give way, try and make use of your right hand to find some other rocky point where you can hold on. I think there's one such on the other side of you. Above all, don't struggle, or you may throw me off my balance, and then it's good-bye to both of us. Now, be ready!" Hugh's calculations proved to be correct, for the bush gave way, and fell with a clatter of small stones and loosened earth, down toward the bottom of the steep declivity. Claude uttered a cry of dismay when he felt his support gone; but luckily he gripped the rocky knob with his left hand more convulsively than ever, while Hugh sustained him to the best of his ability. "That was well done, Claude," Hugh now told him, his main object being to put a little more confidence in the other boy, and thus lighten his own load. "We'll manage to cling here for a bit longer. When I think 'Just' Smith is getting near by I'll let out a whoop that is bound to fetch him to our assistance." One, two, three minutes passed. It was very trying to Hugh, and already his muscles began to feel the undue strain keenly. But he gritted his teeth, and waited, as it would be only a waste of breath and energy to shout before the next runner was close enough up to locate the sound. Claude was shivering as though he would shake to pieces. He had received a dreadful fright, for a fact, and it was having its due effect upon his never strong frame. What would his doting mamma think, and say, Hugh told himself, almost with a chuckle of amusement, could she see her darling then and there, and realize how his very life depended upon the strong muscles and will to do things that Hugh Morgan had developed in himself? How slowly the seconds passed! Hugh was trying to count, so as to judge when the Marathon runner would be likely to have covered that half-mile, and be at the spot where he, Hugh, had left the road. When, finally, the time had expired he again spoke to Claude. "Don't be startled, Claude, because I'm going to shout out. Hang tight, now!" With that he sent out a whoop, and coupled it with the name of "Just" Smith. There was no immediate response, but then Hugh had already discounted this in his mind, remembering how he also had come to a sudden stop, and listened as though unable to believe his ears. Again he shouted, and once more uttered the name of the other boy. This time there came a speedy reply. "Hello! that you, Hugh?" "Yes, and I want help right away!" answered the boy who clung there with a burden on his hands. "Turn out of the road to the left, and hurry here. I'm down a precipice, Just. Keep coming, and I'll guide you all right." So Hugh continued to utter loud shouts every dozen seconds or so. He could catch the calls of the advancing runner, and knew from their increasing loudness that he was gradually getting closer. Then, looking up, he saw a head projected over the brink above. He could easily understand how "Just" Smith's eyes must have almost started from their sockets when discovering the dreadful position of the pair below; and especially after he had recognized Claude Jardine, the last fellow in the wide world whom he would have expected to see in such a fix. "H-h-how in the wide world did you get down there, Hugh?" gasped the boy who leaned over the brink. "I came down after Claude here, who'd fallen over, and was hanging to a bush that was giving way," explained Hugh. "And now it's up to you to get us both out of this scrape, Just." "Oh, if only I had a rope!" cried the other, apparently nonplussed. "Well, wishes won't make one," said the practical Hugh; "and so we'll have to do without. But if you look around sharply I think you'll find a long pole there, for I remember noticing something of the kind." The boy above vanished for a brief period, which seemed ages to the anxious Claude; and even Hugh counted the seconds, for the strain was something serious. Then again that friendly head appeared in view. "You were right, Hugh!" called the Smith boy; "there was such a pole handy, and I've got the same right here now. It's plenty long enough to reach down to you; but I'm wondering however I'll be able to draw two of you up." "I don't expect you to, all by yourself, Just," Huge told him. "Poke the end of it down here, and keep a good stiff grip on the butt. Then we'll hold on, and find places to set our feet. Inch by inch, and foot by foot, we'll manage to climb up. You can help a little by keeping the stick coming, you know." "I get you, Hugh!" snapped the other eagerly; "and it's sure a right good scheme. But be mighty careful you don't slip, either of you. That fall'd break bones, even if it didn't kill you outright." "Don't worry about us, Just Smith; pay attention to your part of the contract, and things are bound to work out first-class. Lower away, and don't poke us off our perch, please. We've only got a risky hold below here." So saying, Hugh encouraged the other two to do their part manfully. Even Claude was shivering less than before, as though a breath of renewed confidence might have been installed in his heart by this close contact with such a stalwart chap as Hugh Morgan. It was going to be the turning point in Claude's career, of that Hugh felt positive. After this thrilling experience he was bound to awaken to the fact that he was not like other boys of his age; and demand of his mother that she permit him to participate in the life-giving outdoor sports that are a part and parcel of boy nature. They began to climb. It was slow work, but Hugh would not be hurried. Better that they waste time in gaining each foot than by an unwise step ruin all. What matter if that arm of his was almost numb with pain, and he had to press his teeth firmly together in order to continue to hold up Claude? If only the other had been a normal boy he could have helped himself wonderfully; but, as it was, he seemed as weak and helpless as a kitten that had never opened its eyes as yet. Well, half of the distance separating them from the top had been safely navigated, and so far no accident had occurred. Hugh kept encouraging his charge from time to time; and then speaking words also to the laboring, anxious boy above, directing him just how to proceed. Finally they reached the top. Hugh still ordered "Just" Smith to hold the pole as he had been doing. Then he managed to push Claude up so that he could crawl over the edge, which the other did in a speedy manner, bordering on the ludicrous. Then, to the surprise, as well as delight of Hugh, what did Claude do but turn and stretch out a helping hand, as though his first thought was to assist his rescuer to top the rise; indeed, Hugh's one arm was so utterly gone that he could hardly count on it for a single thing. Hugh would not be apt to forget this action on the part of the "sissy"; it proved what he had all along more than half suspected, that Claude really did have the making of a genuine boy in him, given half a chance for it to show itself, and the seed to germinate. And Hugh determined that he would make it his particular business to see that there came a change in Claude's dreary life. His mother could hardly refuse anything asked by the one to whom she owed the life of her son. Soon the trio lay upon the ground, breathing hard, and trying to talk at the same time. Both Hugh and "Just" Smith were consumed with curiosity to know how Claude happened to get into such a strange predicament, and he hastened to explain. After all, there was nothing so very singular about it. His mother had stopped in to see an old nurse, who had been in the family many years but was at the time lying sick at her sister's place. Something influenced Claude to get out of the big car to take a little stroll. Perhaps the sight of all those happy lads running and jumping and throwing weights had made him feel more than ever his own narrow, confined life, kept out of the society of all the other boys after school hours, and made to play the part of a "mollycoddle," as Roosevelt called all such fellows who have never learned how to take care of themselves when a bully threatens. Unused to the woods and hills, of course the first thing Claude did was to lose all sense of direction. He became alarmed, and that made matters worse than ever. So he had roamed about for almost a full hour, dreadfully tiring his poor feet and limbs, since he had never before in all his life walked so far and done such vigorous climbing. Then he had come to that precipice, and, thinking he might glimpse the cottage where the old nurse lived, somewhere down in the valley, he had incautiously crept too close to the brink, when his weight caused a portion of the soil to give way. Finding himself falling, Claude had clutched desperately around him, and, as it happened, his fingers gripped a friendly bush, to which he continued to cling even as he struggled to better his condition and shouted as best he was able. Hugh finished the story, to the edification of "Just" Smith, who admitted that if it had not been for the courage and muscular ability of Hugh the other boy must long ago have fallen to the bottom of the awful precipice. And Claude, shivering as he afterwards looked up at the forty feet and more of rocky wall, vowed he would never rest satisfied until he too had learned how to develop his muscles so that if ever again caught in a similar scrape he might have a fighting chance for his life. The two boys eventually found the cottage, although Mrs. Jardine and the car had gone down the road hoping to overtake Claude, though they were expected back again later; so, leaving Claude there, Hugh and "Just" Smith continued their seven-mile run. CHAPTER XII STARTLING NEWS FROM THE JUGGINS BOY "Burr-r-r-r!" That was the telephone bell ringing. "Hugh, will you answer it, since the chances are the call is from some one of your numerous boy chums?" the voice of Mrs. Morgan came from the dining-room, where she was looking after the silver and china, after washing up the supper dishes, for they temporarily chanced to be without a hired-girl. Hugh guessed as much himself. He had already been called to the phone several times since arriving home after his seven-mile spin. Once it had been Claude's mother, begging him to be sure and call at her house early in the morning, because she wanted to have a good, long, earnest talk with him about Claude's future; and also to let him know how brimful of gratitude a mother's heart could be toward the brave boy who, at the risk of his own life, had saved her only child for her. Hugh had promised he would see her, although he expected to be very busy on the morning of the athletic tournament and then expressed the hope that Claude and herself would honor the tournament with their presence. This she hastily assured him she meant to do, because it was now borne in on her heart that she had been making a terrible mistake in reference to the way she was bringing up her darling Claude. Needless to say, Hugh had chuckled joyously after that little talk. He guessed he would have little trouble now in removing the scales Mrs. Jardine had allowed to cover her eyes with regard to the benefits to be derived by any boy, no matter how weak he might be, through a judicious system of athletic exercises, the same to be lengthened as he gradually grew more capable of standing fatigue. "Hello!" Hugh called. A voice he immediately recognized as that of Horatio Juggins greeted him. "That you, Hugh?" "Just who it is; what's the matter, Horatio? Feeling the effects of your little jog this afternoon? I hope not, for your sake, to-morrow." "Oh! come off, Hugh," the other quickly replied. "I'd be a fine candidate for a fifteen-mile Marathon race, wouldn't I, if seven miles knocked me out? I'm as fit right now as a fiddle. But Hugh, can you come right over here now? Something dreadful has happened." Hugh had a chilly feeling pass over him. It seemed as though some sort of bad news was coming. Had the great meet been called off, for some unknown reason or other? Somehow that struck him first as a dire possibility, since it would grievously disappoint thousands of eager boys and girls, not to mention many older folks with young hearts. Now Hugh had intended to take that evening quietly, resting after his strenuous afternoon, and absolutely refuse to allow Thad, or any other fellow, to coax him outside the door. But already this resolve began to weaken. That dim mention of some possible tragedy happening started him going. "Of course I can come over, Horatio," he told the boy at the other end of the wire; "and I'll do so right away on condition that it's no joke. Tell me what's up first." "Oh! I meant to do that, Hugh," his friend hastened to say, and Hugh could detect a tremor to the boyish voice that told of excitement. "You see, it's K. K." "What's happened to him?" demanded Hugh, his mind instantly suggesting all manner of terrible possibilities, from a sudden attack of sickness to an accident whereby his life might be in danger; for with boys these things sometimes happen as unexpectedly as a flash of lightning from a clear sky. "Why, he never came back again from that run this afternoon, Hugh!" Horatio was saying, in an awed tone now. "What's that you're telling me?" exclaimed the astonished Hugh. "I thought I saw K. K. with some of the other fellows when I was starting home just before dusk came on, though, of course, I may have been mistaken about it." "You were, Hugh, you certainly were," Horatio assured him in a softened tone. "His own mother ought to know, hadn't she? Well, she's over here at our house right now, crying her eyes out, and imagining all sorts of terrible things. You remember the Kinkaids live close by us; and she knew her boy was going to take the run this afternoon along with me, so she thought I could tell her if anything had happened to detain him. Why, she says K. K. never missed his supper before in all his life. It'd have to be something _fierce_ to keep him away from his best meal of the whole day." Hugh was thinking swiftly. He realized that this was no little matter to be dismissed as unimportant. Something certainly must have happened to detain K. K. for all this time. Several hours had elapsed since the other fellows reached the terminus of the long run at the athletic grounds. Why then had not K. K. shown up? "Keep the rest till I get there, Horatio!" he told the other. "Then you're sure coming, are you, Hugh?" "Right away," Hugh added. "Well, I'm glad, because you'll know what to do about it. And there's something else!" "Yes?" "I've got something to tell you that, say, I didn't have the heart to explain to K. K.'s mother, because she's bad enough frightened as it is; but it's looking particularly ugly to me, now that he hasn't come back. Oh! perhaps there is more'n a grain of truth in all those terrible stories those hayseeds tell about that place!" Hugh put up the receiver with a bang, made a dash for his cap, slipped on his sweater, for he knew the night air was cold, and then shot out of doors. Somehow those last few words of Horatio, breathing of mystery as they did, had excited his curiosity until it now reached fever-pitch. As he knew of several short-cuts across lots it took him but a few minutes to arrive at the Juggins home. Horatio was waiting at the door, and must have heard him running up the steps, for he instantly opened it to admit him. "Gee, but I'm glad you've come, Hugh!" was his greeting. "She's in there with mother, and taking on awful about it. It's a dreadful thing to see a woman cry, Hugh. And I'm afraid there may be a good reason for expecting the worst." "Tell me what you've got up your sleeve, Horatio," snapped Hugh, "and quit giving all these dark hints. You know something connected with K. K. that perhaps no one else does." "Guess I do, Hugh; for he confided in me, and told me not to say anything to the rest. Oh, how foolish it was for K. K. to think he could do that big job two days in succession; but he said he was feeling equal to nearly anything; and just had to make the try, since the notion had gripped him. But come on over to my den, Hugh, and I'll tell you all about it. Then you must decide what's best to be done; and say, I hope you can soothe Mrs. Kinkaid a bit in the bargain." Ten seconds later and the two boys found themselves ensconced in the room Horatio called his "den," although it was also his sleeping apartment. But he had fixed it as near like a boy's ideal of a lounging-place could be, the walls carrying the customary college pennants and a great variety of other things besides that gave them a rather crowded appearance. Evidently Horatio believed it added to the charm, for he never entered that "sanctum" without an involuntary smile of appreciation. Horatio closed the door softly after him. Hugh had also noticed how he did this just as carefully when admitting him to the front hall; and as though he expected that this must have aroused a certain amount of curiosity, Horatio hastened to explain. "You see, the poor woman is so excited, and in such a nervous condition, that she jumps up at the sound of a door closing, and starts to rush out into the hall, believing that Justin has got back home and hurried over to acquaint her with the joyous fact. Each time her disappointment leaves her worse than before. She will be needing Doctor Cadmus if this keeps on, as sure as anything." "Well, what is it you want to tell me, Horatio?" demanded Hugh, not even taking the trouble to drop down into the chair the owner of the "den" shoved toward him; for it seemed as though he must soon be on the jump--there was evidently something hanging over their heads, which would be needing prompt attention. "Why, it's just this, Hugh," began the other. "K. K. took a foolish notion he'd like to say he'd gone over the full course just for practice. And, Hugh. he told me he meant to make use of the short-cut that crosses the old haunted quarry!" Hugh started, and looked serious. "Then, if anything has happened to K. K., it must have been while he was crossing that mile tract between the two main roads," he went on to say, without hesitation. Horatio nodded his head eagerly. "I jumped to that same conclusion, Hugh, only I didn't dare mention it to Mrs. Kinkaid. I thought you ought to know first of all, and decide on the program. It's terrible just to think of it; and K. K. actually pretended to make light, too, of all those stories the farmers have been telling about that awful place." "Hold your horses, Horatio!" Hugh exclaimed. "When I said that I wasn't thinking of ghosts, or anything else unnatural. I meant that in all probability poor K. K. met with some ordinary accident while on that stretch, and has been unable to continue his run. He may have tripped on a vine he failed to see, and either broken his leg, or else sprained his ankle so badly that he can't even limp along. I've known such a thing to happen--in fact, once I got myself in the same pickle, and had to _crawl_ two miles to a house, every foot of the way on hands and knees, because the pain was frightful whenever I tried to stand up. Well, the chances are K. K. has had such a thing befall him." Horatio heaved a tremendous sigh, as though quite a weighty load had been taken off his chest. "You make me feel a heap better, Hugh, when you're so positive," he hastened to admit. "I was afraid it might be something even worse than a sprain; but never mind what I thought. The question now is, what ought we do about it?" "There's only one thing that can be done," Hugh told him in his customary straight-from-the-shoulder fashion, "which is for some of his chums to organize a searching party, get the old Kinkaid car out, and go up there to look over that abandoned road from one end to the other. We'll find K. K., or know the reason why." "That sounds good to me, Hugh!" declared Horatio, always ready to follow where a bold leader showed the way; "and perhaps we may have an opportunity to discover whether there _is_ any truth about those queer happenings the farmers keep telling of whenever the old quarry is mentioned in their presence." "We'll not bother our minds about fairy stories," Hugh assured him. "What we're meaning to do is to look for a practical explanation of K. K.'s holding out. And, mark my words, the chances are ten to one we'll find the poor chap groaning alongside that road somewhere. But let's get busy now, Horatio!" CHAPTER XIII TO THE RESCUE OF K. K. Hugh would really have been better satisfied if he could have hurried away without seeing K. K.'s mother. He feared that she might delay progress more or less, and at such a time every minute counted. But at the same time he realized that the poor lady was in a dreadful state of mind. It was necessary then that he try and soothe her anxiety, for, as Horatio knew very well, Hugh Morgan had a way of making other people feel the utmost confidence in him. "Well, let's see K. K.'s mother, Horatio; but we mustn't waste much time. We'll have to get her permission to run the car. I only hope there's a decent supply of gas aboard, or in the garage." Accordingly, Horatio led him into another room, where they found Mrs. Kinkaid in a dreadfully nervous condition. She jumped to her feet on discovering that Horatio had another boy with him, and then upon seeing that it was not the one her heart was yearning after she uttered a pitiful wail, and fell back into her chair again. Hugh wasted no time, but commenced telling her something of what he had heard from Horatio, connected with K. K.'s foolish determination to take in the entire course as though in the race. "Of a certainty he's fallen and sprained an ankle somewhere along that cross-country road, Mrs. Kinkaid," he ended with. "We mean to gather a few of the fellows, and if you'll give us permission to use your big car we intend to run up there and look that road over from end to end. There is no doubt but what we'll find K. K. and fetch him back with us. So please try and feel that things will turn out all right. Make up your mind we won't come back without him, that's all there is to it." Somehow the very confidence shown in Hugh's words seemed to pass along to the almost distracted lady. Her eyes lighted up with renewed courage, and she even smiled, though wanly, it must be confessed. But then Hugh was pretty much of a magician in regard to arousing a feeling of hope in the most depressed mind. "You are a thousand times welcome to the car," she hurriedly assured him; "and anything else you might want. It is dreadfully unfortunate Mr. Kinkaid is away on one of his usual business trips to the west, or he would insist on going with you. But I feel certain, Hugh, you will manage things splendidly, and a mother's prayers will go after you, that you may not only find my boy, but that he may not have been seriously injured." "Then we'll not linger any longer, ma'am," said Hugh, eager to be on the move. Horatio wrapped himself up warmly, and the two of them shot out of the door. "Now, what first, Hugh?" Hugh seemed to have mapped out a plan of campaign in his mind, for he answered without hesitation. "We must pick up several of the fellows--Thad for one, then Owen Dugdale would be another good hand at hunting for a lost party; and, well, Julius Hobson for the third. That will make five in all,--enough to search the quarry road from end to end. Besides, we ought to carry several lanterns, because, while there is a moon, I reckon we'll find it far from light along that overgrown trail." "You just think of everything, Hugh," remarked Horatio, wonderingly. "Let's get the car, first of all," Hugh continued shrewdly, "because it can save us many steps in picking up the other fellows." By this time they were at the Kinkaid home. Horatio was well acquainted with the premises, as he had played with K. K. since they were small boys together. Hugh had been told where the key of the garage was hidden, and quickly discovered it hanging on a concealed nail. "Wait till I throw the switch, and light up," said Horatio, for they had electricity at the Kinkaid place, and, of course, a bulb lighted in the garage was considered much safer than a lantern. As soon as the illumination came both boys set about examining the big touring car that occupied the garage. "Bully!" ejaculated Horatio, after making the rounds with suspended breath; "all the tires are as hard as anything. How about the supply of gas, Hugh?" for his companion had occupied himself with making an examination of the tank. "Plenty to carry us up and back twice over!" cried the delighted Hugh. "This is what I call great luck. I was afraid there would be a tire that needed changing; or else no gasolene at all. K. K. didn't realize how kind he was to himself when he fitted up the old car so handsomely, for some purpose." "Oh!" chuckled Horatio, "mebbe I know why. You see, there's going to be another barn dance next Tuesday night up at Bailey's, and I think K. K. asked a girl to go with him and Peggy Noland and Owen Dugdale. Yes, he even told me there was still room for two more, if I could coax somebody to keep me company." Hugh busied himself in starting the car going. He knew considerable about mechanics, as most boys of the present generation do, since automobiles have become so very common. Running it out of the garage Hugh bade Horatio "hop aboard," which that worthy did without a second invitation. "Better get Thad first of all, I reckon," suggested Hugh, as though he might even have figured out how best to save themselves from any unnecessary delay; "then we can clip around to Julius Hobson's place, and pick up Owen last on our way out of town." The program suited Horatio first class. Indeed, he had such perfect confidence in Hugh that anything the other said carried conviction along with it. It is a fine thing for any boy to have aroused such a spirit of trust in the minds of his comrades that they look up to him as a sort of natural leader, and obey his slightest wish without hesitation. But Hugh bore his honors with humility, and never attempted to display the attributes of a czar. Great was the astonishment of Thad Stevens when he found two excited fellows demanding that he bundle up and go with them for a night ride up to the abandoned quarry that had gained such a bad reputation among the country folks residing roundabout. The story was partly told in rapid-fire style, enough of it, at least, to cause Thad to bounce into his heavy coat, and provide himself with a lantern. He expected to become better informed from time to time as they pushed along the road. Next came Julius Hobson. They found him at home also, and, of course, he was duly worked up on hearing how poor K. K. had never returned home from his run over the long course of fifteen miles. When he heard that they needed lanterns Julius produced a new electric flashlight which he had received for a birthday present, and Hugh said it would do very well as an additional means of illumination. Last of all they stopped at the home of Owen Dugdale, the dark-faced lad who lived with his grandfather in a big house, and about whom there had at one time been quite a little halo of mystery hanging. ["The Chums of Scranton High on Deck."] Again was the main fact mentioned concerning the necessity for a searching party starting forth to find poor K. K. Owen did not have to be urged to join the bunch; indeed, he showed himself eager to accompany them. "I can fetch a lantern, if you want me to, Hugh," he observed; "and say, do you know I'm of a mind to carry my new shotgun that I had given to me just last month, when Grandfather concluded I was old enough to want to go hunting. If we have to chase all around through that place there's so many queer stories told about we might as well be fixed so as to protect ourselves." "Huh!" snorted Horatio Juggins, skeptically, "I've always heard that ghosts don't mind ordinary birdshot any more'n an alligator would. But then fetch it along, Owen; it'll no doubt make us feel a little better when we find ourselves up in that terribly lonely tract of country. And who knows but what there might be a stray wildcat abroad in those woods. Such things have been heard of, and I even saw the skin of a whopper shown in the market." So Owen carried out his design, and when he got aboard the big car he took with him not only a lantern, well filled with oil, but also his brand new twelve-gauge shotgun. At last they were off. Every fellow felt a peculiar sense of exhilaration that possibly even bordered on anticipation, take possession of him; for the future was there before them all unknown. Who could say what strange adventures might befall them before this undertaking was finished? Of course they had the headlights turned on at full force, and Hugh at the wheel found no difficulty in keeping the middle of the road. He did not mean to pursue a reckless pace, because, if they met with an accident it would spoil all their plans. Better to go at an ordinary rate of speed, and make haste slowly, so to speak. Meanwhile there was a clatter of tongues aboard the big car. Julius, Thad and Owen had dozens of pertinent questions ready to fire at Horatio, who was kept busy making illuminating replies. Thus the trio learned how K. K. had unwisely determined to cover the entire course and only whispered his intention to his chum, Horatio, at the same time binding him to silence, for fear lest Mr. Leonard put a damper on his plans by vetoing the scheme in the start. Then suggestions began to flow like water after a storm. All sorts of possibilities covering such a strange disappearance were advanced. Owen believed that Horatio was not far amiss when he declared there might be something in that ghost business, after all; and that poor K. K. had found it out to his cost; though, beyond this broad statement, Owen declined to commit himself, because he, of course, could not imagine what a genuine ghost would look like, in the daytime at that; or what such an apparition would be likely to do to a boy who had had the ill-luck to fall into its clutches. A dozen additional ideas were advanced, some of them bordering on the absurd and others really plausible. The unlimited resources of a boy's fertile mind in conjuring up remarkable explanations in a mysterious case like the one now engaging their attention had not yet been reached at the time Hugh suddenly announced they were close to the place where the abandoned quarry road started in from the thoroughfare they were then following. "We just passed the twin oaks I remember stood alongside the road on the left," he explained, at the same time slowing up considerably; "and they are close to the turning-in place. I noticed them in particular, you see, because I didn't want to lose even three seconds when on the run, in searching for some sign of the spot; though, of course, I could have looked for the marks of our tires left there at the time we came back from our nutting excursion, and went through to the other road. Yes, here we are right now, and I'm going to turn in, boys." He negotiated the turn without accident, though the branches of the trees did scrape against the sides of the car in a way that made some of the occupants shudder; for already they were beginning to feel a trace of the uneasiness that their gruesome surroundings were apt to arouse within their boyish hearts. CHAPTER XIV THE SEARCHING PARTY "Hugh, it looks like we mightn't need those lanterns after all," remarked Horatio, after they had gotten well started along the dimly seen quarry road. Indeed, the brilliant headlights of the big car illuminated a radius of considerable size ahead of them and around. Every tiny twig was thrown out into bold relief, as though a powerful sun had found a way of forcing ingress through the canopy of leafless branches overhead. "Not just at present, perhaps," replied the driver at the wheel; "but they may come in handy yet. We'll wait and see." Owen sat beside Hugh, the other three occupying the tonneau of the car. There was abundance of room for all, and some to spare. Owen held his new shotgun in his hands and he kept a close watch upon the road ahead, just as though that idea connected with a ferocious wildcat might have taken hold on his mind, and he believed there was a possibility of such a thing coming to pass. Hugh drove with exceedingly great care, and made no attempt at speed. Indeed, such a thing was utterly out of the question, with that rough road to follow and the necessity of keeping a constant vigilant outlook, lest they collide with some tree. When the quarry was in full operation automobiles were an unknown luxury; and certainly no provision had ever been made for such a contraption passing along that crooked trail, with its numerous sharp curves intended to avoid natural obstacles. Three separate times already had Hugh brought the car to a full stop, and even caused the engine to cease its throbbing. This was done in order that all of them might strain their hearing, in hopes of catching some faint sound to tell that the missing boy whom they sought was close at hand. But only disappointment succeeded each attempt to pick up information. They caught the dismal hooting of an owl in some dead tree not far away, but certainly such a doleful sound did not raise their spirits materially. Several times while they were moving along Owen had seen a movement amidst the brush that gave him a little thrill; but the glimpses he obtained of the disappearing animal convinced him in one instance that it was a red fox that scurried off in alarm; while on the second occasion he rather imagined it was only a ring-tailed raccoon scuttling away and badly frightened by the intense white glow that had suddenly penetrated his dark quarters. If there was a wildcat within twenty miles the spot they certainly never knew of it, because no such beast of prey disclosed its presence to them while they continued on their way. But then there were plenty of thrills for the boys. Not only did the weird hooting of that horned owl come to make their flesh creep, but now and again they detected strange sounds that may have been caused by limbs of the trees rubbing together in the night breeze, but which had a wonderful resemblance to human groans. They had been pursuing their way along for some little time without much attempt at conversation; but it is pretty hard for a parcel of boys to remain long silent, no matter what the provocation. And Horatio, for one, felt urged to free his mind of certain fancies that had taken lodging there. "I say, fellows, doesn't this beat everything you ever saw all hollow?" he went on to say, for there was really no need of their keeping quiet, since they had not started out to steal a march upon any enemy,--only to find poor lost K. K. "Just listen to that awful groaning sound, will you? If I didn't know it was caused by the limbs of trees sawing across each other in the wind I'd think somebody was almost dying." "At another time I guess we wouldn't bother our heads about such a silly thing," observed Julius Hobson; "but, of course, our minds are full up with what may have happened to our comrade, and all that noise makes us shiver a heap; it's so suggestive, so to speak." "Oh! what did you think you saw then, Owen?" gasped Horatio, as, chancing to fix his gaze on the other, he noticed him suddenly elevate his gun, as though tempted to shoot the same. Owen chuckled. "It was only a frisky rabbit, after all," he announced calmly enough. "I was just covering him to find out how easy I could nail the rascal, if only I was out hunting game instead of a lost boy. And we'd have had rabbit stew at the Dugdale home to-morrow, let me tell you, Horatio, if I'd cared to let fly, for I had him covered handsomely." "Well, please don't do it in a hurry again, Owen," asked Horatio, settling back once more, and hoping his throbbing heart might not beat so loudly that any of his comrades could hear it pounding against his ribs. "Remember this is no ordinary patch of woods we're in right now. All sorts of stories have been told concerning the country up here; and in passing through after nightfall we're doing what a big bribe couldn't tempt any farmer's help to try. But, Hugh, don't you think we must be getting pretty near that place by this time?" "Just about two-thirds of the way, Horatio," he was informed. "That leaning tree we passed is exactly three hundred and thirty-seven paces from the place we left the road." "Well, what do you think of that for looking ahead, fellows!" ejaculated Horatio. "Hugh here took all the trouble to count the steps while passing through, the day he came up to examine the ground. That's what I call preparedness, and I guess it counts in a race, just as much as in getting ready for war." Hugh laughed as though momentarily amused. "Well, they're both in the same category, Horatio, if you look at things from the right point of view; rival armies and rival athletes contending for the prize which in both cases would mean victory. Looking ahead is a useful hobby, and it's served me handsomely on many an occasion. I consider no time wasted that is employed to insure success; even if you never need the information you've picked up it adds to your stock of knowledge; and no fellow can have too big a fund of that." "Then we ought soon to be getting there, at this rate," continued Horatio. "Let's hope nothing happens to our old car. We'd have a jolly walk back to town if we broke down here and couldn't fix things. I'd prefer making a fire and spending the night in the woods to taking such a tramp, which would debar us from all hope of making that big run to-morrow." "With K. K. out of the game the chances for Scranton High begin to flicker some," admitted Julius. "He was showing unusual stamina right now, and secretly I was backing K. K. to bring home the bacon for our school. Of course, with Hugh and Horatio and 'Just' Smith still in the ring it isn't hopeless by any means; but they do say those Allandale chaps have unearthed several wonders at long-distance running, and they are dying to knock Scranton down this time." Again Hugh stopped the car and bade the others listen. "It isn't that I thought I heard anything suspicious, fellows," he went on to explain, when they manifested a certain amount of excitement; "but, on general principles, I think we ought to stop oftener, and find out if there's anything doing." After testing their combined hearing to the limit, and without any success, Hugh again started up. It was Thad who spoke next, and apparently he had been considering something that he would like to have made clear. "What if we pass all the way through to the other road, without learning a single thing, Hugh?" he went on to say; "do you mean to give it up, and head for home then and there?" "Well, I should hope not, Thad!" burst out Horatio; "we're none of us built that way. Because a fellow gets a single knock-down in a fight ought he to throw up the sponge right away, and own himself beaten? Why, we started out to find K. K., and sleep isn't going to visit my eyes this night until we succeed. That's the way I look at it, and I reckon the rest of you are in the same boat." "If such a thing should happen, Thad," said Hugh, sturdily, "we'll simply turn around and come back again; only, under the new conditions, some of you will have to turn out with the lanterns, and search alongside the road as we go slowly along." Horatio gave a gasp that was plainly audible. "Do you really mean, Hugh," he went on to ask, in a voice that trembled more or less despite Horatio's effort to control the same, "that you half expect to find K. K. lying alongside the road, either dead, or else insensible from the pain of his broken leg?" "Well, I wasn't just thinking things would be as bad as all that," Hugh hastened to say. "What I had in mind was the chance of coming on his footprints, and then trying to follow the same. We could easily tell them, for K. K. had on his running shoes, you remember. By tracking him, step by step, don't you see, we could tell just where he met with his trouble, even find out, perhaps, the nature of his accident, and continue to follow him up." "That would suit me first rate," said Julius, promptly; "and my fine electric hand-torch might come into play with a vengeance. There's nothing better going for following a trail in the dark, because the light is focussed, you see, on a small compass. Why, you can pick up night-walkers like everything when the fishing season's on, by using a flashlight. I could even find a needle in a haystack, I believe, with one of these jim-dandy contraptions." "All right, Julius, we'll appoint you head tracker, then," chuckled Horatio. "But, after all, perhaps we'll run across our comrade yet, before we get out of this tangle. We're about to come to the most critical point of the entire trip, remember, for the old quarry is just ahead of us." Horatio chanced to be on the side of the car toward the quarry. He was not spending nearly so much time now looking ahead, leaving that task to his chums; even while talking he kept his eyes fixed upon the dark expanse that represented the surrounding woods, anticipating catching a glimpse of something, he hardly knew what, at any moment now. Doubtless all those silly yarns retailed by the ignorant gossiping farm-hands in the market-place in Scranton, while they tried to outdo one another in matching fairy stories, must have been circulating through Horatio's brain just then. The heavy atmosphere of the deserted stone quarry, and its lonely surroundings, added to the mysterious disappearance of K. K., combined to make him peculiarly susceptible to such influences as see ghosts in every white object that moves in the darkness. This being the case with the Juggins boy it was not to be wondered at that there could be traced a vein of actual gratification in his voice when he suddenly electrified his companions by exclaiming: "Hugh! fellows, I tell you I saw it right then, just as that Swanson farmhand vowed to me he did once on a time this last summer--it was a light, waved up and down, back and forth, and just like they teach you when you join the Signal Corps, and learn how to wigwag with a flag or a lantern. It came from right over yonder, where we all know the old quarry lies! And I'm not fooling, either; cross my heart if I am!" CHAPTER XV PROWLING AROUND THE QUARRY Everybody was staring hard by the time Horatio finished. Hugh, of course, had immediately stopped the car on the road, so that they were now stationary. It chanced that the spot was one of few where a glimpse of the quarry could be picked up, as the boys had discovered at the time they passed along this way, when we overtook them on their nutting trip. Seconds crept past. Each boy could measure time by the beating of his wildly accelerated heart, and as these were throbbing at the rate of something like a hundred pulsations per minute it can be easily understood that "things were going some," to quote Horatio, when afterwards telling the story. Then all of them saw what the first discoverer had attempted to describe. They stared as though fascinated. Truly Horatio had said well when he spoke of the odd movements of the mysterious light; for it moved swiftly up and down, then sideways, and in eccentric circles, after which it vanished as suddenly as it had come into being. Some of the boys sighed, as though being wakened from a dream. Horatio, of course, was full of deepest gratification, since he had detected a skeptical air in the actions of Thad and Owen, which seemed to place him in the light of one who "saw things where none existed." "There, didn't I tell you?" he exclaimed, triumphantly. "And, say, wasn't that--eh, party, whoever he might be, making some sort of telegraphic signals with his old lantern or torch?" "Hugh, what do you think?" demanded Thad. "You're up in all that kind of wigwag signal work, and perhaps now you could tell what it means." "I lost some of it, I'm sorry to say, fellows," observed Hugh, gravely; "but all the same I caught enough to tell me that waving of a light was meant as a signal message, though who sent it, and to whom, is all a mystery." "But could you make out enough of the message, Hugh, to give you any idea what it stood for?" persisted Thad. "Yes, I believe I did," the other admitted, solemnly, so that each of his chums bent closer to catch the next words that fell from his lips. "I'm certain it spelled out the word 'help,' for one; and I thought another was 'quick'!" "Oh! what do you think of that?" gasped Horatio. "The mystery deepens," added Owen, dramatically, just as he had probably been accustomed to reading in some story of excitement. "Of course," continued Hugh, immediately, "we've got to take a look around that same old quarry, and see what's going on. Somebody's holding the fort there, even if it is said to be deserted. Who and what he can be, of course, remains to be seen; but I'm not taking a bit of stock in those old wives' yarns about a ghost, remember, Horatio." "Then we'll have to leave the car on the road, won't we, Hugh, when we tackle this big job?" questioned Owen. "Of course; and since I marked the best spot where anyone could make their way along to the face of the quarry, we must start up again, and keep moving till we strike that place." "But, Hugh, do you think the--er--party making those signals with a light could have noticed our illumination, and that message was meant for us?" Horatio went on to ask, solicitously. "I'm not prepared to say," he was told, "though I don't see how anybody with eyes could miss discovering us coming along. And, besides, the old car makes plenty of noise in the bargain, to attract attention. So it looks as if he did know, and was trying to talk to us." All this only added to the thrill that was forever passing through each and every member of the night expedition. It would be manifestly impossible to describe their mixed feelings as they advanced slowly along the rough road so long abandoned to nature. A dozen times Horatio believed he heard cries; why, it seemed as though the air must be filled with uncanny sounds, for his lively imagination was working at race-horse speed just then. The car stopped short. "Wow! what's happened now, Hugh?" whispered Horatio. "We've arrived at the getting-out place, that's all," came the steady reply, as the chauffeur caused the engine to cease working and then proceeded to leave his seat, after his companion had jumped out. The lanterns were now lighted and the electric torch made ready for use. If hands trembled considerably during this operation, causing several matches to be used before the desired results were obtained, could anyone blame Owen and the other possessor of a lantern? It was a most remarkable thing that no one evinced the slightest disposition to stay by the car, and guard it against thieves. It was a case of "follow the leader," and where Hugh went they were all bound to go also. To be honest, the chances were that Horatio, for one, could not have been coaxed to separate himself from the company of his four chums; because there was a great deal of truth in that old maxim, "in union there is strength." Hugh now led the way. He had been given one of the lanterns with which to light a passage across the heaps of broken stones, earth, and rubbish, cast there at the time in the remote past when the quarry was in full blast, with workmen delving into the hillside, blasting away sections through the use of dynamite or powder, and sending out many wagon-loads of building-stone each of the six working days of the week. They did not string out in single file, but kept bunched together. Indeed, this came through no accident, but there was a method in their madness; because, you see, no fellow would want to be the hindmost in the file. Hugh showed a wonderful amount of knowledge of the place, considering that he had never before in his life placed a foot upon the ground and had to depend entirely on his former observations. But he kept on as straight as could be expected, and presently Owen managed to muster up courage enough to say in a low and most carefully guarded tone: "Hugh, did you take note of the _exact_ spot where the light showed up? I'm asking because you seem to be heading direct for somewhere." "I believe I know where it was," Hugh told him simply. "You see, I noted several things about the face of the quarry that day we stopped to look it over; and when I saw that dancing trail of fire I figured out that it must be at just such a place, which spot I'm heading for right now. And just as you spoke I had ample proof that I was right in my guess." "Why, what happened, Hugh?" demanded Horatio eagerly. "I caught a faint glimpse of light up there," Hugh told him. "I wonder none of the rest of you happened to notice the same. It made me think that some person might be in one of those holes we saw in the face of the wall--caves, the natives call them, Horatio says. As this was somewhat deep only a tiny bit of illumination escaped, and you could just detect that when at a certain angle. Stop short, now, and see for yourselves, for there it is again!" Thrilled to the bone they stood and gaped. Hugh was pointing with his disengaged hand, half holding the lantern back of him so that its glow might not further interfere with their view. "You're right, Hugh; that's surely what it is," agreed Thad, almost immediately; and each of the other three went on record with a corresponding affirmative. "Then the next thing for us to do is to find some way of climbing up to that same fissure," the leader explained, showing that he meant to lose no time in trying to open negotiations with the unknown denizens of the quarry, whose actions were becoming more and more mysterious as time passed. "Which means that we're going to beard the tiger in his den," quoth Owen, gripping his gun more firmly as he edged a little closer to Hugh; for since he was the only member of the expedition who could be said to possess a weapon it was proper that he should be found in the van at such a crisis. They walked on, not hastily, and showing no outward sign of the tumult that must have raged in each boyish heart. Now it was no longer possible for them to discern that faint glow; but such a little thing did not daunt them. Hugh had marked well the exact location of their objective point, and Hugh seldom made mistakes, those other confident fellows were telling themselves as they cheerfully trudged along. The foot of the cliff was at hand. Rains and winds and snow avalanches had, during the years that had passed since the hands of men worked those diggings, served to cut loose great quantities of debris from the face of the height, so that here and there at the foot irregular pyramids of earth and rocks could be seen. Hugh now seemed to have turned his attention from above and was bending half over, as though examining the ground. Owen knew what this meant. The other anticipated finding a track leading directly to the route by means of which that cavern halfway up the cliff might be easiest attained. And, as often happens, such reasoning proved to be the wisest thing the searchers could have undertaken, for hardly had half a minute elapsed than Hugh was heard to give vent to a low ejaculation of gratification. No one spoke, but they understood that he had found the trail he was looking for. Indeed, he at once started to move along, still bending over, and holding his lighted lantern low, so that its none too good illumination would best serve him. Now they reached a sort of strange little gully, where the silt had washed down more heavily during the period of erosion than at any other place. Looking up, the boys could see that it afforded a steep but accessible avenue by means of which an agile person could ascend the otherwise impregnable height towering above their heads. Hugh halted not, but started up. Owen came close behind him, holding that formidable shotgun so that he could thrust it ahead of his leader should an occasion arise necessitating action. But Hugh had already warned him not to be rash, and under no condition to dream of firing until he himself had given the order. It was a queer little procession that crept up that steep trail in the gully formed by Nature during the heavy storms of summer and winter. The twin lanterns glimmered and flickered as the night wind puffed the tiny blazes; and ahead of all lay the white glow of the electric hand-torch, showing them how they were now almost at the end of their trail. Yes, the fissure extended straight into the face of the cliff. Hugh was taking them directly to the place where undoubtedly the mysterious unknown had stood on a sort of rocky platform, and indulged in all those queer telegraphic code motions with a light of some sort. CHAPTER XVI A FRIENDLY GHOST Hugh led the way straight into the fissure. As they proceeded they could see the light ahead growing stronger. Low sounds, as of voices, also led them onward; and then, upon turning a bend, they came upon a sight that had them all staring with wonder. It was indeed a cave, and of considerable dimensions. A wild beast would have delighted in such a den in which to hide from the rigors of winter, but to boys accustomed to the luxuries of home life it would doubtless have few attractions, especially after the novelty of camping-out had worn off in a week's time. It was a fire that burned which gave the light. A pile of dry wood, mostly broken branches of dead trees, showed that the occupant of the cave had laid in a supply against a rainy day. There, sitting with his back against the wall, was their missing comrade K. K. His face looked unusually white, and bore an expression of acute pain, which, however, he manfully tried from time to time to dismiss by a ghastly grin, altogether assumed, since he certainly was in no mood for laughing. They could see that his left leg was bandaged in some manner, as though he might have broken the bones, and someone had tried to bind up the limb. Even with that superficial glance Hugh marked the fact that this had been done in a fashion indicating considerable previous experience along such lines. And then they turned their attention upon the other party, the mysterious one who doubtless had found poor K. K. helpless on the ground and borne him to this cavern in the quarry. He was indeed a wild-looking party, with long, unkempt hair and a sunburnt face in which his glowing eyes were deep-seated. There was that about him to convince Hugh instantly he must be deranged, although just then the man bent over poor K. K. solicitously, and seemed to be tenderly doing something calculated to ease his pain. Hugh coughed, meaning to draw attention to the fact of their arrival. The man immediately stood up and bent a searching look upon the five lads. Perhaps he had been hearing K. K. tell how some of his chums would certainly be coming to search for him, and, therefore, even though he might wish to remain in his hidden retreat undisturbed, he manifested no hostility toward them, simply folded his arms and, stepping back, watched their approach. Hugh made gestures to indicate that they were peacefully disposed. In doing so he purposely used the signal code and spelled out the one word, "friend." He saw the wildman's thin face take on a sudden gleam of awakened interest, and he nodded his head in the affirmative, as if to reassure Hugh that they were not unwelcome. From this the boy knew the stranger must at some time have been in the army, and that even while his brain was resting under a cloud he could still send and receive messages such as had been at one time his daily avocation. They reached the side of their unfortunate companion. He held out a hand to welcome Hugh. "Oh! I'm mighty glad you've come, fellows, I can tell you," he told them, with a tremor in his voice. "I've had a rotten time of it all around, and suffered terribly. You see, I made a fool of myself, and tripped over a vine, so that I was thrown into a gully, with my left leg under me. Snapped both bones, he says, just above the ankle, and a fine time I've got ahead of me this winter, with no skating, hockey, or anything worth living for. But then it might have been worse, because my neck is worth more to me than my ankle. But now I do hope you can get me home. I never wanted to see home and mother one-half as much as now." "Yes, we've come in the big car, K. K.," Hugh assured him. "And we'll fetch you home right away. You ought to be looked after by Doctor Wambold; broken bones are not things to be trifled with, and while this party seems to have done the best he could it can only be a makeshift." "Don't you believe it, Hugh," said the injured boy warmly; "why, he's a regular jim-dandy about such jobs. I bet you he used to be an army surgeon in his younger days, from hints he's let drop. And then he knows the Signal Corps work right off the handle to boot, even if--well, I won't say what I meant to. He's been so kind and considerate to me; my own father couldn't have been more tender. I've guessed the secret of the old haunted quarry, Hugh!" which last he almost whispered in the other's ear. "Yes, I can say the same," muttered Hugh, "because, as soon as I saw that he was using the regular army code of signals, I remembered about hearing how a certain family over near Hackensack had an uncle who used to be in the Signal Corps and was also later on an army surgeon, but who had suffered a sunstroke, and, well, was said to be a bit queer." "Yes," whispered K. K., "this is the same party. His name, I remember, was Dr. Coursens, and there was some talk last summer about his having got loose from the house and being drowned, they believed, in the river, though his body was never found. Just to think of it, he's been hiding here ever since, picking up his living almost like a wild animal. Why, right now his clothes are nearly falling off his back, and if he tries to hang out here much longer he'll be frozen to death. But, Hugh, we must let his folks know where he is so they can come after him. I believe, his mind is beginning to get a little clear again, for at times he talks quite reasonably." This was all mighty interesting to Hugh, and he determined that he would let no grass grow under his feet until he had seen to it that the man with the deranged mind was once more restored to his family. But the first thing to be done was to get poor K. K. safely back home. So he turned to the man and spoke to him, telling him that they wished to get their comrade to the car, and at the same time thanking him warmly for all he had done. Not a single word in reply did Hugh receive. The man listened and nodded his head, as though he could dimly understand what the boy was saying. Evidently he was in something of a dazed condition, if, as K. K. affirmed, his senses were beginning to assume a normal condition after years of darkness. It was a terrible job getting K. K. down from that elevated place. The man showed them how best to manage. He seemed really solicitous, and it could be seen that he had taken quite a liking to K. K. during their brief intercourse, since the latter had been found groaning on the ground. Eventually the level below the cliff was attained. Poor K. K. had groaned many times, hard though he fought to repress the sounds, for it was unavoidable that he should receive many jostlings while being transferred to the lower level. Then they made their way across the open space, and finally arrived at the waiting car, in which the injured youth was deposited and made as comfortable as the conditions allowed. The deranged man watched all this with a wistful gleam in his eye. He had fled from his kind while still gripped in the darkness of madness, but with the first glimmer of reason being seated once more on its throne he commenced to yearn after human fellowship again. Since the boys had all taken such a deep-seated interest in the matter it may be proper before the "ghost" of the haunted quarry is dropped altogether from the story to state that the very next morning Hugh went over to Hackensack and electrified the Coursen family with certain remarkable news he brought. It ended in their all starting forth and arriving at the quarry. They found the demented man awaiting their coming as though he had guessed what Hugh had in his mind. More than that he greeted them soberly, and called each member of the family by name, something he had not been able to do since that dark cloud descended upon his mind years back. There seemed reason to believe that in due time Doctor Coursen might regain his full senses again and spend a few years more with his delighted relatives before the end came. Hugh, of course, learned all about him and how he had served years in the army, first as a sergeant in the Signal Corps, and later on becoming a surgeon of considerable reputation before the accident in the tropics deprived him of his reason. Perhaps it had been the utterly helpless condition of poor K. K., when he came accidentally upon the injured boy, that had strongly appealed to the surgical spirit that still lay dormant in the brain and fingers of the insane man and which had been the main cause of the light of reason returning--surgery had been his passion, and the familiar work took him back to other days, apparently. And that very night, when Doctor Cadmus, hastily summoned to the home of Mrs. Kinkaid, examined the work of the deranged dweller of the quarry cave, he had pronounced it simply marvelous the clever way in which the other had set those bones and put a splint on the leg, with such clumsy means for working at hand. He declared he meant to interest himself deeply in the case and see if such a skillful surgeon might not be restored to the world so much in need of his kind, with the terrible war raging on the other side of the Atlantic. To conclude with this subject, at last accounts Dr. Coursen had so far recovered as to send in his application for a berth in some hospital over in France, where his wonderful knowledge of surgery might prove useful to the countless wounded men at the front. And doubtless ere this reaches the eye of the reader he may be across the Atlantic, serving humanity in the great cause. Long would those five lads remember that strange expedition up to the haunted quarry, and what a remarkable discovery they made after arriving on the ground. It may be that Horatio, yes, and Julius also, would be less apt to clothe anything along a mysterious nature with ghostly attributes, after learning how common-sense and investigation will, in nearly all cases, turn suspicion into ridicule. But while the country folks, of course, also learned how the phantom of the quarry had turned out to be just a crazy man who had escaped from his confinement at home and gone back to primeval ways of living, few of them would ever muster up the courage to visit the deserted quarry after nightfall. It had too many thrilling associations to please them; and besides, what was the use of going out of their way just to feel the "goose-flesh" creep over their bodies when an owl hooted, or some little forest animal gave a grunt? K. K., being young and healthy, and attended carefully by good old Doctor Cadmus, was not confined to the house for many weeks. The bones did not require resetting, and rapidly knitted, so that after a while he could walk to and from school with the aid of a crutch; and later this, in turn, gave way to a cane. When February came he even threw this aid aside, and by March was seen taking his part in school rushes, as though he had never been injured at all. But his skates were never once used all winter, nor could he indulge in any sledding, both of which were favorite pleasures with K. K. On the whole, however, he felt that he had much to be thankful for; and tried not to be too greatly disappointed. But his chums would miss him when the Marathon race was on; because he had been accounted one of the best long-distance runners without exception that Scranton High could boast. CHAPTER XVII SCRANTON'S "OPEN-HOUSE" DAY Saturday opened with a promise of fair weather, and thousands of anxious hearts beat high with satisfaction when this important fact became manifest. Before the morning was half over many strangers were noticed in town, having taken the day off in order to attend the wonderful meet, of which so much had been said. Every boy in Scranton was wild-eyed, and on the run most of the time, trying to be here, there, and in half a dozen places at once, if such a thing were possible. Indeed, there was so much going on it reminded some people of the famous circus that visited the town two years back, with three separate rings, and something taking place in each at the same time; so that the spectators hardly knew how to take it all in and keep from being cross-eyed. Out at the athletic grounds there were crowds gathered. Men were working at the fence, while another gang, under the orders of Mr. Leonard, carefully put in place such paraphernalia as would be needed in carrying out the programme. Even the big pole had been well greased for the climbing match; while the hurdles for the obstacle race were ready to be placed in position at the proper time; and a thousand and one other matters engaged the attention of the physical director, who was probably the most industrious man in seven counties that Saturday A.M. Nor was that all. Some of the would-be contestants, not wholly satisfied with their record for proficiency, and wishing to key themselves up to top-notch speed against the now near hour of trial, were on the ground, and in their working togs. Here a bunch galloped swiftly around the cinder path, with one of their number holding the watch on them to ascertain what time they made. Further along several other fellows were jumping with might and main, and showing either jubilation or deep chagrin as they found themselves able to do a shade better than ever before, or else going backward in their scoring. Indeed, that was going to be a red-letter day in the lives of all Scranton's young people. They begrudged the passing minutes, because their period of enjoyment would be shortened just so much with the loss of every sixty seconds. When Hugh came on the grounds, after his trip to Hackensack, and seeing the hermit of the quarry once more safely lodged in the bosom of his delighted family, he had only one regret. This was the fact that poor K. K., whose heart had been so set on carrying the colors of Scranton High to victory in the Marathon race, should be debarred from participating in the same by a cruel fate. As for himself Hugh was not quite so certain as before that he could accomplish such a thing as getting over those fifteen miles ahead of all competitors. What he had gone through with on the preceding day, coupled with his night journey, and only partial rest, after getting in bed at a late hour, had sapped some of his energy. But Hugh's grit and determination were just as strong as ever, and he meant to do his level best. If he fell down, why, there were "Just" Smith, and Horatio Juggins, as well as two other Scranton fellows, any one of whom might be the winner. So long as the prize fell to a Scranton High boy, it mattered little who carried off the honors, Hugh felt. Noon came at last. Everything was now ready for the opening of the athletic tournament. Chief Wambold kept watch and ward over the grounds, assisted by his entire force of uniformed men. He evidently did not intend that any boy, with a mind that turned to practical joking, should have a chance to exercise his evil propensities unchecked. Should such a thing be attempted the joker would find himself up against a snag immediately; and, as those posters announced, he was going to be harshly dealt with up to the "extreme penalty of the law." There were hundreds of people on the grounds at noon, which was a pretty good marker for the immense crowds that would soon be heading that way from every point of the compass. Most of these "early birds" were, of course, out-of-town folks, farmers' families that had come in, to market, perhaps, and they stayed over to see the great show, because everybody living for many miles around Scranton had heard about the meet, and and what a wonderful sight it would be, well worth going miles to gaze upon. These thrifty and sensible folks had, in many cases, brought their lunch along with them. Perhaps they disliked the idea of eating in small restaurants, such as Scranton, like most towns, boasted; but, no doubt, the main thing was economy in these times of scanty cash and inflated war prices. It was well worth watching when they started to open their packages, and spread out the contents on the ground or, as might be, on the benches where they had taken up their positions the better to see what went on. And really it would have made any boy's mouth water to note the immense quantities of home-made pies, doughnuts, fried chicken, and all such good things as were displayed in those farmer's wives lunch packets. At least there must be no sign of hard times when the family went on a picnic, or any other sort of pleasure jaunt. By then the crowds began to assemble in earnest. Town people, fearing a crush, hastened to leave home with the lunch dishes unwashed, and look for places to sit during the long afternoon. Along the roads every type of car, wagon, carriage, and other styles of equipages began to be seen, all heading toward the center of interest, which was the town of Scranton. Hundreds came from Allandale; indeed, it might be safe to even say thousands, for in every direction could be seen the colors of Allandale High, just as though each enthusiastic boy and girl had rounded up all their relatives and friends, and induced them to make it a point to travel to the neighboring borough, there to shout and shriek, and in other ways lend encouragement to each Allandale aspirant for athletic honors wherever they showed up. Belleville, too, must look very much like the "Deserted Village" on this particular afternoon; and, if the amount of business done depended on the few who had remained at home, her merchants would have to stay up until midnight in order to equal their customary Saturday sales. At half-past twelve the throng had become so dense that Chief Wambold and his men were compelled to enlist the services of a number of willing volunteers who, temporarily decorated with a silver shield, were vested with the authority of regular officers, in order to keep avenues open, and prevent the throng from breaking through the ropes upon the limited field where the athletes expected to compete. So far as attendance was concerned there was no longer the least doubt but that the meet would prove an abounding success; the rest remained to be proven. But the gathering athletes who began to appear in little knots, coming from the dressing rooms of the building, seemed full of confidence, and answered the loud salutes of a myriad of friends in the crowd with reassuring nods, and gestures calculated to buoy up their hopes. The programme would be varied. First would come several short sprints between the best runners of hundred-yard distances in the county. These were sure to key up the spectators by their thrilling intensity, as is always the case. Following fast upon these there would be hammer-throwing, and the toss of the discus. Then the programme called for other athletic exhibitions along a line that would lend variety, and enhance the interest, as the different schools struggled for supremacy in the arena provided, spurred on to do their utmost by ringing cheers, and the dearly beloved class songs. Everybody worth mentioning in Scranton would be there, from Dr. Carmack, the supervising head of the county schools, as well as principal of Scranton High, down the line to the Directors of the Games, the town council, the mayors of the three boroughs, and a whole host of notables besides. And how the fond eyes of father and mother would follow the movements of John, or Edward, or Philip, as though he might be the only young athlete worth watching in all that animated scene. If he won, they had always known he did not have an equal in his specialty; and should he be so unlucky as to come in at the heels of the pack, why, it was easy to be seen that he had not been given a square deal by some of the rival runners, who persisted in getting in his way, and were probably leagued together to prevent him from carrying off the prize. But no matter, he would always be a hero in the eyes of those who loved him, though he might not decorate the family mantel at home with the prizes he aspired to win. Hugh had kept fairly quiet after returning from Hackensack, and seeing the hermit once more safe in the charge of his folks. He knew that he must conserve his strength for the great undertaking that confronted him that afternoon. Those who had entered for the long-distance race would not be allowed, of course, to participate in any other event; that had been laid down as law by Mr. Leonard when they entered their names on the list of candidates. They must simply stand around and watch what was going on until the time came for staging the Marathon; when they could take their place in the long string that would await the pistol shot intended to start them on the telling grind. Horatio and "Just" Smith were on deck, looking fit and eager. Then, too, there was Nick Lang, with a grin on his heavy face every time he glanced toward the other three fellows. It was getting on, and some of the earlier events had already been carried through, amidst great roars of applause as the different prizes went, this one to an Allandale fellow, another to a boy wearing the Belleville High colors; and three in succession to local lads. "I don't exactly like the way that Nick Lang keeps on laughing to himself every time he looks over in this direction," Horatio was saying to the other two. "I've noticed the same thing," spoke up "Just" Smith; "and it makes me wonder if the tricky fellow hasn't got some slick game up his sleeve, as usual, looking to giving the rest of us trouble. You notice, don't you, boys, that, look as you will, you can't see anything of either that Tip Slavin, or Leon Disney. Now, when fellows who are as fond of outdoor sports as those two have always been, keep shy when such a great event as this meet is being pulled off, there must be a pretty good reason." "They may be somewhere in the crowd," Hugh went on to say, "because it'd be impossible for any single fellow to identify all that are in that solid heaving yelling mass of people. Nick believes he has a fair chance of leading the pack, and that makes him feel happy. I heard him say only yesterday that the one fellow he was afraid of in our whole bunch was K. K.; and now that accident has eliminated him, why, naturally, Nick feels more confidence. In imagination he's already receiving the grand Marathon prize, and hearing the crowds yelling themselves hoarse." "Well," snorted Horatio, gritting his teeth in a way he had when aroused, "if that's what pleases Nick he's got another guess coming; for three of us are also in the game; and he's got to do some mighty tall sprinting in that last half-mile if he expects to win out. Then there are a lot of other fellows in the run who may give him a pain. But, according to the programme, our race comes next after this pole vaulting contest; so, boys, we'd better be moving around, and getting our place in line, according to our several numbers." CHAPTER XVIII THE GREAT MARATHON RACE It was plainly noticeable how that vast crowd began to stir, and show signs of increased interest when the numerous trim runners entered for the big Marathon started to gather for the preliminary stage of the race. Each of the many contestants had a large number fastened upon both the front and back of his thin upper garment. By these they might be recognized even at a distance; and many persons carried field or opera glasses of various types just on purpose to make out who each runner was when he came in sight around the bend half a mile away, to open on that last stretch that was likely to see the cruelest work of all, if the competition chanced to be keen. The boys, as a rule, looked very much like lithe grayhounds, for your natural runner is light of body, and can course along like the wind. Still, this applies more to short-distance sprinters than those whose specialty is endurance in a fifteen- or twenty-mile race. Several of the fellows were quite muscular in build, and gave evidence of a grim determination such as the bulldog possesses. These chaps might be easily distanced in the start, but they would keep doggedly on, under the spur of the knowledge contained in that old adage that "the race is not always to the swift." Hugh Morgan was, perhaps, the best built of them all, neither too heavy, nor yet betraying a weakness that would crop out after the first five miles had been covered, as might be the case with the more slender fellows. They stood in line, listening to the last words of caution delivered by Mr. Hitchens, a former Yale man who had umpired the baseball games the preceding summer in such an impartial manner that everyone had the utmost reliance on his fairness. He explained to them the simple conditions of the race,--how there must be no fouling of any kind; just how often and where the contestants must register their names in books kept by judges on the course; how each was supposed to give his word of honor not to accept any sort of lift for even a dozen feet; and that the great crowd assembled would be waiting to acclaim the first-comer as the victor in the greatest long-distance race ever attempted by high-school boys, at least in that particular county. They were allowed a certain latitude as to their methods of running. If any of them could cut across lots, and still cover the entire course, as well as register faithfully wherever required, that was to be their option. Having finished his little fatherly talk, the referee stepped to one side, and gave the word for the runners to make ready. Every eye was glued on this or that contestant, according to the humor of the spectator. Each Allandale visitor saw only Allandale in that long line, swaying back and forth a trifle, like a reed shaken in the wind. They could not believe it possible that any other fellow had the slightest chance of coming in ahead of those fleet-footed boys upon whose ability they pinned their full trust. So it was with the Belleville rooters; while, of course, the natives were certain the prize was already as good as won by Hugh Morgan; or, it might happen to be, Horatio Juggins, "Just" Smith, or possibly Nick Lang, the last-named looking ever so confident, as he leaned over nearly double in his favorite crouch, his fingertips in contact with the ground, and his knees bent. Then came the sharp report of the pistol. "They're off!" involuntarily exclaimed a thousand persons in unison, as the line of nimble runners was seen to leap into action, and shoot away with amazing speed. There were a few little lively brushes in the start, before the runners settled down to real business. Some were immediately left behind, but this fact seemed to give them little concern, for they kept jogging away as though quite happy. Doubtless, a number had entered with no idea of covering more than a few miles of the long course. They just enjoyed the excitement, and the honor of being able to say they had once run in a fifteen-mile schoolboy Marathon race. After a bit these novices would drop out, perhaps even hasten back with various clever excuses for giving up; and having gained the cheers of their particular coterie of friends they could don a few more clothes to keep off the chill, and settle back to watch the rest of the entertainment. Their opinion would naturally be much sought after, as to the chances of this or that genuine contestant; which was one of the things they desired. As it takes considerable time for even fleet-footed runners to go over a fifteen-mile course, the sensible committee, who knew just about how long the crowd would have to wait, had provided plenty of amusement meanwhile. Interspersed with a number of minor events, such as further sprinting matches for younger entries, and some more pole vaulting, as well as Indian club exhibitions of skill, would come the humorous features of the meet. These are always popular with the country people; indeed, nearly everybody seems to welcome them as a diversion calculated to raise hearty laughter. There was also keen competition even in the potato race; and the crowd yelled itself hoarse to see the antics of those who met with all manner of mishaps when engaged in the hurdle, and the obstacle affairs. The boys who had engaged to try for these prizes seemed to "get their dander up," as some fellow expressed it, and the way they struggled and vied with one another was "equal to a circus with a brass band." Although mention may not have been made of the fact up to now, the Scranton band was giving of its very best from time to time, and the air throbbed with martial music suitable to a country just then at war with a foreign nation. It was a fair sort of band in the bargain, and well worth listening to; so that the music really added greatly to the enjoyment of the occasion. When the three-legged race was pulled off the spectators howled their sympathy with this or that pair of contestants as they hopped along, now rolling on the ground while bound together, and, at times, even trying to creep in desperation, when it seemed as though a difference of opinions in the two minds trying to control what was just the same as one pair of legs, caused confusion, and a lack of progression. Later on came the climbing of the greased pole. This is always comical enough, and aroused much enthusiasm. Nobody seems to be a favorite, and each successful attempt to mount is greeted with shrieks of laughter. So long as a valiant fellow is seen to be steadily making his way upwards, inch by inch, he may be applauded; but let him display the slightest hint of having "shot his bolt," and begin to slip back again, howls of derision will greet his ears, so that in confusion he finally gives it up, and retires in haste. All sorts of small means are resorted to in order to allow the contestant to get a surer grip on the slippery pole; for, up to a certain point, these are allowable. One rubs sand in his hands, and for a brief time this seems to enable him to do splendid work; but then it soon wears away, and then his troubles begin; until, unable to make further progress, he is seen to glance over his shoulder to note how far from the ground he has risen. This is a sure sign of weakening, and, of course, the watchful crowd again roars at him to keep right on, that he's doing nobly, and all that; but John knows better, and so down he comes with a rush, and passes out, shaking his head in disgust and bitter disappointment; for possibly he had been within five feet of the top when his energies failed him. So the time went on, merrily enough. Many persons were declaring they had not enjoyed such an afternoon for years, and felt weak from so much laughter. Watches were being consulted more and more frequently now. "It's getting time we saw something of those chaps," could be heard here and there, showing that numbers had figured things out, or else received a tip from an authority in the game as to just how long it was likely to take a fleet runner to cover fifteen miles of good road. Anxious eyes were being strained unduly, watching the bend half a mile beyond. It could be seen from almost any part of the field, fortunately, though once the big board fence was in position, the view would be partly cut off. It had been arranged, as is always done, that when a runner was sighted nearing the bend a gun would be fired by the sentry on duty there, to attract the attention of the crowd, so that they might have the first glimpse of the leading contestants, as they rounded that abrupt curve where the view was shut off. There was now nothing going on in the arena, the entire programme having been carried out. Still, few, if any, left their seats, although they had been there for several hours, it might be. The deepest interest centered upon the completion of the Marathon race. In comparison to this exhibition of school-boy endurance and pluck the other affairs seemed to sink into insignificance; although at the time they occurred doubtless those who had friends entered were wildly excited. But then the race that has already been finished is never as intensely interesting as the one in process of being run; just as the fish landed never seems quite so wonderful as the fellow who is still swimming the waters, and eyeing the baited hook as though tempted to take a hazard. Seconds seemed fraught with undue importance, and many impatient fellows, upon consulting their watches, were seen to hold the same up to their ear, as though to make sure the time-piece had not stopped, so leaden-footed did the minutes seem to move along. Some of the girls had commenced to sing their class songs, but in a mild sort of way; for they did not wish to lose the sound that would denote that a runner was in sight at the second bend, and could be expected shortly to come into view at the head of the last half-mile strip of road leading to the goal. Once an engine on the railroad not far away gave a sharp whistle that thrilled everybody, and numberless eyes were glued on the point up the road where the first runner must appear. Then a general laugh ran around because of the false alarm. But everything must have an end, and that keen anxiety finally met with its reward. Plainly came the heavy boom of the waiting gun. Everyone craned his or her neck to see. Hearts beat quicker with eager anticipation. Which one of the thirty contestants would be the first to appear? There might be several in a bunch, primed for the final sprint for goal. The very thought thrilled hearts, and added color to cheeks, as well as made eyes sparkle with anticipation. Allandale was not cheering now; Belleville rooters were strangely quiet; for, so far, the outcome of the great race was still wrapped in mystery; but the solution would soon come, they knew. Another heavy boom told that a second runner was just around the bend, and when a third discharge quickly followed the crowd knew there was going to be an exciting finish to the Marathon. Then a plainly audible sigh broke forth as the first runner was seen rounding the bend, and starting on the home stretch, but wabbling badly as he ran, being almost completely exhausted. CHAPTER XIX ON THE FINAL MILE OF THE COURSE Meanwhile, in order to understand certain important events that came about, it is necessary that we follow the runners, and devote this chapter to what occurred up to the time that first fellow came lunging around the final bend, having covered the whole course up to the final lap. For a mile or so along the road there were bunches of schoolboys and girls waiting to give some of the contestants a cheering word as they flashed past. The enthusiasts, however, would not linger long, for they likely enough wished to see the comical part of the programme carried out. Besides, once the runners had straggled past their posts the only interest remaining for them in the race was its conclusion. So they would want to get back to the grounds, and secure positions along the line to the first bend, where they could greet each contestant as he appeared, and cheer him on; for he would probably need encouragement, being near the point of exhaustion. Hugh had figured things out exactly, and knew what he could do. He was not alarmed because several of the visiting runners led the way, and even "Just" Smith had quite a little lead over him. Pegging along, Hugh covered mile after mile with a steadiness that he had reduced to machine-like motion. He had timed himself, and the whole course was mentally charted for his guidance. If he reached the cut-off road at a certain time he would know things were moving just as swiftly as necessary. Those boys who strained themselves in that first seven miles would be apt to rue their rashness when they began to feel their legs quiver with weakness under them, and still miles remained to be covered ere the goal came in sight. And, besides, they were sure to be in no condition for a hot final sprint, in case of keen competition. So Hugh, having registered as required at two booths on the way, and thus learned the order in which the trio ahead of him seemed to be running, finally arrived at the sunken quarry road. He recognized the landmarks before he reached the spot; and losing not a second of time darted among the trees. "Just" Smith was still leading him, for here and there he could distinguish the other's footprints, where the ground chanced to be a little moist. Hugh also had reason to believe that Nick Lang was coming strong not a great distance behind him. He wondered whether Nick meant to take advantage of the old quarry road as well as he and "Just" Smith, and Horatio in the bargain. For that matter Hugh did not care an iota; if Nick considered it would be to his advantage he was at liberty to benefit by this scheme of Hugh's. It was all for the glory of Scranton High; and far better that Nick won the prize, than that it should be taken by an Allandale, or a Belleville contestant--that is, if he won it honestly. Apparently, on the face of the returns, when half of the fifteen-mile course had been run, the victory was likely to be carried off by Whipple, the fleet-winged Allandale chap who had played right field during the baseball matches; "Just" Smith; himself; or possibly Nick Lang. There was always a dim and remote possibility, however, of a dark horse forging to the front on the home stretch. This might be Horatio Juggins, or McKee, or perhaps that Belleville runner, Conway, who had looked so confident when Hugh surveyed the line of eager faces at the start. Hugh remembered every foot of the way along that quarry road. He had a faculty for impressing features of the surrounding landscape on his mind, so that he could recall it at pleasure, just as though he held a photograph in his hand. Now he was drawing near the quarry itself, the loneliest and most gruesome stretch of the entire cut-off; with "Just" Smith still in the lead. Hugh felt proud of his chum, and often chuckled as he contemplated the other's supreme delight in case a fickle fortune allowed him to come in ahead; for honors of this sort were a rare thing in the past of the Smith boy; and certainly he had never before been so close to reaping such a colossal prize as the winning of the Marathon would be reckoned. Now Hugh glimpsed the quarry on one side of him. How his thoughts flew backward to marshal the strange events so recently happening there, in which he and some of his comrades had had the good fortune to participate. Just then he heard a plain groan. It gave him a little thrill, but not because he fancied there was anything supernatural connected with the sound. Looking in the direction from whence the groan came he discovered a boy sitting on the ground, and rubbing his lower extremities vigorously. It was "Just" Smith! Evidently something not down on the programme had happened to the boy who led the race across the quarry road. Hugh suspected treachery immediately. He turned aside, and sprang towards his chum. "Hey! what ails you, 'Just' Smith?" he called out, wasting some of his precious breath in the bargain. "This isn't the way to win a Marathon, don't you know? What if you have barked your shin?--forget all about it, and get moving again!" The Smith boy looked very sad, as he shook his face dolefully. "Huh! wish I could, Hugh," he hastened to mumble, still rubbing his shin, and making faces as though it hurt him considerably. "I've tried to run, but shucks; what's the use when you can hardly limp at the best? I'm through, Hugh, sorry to say. You keep on, and bag the prize; next to winning it myself I'd love to know _you_ took it away from that Whipple chap." "But--how did the accident happen, 'Just' Smith?" continued Hugh. "Accident nothing!" snapped the other, between his set teeth. "It was all a set-up game to knock one of us out of the race, I tell you. If you'd been leading at the time, why, that shower of rocks must have met you." "Rocks, did you say?" exclaimed Hugh, looking dark. Just then the sound of footsteps was heard. A runner went past them on the full tear. It was Nick Lang, and when he turned his face toward the two on their knees the wicked look on his grinning face told more eloquently than words how his brain had been the one to hatch up this miserable trick whereby he hoped to gain an advantage over one of his schoolmates who might happen to be leading him in the race. He vanished down the road, still running strong. "Just" Smith almost howled, he was so furious. "That's the chap who engineered this rotten game, I tell you, Hugh!" he snapped. "And chances are ten to one it was Leon Disney and that Tip Slavin who threw all those stones, and then ran away laughing, so I couldn't glimpse 'em. Say, I was struck in half a dozen places. I've got a lump on my head nearly as big as a hen's egg; and my elbow hurts like everything. I was so flustered that I must have got twisted in a vine, or else struck a root, for I fell, and barked my shin something fierce. I wanted to chase after the cowards, but knew it was silly to think of such a thing. Then I tried to keep on, but it wasn't any use, and I gave it up as a bad job. But Hugh, I hope you don't mean to let that skunk profit by his trickery. Please start off, and beat him out, if it takes a leg." "But I hate to leave you here, 'Just' Smith, much as I'd like to chase after Nick, because now he deserves to be beaten." "Oh! don't bother about me, Hugh. I'll try and get to the main road, even if I have to _crawl_. Later on you can come back for me in some sort of rig. Whew! but I'm as mad as a hatter because I've lost my fine chance, when I was going so strong, with plenty of reserve force held back." Hugh realized that duty called upon him to do as his chum demanded. It would be a shame if Nick Lang actually profited through such a rank act of treachery toward his fellows of Scranton High. An individual should be ready to sacrifice his school or its interests to his own personal ambition, and certainly never should it be allowed that he gain his ends through such a dastardly trick as the waylaying of another on the road, and his being assaulted, as "Just" Smith had been. "All right, I'll do it, then!" Hugh exclaimed, with a look of sudden determination. "Expect me back later on, old fellow! Bye-bye! Don't try to do too much, and hurt yourself worse!" With these words he sprang away. "Just" Smith gave him a parting cheer, that must have come a bit hard, owing to the pain he suffered, and also the bitter disappointment that wrung his boyish and ambitious heart. Hugh had but one thought now, which was to speed along at such a clip as to allow him to finally overtake and pass the treacherous Nick, and leave him in the lurch. The spur of punishing the other for such dastardly conduct was apt to prove an incentive calculated to add considerably to Hugh's running. Nick had the advantage, since he must be well on the way to the main thoroughfare by now; and once that was gained there was a clear field ahead of him. But one more registering station remained, and that was at a certain turn on the way home. Then would come the final three miles, with the pace increasing constantly, as those in the lead vied with each other to get ahead, or to retain that proud position. Hugh quickly regained the mastery over his aroused feelings. He must stay cool and collected so as to do exactly the right thing at the right time. A little slip in the way of judgment was likely to lose him the race, for he now learned as he gained the main road, that there were not only one but two competitors ahead of him. Yes, the fleet-footed Whipple had somehow managed to spin along over the ground, and was now not far behind Nick Lang. Possibly the fellow from Allandale had also secretly examined the course and discovered a cut-off on his own account, through means of which he anticipated gaining a great advantage over all the other runners in the Marathon. Hugh now set out to make steady gains. He must be within a certain distance of those two fellows by the time the last stretch was reached, or else all his hope of overtaking and passing them would be lost. He found that his powers of endurance and speed had not been misjudged, for they responded nobly when called upon for a further spurt. Now, he was greatly lessening the distance separating him from Whipple; who, in turn, seemed able to hold his own with Nick. The latter began to show the first signs of distress when they were at the beginning of the last two miles. He looked over his shoulder, and no runner ever is guilty of such an unwise proceeding unless his heart has commenced to be filled with grave doubts as to his being a winner. Again did Hugh notice Nick doing this, and he took fresh courage from the circumstance. Yes, and looking more closely he also saw that Nick was not running true to form any longer; he had begun to wobble more or less, as though unable to continue on in a straight line. That was another bad sign, since it causes the runner to cover unnecessary ground; and also indicates a weakening heart. Hugh let out another burst of speed. He was closing the gap rapidly; and, apparently, Whipple also seemed to be gaining on the almost played-out Nick. They were now within less than a mile of the finish; the last turn would soon be reached, with the gun booming out the fact of their arrival. Hugh girded his loins for a Garrison finish, and gloried in the conviction that he was in trim to do himself credit. CHAPTER XX THE BOY WHO WON--CONCLUSION "It's Nick Lang, as sure as anything!" shouted a boy who happened to possess an excellent pair of field-glasses. "Nick Lang in the lead!" howled another; "well, what do you think of that? Where, oh, where, oh, where is Hugh Morgan about this time; and 'Just' Smith in the bargain?" "But Nick is a Scranton High boy after all, and that's a heap better than to see an Allandale fellow come in ahead!" cried another near by. "Look! a second runner has turned the bend; and see how he is coming up on poor wobbly old Nick hand-over-fist!" "Hello! what's this mean?" whooped a visitor exultantly. "Surely I know the second fellow's build. It's certainly our great Whipple! He's going to cop the prize, boys! Give Whipple an Allandale yell right now to encourage him!" Even as a score of boyish throats roared in response to this entreaty a third runner was discovered rounding the bend. He appeared to be tearing along at race-horse speed, as though having a reserve stock of power upon which to call in this closing half-mile of the long race. "Hugh Morgan!" The words seemed to run like wildfire through the vast crowd. Everybody repeated them, some with a growing delight, others with a sense of impending disaster to the wild hopes they had been so ardently cherishing; all according to the viewpoint they held. Scranton's register was rising, while Allandale visitors began to feel something was on the verge of happening to crush the budding paean of victory that was ready to bubble from their lips. Nick evidently knew that he had shot his bolt. He, doubtless, tried frantically to encourage his legs to move faster, but they refused to hearken to the call. Whipple was now rapidly closing the short gap existing between them. At the same time it could be seen that the Allandale runner veered a trifle, as though to give Nick a fairly wide berth when passing. Plenty of fellows noticed this fact, nor did they wonder at it. The tricky character of Nick Lang was pretty well known, and they believed he would not hesitate about throwing himself sideways, so as to collide with Whipple when the other was in the act of passing him; although such a vindictive act could, of course, not better the position of the local runner a particle. When Whipple actually took the lead a great roar arose from thousands of throats. Doubtless many wild-eyed Allandale enthusiasts already counted the victory as won. They could be seen commencing to throw their hats and caps into the air, boy-fashion. Others, wiser, gripped their hands, and held their breath while waiting to see the actual finish of the great race. Of a truth Whipple was doing splendidly, there was no gainsaying that; but coming on back of him was one who appeared to be making much better time. Hugh was gaining fast, they could see. The only question that remained to be settled was whether Whipple had it in him to increase his pace sufficiently to cross the tape first; or, on the other hand, if Hugh Morgan was able to speed up still more, and close the gap. How the shouts rang out. Everybody seemed to be cheering madly at the same time. Men stood up, and waved their arms; girls embraced each other, though not an eye was turned away from that wonderful finish of the great Marathon race. Now, Hugh had apparently released his final effort. He was gaining faster and faster. Whipple seemed to know that he was in deadly peril. He, too, looked back over his shoulder in alarm, possibly meaning in desperation to almost burst a blood vessel if he found that his rival was about to overtake him. That proved his eventual undoing, though the result was no longer in doubt. He lost his balance, and, being so exhausted that he could not stand longer, pitched headlong to the ground, just as the fleet Hugh jumped into the lead, raced twenty steps further, broke the extended tape, and thus won the race. How the heavens seemed to fairly quiver with the roars that broke out! It had been a most thrilling finish for the greatest race ever run in all the country. Time might come and time might go, but never would those who had been so fortunate as to witness the conclusion of the Marathon forget the thrilling spectacle. Hugh bore his honors meekly. He utterly declined to let some of the Scranton fellows pick him up and bear him around on their shoulders, as they threatened to do. After the prizes had been duly awarded the assemblage broke up, and the roads leading out of Scranton were soon blocked with hundreds of vehicles of every description carrying home the visitors. Even Allandale and Belleville had no reason to be disappointed over the general results, for their young athletes had fared very well, all things considered. Of course, most of them would rather have seen the Marathon won by a representative from their school than to "scoop in" all the other prizes grouped together; but since it had to go to Scranton, they voiced the opinion of most people when they declared they were glad Hugh Morgan had won it, and not Nick Lang. Even though overwhelmed with congratulations on every hand, Hugh did not forget his promise to "Just" Smith. As soon as he could get into his street clothes he hunted a fellow who chanced to have his father's flivver handy, and easily won his consent to take him along the road in the direction of Belleville, in order to find poor "Just" Smith, and get him home again. This they did without any mishap, and it may be easily understood that the disappointed boy hailed their coming with great joy. He knew all about that gruelling finish of the big race in the bargain, some of those Allandale chaps passing by in vehicles having readily informed him as to the winner, and what a tremendously thrilling sight the finish had been. Of course, since "Just" Smith had not once glimpsed the figures of his assailants, and as conviction can hardly rest upon a burst of vindictive boyish laughter, there was no public denunciation of Nick Lang and his cronies. Everybody could give a good guess, however, as to who was guilty; and after that Nick was destined to feel himself more ostracized by his schoolmates than ever before. The great athletic tournament had proven to be a complete success, being marred by no serious accidents, for which many a devoted mother in Scranton gave thanks that same night, even though her boy may not have won undying fame through gaining a prize. Hugh himself was more than satisfied, though he would have been almost as well pleased had it been poor "K. K.," "Just" Smith, or Horatio Juggins who had won the big race, so long as the honor of Scranton High was upheld. That was to be the finish of the fall sports, but with winter so near at hand, and that vast field being put in order for flooding, it might readily be guessed the boys and girls of Scranton were in line for considerable more fun while Jack Frost held sway over his frozen dominions. That this supposition proved to be a correct one may be judged from the title of the fourth and following volume in this series, which can be had wherever boys' books are sold, and bearing the suggestive title of "The Chums of Scranton High at Ice Hockey; or, A Wizard on Steel Runners." Get it, if you have enjoyed reading about Hugh Morgan and his loyal comrades in this and previous books; you will find it just as deeply interesting as anything that has gone before, since the boys of Scranton enter upon a fresh line of healthy competition, this time upon the ice. THE END 
12691	----	THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END or Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron By H. Irving Hancock CONTENTS CHAPTERS I. Sulking in the Football Camp II. The Start of the Dodge Mystery III. Dick Stumbles on Something IV. The 'Soreheads' in Conclave V. At the End of the Trail VI. The Small Soul of a Gentleman VII. The Football Notice Goes Up VIII. Dick Fires Both Barrels IX. Bayliss Gets Some Advice X. Two Girls Turn the Laugh XI. Does Football Teach Real Nerve XII. Dick, Like Caesar, Refuses the Crown XIII. Bert Dodge "Starts Something" XIV. The "Strategy" of a School Traitor XV. A "Fear" for the Plotter XVI. "The Cattle Car for Yours" XVII. Facing the "School Cut" XVIII. "Prin." Gets in the Practice XIX. Laura and Belle Have a Secret XX. In the Line of Daring XXI. The Price of Bravery XXII. The Thanksgiving Day Game XXIII. Sulker and Real Man XXIV. Conclusion CHAPTER I SULKING IN THE FOOTBALL CAMP "Football is all at sixes and sevens, this year," muttered Dave Darrin disconsolately. "I can tell you something more than that," added Tom Reade mysteriously. "What?" asked Dick Prescott, looking at Reade with interest, for it was unusual for Reade to employ that tone or air. "Two members of the Athletics Committee have intimated to Coach Morton that they'd rather see football passed by this year." "_What_?" gasped Dick. He was staring hard now. "Fact," nodded Tom. "At least, I believe it to be a fact." "There must be something wrong with that news," put in Greg Holmes anxiously. "No; I think it's all straight enough," persisted Tom, shaking his head to silence Holmes. "It came to me straight enough, though I don't feel at liberty to tell you who told me." All six members of Dick & Co. were present. The scene of the meeting was Dick Prescott's own room at his home over the bookstore kept by his parents. The hour was about nine o'clock in the evening. It was Friday evening of the first week of the new school year. The fellows had dropped in to talk over the coming football season, because the week had been one of mysterious unrest in the football squad at Gridley High School. Just what the trouble was, where it lay or how it had started was puzzling the whole High School student body. The squad was not yet duly organized. This was never attempted until in the second week of the school year. Yet it was always the rule that the new seniors who, during their junior year, had made good records on either the school eleven, or the second eleven, should form the nucleus of the new pigskin squad. Added to these, were the new juniors, formerly of the sophomore class, who had shown the most general promise in athletics during the preceding school year. Gridley High School aimed to lead---to be away at the top---in all school athletics. The "Gridley spirit," which would not accept defeat in sports, was proverbial throughout the state. And so, though the football squad was not yet formally organized for training and practice, yet, up to the last few days, it had been expected that a finer gridiron crowd than usual would present itself for weeding, sifting and training by Coach Morton. The latter was also one of the submasters of Gridley High School. Since the school year had opened, however, undercurrent news had been rife that there would be many "soreheads," and that this would be an "off year" in Gridley football. Just where the trouble lay, or what the "kick" was about, was a puzzle to most members of the student body. It was an actual mystery to Dick & Co. "What is all the undermining row about, anyway?" demanded Dick, looking around at his chums. Dick was pacing the floor. Dave, Tom and Greg Holmes were seated on the edge of the bed. Dan Dalzell was lying back in the one armchair that the room boasted. Harry Hazelton was standing by the door. "I can't make a single thing out of it all," sighed Dan. "All I can get at is that some of the seniors and some of our class, the juniors, are talking as though they didn't care about playing this year. I know that Coach Morton is worried. In fact, he's downright disheartened." "Surely," interjected Dick, "Mr. Morton must have an idea of what is keeping some of the fellows back from the team?" "If he does know, he isn't offering any information," returned Harry Hazelton. "I don't see any need for so much mystery," broke in Dave Darrin, in disgust. "Well, there is a mystery about it, anyway," contended Tom Reade. "Then, before I'm much older, I'm going to know what that mystery is," declared Dick. "You're surely the one of our crowd who ought to be put on the trail of the mystery," proposed Dalzell, with a laugh. "Why?" challenged Prescott. "Why, you're a reporter on 'The Blade.' Now mysteries are supposed to constitute the especial field of reporters. So, see here, fellows, I move that we appoint Dick Prescott a committee of one for Dick & Co., his job being to find out what ails football---to learn just what has made football sick this year." "Hear! Hear!" cried some of the others. "Is that your unanimous wish, fellows?" asked Dick, smiling. "It is," the others agreed. "Very good, then," sighed Prescott. "At no matter what personal cost, I will find the answer for you." This was all in a spirit of fun, as the chums understood. Yet this lightly given promise was likely to involve Dick Prescott in a good deal more than he had expected. Readers of the preceding volumes in this series know Dick & Co. so well that an introduction would be superfluous. Those to whom the pages of "The High School Freshmen" are familiar know how Dick & Co., chums from the Central Grammar School, entered Gridley High School in the same year. How the boys toiled through that first year as half-despised freshmen, and how they got some small share in school athletics, even though freshmen were not allowed to make the school athletic teams, has been told. The pranks of the young freshmen are now "old tales." How Dick Prescott, with the aid of his chums, put up a hoax that fairly seared the Board of Education out of its purpose to forbid High School football does not need telling again. Our former readers are also familiar with the enmity displayed by Fred Ripley, son of a wealthy lawyer, and the boomerang plot of Ripley to disgrace Prescott and brand the latter as a High School thief. The same readers will recall the part played in this plot by Tip Scammon, worthless son of the honest old High School janitor, and how Tip's evil work resulted in his going to the penitentiary for the better part of a year. Readers of "_The High School Pitcher_" will recollect how, in their sophomore year, Dick and Co. made their first real start in High School athletics; how Dick became the star pitcher for the nine, and how the other chums all found places on the nine, either as star players or as "subs." In this volume also was told the story of Fred's moral disasters under the tyranny of Tip Scammon, Who threatened to "tell." How Dick & Co. were largely entitled to the credit for bringing the Gridley High School nine through a season's great record on the diamond was all told in this second volume. Dick's good fortune in getting a position as "space" reporter on "The Morning Blade" was also described, and some of his adventures as reporter were told. The culmination of Fred Ripley's scoundrelism, and his detection by his stern old lawyer father, were narrated at length. Perhaps many of our readers will remember, the unpopular principal of the High School, Mr. Abner Cantwell; and the swimming episode, in which every High School boy took part, afterwards meekly awaiting the impossible expulsion of all the boys of the High School student body. Our readers will recall that Mr. Cantwell had succeeded the former principal, Dr. Thornton, whom the boys had almost idolized, and that much of Mr. Cantwell's trouble was due to his ungovernable temper. During the first two years of High School life, Dick & Co. had become increasingly popular. True, since these six chums were all the sons of families in very moderate circumstances, Dick & Co. had been disliked by some of the little groups of students who came from wealthier families, and who believed that High School life should be rather governed by a select few representing the move "aristocratic" families of the little city. Good-humored avoidance is excellent treatment to accord a snob, and this, as far as possible, had been the plan of Dick & Co. and of the other average boy at the High School. "Let us see," broke in Dick, suddenly, "who are the soreheads in the football line?" "Well, Davis and Cassleigh, of the senior class, for two," replied Dave Darrin. "Dodge, Fremont and Bayliss, also first classmen," suggested Reade. "Trenholm and Grayson, also seniors," brought in Greg Holmes. "Then there are Porter, Drayne and Whitney," added Dave. "They're of this year's Juniors." "And Hudson and Paulson, also of our junior class," nodded Harry Hazelton. Dick Prescott had rapidly written down the names. Now he was studying the list carefully. "They're all good football men," sighed Dick. "All men whose aid in the football squad is much needed." "Drayne is the stuck-up chap, who uses the broad 'a' in his speech, and carries his nose up at an angle of forty-five degrees," chuckled Dan Dalzell. "He's the fellow I mortally offended by nicknaming him 'Sewers,' to mimic his name of 'Drayne.'" "That wouldn't be enough to keep him out of football," remarked Dave quietly. Dick looked up suddenly from his list. "Fellows," he announced, "I've made one discovery." "Out with it!" ordered Dan. "Perhaps you can guess for yourselves what I have just found." "We can't," admitted Hazelton meekly. "Please tell us, and save us racking our brains." "Well, it's curious," continued Dick slowly, "but every one of these fellows---I believe you've given me all the names of the 'soreheads'" "We have," affirmed Tom Reade. "Well, I've just noted that every fellow on my sorehead roll of honor belongs to one of our families of wealth in Gridley." Dick paused to look around him, to see how the announcement impressed his chums. "Do you mean," hinted Hazelton, "that the soreheads are down on football because they prefer automobiles?" "No." Dick Prescott shook his head emphatically. "By Jove, Dick, I believe you're right," suddenly exclaimed Dave Darrin. "So you see my point, old fellow?" "I'm sure I do." "I'm going to get examined for spectacles, then," sighed Dan plaintively. "I can't see a thing." "Why, you ninny," retorted Dave scornfully, "the football 'soreheads' have been developing that classy feeling. They wear better clothes than we do, and have more pocket money. Many of their fathers don't work for a living. In other words, the fellows on Dick's list belong to what they consider a privileged and aristocratic set. They're the Gridley bluebloods---or think they are---and they don't intend to play on any football eleven that is likely to have Dick & Co. and a few other ordinary muckers on it." "Muckers?" repeated Harry Hazelton flaring up. "Cool down, dear chap, _do_!" urged Darrin, soothingly. "I don't mean to imply that we really are muckers, but that's what some of the classy group evidently consider us." "Why, they say that Cassleigh's grandfather was an Italian immigrant, who spelled his name Casselli," broke in Dan Dalzell. "I believe it, son," nodded Dave. "Old Casselli was an immigrant and an honest fellow. But he had the bad judgment to make some money in the junk business, and sent his son to college. The son, after the old immigrant died, took to spelling his name Cassleigh, and the grandson is the prize snob of the town." "And Bayliss's father was indicted by the grand jury, seven or eight years ago, for bribery in connection with a trolley franchise," muttered Greg Holmes. "Also currently reported to be true, my infant," nodded Dave sagely. "But the witnesses against the elder Bayliss skipped, and the district attorney never brought the case to trial. Case was quashed a year later, and so now the Baylisses belong to the Distinguished Order of Unconvicted Boodlers. That trolley stock jumped to six times its par value right after the case against Bayliss was dropped, you know." "And, from what I've heard Mr. Pollock say at 'The Blade' office," Dick threw in, "the fathers of one or two of the other soreheads got their money in devious ways." "Why, there's Whitney's father," laughed Dan Dalzell. "Did you ever hear how he got his start thirty years ago? Whitney's brother-in-law got into financial difficulties, and transferred to the elder Whitney property worth a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. When the financial storm blew over the brother-in-law wanted the property transferred back again, but the elder Whitney didn't see it that way. The elder Whitney kept the transferred property, and has since increased it to a half million or more." "Oh, well," Dick interrupted, "let us admit that some of the fellows on the sorehead list have never been in jail, and have never been threatened with it. But I am sure that Dave has guessed my meaning right. The soreheads, who number a dozen of rather valuable pigskin men, are on strike just because some of us poorer fellows are in it." "What nonsense!" ejaculated Greg Holmes disgustedly. "Why, Purcell isn't in any such crowd. Of course, Purcell's father isn't rich beyond the dreams of avarice, but the Purcells, as far as blood goes, are head and shoulders above the families of any of the fellows on Dick's little list." "If that's really what the disagreement is over," drawled Dan, "I see an easy way out of it." "Go ahead," nodded Dick. "Let the 'soreheads' form the Sons of Tax-payers Eleven, and we'll organize a Sons of poor but Honest Parents Eleven. Then we'll play them the best two out of three games for the honor of representing Gridley High School this year." "Bright, but not practicable," objected Dick patiently. "The trouble is that, if two such teams were formed and matched, neither team, in the event of its victory, would have all of the best gridiron stuff that the High School contains. No, no; what we want, if possible, is some plan that will bring the whole student body together, all differences forgotten and with the sole purpose of getting up the best eleven that Gridley can possibly send out against the world." "Well, we are willing," remarked Darrin grimly. "No! No, we're not," objected Hazelton fiercely. "If the snobs don't want to play with any of us on the team, then we don't want to play if _they_ come in." "Gently, gently!" urged Dick. "Think of the honor of your school before you tie your hands up with any of your own mean, small pride. Our whole idea must be that Gridley High School is to go on winning, as it has always done before. For myself, I had hoped to be on the eleven this year. Yet, if my staying off the list will put Gridley in the winning set, I'm willing to give up my own ambitions. I'm going to put the honor of the school first, and myself somewhere along about fourteenth." "That's the only talk," approved Dave promptly. "Gridley must have the winning football eleven." "Well, the whole thing is a shame," blazed Reade indignantly. "Oh, well, don't worry," drawled Dan Dalzell. "Keep cool, and the whole thing will be fixed." "Fixed?" insisted Reade. "How? How will it be fixed?" "I don't know," Dan confessed, stifling a yawn behind his hand. "Just leave the worry alone. Let Dick fix it." "How can you fix it?" asked Reade, turning upon their leader. "I don't know---yet," hesitated Prescott. But, like Dan, I believe there's a way to be found." "Going?" asked Hazelton. "Well, I'll trot along, too." "Yes," nodded Greg. "It's a shame to stay here, hardening Dick's mattress when he ought to be lying on it himself. It's time we were all in bed. Good night, Dick, old fellow." Four of the boys were speedily gone. Darrin, however, remained behind, though he intended to stay only a few minutes. The two were earnestly discussing the squally football "weather" when the elder Prescott's voice sounded from the foot of the stairs. "Dick?" "Yes, sir," answered the boy, throwing open the door and springing to the head of the stairs. "Mr. Bradley, of 'The Blade,' wants to talk with you over the 'phone. In a hurry, too, he says. "I'll be right there, Dad. Coming, Dave?" Darrin nodding, the two chums ran down the stairs to the bookstore. Dick caught up the transmitter and answered. "That you, Dick?" sounded the impatient voice of News Editor Bradley. "This is Dick Prescott, Mr. Bradley." "Then, for goodness' sake, can you hustle up here?" "Of course I can." "Ask your father if you can take up a late night job for me. Then come on the jump. My men are all out, and everything is at odds and ends in the way of news. I can't get a single man, and I wish I had three at this minute." "Dave Darrin is here. Can I bring him along?" "Yes; he's not a reporter---but he may be able to help. Hustle." "I'll be walking in through the doorway," laughed Dick, "by the time you've hung your transmitter up. Good-bye." Ting-a-ling-ling! "Now, Dave, get your father on the jump, and ask his leave to go out on a late night story with me." Fortunately there was no delay about this. Dave received the permission from home promptly enough. The two youngsters set out on a run. What healthy boy of sixteen doesn't love to prowl late a night? It is twenty-fold more fascinating when there's a mystery on tap, and a newspaper behind all the curiosity. The longing of these sturdy chums for mystery and adventure was swiftly to be gratified---perhaps more so than they could have wished! News Editor Bradley was waiting for them in the doorway of "The Blade" office, a frown on the journalistic face. CHAPTER II THE START OF THE DODGE MYSTERY "This is the way it always goes," jerked out Bradley, as the two High School boys hurried into the office after him. "One of my men is sick, and the other two are somewhere---where, I can't find out." "All" his men sounded large enough; as a matter of fact, the only reporters "The Blade" employed were three young men on salary, and Dick Prescott, mainly as gleaner of school news. Dick didn't receive any salary, but was paid a dollar a column. "What's happening, anyway?" Dick asked coolly. "You know Theodore Dodge?" demanded Mr. Bradley. "I know him when I see him; he never talks with me," Prescott replied. "Theodore Dodge is the father of a fellow in our senior class at High School," Dave put in, adding under his breath, "and the son is one of our football 'soreheads.'" "Dodge has vanished," continued Bradley. "He went out early this morning, and hasn't been seen since. Tonight, just after dark, a man walking by the river, up above the bend, picked up a coat and hat on the bank. Letters in the pocket showed the coat to be Mr. Dodge's. The finder of the coat hurried to the Dodge house, and Mrs. Dodge hurriedly notified the police, asking Chief Coy to keep the whole matter quiet. Jerry (Chief Coy) doesn't know that we have a blessed word about this. But Jerry, his plain clothes man, Hemingway, and two other officers are out on the case. They have been on the job for nearly three hours. So far they haven't learned a word. They can't drag the river until daylight comes. Now, Prescott, what occurs to you as the thing to do?" "I guess the only thing," replied Dick quietly, "is to find Theodore Dodge." Mr. Bradley gasped. "Well, yes; you have the right idea, young man. But can you find Dodge, Dick?" "When do you go to press?" "Latest at four o'clock in the morning." "I think I can either find Theodore Dodge, or else find where he went to," Prescott replied, slowly. "Of course, that's brag---not promise." "You get us the story---straight and in detail," cried Bradley, eagerly, "and there'll probably be a bit extra in it for you---a good bit, perhaps. If Dodge doesn't turn up without sensation this is going to be our big story for a week. Dodge, you know, is vice-president and actual head of the Second National Bank." "Whew!" thought Dave Darrin, to himself. "It's easy enough for any suspicious person to imagine a story! But it might not be the right one." "Some time ago," asked Dick thoughtfully, "didn't you publish a story about some of the big amounts of insurance carried by local rich men?" "Yes," nodded Bradley. "I think you stated that Theodore Dodge carried more than any other citizen of Gridley." "Yes; he carries a quarter of a million dollars of insurance." "Is the insurance payable to his widow, or others---or to his estate?" "I don't know," mused News Editor Bradley, a very thoughtful look coming into his face. "Well, it's worth while finding out," pursued Dick. "See here, suppose Dodge has been using the bank's funds, and found himself in a corner that he couldn't get out of? Then, if the insurance money goes to his widow, it would be hers, and no court could take it from her for the benefit of his creditors. If it goes to the estate, instead, then the insurance money, when paid over, could be seized and applied to cover any shortage of the missing man at the bank." "So that-----?" interrogated the news editor, his own eyes twinkling shrewdly. "Why, in case---just in case, you understand---that Mr. Dodge has gone and gotten himself into trouble over the bank's funds, then it's probable that he has done one of two things. Either, in despair he has killed himself, so that either his widow or the bank will be protected. If the missing man didn't do away with himself, then probably he has put up the appearance of suicide in the hope that the officers of the law will be fooled of his trail, and that either a wronged bank or a deserted wife might get the insurance money. Of course, Mrs. Dodge might even be a party to a contemplated fraud, though that's not a fair inference against her unless something turns up to make it seem highly probable." "My boy," cried Mr. Bradley admiringly, "you've all the instincts and qualities of the good newspaper man. I hope you'll take up the work when you get through the High School. But now to business!" "Where do you want me to go? Where do you want me to take up the trail? Where it started, just above the river bend? That's out in the country, a mile and a half from here." "Darrin," begged the news editor, "won't you step to the 'phone and ring up Getchel's livery stable? Ask the man in charge to we want a horse with a little speed and a good deal of endurance." While Dave was busy at the wire Dick and the news editor talked over the affair in low tones. "With the horse you can cover a lot of ground," suggested Bradley. "And you're right about taking up the trail where it started. In half an hour, if you don't strike something big, you can drive back here on the jump for further orders. And don't forget the use of the 'phone, if you're at a distance. Also, if you strike something, and want to follow it further, you can have Darrin drive in with anything that you've struck up to the minute. Hustle, both of you. And, Darrin, we'll pay you for your trouble tonight." Horse and buggy were soon at the door. Dick sprang in, picking up the reins. Dave leaped in at the other side. The horse started away at a steady trot. "I hope those boys have brains enough not to go right past the story," mused Bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back to his desk. "But I guess Prescott always has his head squarely on his shoulders. He does, in school athletics, anyway. Len Spencer is the man for this job, so of course Len had to be laid up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him out tonight." Horse and buggy were soon at the door. Dick sprang in, picking up the reins. Dave leaped in at the other side. The horse started away at a steady trot. "I hope those boys have brains enough not to go right past the story," mused Bradley, gazing after the buggy before he went back to his desk. "But I guess Prescott always has his head squarely on his shoulders. He does, in school athletics, anyway. Len Spencer is the man for this job, so of course Len had to be laid up with a cold and fever that would make it murder to send him out to-night." "Dick," muttered Dave excitedly, "you've simply got to make good. This isn't simply a little paragraph to be scribbled. It's a mystery and is going to be the sensation of the day. This is the kind of story that full-fledged reporters on the great dailies have to handle." "Yes," laughed Dick, "and those reporters never get flurried. I'm not going to allow myself any excitement, either." "No, but you want to get the story---all of it." "Of course I do," Prescott agreed quietly. "If you do this in bang-up shape," Dave went on enthusiastically, "it's likely to be the making of you!" "How?" queried Dick, turning around to his chum. "Why, success on a big story would fairly launch you in journalism. It would provide your career as soon as you're through High School." "I don't want a career at the end of the High School course," Dick returned. "I'm going further, and try to fare better in life." "Wouldn't you like to be a newspaper man for good?" demanded Dave. "Not on a small-fry paper, anyway" replied Prescott. "Why, Bradley is news editor, and has been in the business for years. He gets about thirty dollars a week. I don't believe Pollock, who has charge of the paper, gets more than forty-five. That isn't return enough for a man who is putting in his whole life at the business." "Thirty dollars has the sound of pretty large money," mused Dave. "As for forty-five, if that's what Mr. Pollock gets, look at the comfort he lives in at his club; and he's a real estate owner, too." "Yes," Dick admitted. "But that's because Pollock follows two callings. He's an editor and a dealer in real estate. As for me, I'd rather put all my energies into one line of work." "Then you believe you're going to earn more money than Pollock does?" questioned Dave, rather wonderingly. "If I pick out a career for income," Dick responded, "I do intend to go in for larger returns. But I may go into another calling where the pay doesn't so much matter." "Such as what?" "Dave, old fellow, can you keep a secret?" "Bosh! You know I can." "A big secret?" "Stop that!" "Well, I'll tell you, Dave. By and by there are going to be, in this state, two appointments to cadetships at West Point. Our Congressman will have one appointment. Senator Alden will have the other. Now, in this state, appointments to West Point are almost always thrown open to competitive examination. All the fellows who want to go to West Point get together, at the call, and are examined. The fellow who comes off best is passed on to West Point to try his luck." "And you think you can prove that you're the brightest fellow in the district?" laughed Dave good-humoredly. "There are to be two chances, and I think I can prove that I'm one of the two brightest to apply. And Dave!" "Well?" "Why don't you go in to prove that you're the other brightest fellow. Just think! West Point! And the Army for a life career!" "I think I'd rather scheme to go to the Naval Academy, and become an officer of the Navy," returned Dave slowly. "The big battleships appeal to me more than does the saddle of the cavalryman." "Go to Indianapolis?" muttered Dick, in near-disgust. "Well, I suppose that will do well enough for a fellow who can't get to West Point." "Now, see here," protested Dave good-humoredly, though warmly, "you quit talking about Indianapolis. That's a favorite trick with fellows who are cracked on West Point. You know, as well as I do, that the Naval Academy is at Annapolis. There's a vacancy ahead for Annapolis, too." "Oho! You've been thinking of that?" demanded Dick, again looking into his chum's eyes. "Yes." "Yes; if I can come out best in a competitive examination of the boys of this district." "Two secrets, then---yours and mine," grinned Prescott. "However, it'll be easier for you." "Why?" "There aren't so many fellows eager to go to the Naval Academy. It doesn't draw as hard as the Army does." "The dickens it doesn't!" ejaculated Dave Darrin. "No; the Navy doesn't catch young enthusiasm the way the Army does. You won't have so many fellows to compete with as I shall," said Dick. "I'll have twice as many---three times as many," flared Darrin. "The Naval Academy is the only real and popular school in the United Service." "Well, we won't quarrel," laughed young Prescott. "When the time comes we'll probably find smarter young fellows ahead of us, headed for both academies." "If you do fail on West Point-----?" quizzed Dave. "_If_ I do," declared Dick, with a very wistful emphasis on that "if," "then, after getting through High School I'll probably try to put in a year or two of hard work on 'The Blade,' to help my parents put me through college. They're anxious to make me a college man, and they'd work and save hard for it, but I wouldn't be much good if I didn't try to earn a lot of the expense money. One thing I'm resolved upon---I'm not going to go through life as a half-educated man. It is becoming more true, every year, that there's little show for the man with only the half-formed mind." Then the two turned back to the subject that had brought them out on this September night---the disappearance of Banker Theodore Dodge. "In a minute or two we'll be in sight of the river bend," announced Darrin. "There it is, now," nodded Dick, slowing down the horse and gazing over yonder. "Some one is there, and looking hard for something." "Yes; I make out a couple of lanterns," assented Dave. "Well"---as Dick pulled in the horse---"aren't you going to drive over there?" "That's what I want to think about," declared young Prescott. "I want to go at the job the right way---the way that real newspapermen would use." CHAPTER III DICK STUMBLES ON SOMETHING A few moments later Dick Prescott guided the horse down a shaded lane. "Whoa!" he called, and got out. "What, now?" questioned Darrin, as his chum began to hitch the horse to a tree. "I'm going to prowl over by the bend, and see who's there and what they are doing." Having tied the horse, Dick turned and nodded to his friend to walk along with him. "You know Bradley told us," Prescott explained, "that the police do not know that Dodge's disappearance has leaked out to the press. Most folks in Gridley know that I write for 'The Blade.' So I'm in no hurry to show up among the searchers. I intend, instead, to see what they're doing. By going quietly we can approach, through that wood, and get close enough to see and hear without making our presence known." "I understand," nodded Darrin. Within two or three minutes the High School reporter and his chum had gained a point in the bushes barely one hundred and fifty feet away from where two men and a boy, carrying between them two lanterns, were closely examining the ground near the bank. One of the men was Hemingway, who was a sort of detective on the Gridley police force. The other man was a member of the uniformed force, though just now in citizen's dress. The boy was Bert Dodge, son of the missing banker, and one of the best football men of the senior class of Gridley High School. "It's odd that we can't find where the trail leads to," the eavesdroppers heard Hemingway mutter presently. "I'm afraid," replied young Dodge, with a slight choke in his voice, "that our failure is due to the fact that water doesn't leave any trail." "So you think your father drowned himself?" asked Hemingway, looking sharply at the banker's son. "If he didn't, then some one must have pushed him into the river," argued Bert, in an unsteady voice. "And I'm just about as much of the opinion," retorted Hemingway, "that your father left his hat and coat here, or sent them here, and didn't even get his feet wet." "That's preposterous," argued the son, half indignantly. "Well, there is the spot, right there, where the hat and coat were found. Now, for a hundred feet away, either up or down stream, the ground is soft. Yet there are no tracks such as your father would have left had he taken to the water close to where he left his discarded garments," argued Hemingway, swinging his lantern about. "We've pretty well trodden down whatever footprints might have been here," disputed Bert Dodge. "I shan't feel satisfied until daylight comes and we've had a good chance to have the river dragged." "Well, of course, it is possible you know of a reason that would make your father throw himself into the river?" guessed Officer Hemingway, with a shrewd glance at the son. "Neither my mother nor I know anything about my father that would supply a reason for his suicide," retorted Bert Dodge stiffly. "But I can't see any reason for believing anything except that my poor dad must now be somewhere in the river." "We'll soon be able to do the best that we can do by night," rejoined Hemingway. "Chief Coy has gone after a gasoline launch that carries an electric search-light. As soon as he arrives we'll go all over the river, throwing the light on every part of the water in search of some further clue. There's no use, however, in trying to do anything more around here. We may as well be quiet and wait." "I can't stand still!" sounded Dodge's voice, with a ring of anguished suspense in it. "I've got to keep hunting." "Go ahead, then," nodded the detective. "We would, too, if there were anything further that could be looked into. But there isn't. I'm going to stop and smoke until the launch heaves in sight." Both policemen threw themselves on the ground, produced pipes and fell to smoking. But Bert Dodge, with the restlessness of keen distress, continued to stumble on up and down along the bank, flashing the lantern everywhere. Presently Dodge was within sixty feet of where his High School mates crouched in hiding. Suddenly the livery stable horse, some four or five hundred feet away, whinnied loudly, impatiently. Natural as the sound was, young Dodge, in the tense state of his nerves, started and looked frightened. "Wh-what was that?" he gasped. "A horse," called Hemingway quietly. "Probably some critter passing on the road." "I wish you'd see who's with that horse," begged young Dodge. "It may bring us news. I'm going, anyway." With that, swinging the lantern, Bert Dodge started to cut across through the woods with its fringe of bushes. Dave Darrin slipped away, and out of sight. Before Dick could do so, however, young Dodge, moving at a fast sprint, was upon him. Bert stopped as though shot when he caught sight of the other boy. "Dick Prescott?" he gasped. "Yes," answered Dick quietly. "What are you doing here?" "I came to see what news there is about the finding of your father." Hemingway had now reached the spot, with the other policeman some yards to the rear. "You write for 'The Blade,' don't you?" challenged Bert. "Yes," Dick assented. "And 'The Blade' people sent you here?" cried Bert Dodge, in a voice haughty with displeasure. "Perhaps 'The Blade' sent me here," Dick only half admitted. "Sent you here to pry into other people's affairs and secrets," continued young Dodge impetuously. Then added, threateningly: "Don't you dare to print a word about this affair!" Dick looked quietly at young Dodge. "Did you hear me?" demanded Bert. "Yes." "Then what's your answer?" "That I heard you, Bert." "You young puppy!" cried Dodge, advancing threateningly. "Don't you address me familiarly." "I don't care anything about addressing you at all," retorted Prescott, flushing slightly under the insult. "At present I can make allowances for you, for I fully understand how anxious you are. But that is no real excuse for insulting me." "Are you going to heed me when I tell you to print nothing about my father's disappearance?" insisted young Dodge. "That is something over which you really have no control," Dick replied slowly, though not offensively. "I take all my orders from my employers." "You young mucker!" cried Bert, in exasperation. "You print anything about our family misfortunes, and I'll thrash you until you can't see." "I won't answer that," Dick replied, "Until you make the attempt. But, see here, Dodge, you should try to keep cool, and as close to the line of gentlemanly speech and conduct as possible." "A nice one you are, to lecture me on that subject," jeered Bert Dodge. "You---only a mucker! The son of-----" "Stop!" roared Dick, his face reddening. He advanced, his fists clenched. "If you're going to say anything against my father or mother, Bert Dodge, then stop before you say it! Before I break your neck!" "Stop, both of you," interjected Hemingway, springing between the white-faced High School boys. "No blows are going to be struck while members of the police department are around. Dodge, of course, you're upset and nervous, but you're not acting the way a gentleman should, even under such circumstances." "Then drive that fellow away from here!" commanded Bert. "I can't," confessed the officer. "He is breaking no law, and has as much right to be here as we have." "Oh, he objects to my saying anything against his father or mother, but he's out tonight to throw all manner of slime on my father's name," contended Bert Dodge. His voice broke under the stress of his pent-up emotion. "You're wrong there, Dodge!" Dick broke in, forcing himself to speak calmly. "I'm here to gather the facts on a matter of news, but I am not out to throw any insinuations over your father, or anyone whose good name is naturally precious to you. Sometimes a reporter---even an amateur one---has to do things that are unpleasant, but they're all in the line of duty." "'The Blade' won't print a line about this matter," raged Bert tremulously. "Mr. Ripley is my father's friend, and his lawyer, too. Mr. Ripley will go to your editor, and let him know what is going to happen if that scurrilous sheet-----" Here Bert checked himself, for Dick had begun to smile coldly. "Confound you!" roared Bert Dodge. He leaped forward, intent on striking the young junior down. But Officer Hemingway pushed Dodge back forcefully. "Come, come, now, Dodge, we won't have any of that," warned the officer. "And, if you want my opinion, you're not playing the part of a gentleman just now. Prescott understands your state of mind, however. He knows you're so upset, your mind so unhinged by the family trouble that you're doing and saying things that you'll be ashamed of by daylight." "I suppose, next, you'll be inviting this reported fellow to go on the boat with us when it comes," sneered Bert Dodge. "That would be for the chief to say. Reporters are, usually, allowed to go with the police. Come, come, Dodge," urged Hemingway, laying a kindly hand on the young man's shoulder, "calm down and understand that Prescott is not offering to make any trouble, and that he has been very patient with a young fellow who finds himself in a heap of trouble." "I can cut this short," offered Dick quietly. "I don't believe it would be worth my while, Mr. Hemingway, to ask the chief's permission to go on the boat with you. 'The Blade' can find out, later, whether you discover anything on the river." "Where are you going, now?" demanded Bert unreasonably, as Prescott turned away. "Back to the horse and buggy," Dick replied coolly. "Then I'm going with you, and see you start back to town," asserted Bert Dodge. Hemingway did not interfere, but, leaving his brother policeman at the river's edge, accompanied young Dodge. In a few minutes they arrived at the spot in the lane where Dick had tied the horse. Here they found Dave Darrin seated in the buggy. Dave glanced unconcernedly at them all, nodding to Hemingway way, who returned the salutation. "Now, I'll watch you start away from here," snapped Bert. "All right, then," smiled Dick, climbing in, after unhitching, and picking up the reins. "I won't keep you long." With that, and a parting word to the policeman, Dick Prescott drove away. "I saw Hemingway coming, and knew you wouldn't need me," Dave explained with a laugh. "So, to save Bert a double attack of nerves, I slipped off in the darkness, and came here. But what on earth ails Dodge, anyway?" "Why, for one thing, he's worried to death about the disappearance of his father," replied Dick Prescott. "I've seen people awfully worried before, and yet it didn't make madmen of them," snorted Darrin. "Well---perhaps-----" Dick hesitated. "Well----?" Darrin insisted, rather impatiently. "I'm half inclined to think that Bert Dodge has been leading the soreheads who sulk and won't play football in the same team with some of us common fellows," Dick laughed. "If so, the very fact of my being sent to look into the news side of his father's disappearance would make Bert feel especially sore at me." "By George, you've hit the nail right on the head there," cried Dave. "That's the trouble. Bert has been leading a kick that was aimed very largely at Dick & Co., and now it almost puts him out of his head to find that Dick Prescott, of all the fellows in the school, has been sent by 'The Blade' to gather the facts concerning Theodore Dodge's mysterious disappearance---or death." "Mr. Dodge isn't dead," replied Prescott slowly. "What? And say! Do you realize, Dick, that you're letting the horse walk?" "I intended to," returned Dick. "Whoa!" "There's a boat coming up the river and showing a search-light," broke in Dave, pointing. "I saw it. That's why I stopped the horse. It must be Chief Coy's launch that he went after. Yes; there it is, putting in where we first saw Bert Dodge and the officers." "Well, if you're not going to keep track of the launch, why don't you hit a fast gait for the office?" queried Darrin. "There is plenty of time yet," Dick replied, "and we've nothing to report to the office yet. I'm just waiting for that boat to take on its passengers and get well away from the spot." "Oh!" guessed Dave. "Then you're going back and make your own search of the place?" "You're clever," nodded Prescott, with a low laugh. "Yes; it may be that Hemingway and his companion have made a fine search. Or it may be that they've missed clues that a blind man ought to see." So the two High School boys sat there, in the buggy drawn up at the side of the road, for the next fifteen minutes. In that time the launch took on the waiting passengers, and the light played over all that part of the river, then started down stream. Dick slowly headed the horse about, this time driving much closer to the river's bank than he had done before. "There's a lantern under the seat, Dave. I saw it when we started from 'The Blade' office. Haul it out and light it, will you?" For some minutes the two High School boys searched without much result. At last Dick and Dave began to move in wider circles, away from the much-tramped ground. Then, holding the lantern close to the ground, Prescott moved nearer and nearer to the railway track, all the while scanning the soil closely. "Look there, Dave!" suddenly called Prescott. "No-----Don't look just yet," he added, holding the lantern behind him. "But tell me; you've often seen Mr. Dodge. What kind of boots did he wear?" "Narrow, pointed shoes, and rather high heeled for a man to wear," Darrin answered. "Exactly," nodded Dick. "Look there!" Darrin bent down over a soft spot in the soil close to the railway roadbed. There were three prints of just such a boot as he had described. "You see the small heel print," continued Prescott, in a whisper. "And you note that the front part of the foot makes a heavy impression, as it would when the foot is tilted forward by a high heel." "I don't believe another man in the town ever wore a pair of boots such as made these prints," murmured Darrin excitedly. "And they're headed away from the river, toward the railroad! And look here---other footprints of a different kind!" "You're right!" cried Prescott, holding the lantern closer to the ground and scanning some additional marks in the soil. "Coarse shoes; one pair of 'em brogans! Mr. Dodge had companions when he went away from here." "They may have been forcing the man somewhere with them," quivered Darrin, staring off into the black night about them. "No; not a sign of a struggle," argued Dick, still with his gaze on the ground. "No matter who Mr. Dodge's companions were, he went with them willingly. Gracious, Dave, but we were right in believing the banker to be still alive! Coat and hat at the water's edge were a blind! Mr. Dodge has his own reasons for wanting people to think him dead. He has sloped away. Here's the track. Which way did he and the fellows go?" "Away from Gridley," declared Darrin, sagely. "Otherwise, Mr. Dodge would have been seen by some one who would remember him." "We'll go up along the track, then." This they did, but the roadbed was hard. Besides, anyone walking on the ties would leave no trail. It was slow work, holding the lantern close to the ground and scanning every step, besides swinging the lantern out to light up either side of their course. Yet both lads were so tremendously interested that they pushed on, heedless of the flight of time. They had gone a mile or more up the track, "inching" it along, when they came upon an unmistakable print of Mr. Dodge's oddly pointed boot and narrow, high heel. They found, too, the print of a brogan within six feet of the same point. "This is the way Dodge and his queer companions came," exulted Dave. "But I don't believe they followed the track much further," argued Prescott, pointing ahead at the signal lights of a small crossing station. "If Mr. Dodge were trying to get away from public gaze he wouldn't go by a station where usually half a dozen loungers are smoking and talking with the station agent." "We're lucky to have the trail this far," observed Dave Darrin. "But we can't follow it accurately at night. Say---gracious! Do you know what time it is? Half-past one in the morning!" "Wow?" ejaculated Prescott, halting and looking dismayed. "It'll take us a good many minutes to get back to where we left the horse. It'll be after two o'clock when we hit 'The Blade' office. Dave, we simply can't follow the trail further tonight. But we must strike it first thing in the morning. It'll be a big thing for 'The Blade' to be the folks to find the missing banker and clear the mystery up." "Unless Dodge just kept on until he came to one of the stations, and took a train. Then the trail would be a long one." "He didn't take a train tonight," returned Prescott, shaking his head. "If he wanted to disappear that would be the wrong way to go about it. He'd be recognized from the descriptions that will go about broadcast. No, sir! Mr. Dodge must be hiding in some of the big stretches of woods over yonder. A regiment could hide and be lost in the great woods." "It's a trail I hate to leave," muttered Dave Darrin. "But we've got to wait until daylight. We can't do much in the dark, anyway. I've got to get back to 'The Blade' office. Get your bearings here, Dave. To make doubly sure I'll cut a slice out of this tie to mark the place where we found this print, for it may be indistinct by daylight." Marking the location Dick Prescott wheeled and began to hurry back, followed by Darrin. In due time they reached the buggy, took the light blanket from the horse, unhitched and jumped in. Fast driving took them to "The Blade" office. "You didn't learn anything, did you?" questioned Bradley. "Yes; we did," Dick informed him. "The police, with their launch didn't get any trace of Mr. Dodge, did they?" "No," admitted the news editor. "I've talked with Hemingway within the last hour. The police will begin dragging the river by daylight." "They won't find the banker that way," chuckled Dick. "He's alive." "Have you seen him?" demanded the news editor. "No; and I'm not going to say too much now, either," returned Dick, with unusual stubbornness. "But 'The Blade' wants to take the keynote that Theodore Dodge is alive, and will turn up. I believe Dave and I are going to make him turn up during the next spell of daylight." "We surely are!" laughed Darrin. Mr. Bradley pressed them close with questions, but neither boy was inclined to reveal the secret of the trail along the railway roadbed. "We're going to keep it all as our own scoop," Dick insisted. "And please, Mr. Bradley, don't post the police about our idea. If you do, the police will get the credit. If we keep quiet, 'The Blade' will get all the credit that is coming." The news editor laid before Dick all the proofs and copy that had been prepared so far on the absorbing mystery of the night. Prescott made some newsy additions to the story, and through it all took the confident keynote that the vanished banker would soon be heard from in the flesh. The work done, and Bradley having already seen to the return of the horse to the livery stable, Dick and Dave went into an unused room, where they threw themselves down on piles of old papers. Tired out, they slept without stirring. But they had left a note for the office boy who was due at six o'clock to sweep out the business office. That office boy came in and called the High School pair at a few minutes after six. Dick's first thought was to instruct the boy to telephone the Prescott and Darrin homes at seven in the morning, sending word that the two boys were safe but busy. Then Dick hastily led the way to a quick-order restaurant near by. Here the boys got through with breakfast as quickly as they could. That done, they bought sandwiches, which they put into their pockets. As they came out of the eating house the streets were still far from crowded. Laborers were going to their toil, but it was yet too early for the business men of the city to be on their way to offices, or clerks to the stores. "Now, let's get out of the town in a jiffy," proposed Dick. "We don't want to have many folks observing which way we go. We'll travel fast right up along the railway track." Once started, the two boys kept going briskly. Both had been drowsy at the outset, but the impulse of discovery had them in its grip now, and fatigue was quickly forgotten. Something more than half an hour after the start the boys halted beside the tie that Prescott had whittled in the dark a few hours before. "There are the footprints," quivered Dave, staring hard. "They're not as distinct as they were a few hours ago," replied Dick. "Still, I think we can follow them. I'm glad they lead toward the woods." "Yes," Darrin agreed. "The direction of the footprints shows that Mr. Dodge and his companions didn't have any notion of boarding a train and getting out of this part of the world." Yet, though both of these young newspaper hounds were keen to follow the trail, they did not find it any easy matter. Dick and Dave reached the edge of the woods. Then, for a short time, they were obliged to explore carefully ere they came again upon one of the bootmarks of fastidious Banker Dodge. It was a hundred feet further on, in a bit of soft mould, that the next bootprint was found. Had these two High School boys been more expert trackers they would have found a fairly continuous trail, but their untrained eyes lacked the ability to see other signs that would have been evident to a plainsman. So their progress was slow, indeed. They could judge only by the direction in which each last footprint was pointed, and they had to remember that one wandering through the woods might travel over a course whose direction frequently changed. "Dave," whispered Prescott, "I think we had better separate a little. We might go along about a hundred feet apart. In that way there is more chance that we'll come sooner upon the next print." There were perhaps six hundred feet into the woods, by this time, and stood looking down at the fifth footmark they had found. "All right," nodded Darrin. "We're a pair of rank amateurs at this kind of work, anyway." "Amateurs or not," murmured Dick, with a smile? "we seem to be the only folks in Gridley who are on the right track in this mystery at present." "I'm full of misgivings, anyway," muttered Dave. "Why?" "I can't help feeling that we should have turned our news over to Chief Coy or Hemingway. "Again, why?" "Well, if we lose our man now, we'll soon feel that we ought to have turned the whole thing over to the police while the trail was fresh." "Dave, don't you know, well enough, that newspapers do more than the police, nowadays, in clearing up mysteries?" "This may be more than a mystery," hinted Dave. "Even if we get through to the end of this trail---or mystery we may find a crime at that end." "All the more need, then, for moving on fast. See here, Dave, I'll follow just the way this footprint points. You get out a hundred feet or so to the right. And we'll move as fast as we can, now." The wisdom of this plan was soon apparent, for it was Dave Darrin who discovered the next footprint. He summoned Dick Prescott with a sharp hiss. "Yes; all right," nodded Dick, joining his comrade and gazing down at one of the narrow bootmarks. "But don't send a long signal again, Dave. We might be close, and warn some one out of our way." "What shall we do, then?" "We'll look frequently at each other, and the fellow who discovers anything will make signs to the other." Three minutes later Dick Prescott crouched low behind a line of bushes, his eyes glistening as he peered and listened. Then he began to make wildly energetic signals to Dave Darrin. The head partner of Dick & Co. had fallen upon something that interested him---tremendously! CHAPTER IV THE "SOREHEADS" IN CONCLAVE Dave Darrin came stealing over, as soft-footed as any panther. Dick did not turn around to look at his chum. He merely held up a cautioning hand, and Darrin moved even more stealthily. In another moment Dave's head was close to his chum's, and both young men were gazing upon the same scene. "Davis and Fremont-----" whispered Darrin in his chum's ear. "Bayliss, Porter and Drayne," Dick nodded back, softly. "Trenhold, Grayson, Hudson," continued Darrin. "All the 'soreheads,'" finished Dick Prescott for him. "Or nearly all," supplemented Dave. Indeed, the scene upon which these two High School boys gazed was one that greatly interested them. On a little knoll, just beyond the line of bushes, and on lower ground, fully a dozen young men lounged, basking in the morning sun, which poured through upon this small, treeless space. Though the young men down in the knoll were not carefully attired, there was a general similarity in their dress. All wore sweaters, and nearly all of them wore cross-country shoes. Evidently the whole party had been out for a cross country run. Now, the dozen or so were eagerly engaged in conversation. "It's too bad Purcell won't join us," remarked Davis. "Yes," nodded another fellow in the group; "he belongs with us." "Oh, well," spoke up Bayliss, "if Purcell would rather be with the muckers, let him." "Now, let's not be too rank, fellows," objected Hudson slowly. "I wouldn't call all the fellows muckers who don't happen to belong in our crowd." "What would you call 'em then?" growled Bayliss angrily. "Time was when only the fellows of the better families expected to go to High School, on their way to college. Now, every day-laborer's son seems to think he ought to go to High School-----" "And be received with open arms, on a footing of equality," sneered Porter. "It's becoming disgusting," muttered Bayliss. "Not only do these cheap fellows expect to go to the High School, but they actually want to run the school affairs." "I suppose that's natural, to some extent," speculated Porter. "Why?" demanded Bayliss, turning upon the last speaker in amazement. "Why, the sons of the poorer families are in a majority, nowadays," returned Hudson. "Say, you're getting almost as bad as Purcell," warned Porter. "If I am, I apologize, of course," responded Hudson. "I've no real objection to the sons of poorer men coming to the High School," vouchsafed Paulson, meditatively. "But you know the cream, the finer class of the High School student body, has always centered in the school's athletic teams. And now-----" "Yes; and now-----" broke in Bayliss harshly. "Why, these fellows, who are not much more than tolerated in the High School, or ought not to be, make the most noise at the meets of the training squads," continued Paulson. "And some of 'em," growled Fremont, "actually have the cheek to carry off honors in scholarship, too. Take Dick Prescott, for instance." "Oh, let the muckers have the scholarship honors, if that's all they want," retorted Bayliss "A gentleman hasn't much need of scholarship, anyway, if he's an all-around, proper fellow in every other respect. But the, gang that call themselves Dick & Co. are a fair sample of the muckers that we have to contend with." "No," objected Fremont; "they're the very worst of the lot in the High School. Why, look at the advertising those fellows get for themselves. And not one of them of good family." "Fellows of good, prominent families don't have to advertise themselves," observed Bayliss sagely. It was plain that by "good" family was meant one of wealth. These young men had little else in the way of a standard. "It makes me cranky," observed Whitney, "to see the way a lot of the girls seem to notice just such fellows as Prescott, Darrin, Reade, Dalzell---fellows who, by rights, ought to be through with their schooling and earning wages as respectful grocery clerks or decent shoe salesmen." "But this talk isn't carrying us anywhere," objected Bayliss. "The question is, what are we going to do with the football problem this year? We don't want to play in the same eleven with the cheap muckers, and have 'em think they're the whole eleven. The call for the football training squad is due to go up some time next week." "Bert Dodge says-----" interrupted Paulson. "Yes, Dodge is the fellow I wish we had here with us today," interposed Bayliss. "Dodge is the one we ought to listen to." "Poor Dodge has his own troubles today," murmured Hudson. "Yes; I know---poor fellow," nodded Bayliss. "I wish we fellows could help him, but we can't." "I was talking with Dodge yesterday, before his own troubles broke loose," went on Hudson. "Dodge's idea is that we ought all to keep away when the football squad is called. Then Coach Morton may get an idea of how things are going, and he may see just what he ought to do." "But suppose the muckers all answer the call in force?" inquired Trenholm. "What are we to do then?" "We're to keep out of the squad this year," responded Bayliss promptly. "See here, either we fellows organize the Gridley High School eleven ourselves, and decide who shall play in it, or else we stay out and let the muckers go ahead and pile up a record of lost games this year." "That's hard on good old Gridley High School," murmured Hudson. "True," agreed Fremont. "But it'll teach the town, the school authorities, the coach and after this year, that only the prominent fellows in the school should have any voice in athletics. Let the muckers be content with standing behind the side lines and rooting for the real High School crowd." "Shall we put it to a vote?" asked Bayliss, looking about him. "Yes!" answered several promptly. "Then, as I understand it," continued Bayliss, "when the football call goes up, we're all to ignore it. We're to continue to ignore the call, and keep out of the school football squad this year, unless the coach and the Athletics Committee agree that we shall have the naming of the candidates. Is that the general agreement among ourselves?" "Yes!" came the chorus. "Any contrary votes?" Momentary silence reigned in this conclave of "soreheads." "Yet," continued Bayliss, "we've started training among ourselves. This morning's cross-country is part of our daily training. If we have to refuse the football call, and stay out of the squad, are we to drop our present training?" "Hardly, I should say," responded Fremont. "I have something to suggest in that line. If we can't go into what is really a gentleman's eleven under the High School colors, I propose that we organize an eleven of our own, and call ourselves simply the Gridley Football Club. We can bring out an eleven that would put things all over any school team that the muckers could organize without our help." "We wouldn't play the muckers, would we?" demanded Trenholm. "Certainly not!" retorted Bayliss, with contemptuous emphasis. "We won't even know that a mucker High School team is on earth," laughed Porter. "I think we understand the plan well enough, now, don't we?" inquired Blaisdell, rising. "We do," nodded Porter. "And we'll all do our full share toward bringing control of High School affairs back to the aristocratic leadership that it once had." "Hoist our banners, and let them proclaim: 'Down with the muckers!'" laughed Hudson, rolling up the hem of his sweater. "We want a good, not too fast but steady jog back to town," announced Bayliss. At the first sign that the "soreheads" were preparing to leave the spot Dick had taken advantage of their noise to slip away. Dave had followed him successfully. Then, from another hiding place these two prowling juniors, grinning, watched the "soreheads" move away at a loping run. "We certainly know all we need to about that crowd," muttered Dick, a half-vengeful look in his eyes. "The snobs!" "Oh, they're cads, all right," assented Dave. "Yet that bunch of fellows contains some of the material that is needed in putting forth the best High School team this year!" "Humph!" commented Dave disgustedly. "Yet, Dick, I was almost surprised that you would stop and listen, without letting the fellows know you were there." "It does seem sneaky, at first thought," Prescott admitted, almost shamefacedly. "Hold on there!" ordered Dave. "I don't believe you'd do a thing like that, Dick Prescott, unless you had an honorable reason for it." "I did it because the honor of the High School is so precious to me---to us all," Dick replied. "We want to put forth a winning team, as Gridley High School has always done. Now, these 'soreheads' aim to defeat that by keeping a few of the best players off the eleven. I listened, Dave, because I wanted to know what the trouble was, and just who was making it. Now, I guess I know how to deal with the 'sore-heads.' I'll make them ashamed of themselves." "How?" "One thing at a time, Dave. In our excitement we've almost forgotten that we started out to find Theodore Dodge and clear up the mystery of his disappearance." CHAPTER V AT THE END OF THE TRAIL "The further we go the more mysterious this becomes," mused Dick, as he and Darrin stood together over a clump of faintly-marked footprints, a quarter of an hour later. "How does the mystery increase?" Darrin inquired. "For one thing, we don't always find the bootmarks of the men who were with Mr. Dodge. Yet once in a while we do. There are the prints of all three. When Theodore Dodge passed by this way the other two men were with him, or had him in sight. And our course shows that the three were plunging deeper and deeper into the woods. But come along. There must be an end to this, somewhere." Ten minutes later Prescott and Darrin felt that they had come to the end of the mystery. For the faint trail had led them up a slight, stony slope, and now the two boys lay flat on the ground. Below them, in a bush-clad hollow, two miles from the world in general, stood a little, old, ramshackle shanty. The location was one that seekers would hardly have found without a trail to lead them to it. To the door of this shanty a broad-shouldered, rough-looking and powerful fellow of forty had just come. The man, who was poorly clad, wore brogans, and held in his right hand a weighty, ugly-looking club. The fellow was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, and now stood, with his left hand shading his eyes, peering off at the surrounding landscape. Dick and Dave hugged the ground more closely behind their screen of bushes. "It's all right, Bill," announced the lookout in the doorway. "'Course this," growled a voice from the inside. "Too far from the main line o' travel for anyone to be spying around. Besides, no one guesses-----" "Well, you can go to sleep if ye wanter, Bill. I'm goin' ter sit up and smoke." With that the brogan-shod man disappeared inside the shanty. Dick and Dave glanced at each other with eager interest. "I wonder whether they have Mr. Dodge in there with them?" breathed Dick, in his ear. "If Mr. Dodge is in there he's keeping amazingly quiet," Darrin responded doubtingly. "Within a very few minutes," Prescott rejoined, "I'm going to know whether Mr. Dodge is in that shanty." "We found his footprint close enough near here," argued Dave. "Yes, and I feel sure enough that Mr. Dodge is there. But why don't we hear something from him? The whole business is so uncanny that it gives one that creepy feeling." For a full quarter of an hour the two chums remained hidden, barely stirring. From the shanty, at first, came crooning tones, as though the man in brogans were humming over old songs to himself. Occasionally there was a snore; evidently Bill was drowsing the day away. "Now, I'm going down there," whispered Dick. "Look out the big fellow doesn't catch you," warned Darrin. "I've an idea he'd beat you to a pulp if he caught you." "I'm not as big as he is," admitted Dick, grinning, "but I think I might prove as fast as he on my feet." As Prescott started to steal down into the hollow Dave reached about him, gathering all the fair-sized stones within reach. "If Dick has to come from there on the rim," soliloquized Darrin, "a few stones hurled at the face of that ugly-looking customer might hold him back for a while. And I used to be called a pretty fair pitcher!" Prescott, in the meantime, was stealing around the shanty, applying his eyes to some tiny cracks. At last he turned, making straight and cautiously up the slope. As he came near, Dick sent Dave a signal that made that latter youth throb with expectancy. "Yes! We've found Theodore Dodge!" whispered young Prescott eagerly. "He's in there, lying on the floor, bound and gagged." "Whew! And what is Mr. Brogans doing?" "Sitting on the floors smoking and playing solitaire with a dirty pack of cards. The other rascal, Bill, is sleeping at a great rate." "What are we going to do now?" "Dave, are you willing to stay here, hiding and keeping watch on the place?" "Surely," nodded Darrin, with great promptness. "If the wretches should try to take Mr. Dodge away from here-----" "I'll follow 'em, of course." "And leave a paper trail," nodded Dick. "Here is all the paper I have in my pockets," he added. "I have some, too," muttered Dave. "I'll be back as speedily as I can get help." "You ought not to be gone more than an hour." "Not as long as that, I hope. Goodbye, Dave, and look out for yourself." After going the first hundred yards Dick Prescott let himself out into a loping run, very much like that used by the "soreheads" in getting back to town. With a trained runner the cross-country style of running is suited for getting over long distances at fair speed. Twenty minutes later young Prescott reached a farm house in which there was a telephone. He asked permission to use the instrument. "Go right in the parlor, and help yourself," replied the farmer's wife. As Dick rang on, and stood waiting, transmitter at his ear, he first thought of calling for the police station. "No, I won't, either," he muttered. "This belongs to my paper. Let them tip off the police. Hello! Give me 'The Blade' office, Gridley, please." Dick waited patiently a few moments. Then: "Hullo! 'The Blade?' This is Prescott. Is Mr. Pollock there? He is? Good! Tell him I want to speak with him." Then Mr. Pollock's voice sounded over the wire. "Hullo, Prescott! Why aren't you on hand, with that big Dodge story hanging over our heads? Why, it brought me down hours before fore my time." "Pollock, I've found Dodge," replied Dick Composedly. "At least, Darrin and I-----" "What's that!" broke in the editor's excited voice. "You've found Dodge? Alive?" As rapidly as he could young Prescott told the story. Mr. Pollock listened gladly. "Now, where are you, Prescott?" Dick told Mr. Pollock the name of the farmer from whose home he was telephoning. "Just you wait there, Prescott. And, oh!---pshaw! I came near forgetting to tell you the biggest news of all---for you. Mrs. Dodge this morning offered a thousand dollars' reward for the finding of her husband, dead or alive. You'll get that reward---you and Darrin! But I've no more time to talk. Stay right where you are until I reach you." Nor was it long before Dick, pacing by the farmyard gate, saw an automobile approaching at a lively clip. In it were the chauffeur and Editor Pollock. The latter waved his hand wildly when he caught sight If his High School reporter. Right begged this automobile sped another, in which sat Chief Coy, Officer Hemingway and a uniformed policeman, in addition to the chauffeur. "We didn't lose much time, did we?" hailed Mr. Pollock, as the first auto slowed up "Jump in, quick! Show us the way." "I suppose there's some excitement down in Gridley, about this time?" laughed Dick, as the two autos raced along once more. "Not a bit," replied the editor. "And for the very simple reason that no one knows that Dodge has been found." "His family know it, of course?" queried Dick. "No; not a word. Chief Coy kept it quiet, and asked me to do the same. He didn't want the Dodge family all stirred up by false hopes in case you had made a mistake. The silence will keep 'The Evening Mail' from learning the news for a while. And I've had our forms left standing. We're all ready to run out an extra ---in case you haven't made a mistake, Prescott," added Mr. Pollock quizzically. Dick smiled resignedly at this implied doubt. But the autos were making fast time, and soon the machines had gone as far on the way as they could be used. "Now we'll have to get out and strike across country, through the woods," Prescott called. So far Dick had resolutely tried to keep out of his mind any thought of that thousand-dollar reward. It sounded too much like "Blood money" to take pay for helping any afflicted family out of its troubles. Besides, it had been the glory of doing a piece of bright newspaper work that had allured the two High School boys at the outset. "Yet a thousand dollars is---a thousand dollars!" Dick couldn't help feeling, wistfully, as he piloted his party across fields and through the woods. "A thousand dollars! Five hundred apiece for Dave and me! What a fearful big lot of money! What we could do with it, If we had it! I wonder whether it would be right and decent to take it?" Then, as he neared the place where he had left his chum on post Dick Prescott found other and anxious thoughts crowding into his mind. Was Dave Darrin, staunch and reliable Dave---still there, on post, and unharmed? Was Theodore Dodge there? Were his captors still with him? CHAPTER VI THE SMALL SOUL OF A GENTLEMAN A few minutes later all fears and doubts were dispelled. Dave Darrin rose to greet the newcomers informing them, in a whisper, that all was still well in the old shanty below. He of the brogans and club heard a slight noise outside. Swiftly he rose and darted to the door, ready to pounce. But he beheld the policemen, with the newspaper trio just behind them. More, Chief Coy and his subordinates had their revolvers drawn. "Howdy, gents?" was Mr. Brogans' greeting as he dropped his club and tried to grin. "Take care of him, Hemingway," directed Thief Coy, briefly. "Me?" demanded Brogans, in feigned astonishment. "What have _I_ done?" The noise roused Bill, who sprang up. But Bill must have found the police wonderfully soothing, for he quieted down at once. Both rascals were taken care of. Then Theodore Dodge was found lying bound and gagged on the floor. A ragged, foul-smelling coat had been substituted for the one that had been left at the river's bank. The banker looked up at the intruders with a stupefied leer, betraying neither alarm or pleasure. As soon as the two rough-looking fellows had been handcuffed Mr. Dodge was freed, and his tongue also, but Chief Coy, after raising the banker and questioning him, muttered: "Clean out of his head. Daffy. Must have wandered away from Gridley during a loony streak. He isn't over it yet." The two rough-looking ones protested loudly against being deprived of their liberty. "I don't really know that you fellows have done anything," admitted Chief Coy. "But I'm taking you along on suspicion that it was you, and not Mr. Dodge himself, who bound and gagged him." This retort, given with a great deal of dry sarcasm, silenced the prisoners for the time being. "We ought to have this out an hour before 'The Evening Mail' people," exulted Editor Pollock. "Prescott, my boy, you're a born reporter! And, Darrin, you're not much behind." "Theodore Dodge found by two "Blade" reporters! That won't sound bad!" The briefest questioning was enough to show that Theodore Dodge was in no condition to give any account of himself. He did not reply with an intelligible word. His eyes held only a vacant stare. It was as though memory and reason had suddenly snapped within his brain. "The doctors will want him," commented Chief Coy. "And we can't be hustling back a bit too soon." It had been a gloomy morning at the home of Banker Dodge. Through the night, none had slept. Anxiety had kept them all on the rack. Mrs. Dodge, a thin and nervous woman, had gone from one spell of hysterics into another, as morning neared. A trained nurse had to be sent for. Then in a calm lull Mrs. Dodge had telephoned for Lawyer Ripley, who lost his breakfast through the speed with which he obeyed the summons of the distracted wife. As a result of the lawyer's visit the reward of a thousand dollars had been offered. The house was quiet again. Dr. Bentley, having been called for the third time, had administered an opiate, and Mrs. Dodge was sleeping. The other members of the family tip-toed restlessly about. Bert Dodge felt in a peculiarly "mean" frame of mind that morning. The young man simply could not remain in one spot. The more he had thought, through and through the night, the more he had become convinced that his father had killed himself because of some entanglement in the bank's affairs. "And I'll be pointed out as the defaulter's son," thought Bert bitterly. "Oh, why couldn't the guv'nor think of some one besides himself! We'll have to move away from Gridley, of course. But the disgrace will follow us anywhere we may go. Oh, it's awful---awful! Of course, I'm not in any way to blame. But, oh! What a disgrace!" It was well along in the forenoon when Bayliss, returning homeward in sweater and running togs, espied Bert's white, wan face near the front door. Bayliss signaled cordially to young Dodge, who, glad of this kindliness at such a time, went down the walk to the gate. "No news of your father yet, I suppose?" asked Bayliss. "No," sighed Bert. "Too bad, old fellow!" "Yes; the uncertainty is pretty tough on us all," Dodge replied. "Oh, you'll hear before the day is out, and the news will be all right, too," declared Bayliss, with well-meant cheeriness. "Then you'll be with us on the morning cross-countries again. We missed you a whole lot this morning, Bert." "Did you?" asked young Dodge, brightening. "Yes; and, by the way, we've decided on our course---for our set, you know. We're going to ignore the football call next week. If Coach Morton asks us any questions, then we'll let him know how the land lies. We won't try to make the High School team if the muckers are allowed the same show. We'll have a select crowd on the eleven, this year, or else all of our set will stay off." "The muckers have some good football men among them, too," grumbled Bert. "Of course for that gang that call themselves Dick & Co we can't any more than make guesses. But some of them would be handy on an eleven I guess." "Yes; if they were not muckers," agreed Bayliss loftily. "But there are enough of our own kind to make as good an eleven as Gridley High School ever had." "It's a pity we can't get up our own eleven play the muckers, just once, and beat them out for the right to represent Gridley." "It wouldn't be so bad an idea. But they might beat us," retorted Bayliss dryly. "So, on the whole, our fellows have decided not to pay any heed whatever to Dick & Co. or any of the other muckers. After this the line must be drawn, at High School, between the gentlemen and the other kind." "All plans looking in that direction will have my hearty support," pledged Bert Dodge. "I know it, old fellow." "It's queer that the question never came up before about the muckers," Bert mused. "We never had Dick & Co. in school athletics, until last year," replied Bayliss significantly. "That fellow, Prescott, is about the worst-----" Bert Dodge stopped right there. Bayliss, too, started and turned. Around the nearest corner some folks were making a big noise. Then around the corner came two autos, while a crowd raced along on the sidewalks. "Hurrah! Mr. Dodge is found. Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin found him!" shouted a score of urchins in the crowd. Bert and Bayliss both gasped. Then the autos slowed up at the curb before the gate. The police prisoners were still in the second car. Bert took a look, recognized his father, despite the strange look in that parent's face. "Help them bring my father in, Bayliss!" called young Dodge. "I'll run to prepare the folks." In another moment there was a turmoil of excitement inside the Dodge house. While the excitement was still going on Bert came out to inform the crowd that both his father and mother needed quiet and medical attendance. Bert begged the crowd to go away quietly. Dick and Dave were standing before the gateway way while Editor Pollock answered some of the queries of the crowd. "Great luck for you fellows, Prescott and Barren!" called some one in the crowd. "You two will know what to do with a thousand dollars' reward!" Bert Dodge wheeled about like a flash, and facing Dave and Dick, shouted: "If that's what you two fellows are hanging around here for, you'd better clear out! Take it from me that you fellows will get no thousand dollars, or ten cents, out of our family!" CHAPTER VII THE FOOTBALL NOTICE GOES UP Mr. Pollock, usually a very calm man, wheeled upon young Dodge. "My lad, when you find out what Prescott and Darrin have done in the way of rescuing your father, you'll feel wholly ashamed of yourself. I don't believe either young man has given a second thought to the reward." People in a crowd take sides quickly. Bert heard several muttered remarks from the bystanders that made him flush. Then, choking and angry, he turned and darted for the house. By this time Mr. Pollock, Dick and Dave were speeding for "The Blade" office. Already a run had started on the Second National Bank. A crowd filled the counting room and extended out onto the sidewalk. Their depositors, largely small business men and people who ran private check accounts, were frightfully nervous about their money. Up to noon the bank paid all demands, though the accounts were adjusted slowly, while the crowd grew in numbers outside. At noon the Second National availed itself of its privilege of closing its doors promptly at that hour on Saturday. Dick Prescott wrote with furious speed at "The Blade" office. In another room Mr. Pollock wrote from the facts supplied by Dave Darrin. In half an hour from the time these three entered the office the "Extra" was out on the street---fifteen minutes ahead of "The Mail," which latter newspaper contained very little beyond the fact that Mr. Dodge had been found, and that he was now under the care of his family. "The Mail" stated that the discovery had been made by "two High School boys" aiding the police, and did not name either Dick or Dave. On Monday the bank examiner arrived. He made a quick inspection of the bank's affairs, and pronounced the institution "sound." The run on the bank stopped, and timid depositors began to bring back their money. The members of the Dodge family could once more hold up their heads. In the meantime Dr. Bentley had called in a specialist. Together the two medical men decided that Theodore Dodge had suffered only from an extreme amount of overwork; that the strain had momentarily unbalanced his mind, and had made the deranged man contemplate drowning himself. By means of a modified form of the "third degree" Chief Coy, by this time, had succeeded in making the two vagrants confess that they had found Mr. Dodge, with his coat and hat off standing by the bank of the stream. Guessing the banker's condition, and learning his identity, the two men, though they did not confess on this point, had evidently coaxed the banker away to their shanty away off in the heart of the woods. Undoubtedly it had been their plan to keep the banker under their own eyes, with a view of extorting a reward from the missing man's family. The judge of the local court finally decided to send both men away for six months on a charge of vagrancy. And here the matter seemed to end. Though Lawyer Ripley urged the prompt payment of the offered reward to Prescott and Darrin, Mrs. Dodge, influenced by her son, demurred. At Mr. Pollock's suggestion Dick and Dave promptly drew up and signed a paper releasing the Dodge family from any claim. This paper was also signed by the fathers of the two boys, and forwarded to Lawyer Ripley. That gentleman man returned the paper to Dick, with a statement that he might have something to communicate at a later date. Tuesday morning, with many secret misgivings, Coach Morton, who was also one of the submasters of the High School, posted the call for the football squad. The call was for three o'clock Thursday afternoon, at the gym. "Humph!" was the audible and only comment of Bayliss, as he stood before the school bulletin board at recess and read the announcement. "I guess the day for football here has gone by," observed Porter sneeringly. "Of interest to ragamuffins only," sneered Paulson, as he turned away to join Fremont of the senior class. "Listen to the wild enthusiasm over upholding the school's honor in athletics," muttered Dave, scowling darkly. "We knew it was coming," declared Tom Reade. Abner Cantwell was still principal at Gridley High School, though that violent-tempered and unpopular pedagogue had been engaged, this year, only as "substitute" principal. There were rumors that Dr. Thornton, the former and much-loved principal, would soon be in sufficiently good health to return. So the Board of Education had left the way clear for dropping Mr. Cantwell at any moment that it might see fit. Dick & Co. had gathered by themselves on this Tuesday, at recess. They did not discuss the football call, nor its reception by the "soreheads," for they had known what was coming. Just before recess was over, however, there were sudden sounds of a riot around the bulletin board. "Tear that down!" "Throw 'em out!" "Raus mit!" "The mean cheats!" There was a surging rush of High School boys for the bulletin board. Bayliss and Fremont, both of the senior class, who had just posted a new notice, were now trying to push their way through an angry crowd of youngsters that had collected. "They're no good!" "A disgrace to the school!" "Send 'em to Coventry!" "No! Handle 'em right now!" There was another rush. "Get back, you hoodlums!" yelled Bayliss, his face violet with rage. "I'll crack the head of any fellow that lays hands on me!" stormed Fremont. "Oh, will he? Come on, then, fellows!" Fremont was caught up as though by a cyclone. Two or three fellows seized him at a time, passing him down the corridor. The last to receive the hapless Fremont propelled him through the main doorway of the school building. Nor was this done with any gentle force, either. Bayliss, not attempting to fight, was simply hustled along on his feet. Out of one of the rooms near by rushed Mr. Cantwell, the principal---or "Prin." as he was known, his face white with the anger that he felt over what he regarded as a most unseemly disturbance. "Stop this riot, young gentlemen!" commanded the principal sternly. "Send in the riot call, like you did last year!" piped up a disguised, thin, falsetto voice from the outskirts of the rapidly growing crowd. Quite a lot of the girls had gathered, too, by this time. The principal turned around, sharply, as some of the girls began to giggle. But Mr. Cantwell was unable to detect the one who had thus taunted him. Coach Morton peered over the railing of the floor above. "Mr. Morton!" called the principal. "Yes, sir." "Sound the assembling gong, if you please." Clang! clang! clang! The din of the gong cut their recess four minutes short, but not one of the excited High School boys regretted it. They had had a chance to express themselves, and now fell in, filing down to the locker rooms, then up the stairs once more to the assembly room. Bayliss and Fremont came in, joining the others. They were white-faced, but strove to carry their heads very high. The sounding of the gong had stopped the circulating of the paper that had been so angrily torn down from the bulletin board. It was in Dick Prescott's hands now. The notice had announced the formation of a "select" party for a straw ride for the young men and young women of the junior and senior classes on Thursday afternoon, starting at two-thirty o'clock. Invitations would be issued by the committee, after requests for tickets had been passed upon by that committee. Bayliss, Fremont and Paulson signed the notice of the straw ride. This was the means by which the "soreheads" chose to announce that they would ignore the football squad call for Thursday. Wisely, for once, the principal did not choose to question the young men regarding the excitement attending the close of recess. Studies and recitations went on as usual. But feeling ran high. The "soreheads" and their sympathizers were known, by this time, to all the other young men of the student body. During the rest of the day's session many a "sorehead" found himself being regarded with black or sneering looks. Of course the self-elected "exclusive" set was not numerously represented in the High School. Most of the boys and girls did not come from well-to-do families. Some who did had refused to have anything to do with the "sorehead" crowd. The instant that school was dismissed that Tuesday afternoon scores of the more boisterous boys rushed from the building, across the yard, and double-lined the sidewalk leading from the gateway. "Ugh! ugh! ugh!" they groaned, whenever any of the "soreheads" tried to walk this gauntlet in dignified silence. "Let's keep out of that, fellows," advised Dick, to his chums, who grouped themselves about him. "Groans and catcalls won't smooth or soothe any hard-feelings." "I don't blame any of the fellows for what they're doing to the snobs," blazed Dan Dalzell indignantly. "I don't say that I do, either," Dick replied quietly. "But there may be better ways of teaching fellows that they should stand by their school at all times." "I'd like to know a better way, then," flared Tom Reade. "Let's have it, instanter, Dick, if you've got one," begged Greg Holmes. "Yes; out with it, old chap," begged Harry Hazelton. But Dick Prescott smiled provokingly. "Perhaps, with the help of some of the rest of you," he replied, "I shall be able to find a way of cooling some hot heads. I hope so, anyway." "Dick has his plan all fixed, now," Dan whispered, hopefully, to Tom. "If he has," quoth Reade, under his breath, I wish he'd tell us his scheme." "Humph!" retorted Dan. "You know Dick Prescott, and you know that he never shoots until he has taken time to aim." CHAPTER VIII DICK FIRES BOTH BARRELS "Oh---great Scott!" gasped Tom Reade, as he paused at an item in "The Blade" the following morning. That item had been written by Prescott. There could be no doubt about it in Reade's mind. "What's the matter?" asked Tom's father. "Oh, Dick has been paying his respects to a certain clique in the High School, I take it," Tom replied, with a grin. "I heard, yesterday, that he was going to shoot into that crowd. But---and here's a short editorial on the same subject, too. Wow! Dick has fired into the enemy with both barrels!" A moment later Tom passed the paper over to his father. Dick's article read: _There is a possibility that Gridley High School will not be in the front ranks in football this year. Those who know state that a "sorehead" combination has been formed by the young male representatives of some of our wealthier families. These young men, having elected themselves, so it is said, the salt of the earth, or the cream of a new Gridley aristocracy, are going to refuse to play in the football eleven this year. Even young men who belong to "prominent" families may have some gifts in the way of football ability. Three or four out of the dozen or more "soreheads" are really needed if Gridley High School is to maintain its standing this year. The remainder of the "soreheads" may, with advantage to the High School eleven, be excused from offering themselves. The "soreheads," it is stated, feel that it would be beneath the dignity of their families for them to play on an eleven which must, in any event, be recruited largely from the sons of the Gridley families less fortunately situated financially. Strangely enough, though they don't intend to play football this year, these "soreheads" have been training hard of late, one of their practices being the taking of an early morning cross-country run together. The average young man at the High School is as eager as ever to uphold the town's and the school's honor and dignity on the football gridiron this year. Whether the so-called "soreheads" will reconsider their proposed course of action and throw themselves in with the common lot for the upholding of the Gridley name and the honor of the High School will have been determined within the next few days. It is possible, however, that this little coterie of self-appointed "exclusives" will continue to refuse to cast their lot with the commoner run of High School boys, to whom some of the "soreheads" have referred as "muckers." A Gridley "mucker," it may be stated in passing, is a Gridley boy of poor parents who desires to obtain a decent education and better himself in life._ "Is that article true?" demanded Tom Reade's father. "Yes, sir," Tom responded. "Dick wouldn't have written it, if it hadn't been. But turn over to the editorial column, and see that other little bit." The editorial in question referred to the news printed in another column, and stated that this information, if correct, showed a state of affairs at the High School that needed bettering. The editor continued: _If there are in the High School any young snobs who display such a mean and un-American spirit, then the thoughtful reader must conclude that these young men are being unjustly educated at the public expense, for such boys are certain to grow into men who will turn nothing of value back into the community. Such young men, if they really need to study, should be educated at the expense of their families. Both the High School and the community can easily dispense with the presence of snobs and snobbery._ "I guess there'll be some real soreness in some heads this morning," laughed Tom's father. "Won't there!" ejaculated Tom, and hurried out into the street. It did not take him long to find some of his chums and other High School boys. Those who had not seen "The Blade" read the two marked portions eagerly. Bert Dodge had "The Blade" placed before him by his sister. Bert read with reddening cheeks. "That's what comes of letting a fellow like Dick Prescott write for the papers," Bert stormed angrily. "That fellow ought to be tarred and feathered!" "Why don't you suggest it to the 'soreheads'?" asked his sister, quizzically. Grace Dodge was an amiable, democratic, capable girl who had gone through college with honors, and yet had not gained a false impression of the importance conferred by a little wealth. "Grace, I believe you're laughing at me!" dared the young man exasperatedly. "No; I'm not laughing. I'm sorry," sighed the young woman. "But I can imagine that a good many are laughing, this morning, and that the number will grow. Bert, dear, do you think any young man can hope to be very highly esteemed when he sets his own importance above the good name and success of his school?" Bert did not answer, but quit the house moodily. He encountered some of "his own set," but they were not a very cheerful-looking lot that morning. Not one of the "soreheads" could escape the conviction that Dick Prescott held the whip hand of public opinion over them. What none of them appreciated, was the moderation with which young Prescott had wielded his weapon. Dodge, Bayliss, Paulson and Hudson entered the High School grounds together, that morning, ten minutes before opening time. As the quartette passed, several of the little groups of fellow students ceased their talk and turned away from the four "soreheads." Then, after the quartette had passed, quiet little laughs were heard. All four mounted the steps of the building with heightening color. Before the door, talking together, stood Fred Ripley and Purcell, whom the "soreheads" had endeavored to enlist. "Good morning, Purcell. Morning, Ripley," greeted Bayliss. Fred and Purcell wheeled about, turning their backs without answering. Once inside the building the four young fellows looked at each other uneasily. "Are the fellows trying to send us to coventry?" demanded Dodge. "Oh, well," muttered Bayliss, "there are enough of us. We can stand it!" Yet, at recess, the "soreheads" found themselves extremely uncomfortable. None of their fellow-students, among the boys, would notice them. Whenever some of the "soreheads" passed a knot of other boys, low-toned laughs followed. Even many of the girls, it proved, had taken up with the Coventry idea. "Fellows, come to my place after you've had your luncheons," Bayliss whispered around among his cronies, after school was out for the day. "I---I guess there are a---a few things that we want to talk over among ourselves. So come over, and we'll use the carriage house for a meeting place. Maybe we'll organize a club among ourselves, or---or---do something that shall shut us out and away from the common herd of this school." When the dozen or more met in the Bayliss carriage house that afternoon there were some defiant looks, and some anxious ones. "I don't know how you fellows feel about this business," began Hudson frankly. "But I've had a pretty hot grilling at home by Dad. He asked me if I belonged to the 'sorehead' gang. I answered as evasively as I could. Then dad brought his list down on the table and told me he prayed that I wouldn't go through life with any false notions about my personal dimensions. He told me, rather explosively, that I would never be a bit bigger, in anyone's estimation than I proved myself to be." "Hot, was he?" asked Bayliss, with a half sneer. "He started out that way," replied Hudson. "But pretty soon Dad became dignified, and asked me where I had ever gotten the notion that I amounted to any more than any other fellow of the same brain caliber." "What did you tell him? asked Bert Dodge, frowning. "I couldn't tell him much," retorted Hudson, smiling wearily. "Dad was primed to do most of the talking. When he stopped for breath mother began." "It's all that confounded Dick Prescott's doings! It's a shame! It's a piece of anarchy---that's what it is!" muttered Paulson. "On my way here I passed three men on the street. They looked at me pretty hard, and laughed after I had gone by. Fellows, are we going to allow that mucker, Dick Prescott, to make us by-words in this town?" "No siree, no!" roared Fremont. "Good! That's what I like to hear," put in Hudson dryly. "And what are we going to do to stop Dick Prescott and turn public opinion our ways" "Why-----" "We-----" "The way to-----" "We'll-----" Several spoke at once, then all came to a full stop. The "soreheads" looked at each other in puzzled silence. "What are we going to do?" demanded Fremont. "How are we going to hit back at a fellow who has a newspaper that he can use as a club on your head?" "We might have a piece put in 'The Evening Mail,'" hinted Porter, after a dazed silence. "That's the rival paper." "Yes!" chimed in Bayliss, eagerly. "We can write a piece and get it put in 'The Mail.' Our piece can say that there has been a tendency, this year, or was believed to be one, to get a rowdyish element of the High School into the High School eleven, and that our move was really a move intended to sustain the past reputation of the Gridley High School for gentlemanly playing in all school sports. That will hit Dick & Co., and a lot of others, and will turn the laugh back on the muckers." This proposition brought forth several eager cries of approval. "I see just one flaw in the plan," observed Hudson slowly. "What is it?" demanded half a dozen at once. "Why, 'The Evening Mail' is a paper designed to appeal to the more rowdyish element in Gridley politics. 'The Mail's' circulation is about all among the class of people who come nearest to being 'rowdyish.' So I'm pretty certain, fellows, that 'The Mail' wouldn't take up our cause, and hammer our enemies with the word 'rowdy.' 'The Blade' is the paper that circulates among the best people in Gridley." "And Dick Prescott writes for 'The Blade'!" A gloomy silence followed, broken by Bayliss's disconsolate query: "Then, hang it! What can we do?" And that query stuck hard! CHAPTER IX BAYLISS GETS SOME ADVICE On that fateful Thursday morning every High School boy, and nearly every High School girl saw "The Blade." The morning paper, however, contained no allusion whatever to the football remarks of the day before. Instead, there was an article descriptive of the changes to be made out at the High School athletic field this present year, and there were points and "dope" (as the sporting parlance phrases it) concerning the records and rumored new players of other High School elevens that were anxious to meet Gridley on the gridiron this coming season. Thursday's article was just the kind of a one that was calculated to make every football enthusiast eager to see the season open in full swing. Again the "soreheads" came to school, and once more they had to pass the silent groups of their fellow students, who stood with heads turned away. The reign of Coventry seemed complete. Never before had any of the "soreheads" understood so thoroughly the meaning of loneliness. At recess all the talk was of football. None of this talk, however, was heard by the "soreheads." Whenever any of these went near the other groups the talk ceased instantly. There was no comfort in the yard, that morning, for a "sorehead." When school let out that afternoon, at one o'clock, Bayliss, Fremont, Dodge and their kind scurried off fast. No one offered to stop them. These "exclusive" young men could not get away from the fact that exclusion was freely accorded them. Fred Ripley, as had been his wont in other years when he was a freshman, walked homeward with Clara Deane. "Fred, you haven't got yourself mixed up at all with that 'sorehead' crowd, have you?" Miss Deane asked. "Not much!" replied Fred, with emphasis. "I want to play football this year." "Will all the 'soreheads' be kept out of the eleven, even if they come to their senses?" Clara inquired. "Now, really, you'll have to ask me an easier one than that," replied Fred Ripley laughingly. "I had an idea that all of the fellows whose families are rather comfortably well off might be in the movement---or the strike or whatever you call it," Clara replied. "Oh, no; there's a lot of us who haven't gone in with the kickers---and glad we are of it," Fred replied. "Still, don't you believe in any importance attaching to the fact that one comes of one of the rather good old families?" asked Clara Deane thoughtfully. "Why, of course, it's something to be quietly proud of," Fred slowly assented. Then added, with a quick laugh: "But the events of the last two days show that one should keep his pride buttoned in behind his vest." As for the "soreheads" themselves, there weren't any more meetings. As soon as they actually began to realize how much amused contempt many of the Gridley, people felt for them, these young men began to feel rather disgusted with themselves. Across the street, and not far from the gymnasium building, was an apartment house in which two apartments were vacant. Being well acquainted with the agent, Bayliss borrowed the key to one of the apartments. Before half past two that afternoon, Bayliss and Dodge were in hiding, where they could look out through a movable shutter at the gymnasium building. "There go Prescott, Darrin and Reade," Bayliss soon reported. "Oh, of course; they'll answer the football call," sniffed Dodge. "It was over fellows just like them that the whole trouble started." "And there's Dalzell, Hazelton and Hanshew. Griffith is just behind them." "Yes; all muckers," nodded Dodge. "There's Coach Morton." "Of course; he has to attend," replied Dodge, coming toward the shuttered window. "But I'll wager old Morton isn't feeling over-happy this afternoon." "I don't know," grumbled Bayliss. "There he is at the gym. door, shaking hands with Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin, and laughing pretty heartily." "Laughing to keep his courage up, I reckon," clicked Bert Dodge dryly. "Morton knows he's going to miss a lot of faces that he'd like to see there this year." Then Dodge took up post at the peephole, while Bayliss stepped back, yawning. Several more football aspirants neared and entered the gym. The name of each was called off by Bert. "This is the first year," chuckled Bayliss, "when Gridley hasn't had a chance for a star eleven." "I'll miss the game, myself, like fury," commented Dodge. "All through last season, when I played on the second eleven, I was looking forward to this year." "Now, don't you go to getting that streak, and quit us," warned Bayliss quickly. "Our set is going to get up its own eleven; don't forget that! And we're going to play some famous games." "Sure!" admitted Dodge. But there was a choke in his throat. Just a few moments later Bert Dodge gave a violent start, then cried out, in a voice husky with emotion: "Oh, I say, Bayliss, look-----" "What-----" "_Hudson_!" "What about him?" "Quick!" "Well, you ninny," "Hudson is going in the-----" With a cry partly of doubting, partly of rage, Bayliss leaped forward, crowding out Dodge in order to get a better view. Hudson was actually ascending the gym. steps, and going up as though he meant business. "He's gone over to---to---them!" gasped Bert Dodge. "The mean _traitor_!" hissed Bayliss. Hudson did, indeed, brave it out by going straight on into the gym. As he entered some of the fellows already there glared at him dubiously. But Hudson met the look bravely. "Hullo!" cried Dick. "There's Hudson!" Coach Morton heard, from another part of the gym. Turning around, the coach greeted tile reformed 'sorehead' with a nod and a smile. Then some of the fellows spoke to Hudson as that young man moved by them. In a few moments more, Hudson began to feel almost at home among his own High School comrades. Then Drayne, another 'sorehead,' showed up. He, too, was treated as though nothing had happened. When Trenholm, still another of the "soreheads," looked in at the gym., he appeared very close to being afraid. When he saw Hudson and Drayne there he hastened forward. By and by Grayson came in. At the window across the street Bayliss and Dodge had checked off all four of these "deserters" and "traitors." "Well, they'll play, anyway---either on school or on second," muttered Bert, to himself. "Oh, dear! Just think the way things have turned out." These four deserters from the "soreheads" were all out of that very select crowd who did respond to the football call. Promptly at three o'clock Coach Morton called for order. Then, after a very few remarks, he called for the names of all who intended to enter the football training squad for this season. "And let every fellow who thinks he's lazy, or who doesn't like to train hard and obey promptly, keep his name off the list," warned the coach dryly. "I've come to the conclusion that what we need in this squad is Army discipline. We're going to have it this year! Now, young gentlemen, come along with your names---those of you who really believe you can stand Spartan training." "I think I might draw the line at having the fox---or was it a wolf---gnawing at my entrails, as one Spartan had to take it," laughed one youngster. "Guess again, or you'd better stay off the squad this year," laughed the coach. "This is going to be a genuinely rough season for all weaklings." There was a quick making up of the roll. "Tomorrow afternoon, at three sharp, you'll all report on the athletic field," announced Coach Morton, when he had finished writing down the names. "Any man who fails to show up tomorrow afternoon will have his name promptly expunged from the squad rolls. No excuses will be accepted for failure tomorrow." There was a crispness about that which some of the fellows didn't like. "Won't a doctor's certificate of illness go?" asked one fellow laughingly. "It will go---not," retorted coach. "Pill-takers and fellows liable to chills aren't wanted on this year's team, anyway. Now, young gentlemen, I'm going to give you a brief talk on the general art of taking care of yourselves, and the art of keeping yourselves in condition." The talk that followed seemed to Dick Prescott very much like a repetition of what Coach Luce had said to them the winter before, at the commencement of indoor training for baseball. As he finished talking on health and condition Mr. Morton drew from one of his pockets a bunch of folded papers. "I am now," he continued, "going to present to each one of you a set of rules, principles, guides---call them what you will. On this paper each one of you will find laid down rules that should be burned into the memories of all young men who aspire to play football. Do not lose your copies of these rules. Read the rules over again and again. Memorize them! Above all, put every rule into absolute practice." Then, at a sign, the young men passed before the coach to receive their printed instructions. "Something new you've gotten up, Mr. Morton?" inquired one of the fellows. "No," the coach admitted promptly. "These rules aren't original with me. I ran across 'em, and I've had them printed, by authority from the Athletics Committee. I wish I had thought up a set of rules as good." As fast as they received their copies each member of the squad darted away to read the rules through. This is what each man found on the printed sheet: _"1. Work hard and be alive. 2. Work hard and learn the rules. 3. Work hard and learn the signals. 4. Work hard and keep on the jump. 5. Work hard and have a nose for the ball. 6. Work hard all the time. Be on speaking terms with the ball every minute. 7. Work hard and control your temper and tongue. 8. Work hard and don't quit when you're tackled. Hang onto the ball. 9. Work hard and get your man before he gets started. Get him before the going gets good. 10. Work hard and keep your speed. If you're falling behind your condition is to blame. 11. Work hard and be on the job all the time, a little faster, a little sandier, a little more rugged than the day before. 12. Work hard and keep your eyes and ears open and your head up. 13. Work hard and pull alone the man with the ball. This isn't a game of solitaire. 14. Work hard and be on time at practice every day. Train faithfully. Get your lessons. Aim to do your part and to make yourself a perfect part of the machine. Be a gentleman. If the combination is too much for you, turn in your togs and call around during croquet season."_ "What do you think of that, as expounding the law of football?" smiled coach, looking down over Dave Darrin's shoulder. "It doesn't take long to read, Mr. Morton And it ought not to take long to memorize these fourteen rules. But to live them, through and through, and up and down---that's going to take a lot of thought and attention." To the four ex-"soreheads" not a word had been said about the late unpleasantness, nor was this quartette any longer in Coventry. Trenholm, Grayson, Drayne and Hudson were the four best football men of the Bayliss-Dodge faction. Now that they were to play with the High School eleven all concerned felt wholly relieved. As the young men were leaving the gym. that afternoon Coach Morton found a chance to grip Dick's arm and to whisper lightly in his ear: "Thank you, Prescott." "For what, Mr. Morton." "Why, for what you managed to do to hold the school eleven together. That was clever newspaper work, Prescott. And it has helped the school a lot. I'm no longer uneasy about Gridley High School on the gridiron for this season. We'll have a team now!" With a confident nod the coach strolled away. As the gym. doors were thrown open the members of the new football squad rushed out with joyous whoops. Some of the more mischievous or spirited actually tackled unsuspicious comrades, toppling their victims over to the ground. That line of tactics resulted in many a "chase" that brought out some remarkably good sprinting talent. Thus the squad dissipated itself like the mist, and soon the grounds near the school were deserted. Bayliss and Bert Dodge went away to nurse a grievance that nothing seemed to cure. For these two, now that their strong line of resistance had been broken, found themselves secretly longing, as had the four deserters, for a place in the football squad. Bert Dodge sulked along to school, alone that Friday morning. Bayliss, however, after a night of wakefulness, had decided to "eat crow." So, as Dick, Dave and Greg Holmes were strolling along schoolward, Bayliss overhauled them. "Good morning, fellows," he called, briskly, with an offhand attempt at geniality. All three of the chums looked up at him, then glanced away again. "Oh, I say, now, don't keep it up," coaxed Bayliss. "We High School fellows all want to be decent enough friends. And how's the football? I don't suppose the squad is full yet. I---I half believe I may join and take a little practice." "Thinking of it?" asked Dick, looking up coolly. "Yes---really," replied Bayliss. "See the coach, then; he's running the squad." "Yes; I guess I will, thanks. Good morning!" Bayliss sauntered along, blithely whistling a tune. He knew Coach Morton would give him the glad hand of welcome for the squad and the team. "Oh, Mr. Morton," was Bayliss's greeting, as he encountered the coach near the school building steps. "Yes?" asked the submaster pleasantly. "I---I---er---I didn't make the meeting yesterday afternoon, but I guess you might put my name down for the squad." "Isn't this a bit late, Bayliss?" asked the submaster, eyeing the youth keenly. "Perhaps, a bit," assented the confident young man. "However-----" "At its meeting, last night, Mr. Bayliss, the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association advised me to consider the squad list closed." "Closed?" stammered Bayliss, turning several shades in succession. "Closed? Do---do you mean-----" "No more additions will be made to the squad this year," replied the coach quietly, then going inside. Bayliss stood on the steps, a picture of humiliation and amazement. "Fellows," gasped Bayliss, as Prescott and his two chums came along, "did you hear that? Football list closed?" "Want some advice?" asked Dick, halting for an instant. "Yes," begged Bayliss. "Never kick a sore toe against a stone wall," quoth Dick Prescott, and passed on into the school building. CHAPTER X TWO GIRLS TURN THE LAUGH By this time training was going on briskly. Four days out of every week the squad had to practice for two hours at the athletic field. There were tours of work in the gym., too. Besides, it was "early to bed and early to rise" for all members of the squad. Even those who hoped only to "make second" were under strict orders to let nothing interfere with their condition. Three mornings in the week Coach Morton met all squad men for either cross-country work or special work in sprinting. And this was before breakfast, when each man was on honor pledged to take only a pint of hot water---nothing more---before reporting. On the other mornings, football aspirants were pledged to run without the coach. Yet, with all this, studies had to be kept up to a high average, for no man on the "unset" list could hope to be permitted to play football. Hard work? Yes. But discipline, above all. And discipline is priceless to the young man who really hopes to get ahead in life! "You're not playing fair," Dave cried reproachfully to his chum one day. "Why not?" Prescott questioned mildly. "You're using hair tonic!" Darrin asserted, with mock seriousness, as he gazed at Dick's bushy mop of football hair. "You're growing a regular chrysanthemum for a top piece to your head." "Oh, my hair, eh?" smiled Dick. "Why, you can have as fine a lot of hair if you want to take the trouble." "Don't I want it, though?" retorted Darrin. "What kind of tonic do you use?" "Grease," smiled Prescott. "Nothing but grease?" "Nothing much." "What kind of grease?" "Elbow!" "Now, stop your joshing," ordered Dave promptly. "No kind of muscular work is going to bring out a fuzzy rug like that on anyone's skypiece." "But that's just how I do it," Dick insisted. "Not a bit hard, either. See here! Just use your finger tips, briskly, like this, and stir your whole scalp up with a brisk massage." "How long do you keep it up?" demanded Dave, after following suit for some time. "Oh, about ninety seconds, I guess," nodded Prescott. "You want to do it eight times a day, and wash your head weekly, though with bland soap and not too much of it." "Is that honestly all you do to get a Siberian fur wig such as you're wearing?" "That's all I do," replied Dick. "Except---yes; there's one thing more. Go out of doors all you can without a hat." "The active curry-comb and the vanished hat for mine, then," muttered Dave, with another envious look at Dick's bushy hair. Nor did Dave rest until the other chums all had the secret. By the time that the football season opened Dick & Co. were the envy of the school for their heavy heads of hair. With all the hard work of training, Coach Morton did not intend that the young men should be so busy as to have no time for recreation. He understood thoroughly the value of the lighter, happier moments in keeping an athlete's nervous system up to concert pitch. Though the baseball training of the preceding spring had been "stiff" enough, Dick & Co. soon found that the football training was altogether more rugged. In fact, Coach Morton, with the aid of Dr. Bentley as medical director, weeded out a few of the young men after training had been going on for a fortnight. Some failed to show sufficient reserve "wind" after running. A few other defectives proved not to have hearts strong enough for the grilling work of the gridiron. All the members of Dick & Co., however, managed to keep in the squad. In fact, hints soon began to go around, mysteriously, that Dick & Co. were having the benefit of some outside training. Purcell came to young Prescott and asked him frankly about this report. "Nothing in it," Dick replied promptly. "We're having just the same training as the rest of the boys. But I'll tell you a secret." "Go on!" begged Purcell eagerly. "You know the training rules---early retiring and all?" "Yes; of course." "Well, we fellows are sticking to orders like leeches. Every night, to the minute, we're in bed. We make a long night's sleep of it. Then, besides, we don't slight a single particle of the training work that we're told to do by ourselves. We've agreed on that, and have promised each other. Now, do you suppose all the fellows are sticking quite as closely to coach's orders?" "I---I---well, perhaps they're not," agreed Purcell. "Are you?" insisted Dick. "In the _main_, I do." "Oh," observed Prescott, with mild sarcasm. "'In the main'! Now, see here, Purcell, we High School fellows are fortunate in having one of the very best coaches that ever a High School squad did have. Mr. Morton knows what he's doing. He knows how to bring out condition, and how to teach the game. He lays down the rules that furnish the sole means of success at football. And you---one of our most valuable fellows---are following some of his instructions---when they don't conflict with your comfort or with your own ideas about training. Now, honestly, what do you know about training that is better than Coach Morton's information on that very important subjects" "Oh, come, now; you're a little bit too hard, Prescott," argued Purcell. "I do about everything just as I'm told." "You admit Mr. Morton's ability, don't you?" "Yes, of course." "Then why don't you stick to every single rule that's laid down by a man who knows what he is doing? It will be better for your condition, won't it, Purcell?" "Yes, without a doubt." "And what is better for you is better for the team and for the school, isn't its" "By Jove, Prescott, you're a stickler for duty, aren't you?" cried Purcell. He spoke in a louder tone this time. Two girls who were passing the street corner where the young men stood heard the query and glanced over with interest. Neither young man perceived the girls at that moment. "Why, yes," Prescott answered slowly. "Duty is the main thing there is about life, isn't it?" "Right again," laughed Purcell. One of the girls looked swiftly at the other. They were Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, friends of Dick's and Dave's, and also members of the junior class. "Well, I'm going to take a leaf out of your book," pursued Purcell. "I'm really as anxious to see Gridley High School always on top as you or any other fellow can be." "Of course you are," nodded Dick. "The way you put our baseball team through last season proves that." "I'm going to be a martinet for training, hereafter," Purcell declared earnestly. "I'm going to be a worse stickler than old coach himself. And I'm going to exercise my right as a senior to watch the other fellows and hold their noses to the training grindstone." "Then I'm not worried about Gridley having a winning team this year," Dick answered. "By Jove, you had a lot to do with that, too, didn't you, Prescott?" cried Purcell. "You put it over the 'soreheads' so hard that we never heard from them again after we got started." "You helped there, also, Purcell. If you and Ripley and a few others had gone over to the 'soreheads' it would have stiffened their backbone and nothing could have made it possible, this year, for Gridley High School to have an eleven that would represent all the best football that there is in the grand old school." In the first two years of their school life Dick and Dave had spent many pleasant hours in the society of Laura and Belle. So far, during the junior year, the chums had had but little chance to see the girls, for the demands of football were fearfully exacting. Laura, being almost at the threshold of seventeen years, had grown tall and womanly. Bert Dodge began to notice what a very pretty girl the doctor's daughter was becoming. So, one afternoon while the football squad was practicing hard over on the athletic field, Bert encountered Laura and Belle as they strolled down the Main Street. Lifting his hat, Dodge greeted the girls, and stood chatting with them for a few moments. To this neither of the girls could object, for Bert's manners, with the other sex, were always irreproachable. But, presently, Laura saw her chance. She did not want to be rude, but Bert's face had just taken on a half-sneering look at a chance mention of Dick's name. "You aren't playing football this year, Bert?" Laura asked innocently. Bert quickly flushed. "No," he admitted. "Of course everyone can't make the eleven," Belle added, with mild malice. "I---I don't believe I'd care to," Dodge went on. "I---you see---I don't care about all the fellows in the squad." "I don't suppose every boy who is playing on the squad is a chum of everyone else," remarked Laura. "Such fellows as Prescott, for instance, I don't care much about," Bert continued, with a swift side glance at Laura Bentley to see how she took that remark. But Laura showed not a sign in her face. "No?" she asked quietly. "I think him a splendid fellow. By the way, he and Dave Darrin haven't received the reward for finding your father, have they?" Bert gasped. His face went white, then red. He fidgeted about for an answer. "No," he replied, cuttingly, at last, "and I don't believe they ever will." "Oh, I beg your pardon," cried Laura in quick contrition. "I didn't know that it was a tender spot with you, or your family." "It isn't," Bert rejoined hurriedly. "It simply amounts to this, that the reward will never be paid to a pair of cheeky, brazen-faced-----" "Won't you please stop right there, Mr. Dodge?" Laura asked sweetly. "Mr. Prescott and Mr. Darrin are friends of ours. We don't like to hear remarks that cast disrespect in their direction." "Oh, I beg your pardon," answered Bert, trying not to be stiff. But he was ill at ease, leaving the girls very soon after. Yet, in his hatred for Dick and Dave, young Dodge resolved upon a daring stroke. He enlisted Bayliss, and the pair sought to "cut out" Prescott and Darrin with Laura and Belle. Neither Dick nor Dave was in love. Both were too sensible for that. Both knew that love affairs were for men old enough to know their own minds. Yet the friendship between the four young people had been a very proper and wholesome affair, and much pleasure had been derived on all sides. Nowadays, however, Bert and Bayliss managed to be much out and around Gridley while the football squad was at practice. Almost daily this pair met Laura and Belle, as though by accident, and the two young seniors usually managed, without apparent intrusion, to walk along beside Laura and Belle, often seeing the pair to the home gate of one or the other. "You two fellows want to look out," Purcell warned Dick and Dave, good-naturedly, one day. "Other fellows are after your sweet-hearts." "I wonder how that happened," Dick observed good-humoredly. "I didn't know we had any sweethearts." "What about-----" began Purcell, wondering if he had made a mistake. "Please don't drag any girls' names into bantering talk," interposed Dave, quickly though very quietly. So Purcell said no more, and he had, indeed, meant no harm whatever. But others were noticing, and also talking. High School young people began to take a very lively interest in the new appearance of Dodge and Bayliss as escorts of Laura and Belle. Then there came one especially golden day of early autumn, when it seemed as though the warm, glorious day had driven everyone out onto the streets. Dodge and Bayliss met Laura and Belle, quite as though by accident, and manifested a rather evident determination to remain in the company of the girls as long as possible. Finally Laura halted before one of the department stores. "Belle, there's an errand you and I had in mind to do in there, isn't there?" Laura asked. "May we have the very great pleasure, then, of your leave to wait until you are through with your shopping?" spoke up Bert Dodge quickly. Laura flushed slightly. Just then more than a dozen of the football squad, coming back from the field, marching solidly by twos, turned the corner and came upon this quartette. There were many curious looks in the corners of the eyes of members of the squad. Despite themselves Dick and Dave could feel themselves reddening. But Laura Bentley was equal to the emergency. "Here come the school's heroes---the fellows who keep Gridley's High School banner flying in the breeze," she laughed pleasantly. Both Dodge and Bayliss started to answer, then closed their lips. "Won't you please excuse us, boys?" begged Laura, in her usual pleasant voice. "Here are Dick and Dave, and Belle and I wish to speak with them." From some of the members of the football squad went up a promptly stifled gasp that sounded like a very distant rumble. Dick and Dave, looking wholly rough and ready in their sweaters, padded trousers and heavy field shoes, stepped out of the marching formation as though obeying an order. The chums looked almost uncouth, compared with the immaculate, dandyish pair, Dodge and Bayliss. The latter, with so many amused glances turned their way, could only flush deeply, stammer, raise their hats and---fade away! The lesson was a needed and a remembered one. Laura and Belle took their afternoon walks in peace thereafter. CHAPTER XI DIES FOOTBALL TEACH REAL NERVE? "Get in there, Ripley! Don't be afraid. It's only a leather dummy. It can't hurt you! Now, tackle the dummy around the hips---_hoist_!" A laugh went up among the crowd as Fred, crouching low, head down, sailed in at that tackling dummy. Young Ripley's face was red, but he took the coach's stern tone in good part, for the young man was determined to make good on the eleven this year. "Now, Prescott! Show us that you can beat your last performance! Imagine the dummy to be a two hundred and twenty pound center!" Dick rushed in valiantly, catching the dummy just right. "Let go!" called the coach, laughingly. "It isn't a sack of gold!" Another laugh went up. This was one of the semi-public afternoons, when any known well-wisher of Gridley was allowed on the athletic field to watch the squad at work. For half an hour the young men had been working hard, mostly at the swinging dummy, for Coach Morton wanted much improvement yet in tackling. "Now," continued the coach, in a voice that didn't sound very loud, yet which had the quality of carrying to every part of the big field, "it'll be just as well if you fellows don't get the idea that only swinging leather dummies are to be tackled. The provisional first and second teams will now line up. Second has the ball on its own twenty-yard line, and is trying to save its goal. You fellows on second hustle with all your might to get the ball through the ranks of the first, or School eleven. Fight for all you're worth to get that ball on the go and keep it going! You fellows of the first, or School eleven, I want to see what you can do with real tackling." There was a hasty adjusting of nose-guards by those who wore that protection. The ball was placed, the quarter-back of the second eleven bending low to catch it, at the same time comprehending the signal that sounded briskly. The whistle blew; the ball was snapped, and quarter-back darted to the right, passing the ball. Second's right tackle had been chosen to receive and break through the School's line. On School's left, Dick and Ripley raced in together, while second's interference crashed into the pair of former enemies as right tackle tried to go through. But Fred Ripley was as much out for team work this day as any fellow on the field. He made a fast sprint, as though to tackle, yet meaning to do nothing of the sort. Dick, too, understood. He let Ripley get two or three feet in the lead. At Ripley, therefore, the second's interference hurled itself savagely. It was all done so quickly that the beguiled second had no time to rectify its blunder; for Fred Ripley was in the center of the squirming, interfering bunch and Dick Prescott had made a fair, firm, abrupt tackle. In an instant the ball was "down." Second had gained less than a yard. "Good work!" the coach shouted, after sounding the whistle." Ripley and Prescott, that was the right sort of team work." Again second essayed to get away with the ball. This time the forward pass was employed---that is to say, attempted. Hudson and Purcell, by another clever feint, got the ball stopped and down; third time, and second lost the ball on downs. Now School had the ball. As the quarter-back's signals rang out there was perceptible activity and alertness at School's right end. As the ball was snapped, School's right wing went through the needful movements, but Dick Prescott, over at left end, had the ball. Ripley and Purcell were supporting him. Straight into the opposing ranks went Ripley and Purcell, the rest of the school team supporting. It was team work again. Dick was halted, for an instant. Then, backed by his supporters, he dashed through the opposition---on and on! Twice Dick was on the point of being tackled, but each time his interference carried him through. He was over second's line---touch-down, and the whistle sounded shrilly, just a second ahead of cheers from some hundred on-lookers. As Dick came back he limped just a bit. "I tell you, it takes nerve, and a lot of it, to play that game," remarked one citizen admiringly. "Nerve? pooh!" retorted his companion. "Just a hoodlum footrace, with some bumping, and then the whistle blows while a lot of boys are rolling over one another. The whistle always blows just at the point when there might be some use for nerve." The first speaker looked at his doubtful companion quizzically. "Would it take any nerve for you," he demanded, "to jump in where you knew there was a good chance of your being killed," "Yes; I suppose so," admitted the kicker. "Well, every season a score or two of football ball players are killed, or crippled for life." "But they're not looking for it," objected the kicker, "or they wouldn't go in so swift and hard. Real nerve? I'd believe in that more if I ever heard of one of these nimble-jack racers taking a big chance with his life off the field, and where there was no crowd of wild galoots to look on and cheer!" "Of course killing and maiming are not the real objects of the game," pursued the first speaker. "Coaches and other good friends of the game are always hoping to discover some forms of rules that will make football safer. Yet I can't help feeling that the present game, despite the occasional loss of life or injury to limb, puts enough of strong, fighting manhood into the players to make the game worth all it costs." "I want to see the nerve, and I want to see the game prove its worth," insisted the kicker. Second eleven, though made up of bright, husky boys, was having a hard time of it. Thrice coach arbitrarily advanced the ball for second, in order to give that team a better chance with High School eleven. And now the practice was over for the afternoon. The whistle between coach's lips sounded three prolonged blasts, and the young players, flushed, perspiring---aching a bit, too---came off the field. Togs were laid aside and some time was spent under the shower baths and in toweling. Only a small part of the late crowd of watchers remained at the athletic field. But the kicker and his companion were among those who stayed. Coach Morton stood for a time talking with some citizens who had lingered. As most of these men were contributors to the athletic funds they were anxious for information. "Do you consider the prospects good for the team this year?" asked one man. "Yes," replied Mr. Morton promptly. "Is the School eleven decided upon in detail?" questioned another. "No; of course not, as yet. Each day some of the young men develop new points---of excellence, or otherwise. The division into School and second teams, that you saw this afternoon, may not be the final division. In fact, not more than five or six of the young men have been definitely picked as sure to make the School team. We shall have it all decided within a few days." "But you're rather certain," insisted another, "that Gridley is going to have as fine a School team as it has ever had?" "It would be going too far to say that," replied Coach Morton slowly. "The truth is, we never know anything for certain until we have seen our boys play through the first game. Our judgment is even more reliable after they've been through the second game." By this time, some of the football squad were coming out of locker rooms, heading across the field to the gate. Coach Morton and the little group of citizens turned and went along slowly after them. The kicker was still on hand. Just as the boys neared the gate there were heard sounds of great commotion on the other side of the high board fence. There were several excited yells, the sound of running feet, and then more distinct cries. "He's bent on killing the officer! Run!" "Look out! Here he comes! Scoot!" "He's crazy!" Then came several more yells, a note of terror in them all. Five youngsters of the football squad were so near the gate that they broke into a run for the open. Coach Morton, too, sped ahead at full steam, though he was some distance behind the members of the squad. The citizens followed, running and puffing. Once outside, they all came upon a curious sight. One of the smallest members of Gridley's police force had attempted to stop a big, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who, coatless and hatless had come running down the street. Two men had gotten in the way of this fellow and had been knocked over. Then the little policeman had darted in, bent on distinguishing himself. But the red-faced man, crazed by drink, had bowled over the policeman and had fallen on top of him. The victor had begun to beat the police officer when the sight of a rapidly-growing crowd angered the fellow. Leaping up, the red-faced one had glared about him, wondering whom next to attack, while the officer lay on his back, more than half-dazed. Making up his mind to catch and thrash some one, the red-faced man came along, shouting savagely. It was just at this moment that Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes, sprinting fast, came out through the gateway. "Look out, boys! He'll kill you!" shouted one well-meaning citizen in the background. "Will he?" grunted Dick grimly. "Greg, I'll tackle the fellow---you be ready to fall on him. Head down, now---charge!" As though they had darted around the right end of the football battle line, and had sighted the enemy's goal line, Prescott and Holmes charged straight for the infuriated fellow. "Get outer my way!" roared red-face, turning slightly and running furiously at them. Dick's head was down, but that did not prevent his seeing through his long hair. "Get out of my way, you kid!" gasped the big fellow, halting in his amazement as he saw this youngster coming straight at him. Greg was off the sidewalk, running a few feet out from the gutter But Dick sailed straight in. As he came close, red-faced seemed to feel uneasy about this reckless boy, for the big fellow, holding his fists so that he could use them, swerved slightly to one side. Fifty people were looking on, now, most of them amazed and fearing for young Prescott. But Dick, running still lower, charged straight for his man. The big fellow, with a bellow, aimed his fists. Dick wasn't hit, however. Instead, he grappled with the fellow, just below the thighs, then straightened up somewhat---all quick as a flash. That big mountain of flesh swayed, then toppled. Red-face went down, not with a crash, but more after the manner of a collapse. As he fell, Greg darted in from the street and fell upon the big fellow's chest. In another instant young Prescott was a-top of the fellow. "Keep him down, boys!" yelled Coach Morton. Just before the coach sprinted to the spot Dave Darrin, then Tom Reade, and then Tom Purcell, hurled themselves into the fray. When the coach arrived he could not find a spot on red-face at which to take hold. The policeman, limping a bit, came up as fast as he could. "Will you young gentlemen help me to put these handcuffs on?" asked the officer, dangling a pair of steel bracelets. "Will we?" ejaculated Dave. "Whoop!" "Roll the fellow over!" called Dick Prescott. With a gleeful shout the squad members rolled red-face over, dragging his powerful arms behind his back. There was a scuffle, but Coach Morton helped. A minute more and the handcuffs had been snapped in place. In the eyes of the recent kicker, back on the field, there now appeared a gleam of something very much akin to enthusiasm. "What do you say, now?" asked that man's companion. "Though, of course, Prescott and Holmes knew that help wasn't far off." "It doesn't make any difference," retorted the recent kicker. "Either boy might have been killed by that big brute before the help could have arrived." "Then does football teach nerve?" "It certainly must!" agreed the recent kicker. CHAPTER XII DICK, LILE CAESAR, REFUSES THE CROWN A few days later the members of the school team, and the substitutes, had been announced. Then the men who had made the team came together at the gymnasium. Who was to be captain of the eleven? For once there seemed to be a good deal of hanging back. If there were any members of the team who believed themselves supremely fitted to lead, at least they were not egotistical enough to announce themselves. There was a good deal of whispering during the five minutes before Mr. Morton called them to order. Some of the whisperers left one group to go over to another. "Now, then, gentlemen!" called Coach Morton. "Order, please!" Almost at once the murmuring stopped. "Before we can go much further," continued the coach, "it will be necessary to decide upon a captain. I don't wish to have the whole voice in the matter. If you are to follow your captain through thick and thin, in a dozen or more pitched football battles, it is well that you should have a leader who will possess the confidence of all. Now, whom do you propose for the post of captain? Let us discuss the merits of those that may be proposed." Just for an instant the murmuring broke out afresh. Then a shout went up: "Purcell!" But that young man shook his head. "Prescott!" shouted another. Dick, too, shook his head. "Purcell! Purcell!" "Now, listen to me a moment, fellows!" called Purcell, standing very straight and waving his arms for silence. "I don't want to be captain. I had the honor of leading the baseball nine last season." "No matter! You'll make a good football captain!" "Not the best you can get, by any means," insisted Purcell. "I decline the honor for that reason, and also because I don't want the responsibility of leading the eleven." "Prescott!" shouted three or four of the squad at once. Purcell nodded his head encouragingly. "Yes; Prescott, by all means! You can't do better." "Yes, you can! And you fellows know it!" shouted Dick. His face glowed with pleasure and pride, but he tried to show, by face, voice and gesture, that he didn't propose to take the tendered honor. "Prescott! Prescott!" came the insistent yell. Above the clamor Coach Morton signaled Dick to come forward to the platform. "Won't you take it, Prescott?" inquired the coach. "I've no right to, sir." "Then tell the team why you think so." As soon as coach had secured silence Dick, with a short laugh, began: "Fellows, I don't know whether you mean it all, or whether you're having a little fun with me. But-----" "No, no! We mean it! Prescott for captain! No other fellow has done as much for Gridley High School football!" "Then I'll tell you some reasons, fellows, why I don't fit the position," Dick went on, speaking easily now as his self-confidence came to him. "In the first place, I'm a junior, and this is my first year at football. Now, a captain should be a whole wagon-load in the way of judgment. That means a fellow who has played in a previous season. For that reason, all other things being equal, the captain should be one of the seniors who played the gridiron game last year." "You'll do for us, Prescott!" came the insistent call. "For another thing," Dick went on composedly, "the captain should be a man who plays center, or close to it. Now, I'm not heavy enough for anything of that sort. In fact, I understand I'm cast for left tackle or left end---probably the latter. So, you see, I wouldn't be in the right part of the field. I don't deny that I'd like to be captain, but I'd a thousand times rather see Gridley win." "Then who can lead us to victory" demanded Dave Darrin briskly. Dick promptly. "He's believed to be our best man for center. He played last year; he knows more fine points of the game than any of us juniors can. And he has the judgment. Besides, he's a senior, and it's his last chance to command the High School eleven." "If Wadleigh'll take it, I'm for him," spoke Dave Darrin promptly. Henry Wadleigh, or "Hem," as he was usually called, was turning all the colors of the rainbow. Yet he looked pleased and anxious. There was just one thing against Wadleigh, in the minds of Hudson and some of the others. He was a boy of poor family. He belonged to what the late but routed "soreheads" termed "the mockers." But he was an earnest, honest fellow, a hard player and loyal to the death to his school. "Any other candidates?" asked Coach Morton. There was a pause of indecision. There were a few other fellows who wanted to captain the team. Why didn't some of their friends put them in nomination? Dick & Co. formed a substantial element in the team. They were for "Hen" Wadleigh, and now Tom Reade spoke: "I move that Wadleigh be considered our choice for captain." "Second the motion," uttered Dan Dalzell, hastily. Coach Morton put the proposition, which was carried. Wadleigh was chosen captain, subject to the approval of the Athletics Committee of the alumni, which would talk it over in secret with Coach Morton. And now the team was quickly made up. Wadleigh was to play center. Dick was to play left end, with Dave for left tackle. Greg Holmes went over to right tackle, with Hazelton right guard. Dan Dalzell was slated as substitute right end, while Tom Reade was a "sub" left tackle. Fred Ripley was put down as a substitute for left end. As one who kept in such close training as did Prescott he was not likely to miss many of the big games, and Fred's chances for playing in the big games was not heavy. Yet Ripley was satisfied. Even as a "sub," he had "made" the High School eleven. "I think, gentlemen," declared Mr. Morton, in dismissing the squad, "that we have as good a team to put forward this year as Gridley has ever had. The only disquieting feature of the season is the report, coming to us, that many of the rival schools have, this year, better teams in the field than they have ever had before. So we've got to work---well like so many animated furies. Remember, gentlemen, 'coldfeet' never won a football season." Bayliss and Dodge when they heard the news, were much disgusted. They had hoped that subs. Instead, Dick and three of his cronies had been put in Gridley's first fighting line, only two of the redoubtable six being on the sub list. School and second teams, being now sharply defined, fell to playing against each other as hard and as cleverly as they could. Wadleigh's choice as captain was confirmed by the Athletics Committee. "But I'd never have had the chance, Prescott, old fellow, if it hadn't been for you," "Hen" protested gratefully. "Dick, I won't forget your great help!" "I didn't do anything for you, Hen," Prescott retorted, with one of his dry smiles. "You didn't?" gasped Wadleigh. "No, sir! I did it for the school. I wanted to see our team have the best possible captain and the winning eleven!" Bert and Bayliss happened to be passing the gymnasium when they heard of the selection of Wadleigh. "Bert," whispered Bayliss, "I believe you're at least half a man!" "What are you driving at?" demanded Dodge. "We owe Dick Prescott a few. If you're with me we'll see if his season on the gridiron can't be made a farce and a fizzle." CHAPTER XIII BERT DODGE "STARTS SOMETHING" As always happens the schedule of the fall's games was changed somewhat at the last moment. In the first change there was a decided advantage. Wrexham withdrawing its challenge almost at the last, Coach Morton took on Welton High School for the first game of the season. Now, Welton must have played for no other reason than to gratify a weak form of vanity, for there were few High School teams in the state that had cause to dread Welton High School. For Gridley, however, the game served a useful purpose. It solidified Captain Wadleigh's team into actual work. The score was 32 to 0, in favor of Gridley. However, as Dick phrased it, the practice against an actual adversary, for the first time in the season, was worth at least three hundred to nothing. "But don't you fellows make a mistake," cautioned Captain Wadleigh. "Don't get a notion that you've nothing bigger than Welton to tackle this year. Next Saturday you've got to go up against Tottenville, and there's an eleven that will make you perspire." Coach Morton had Tottenville gauged at its right value. During the few days before the game he kept the Gridley boys steadily at work. The passing and the signal work, in particular, were reviewed most thoroughly. "Remember, the pass is going to count for a lot," Mr. Morton warned them. "You can't make a weight fight against Tottenville, for those fellows weigh a hundred and fifty pounds more, to the team, than you do. They're savage, swift, clever players, too, those Tottenville youths. What you take away from them you'll have to win by strategy." So the Gridley boys were drilled again and again in all the special points of field strategy that Coach Morton knew or could invent. Yet one of the best things that Mr. Morton knew, and one that always characterized Gridley, was the matter of confidence. Captain Wadleigh's young men were made to feel that they were going to win. They did not underestimate the enemy, but they were going to win. That was well understood by them all. Now, in the games of sheer strategy much depends upon nimble ends. Dick Prescott, in particular, was coached much in private, as well as on the actual gridiron. "Keep yourself in keen good shape, Mr. Prescott," Mr. Morton insisted. "We need your help in scalping Tottenville next Saturday." As the week wore along Mr. Morton and Captain Wadleigh became more and more pleased with themselves and with their associates. "I don't see how we can fail tomorrow," said Mr. Horton, quietly, to "Hen" Wadleigh, just after the School and the second teams had been dismissed. It was not much after half-past three. Practice had been brief, in order that none of the players might be used up. "Prescott, in especial, is showing up magnificently," replied Wadleigh. "He and Darrin are certainly wonders at their end of the line." "You must use them all you can tomorrow, and yet don't make them fight the whole battle," replied Coach Morton. "Save them for the biggest emergencies." "I'll be careful," promised Wadleigh. Dick and Dave walked back into the city, instead of taking a car. "How are you feeling, Dick?" asked Dave. "As smooth as silk," Prescott replied. "I don't believe I've ever been in such fine condition before," replied Dave. "That's mighty good, for I have an idea that the captain means to use us all he can tomorrow." "Oh, Tottenville is as good as beaten, then," laughed Dave, with all the Gridley confidence. "I'd like to know just how strong Tottenville is on its right end of the line," mused Prescott. "I don't care how strong they are," retorted Darrin, with a laugh. "You and I are not going to use strength; we're going to rely upon brains---Coach Morton's brains, though, to be sure." The two chums separated at the corner of the side street on which stood the Prescott bookstore and home. Dave hurried home to attend to some duties that he knew were awaiting him. Dick, whistling, strolled briskly on. He saw Dodge and Bayliss on the other side of the street, but did not pay much attention to them until they crossed just before Dick had reached his own door. "There's the mucker," muttered Bayliss, in a tone intentionally loud enough for the young left end to overhear. "I won't pay any attention to them," thought Dick, with an amused smile. "I can easily understand what they're sore about. I'd feel angry myself if I had been left off the team." "Why do fellows like that need an education?" demanded Dodge, in a slightly louder tone, as the pair came closer. Still Dick Prescott paid no heed. He started up the steps, fumbling for his latch key as he went. "You faker! You mucker!" hissed Bayliss, now speaking directly to the young left end. This was so palpable that Dick could not well ignore it. Dropping the key back into his pocket, he turned to stare at the two "sorehead" chums. "Eh?" he asked, with a quiet laugh. "Yes; I meant you!" hissed Bayliss. "Oh, well," grinned Dick, "your opinions have never counted for much in the community, have they?" "Shut up, you ignorant hound!" warned Bayliss belligerently. "Too bad," retorted Dick tantalizingly. "Of course, I understand what ails you. You were left off the High School team, and I was not. But that is your own fault, Bayliss. You could have made the team if you hadn't been foolish." "Don't insult me with your opinions fellow!" cried Bayliss, growing angrier every instant. At least, he appeared to be working him self up into a rage. "Oh, I don't care anything about your opinions, and I have no anxiety to spring mine on you," retorted Dick, in an indifferent voice. Once more he fumbled for his latch key. "You haven't any business talking with gentlemen, anyway," sneered Bert Dodge. Dick flushed slightly, though he replied, coolly: "As it happens, just at present I am not!" "What do you mean by that?" flared Bert. "Oh, you know, you don't care anything about my opinions," laughed Dick. "Let us drop the whole subject. I don't care particularly, anyway, about being seen talking with you two." "Oh, you don't?" cried Bayliss, in a voice hoarse with rage. In almost the same breath Bert Dodge hurled an insult so pointed and so offensive that Dick's ruddy cheek went white for an instant. Back into his pocket he dropped the latch key, then stepped swiftly down before his tormentor. "Dodge," he cried warningly, "take back the remark you just made. Then, after that, you can take your offensive presence out of my sight!" "I'll take nothing back!" sneered the other boy. "Then you'll take this!" retorted Dick, very quietly, in a cold, low voice. Prescott's fist flew out. It was not a hard blow, but it landed on the tip of Bert Dodge's nose. "You cur!" cried Dodge chokingly. "Wait until I get my coat off." "No; keep it on; I'm going to keep mine on," retorted Prescott. "Guard yourself, man!" "Jump in, Bayliss! We'll thump his head off!" gasped Dodge, with almost a sob in his voice, to was so angry. Bayliss would have been nothing loath to "jump in." But, just as Dick Prescott, after calling "guard," aimed his second blow at Bert, Fred Ripley, Purcell and "Hen" Wadleigh all hurried up to the scene. For Bayliss to be caught fighting two-to-one would have resulted in a quick thrashing for him. So Bayliss stood back. "Bad blood, is there?" asked Wadleigh, as the new arrivals hurried up. "Prescott, after insulting Bert, flew at him," retorted Bayliss, panting some with the effort at lying. Dodge was now standing well back. He had parried three of Dick's blows, but had not yet taken the offensive. As Dodge was a heavier man, and not badly schooled in fistics, Dick had the good sense to go at this fight coolly, taking time to exercise his judgment. "What's it all about?" demanded Wadleigh. Just for an instant Bayliss felt himself stumped. Then, all of a sudden, an inspiration in lying came to him. "Prescott got ugly because the Dodges never paid that thousand-dollar reward," declared Bayliss. Dick heard, and with his eye still on Dodge, shouted out: "That's not true, Bayliss. You know you are not telling the truth!" Bayliss doubled his fists, and would have struck Prescott down from behind, but Wadleigh, who was a big and powerful fellow, caught Bayliss by his left arm, jerking him back. "Now, just wait a bit, Bayliss," advised "Hen," moderately. "From what I know of Prescott I'm not afraid but that he'll give you satisfaction presently---if you want it." "You bet he'll have to!" hissed Bayliss. "If Prescott loses the argument he has on now," added Purcell, significantly, "I fancy he has friends who will take his place with you, Bayliss." Then all turned to watch the fight, which was now passing the stage of preliminary caution. Several boys and men had run down from Main Street. Now, more than a score of spectators were crowding about. "Hurrah!" piped up one boy from the Central Grammar School." The mucker bantam against the 'sorehead' lightweight!" There was a laugh, but Bert Dodge didn't join in it, for, after receiving two glancing, blows on the chest, he now had his right eye closed by Dick's hard left. The next instant the bewildered Dodge received a blow that sent him down to the sidewalk. "I think I've paid you back, now," Prescott remarked quietly. At this moment Mr. Prescott, hearing the noise from the back of his bookstore, came to the door. "What is the trouble, Richard?" inquired his parent. Dick stepped over to his father, repeating, in a low voice, the insult that Dodge had hurled at him. "You couldn't have done anything else, then!" declared the elder Prescott, fervently; and this was a good deal for Dick's father, quiet, scholarly and peace-loving, to say. Bert and Bayliss walked sullenly away amid the jeers of the onlookers. Once out of their sight, Bert, fairly grinding his teeth, said: "Bayliss, I'll have my revenge yet on that mucker Prescott---" and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he added savagely: "The Tottenville game's tomorrow---you know?" "Yes?" said Bayliss inquiringly. "Well, wait till tomorrow afternoon, and I'll take the conceit out of the miserable cur---just you wait." CHAPTER XIV THE "STRATEGY" OF A SCHOOL TRAITOR "Rah! rah! _Gri-i-idley_!" Again and again the whole of the rousing, inspiring High School yell smote the air. It was but a little after noon on Saturday. It seemed as though two thirds of the school, including most of the girls, had come down to the railway station to see the High School eleven off on its way to Tottenville. That city was some thirty miles away from Gridley, but there was a noon express train that went through in forty minutes. Coach Morton and Captain Wadleigh had rounded up the whole of the school team. All of the subs were there. The coach and members of the team were at no expense in the matter, since their expenses were to be paid out of the gate receipts of the home eleven. To many of the boys and girls of Gridley High School, however, the affair bore a different look. The round trip by rail would cost each of these more than a dollar, with another fifty cents to pay for a seat on the grand stand at Tottenville. Hence, despite the fine representation of High School young folks at the railway station, not all of them were so fortunate as to look forward to going to the game. In addition to those of the young people who could go, there were more than three hundred grown-ups who had bought tickets. The railroad company, having been notified by the local agent, had added a second section to the noon express. And now they waited, enthusiasm finding vent in volleys of cheers and the school war-whoop. Dick Prescott and his chums stood at one end of the platform. Nor were they alone. Many admirers had gathered about them. Laura Bentley and Belle Meade, who were going with the rest to Tottenville, were chatting with Dick and Dave. Each of the girls carried the Gridley High School colors to wave during the expected triumphs of the afternoon. "I'm glad you're playing today," Laura almost whispered to young Prescott. "Why?" smiled Dick "Why, I believe you're one of those fortunate people who always carry their mascot with them," rejoined Miss Bentley earnestly. "With you there, Dick, I feel absolutely certain that even Tottenville must go down in the dust. Gridley will bring back the score---and not a tied score, either." "I certainly hope I am as big a mascot, or possess as big a mascot as you seem to believe," laughed young Prescott. "You and Dave are each other's mascots," declared Belle Meade, with a laugh. "I remember that last year when you were both on the baseball nine Gridley never lost a game in which you and Dave both played." "Nor did the nine lose any other game," returned Dick, "though there were some games when Dave and I weren't on the batting list. The nine didn't lose a game last season, Miss Belle, and had only one tied score." "Anyway," declared Laura, with great conviction, "it all comes back to this---that Gridley can't lose today because both Prescott and Darrin are to play." "And I believe, young ladies, that you're both much nearer to the truth than you have any idea of. In today's game a great deal does depend on Prescott and Darrin." It was Captain "Hen" Wadleigh, who, passing to the rear of the group, had overheard Laura's remark, and had made this addition to her prophecies. "Here comes the train!" yelled one youth, who was fortunate enough to have a ticket for the day. Soon after the sound of the whistle had been heard the express rolled in. But this was the first section of the regular train. By some effort the football crowd was kept off the train. Soon after the second section of the train was sighted as it rolled toward the station. "Team assemble!" roared Captain Wadleigh. There was a rush of husky, mop-headed youths in his direction. Just then a hand rested on Dick's arm. "Let me speak with you, just a moment Prescott." As Dick turned he found himself looking into the face of Hemingway, plan clothes man to Chief Coy of the Police department. "I'm awful sorry, lad, but-----" began Hemingway slowly, in a tone of the most genuine regret. Dick's face blanched. He scented bad news instantly, though he could not imagine what it was. "Anyone sick---any accident at home?" asked the young left end. "Team aboard, first day coach behind the smoker!" roared Captain Wadleigh, and the fellows made a rush. "The truth is," confessed Hemingway, "I've a war-----" Dick saw light in an instant. "Oh, that wretched Dodge? He has-----" "Sworn out a warrant for your arrest," nodded Hemingway. Laura and Belle did not hear or see this. They were hurrying rearward along the train. Few of the football fellows saw the trouble, for they were busy boarding the car named by Captain Wadleigh. Dave Darrin was the only one to pay urgent heed. "See here, Hemingway," began Dave, "Dick will come back---you know that. He's desperately needed today. Won't it do just as well-----" "No," broke in the plain-clothes man, reluctantly. "I'd have done that if possible, but Dodge's father put the warrant in my hand and insisted." "He?" echoed Darrin, bitterly. "The very man that Dick and I rescued when he was out of his head and in the clutches of scoundrels He? Oh, this is infamous---or crazy!" "I know it is," nodded Officer Hemingway sympathetically. "But what am I to do when-----" "Hustle aboard, there, you Prescott and Darrin!" roared Captain Wadleigh's voice from an open window. "You hear, Hemingway?" urged Dave. "Yes; but I can't help it," sighed the policeman. "We're not going---can't-----" fluttered Darrin. His voice was low, but it reached the captain of the eleven. "What's that?" roared Wadleigh, making a dash for the door of the car. "Keep your seats, you other fellows. I-----" "You go, Dave---you must!" commanded Dick. "Hurry! The train is starting. Hustle! Play for both of us." Dick gave his chum a push that was compelling. Dave yielded, boarding the step as the end of the car went by him. "What-----" began Wadleigh, breathlessly. "I'll explain," panted Darrin angrily. The train was now in full motion. "Hey, dere! Stop dot train, quick! Me! I am not off board, yet!" It was Herr Schimmelpodt, hot, perspiring and gasping, who now raced upon the platform. For one of his weight, combined with his lack of nimbleness, it was hazardous to attempt to board the moving train. Yet Herr Schimmelpodt made a wild dash for the train. He would have been mangled or killed, had not Officer Hemingway caught the anxious German and pulled him back. "Hey, you! Vot for you do dot?" screamed Herr Schimmelpodt. "Hey? Answer me dot vun, dumm-gesicht!" (Foolish-faced one.) "I did it to save you from going under the wheels," retorted Officer Hemingway dryly. "Und now I don't go me by dot game today!" groaned Herr Schimmelpodt. "Me! I dream apout dot game all der veek, und now I don't see me by it." "But, man-----" "Hal's maul." (Literally' "Shut your mouth!") "Me! Und I Couldn't lose dot game for ein dollar!" glared the prosperous German. He stared after the departed second section, from the open windows of which fluttered or wildly waved many a banner; for few of the Gridley crowd had yet discovered that one of the most prized members of the team had been left behind. Herr Schimmelpodt it was, who, a wealthy retired contractor, had found his second youth in his enthusiasm over the High School baseball nine the season before. Though thrifty enough in most matters, the German had become a liberal contributor to the High School athletic fund, to the great dismay of his good wife, who feared that his new outdoor fads would yet land them both in the poorhouse. "Vot you doing here, Bresgott?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, turning upon the young prisoner. "Vy you ain't by dot elefen? How dey going to vin bis you are behint left?" "You have company in your misery, sir," said Officer Hemingway. "I'm awfully sorry to say that Dick Prescott can't see today's game, either. It's a whopping shame, but sometimes the law is powerless to do right." "What foolishness are you talking mit, vonce alretty?" demanded Herr Schimmelpodt, looking bewildered. "I've just been arrested, on a false charge of assault," Dick stated quietly. "You? Und you don't blay by der game yet' By der beard of Charlemagne," howled Herr Schimmelpodt excitedly, "ve see apoud dot!" Digging down into a trouser's pocket this enthusiastic old High School "rooter" brought up a roll of bills almost as large around as a loaf of bread. CHAPTER XV A "FACER" FOR THE PLOTTER "What are you going to do with all that wallpaper, Mr.Schimmelpodt?" laughed Officer Hemingway. "Me? I gif bail, don't I?" demanded the German. "Well, you can't do it here. That's a matter to be fixed in court." "Und dot train going by a mile a minute, I bet you!" gasped the German ruefully. "Come along, lad," urged Hemingway gently. "On Saturdays court opens at one o'clock. We'll get right up there and see this matter through." "I bet you've see dis matter through---right through someone, ain't it?" exploded Herr Schimmelpodt, ranging himself on the other side of the young prisoner. As they went along the German, using all his native and acquired shrewdness, quickly got at the bottom of the matter. In the meantime indignant Dave Darrin was telling all he knew about the business to an indignant lot of High School youngsters in the day coach. "You keep your upper eyebrow stiff, Bresgott," urged the warm-hearted German. "I see you through by dis business. Don't you worry." "Thank you, but it isn't the arrest that is really bothering me," Prescott answered. "It's the feet that I'm fooled out of playing this afternoon. And Darrin and I had been trained for so many special tricks for today's game that I'm almost afraid my absence will make a difference in the score. But, Herr Schimmelpodt, if you want to help me, do you really mind dropping in at the store and telling my father, so that he can come down to the court room? Yet please be careful not to scare Dad. He has a horror of courts and criminal law." "I bet you I do der chob---slick," promised the German, and hurried away. "There goes a man that's all right, from his feet up to the top of his head," declared Officer Hemingway. On the streets Dick's appearance with Hemingway attracted little notice. Folks were used to seeing the High School reporter of "The Blade" walking with this policeman-detective. The few who really did notice merely wondered why Dick Prescott was not on his way to the Tottenville gridiron today. When Hemingway and his prisoner reached the court room there were only two or three loungers there, for it was still some minutes before the time for the assembling of the court. Presently Bert Dodge and his friend, Bayliss, dropped in. They glanced at the young left end with no attempt to conceal their feelings of triumph. Bert looked much the worse for wear. Dick returned their looks coolly, but without defiance. He was angry only that he should have been cheated of his right to play in that big game. Then in came the elder Dodge, only just back from a sanitarium. Beside him walked Lawyer Ripley, who immediately came over to Dick, just before Herr Schimelpodt and Dick's father entered the room hastily. "Prescott," began the old lawyer, sitting down beside the young player, and speaking in a low tone, "I've just been called into this matter, as I'm the Dodge family lawyer. Had my advice been asked I would have demanded much more investigation. From what knowledge I have of you, I don't regard you as one who is likely to commit an unprovoked assault. Have you any objection to stating your side of the case bearing in mind, of course, the fact that I'm the Dodge lawyer." "Not the least in the world," Dick replied promptly. It was just at this moment that Herr Schimmelpodt and the elder Prescott came hastening into the room. Bert Dodge and Bayliss looked over uneasily, several times, to where Lawyer Ripley and the young prisoner sat. Dick's father stood by in silence. He already knew his son's version of the affair of the day before. Herr Schimmelpodt didn't say anything, but sat down, breathing heavily. Then the clerk of the court and two court officers came in. Justice Vesey entered soon after and took his seat on the bench. "The case of Dodge versus Prescott---I mean, the people against Prescott, your honor, is the only thing on the docket this afternoon," explained the clerk. "Is the case ready" inquired the justice mildly. "I will ask just a moment's delay, your, Honor," announced Lawyer Ripley, rising. "I wish a moment's conference with my principals." The court nodding, Mr. Ripley crossed the room, engaging in earnest whispered conversation with the Dodges, father and son. While this was going on a telegraph messenger boy entered. Espying Dick, he went over and handed him a yellow envelope. Dick tore it open. It was a telegram sent by Dave Darrin, on the way to Tottenville, and read: "Fred Ripley said he heard insult offered you by Dodge yesterday. Get case adjourned to Monday and Ripley will testify in your behalf." Smiling, Dick passed the message to his father. Mr. Prescott, after scanning the telegram, rose gravely, crossed the room and handed the slip of paper to Lawyer Ripley. "If the court please, we are now ready with this case," announced Lawyer Ripley. "Proceed, counselor. Mr. Clerk, you will swear such witnesses as are to be called." "If the court please," hastily interjected Mr. Ripley. "I don't believe it is going to be necessary to call any witnesses. With the court's permission I will first make a few explanations." "This case, your Honor, is one in which Albert Dodge, a minor, with the consent of his father, has preferred a charge of aggravated assault against Richard Prescott, a minor. "That there was a fight, and that said Prescott did vigorously assault young Dodge, there is no doubt. Prescott himself does not deny it. But I am satisfied, if it please the court, that the case is one in which, on the evidence, young Prescott is bound to be discharged. I am satisfied that young Prescott had abundant provocation for the assault he committed. Further, we have received apparently satisfactory assurance by wire that a witness is prepared to testify to conduct and speech, on the part of young Dodge, that would justify an assault, or, as the boys call it, 'a fight.' Now, your Honor, if the prisoner, Prescott, through his father, will agree to hold the elder Dodge blameless in the matter of civil damages on account of this arrest, I shall move to have the case dismissed." "Will you so agree, Mr. Prescott," inquired the court, glancing at Dick's father. "Yes," agreed the elder Prescott, "though I must offer my opinion that this arrest has been a shameful outrage." "My client, the elder Dodge-----" began Lawyer Ripley, in a low voice. "Case dismissed," broke in Justice Vesey briskly, and Mr. Ripley did not finish his remark. Bowing to the court, Dick rose, picked up his hat and started out with his father. But once outside Herr Schimmelpodt caught them both by the arm. "Vait!" he commanded. "I much vant to hear me vot Lawyer Ripley haf to say to dot young scallavag." "Are you talking about me?" demanded Bert Dodge, flushingly hotly, for, just at that moment, he turned out of the court room into the corridor. "Maybe," assented Herr Schimmelpodt. "Then stuff a sausage in your Dutch mouth, and be quiet," retorted Bert impudently. "Young man, if your father hat not enough gontrol of er you, den I vill offer him dot I teach you manners by a goot spanking," replied Herr Schimmelpodt stiffly. "Bert, you will be silent before your elders," ordered Mr Dodge. "You have come close enough to getting me into trouble today. Had I understood the whole story of the fight, as I do now, I never would have backed your application for a warrant." If you meet with any rebuke from young Prescott's friends, take it in meekness, for you richly deserve censure." "As you are only a boy, Bert, and I am your father's lawyer," broke in Mr. Ripley, even more sternly, "I have used whatever powers of persuasion I may have to have this case ended mildly. The Prescotts might have sued your father for a round sum in damages for false arrest. And, if you and Bayliss had sworn falsely as to the nature and causes of the fight, you might both have been sent away to the reformatory on charges of perjury. Remember that the law against false swearing applies to boys as much as it does to men. And now, good day, Mr. Dodge. I trust you will be able to convince your son of his wrongdoing." However, the elder Dodge, despite his momentary sternness, was not a parent who exercised much influence over his son. Half an hour later Bert had out the family runabout, making fast time toward Tottenville. "Bert," said Bayliss, rather soberly, "I'm inclined to think that Lawyer Ripley was good enough to get us out of a fearful scrape." "That's what he's paid for," sniffed Bert "He's my father's lawyer." "Then I'm glad your father has a good lawyer. Whew! It makes me sick when I stop to think that we might have been trapped into giving---er---prejudiced testimony, and that then we might have been shipped off to the reformatory until we're of age!" "Ain't Fred Ripley the sneak, though!" ejaculated Bert angrily. "The idea of him standing ready to 'queer' a case against his father's clients! I thought Fred had more class and caste than to go against his own crowd for the sake of a mere mucker!" "Well, the thing turned out all right, anyway," muttered Bayliss. "We're off in time to see the game." "And that's more than Dick Prescott will do today," laughed Bert sullenly. "He can't catch a train to Tottenville, now, in time for the game." "If Gridley loses the game today," hinted Bayliss, "I suppose the fellows will all feel that it was because Prescott didn't go along. Then they'll all feel like roasting us." "Oh, bother what the High School ninnies think---or say," grunted Bert. Fifteen minutes later there was a loud popping sound. Then a tire flattened out, so that it became necessary for the young men to get out and busy themselves with putting on another tire. At this task they did not succeed very well until, finally, another automobilist came along and gave the boys effective help. So it was that, by the time the pair reached Tottenville, housed the car at a garage, and reached Tottenville's High School athletic field, the game was well on. As the two young men reached the grand stand the Gridley contingent were on their feet, breathless. Gridley had the ball down to the ten-yard line from Tottenville's goal. Captain Wadleigh's signals were ringing out, crisp and clear. A whistle sounded. Then the ball was put swiftly into play. Tottenville put up a sturdy resistance against Gridley's left end. Dave Darrin had the ball, and appeared to be trying to break through the Tottenville line, well backed by Gridley's interference. Of a sudden there was a subtle, swift pass, and Gridley's left end darted along, almost parallel with the ten-yard line, then made a dashing cut around and past Tottenville. Two of the home team tackled that left end, but he shook them off. In another instant----- "Touchdown!" yelled the frantic Gridley boosters. "Touchdown! Oh, you Darrin! Oh, you Prescott!" Bert Dodge rubbed his eyes. "Prescott?" he muttered. "Blazes, but that is Prescott!" faltered Bayliss, with a sickly grin. "How did he ever get over here in time to play?" demanded Bert Dodge. Herr Schimmelpodt could have told. The stout, sport-loving old contractor had parted with some of his greenbacks to a chauffeur who had put Dick and himself over the long road to Tottenville. And the young left end was playing, today, in his finest form! CHAPTER XVI "THE CATTLE CAR FOR YOURS" It was Dave Darrin who kicked the goal. This ran the score up to six to nothing in Gridley's favor. It was the first scoring in a game that had begun by looking all bad for Gridley. The Tottenville High School boys were bigger than the visitors and fully as speedy. In fact, even now, to impartial observers, it looked as though these six points on the score had been won by what was little better than a fluke. "Gridley can't keep this up," remarked the Tottenville boosters confidently. "They'll lose their wind and nerve against our fine line before the game is much older." The first half went out with score unchanged. But Captain Wadleigh did heave a sigh of relief when the time keeper cut in on that first half. "Fellows, look out for the fine points," he warned his fellows, after they had trotted into quarters. "It'll be craft, not strong rush, that wins for us today, if anything does." "Prescott's here. He and Darrin can put anything over in the line of craft," laughed Fred Ripley. Ripley was in togs, but was not playing. He was on the sub line, today, awaiting a call in case any player of his team became disabled. "Darrin and Prescott are all right," nodded Wadleigh gruffly. "But they have endurance limits, like other human beings. Don't rely too much upon any two or three men, fellows. Now, in the second half"---here Wadleigh lowered his voice---"I'm going to spare Prescott and Darrin all I can. So you other fellows look out for hard work." Dick's eyes were still flashing. This was not from the fever of the game, but from the recollection of how narrowly he had escaped being tricked out of this chance to play today. On his arrival, and while dressing before the game, Prescott had related to the team the mean trick that had been played upon him. He had also told how the case came out in court. "Dodge and Bayliss are traitors to the school!" cried Purcell indignantly. "We'll have to give 'em the silence!" "Hear! Hear!" cried several of the fellows. This, in other words, meant that Dodge and Bayliss would be "sent to Coventry"---shut out from all social contact with the school body during the remainder of the school year. "I think I'm with you, fellows," nodded Captain Wadleigh. "However, remember that the football team can't settle all school questions. We'll take this up when we get back to Gridley." In the second half it was not long before Gridley did go stale and tired. But so, too, to the disgust of home boosters, did the Tottenville High School boys. The game became a sheer test of endurance. Gridley, under Wadleigh, played with a doggedness that made Tottenville put forth all its strength. "Brace up, you lobsters," growled Captain Grant of the home team, after the whistle had sounded on Tottenville's "down" with the ball. "Buck the simple Gridley youths. Wade through their line as if you fellows were going to dinner half an hour late. Don't let them wind you, or stop you!" Tottenville threw all its force into the following plays. Surely, doggedly, the home boys forced the ball down the gridiron. At last Gridley was forced to make a safety, thus scoring two points for their opponents. "Don't let that happen again, fellows," urged Wadleigh anxiously. "Fight for time, but don't throw any two-spots away." "Rally, men! Brace! Crush 'em!" ordered Captain Grant. "Seven minutes left! We've got to score." These muttered orders caused a grim smile among the Tottenville High School boys, for the only way to tie the score would be to force Gridley to make two more safeties---a hard thing to do against a crack eleven in seven minutes! Dick and Dave Darrin were called into play as soon as the visitors had the ball in their own hands once more. The "trick" signal sounded from quarter-back's lips. "One---three---seven---eleven!" There was instant, seemingly sly activity on the part of Gridley's right wing. Those from Gridley who stood on the grand stand thought that the coming play looked bad in advance. "Why don't they use Prescott again?" asked some one anxiously. "He has been having a vacation." Then followed the snap-back. Quarter-back started with the ball, and it looked as though he would dash for the right. The quarter took one step, then wheeled like lightning, and rushed after Darrin, who already was in swift motion. Gridley's whole line switched for the left. Tottenville found out the trick after the heaviest fellows in its line had started for Gridley's right. "Oh, Darrin---sprint! Oh, you Prescott!" Truly the boosters were howling themselves hoarse. There was frenzy on in an instant. To the knowing among the watchers there was no chance for Gridley to rush down on the enemy's goal line, but every yard---every foot, now---carried the pigskin just so much further from Gridley's goal line. Gridley's interference rushed in solidly about Dave Darrin, as though to boost him through. Dick seemed bent on beating down some of the formation surging against the visitors. Just as the bunch "clumped" Dave Darrin went down. There was a surge over him, and then Dick Prescott was seen racing as though for life. There was no opposition left---only Tottenville's quarter-back and the fullback. Tottenville's quarter got after fleeting Dick too late, for the whole movement had been one of startling trickery. One Tottenville halfback was too far away to make an obstructing dash in time. In dodging the other halfback Dick dashed on as though not seeing the fellow. This, however, was all trick. Just in the nick of time Prescott, still holding the ball, ducked and dodged far to the left, getting around his man. Tottenville's fullback was now the sole hope of the home team. Prescott, however, dodged that heavy fellow, also. From the Gridley boosters on the grand stand went up a medley of yells that dinned in the young left end's ears. Panting, all but fainting, Dick was over the enemy's goal line and he had the ball down. When Dave had emerged from that fruitless clumping he had a broad grin on his face. He saw that while Dick was not yet over the goal line, only the fullback was in the way and the fullback was no match for Dick in the matter of speed. Then the yells told the rest. Back came the ball. Captain Wadleigh nodded to Dave to kick the goal. Captain Grant looked utterly wild. He had assured everyone in Tottenville who had asked him that the Gridley "come ons" would be eaten alive. And here-----! Dave made the kick. After going down in that bunch Darrin was not at his best. Body and nerves were tired. He failed to kick the goal. Hardly, however, had the two teams been started in a new line-up when the time keeper did his trick. The game was over. That last kick had failed, but who cared? The score was eleven to two! Ere the players could escape from the field the Gridley boosters were over on the gridiron. Dick and Dave were bodily carried to dressing quarters. Wadleigh, who had shown fine generalship in this stiff game was cheered until the boosters went hoarse. "Gentlemen," cried Coach Morton, raising his voice to its fullest carrying power as the dressing quarters filled, "it's probably too early to brag, but I feel that we've got an old-fashioned Gridley eleven this year." "Ask Grant!" "Ask anybody in Tottenville!" The first yell was sent up by Ripley, the second by another substitute. All the Gridley members of the team were excited at the close of this game. Not even their weariness kept down their spirits. Herr Schimmelpodt didn't attempt to enter quarters. He was now too much of a "sport" to attempt that. But he stood just outside the door, vigorously mopping his shining, wet face. There were two extra places in the German's hired car. Dave, of course, was asked to fill one of these, and Captain Wadleigh was invited to take the fifth seat. More dejected than ever were Bert Dodge and his chum, Bayliss, as they slouched away from the grounds. They did not attempt to invade the gridiron and join in the triumphal procession to quarters. "You can't seem to down that fellow Prescott," muttered Bayliss, in disgust. "Just as you think you've got him by the throat you find out that he's sitting on your chest and pulling your hair." "Oh, I don't know," growled Dodge sulkily. "He may have his weak spot, and it may be a very weak spot at that." The pair moped along until they reached the garage in which they had left the runabout. Bayliss was standing near the doorway, while Bert inspected the machinery of the car. "Pest! Look out there," muttered Bayliss, stepping back from the open doorway. "What is it?" demanded Bert. "Oh, I see! Old Schimmelpodt brought the beggar Prescott over here in an auto. That's how the fellow managed to get into the game, after all. Well, what of it all, anyway?" "That car is running along slowly, and it has a full-sized crowd in it," muttered Bayliss, going closer to his crony. "Wadleigh, Prescott and Darrin---and maybe the chauffeur is a thick friend of theirs." "What on earth are you driving at?" demanded Dodge, glancing up. "Bert, I don't believe I'm wholly stuck on the scheme of us driving back to Gridley. There are too many lonely spots along the road. "Do you think they'd assassinate us?" jeered Bert. "I---I think Wadleigh may have formed the notion of stopping us and giving us a thrashing," responded Bayliss. "Bosh!" snapped Dodge quickly. Yet, none the less, he paused and looked thoughtful. "There's more than one road to Gridley, old fellow," muttered Bert uneasily. "You see Schimmelpodt and that mocker didn't pass us on the way here." "But I think they're likely to have guessed our road," persisted Bayliss. "There was an ugly look on Wadleigh's face, too, as that car drove past here." "But old Schimmelpodt wouldn't stand for anything disorderly and---unlawful," urged Bert. "I don't know about that," retorted Bayliss significantly. "That old German has gone crazy over High School sports. He might stand in for 'most anything. You know, he offered your Dad to give you a spanking this afternoon." The thought of Herr Schimmelpodt's big and capable-looking hands caused Bert to shiver a bit uneasily. Yet he didn't want to admit that he was scared. He glanced at his watch. "We've time to catch the regular train back, I suppose, Bayliss." "Let's do it, then," begged the other. "Will you pay a chauffeur to take this car home, then?" "I'll pay half," volunteered Bayliss eagerly. "All right, then; if you're pretty near broke, we'll divide the cost," agreed Dodge. An arrangement was easily made with the owner of the garage. Then, the charges paid, this pair of cronies, who considered themselves much better than the usual run of High School boys, hurried over to the railway station. The train was waiting by the time that the pair arrived. Bert and Bayliss hastily purchased tickets, then boarded the handiest car. The train proved to contain few people except the Gridley student body and boosters from that town. "Here, what are you fellows doing in here?" angrily demanded Purcell, as the cronies entered one of the cars. "We're going to ride to Gridley, if you've no objections," replied Bert, with sulky defiance. "No, sir; not in this car!" declared Purcell promptly. "Too many decent people here. The cattle car for yours!" "Oh, shut up!" retorted Dodge, trying to shove into a vacant seat. But Purcell gripped him and pushed him back. "No, siree! Not in here! The cattle car is your number." "You-----" "We'll pitch you off the train if you have the cheek to try to ride in this ear," insisted Purcell. High School boys, when off on a junket of this kind, are likely to be as wild as college boys. A score of the Gridley youths now jumped up. It looked as though there were going to be a riot. "Oh, come on," snarled Bayliss, plucking his crony's sleeve. "We don't want to ride with this truck, anyway." Into the next car stamped the two young men, their faces red with anger and shame. "Sneaks!" piped up some one. CHAPTER XVII FACING THE "SCHOOL CUT" At the instant of their entrance into the car the air had been full of merry chatter. There were many High School girls in this car, and not many vacant seats. As the word "sneaks" sounded through the car everyone turned around. Bert and Bayliss found themselves uncomfortably conspicuous. At once all the talk and laughter ceased. Stony silence followed. One of the girls was sitting alone in a seat. Bayliss, unable to endure the situation any longer, glided forward, dropping into the vacant place. "That seat is engaged," the girl coolly informed him. So Bayliss, redder than ever, hurriedly rose. Bert had already started for the next car. Bayliss slunk along after him. "Sneaks!" cried some one, as they showed their faces in still the next car forward. Here, too, all the chatter stormed at once. Bert, pulling his hat down over his eyes, went hurriedly past the boys and girls of Gridley, and into the next car. Bayliss followed with the fidelity and closeness of a little dog. Now, the next car ahead proved to be the smoking car. Here, at any rate, the despised pair could find safe harborage. But one of the men of Gridley, who had followed the football team this day, and who had got an inkling of the story of the arrest, removed a cigar from between his lips and pointed an accusing finger at the boys. "See here, you fellows!" he shouted. "This car is exclusively for men. Can you take a hint?" "But we've got to sit somewhere," flashed Bert defiantly. "I don't know as that's necessary, either," retorted the Gridley man. "At least, I don't care if it is. After your dirty little trick, today, we don't want you in here among men. Do we, neighbors?" There were many mutterings, some cat-calls and at least a score of men rose. "You let me alone, you fellows!" yelled Bert Dodge, as he made a break for the front end of the car. "Don't any of you dare to get fresh with me!" By the time he had reached the front end of the car Bert was almost sobbing with anger and shame. Bayliss had followed, white and silent. In the baggage car, to their relief, the sole railway employee there did not object to their presence. Bert and his crony found seats on two trunks side by side. "Dodge," whispered Bayliss unsteadily, after the train had pulled out from Tottenville, "I'm afraid we're in bad with the school push." "Afraid?" sneered Bert. "Man, don't you know it?" "Well, it's all your fault---this whole confounded row!" "Oh, you're going to play welsher, are you?" sneered Bert. "Humph! By morning you'll be a full-fledged mucker!" "Don't you worry about that," argued Bayliss, though rather stiffly. "I know my family---and my caste." "I should hope so," rejoined Dodge, with just a shade more cordiality. Rather than alight at Gridley, and face the whole High School crowd---for scores who had not been able to meet the expense of the trip to Tottenville would be sure to be at the station to meet the victorious team---Bert and Bayliss rode on to the next station, then got off and walked two miles back to town. By Monday morning the punishment of the pair was made complete. Bert and Bayliss walked to school together. As they drew near the grounds both young men felt their hearts beating faster. "I wonder if there's anything in for us?" whispered Dodge. "Sure to be," responded Bayliss. "Well, the fellows had better not try anything too frisky. If they do, they'll give us a chance to make trouble for 'em!" It seemed as though the full count of the student body, boys and girls, had assembled in the yard this morning. All was gay noise until the pair of cronies appeared at the gate. Then, swiftly, all the noise died out. One could hardly hear even a breath being drawn. The silence was complete as Bert and Bayliss, now very white, stepped into the yard. Though not a voice sounded, every eye was turned on the white-faced pair. Bert Dodge's lips moved. He tried to summon us control enough of his tongue to utter some indifferent remark to his companion. But the sound simply wouldn't come. After a walk that was only a few yards in distance, yet seemed only less than a mile in length, the humiliated pair rushed up the steps, opened the great door and let themselves in. At recess neither Bayliss nor Dodge had the courage to appear outside. As they left school that afternoon they were treated to the same dose of "silence." Tuesday morning neither Dodge nor Bayliss showed up at all at school. On Thursday morning High School readers of "The Blade" were greatly interested in the following personal paragraph: _"Bayliss and Dodge, both of the senior class, High School, have severed their connection with that institution. It is understood that the young men are going elsewhere in search of better educational facilities."_ That was all, but it told the boys and girls at Gridley High School all that they needed to know. "That is the very last gasp of the 'sorehead' movement," grinned Tom Reade, in talking it over with Dan Dalzell. "Well, they did the whole trick for themselves," rejoined Dan. "No one else touched them, or pushed them. They took all the rope they wanted---and hanged themselves. Now, that pair will probably feel cheap every time they have to come back to Gridley and walk the streets." "All they had to do was to be decent fellows," mused Tom. "But the strain of decency proved to be too severe for them." In the High School yard that Thursday morning there was one unending strain of rejoicing. Some of the other late "soreheads," who had escaped the full meed of humiliation---Davis, Cassleigh, Fremont, Porter and others---actually sighed with relief when they found what they had escaped in the way of ridicule and contempt. "The whole thing teaches us one principle," muttered Fremont to Porter. "What is that?" "Never tackle the popular idol in any mob. If you can't get along with him, avoid him---but don't try to buck him!" "Humph!" retorted Porter. "If you mean Prescott and his gang---Dick & Co., as the fellows call them---I can follow one part of your advice by avoiding them. I never did and never could like that mucker Prescott!" The fact of interest to Dick would have been that he appeared to enjoy the respect of at least ninety-five per cent. of the student body of the High School. Surely that percentage of popularity is enough for anyone. The fellow can get along without the approbation of a few "soreheads"! CHAPTER XVIII "PRIN." GETS IN THE PRACTICE If Dodge and Bayliss devoted any time to farewells among their late fellow-students before quitting Gridley the fact did not seem to leak out. Yet despite the absence of two young men who considered themselves of such great importance the Gridley High School appeared to go on about the same as ever. It was the season of football, and nearly of the school's interest and enthusiasm seemed to spend itself in that direction. Coach Morton did all in his power to push the team on to perfection; the other teachers worked harder than ever to keep the interest of the students sufficiently on their studies. The girls, as well as the boys, suffered from the infection of the gridiron microbe. Five more games with other High School teams were fought out, and now Gridley had an unbroken record of victories so far for the season. Such a history can often be built up in the athletics of a High School, but it has to be a school attended by the cream of young manhood and having an abundance of public interest and enthusiasm behind it all. Not at any time in the season did Coach Morton allow the training work to slacken. Regularly the entire squad turned out for field work. If the afternoon proved to be stormy, then four blasts on the city fire alarm, at either two o'clock or two-thirty, notified the young men that they were to report at the gym. instead. There, the work, though different, was just as severe. The result was that every youngster in the squad "reeked" with good condition all through the season. It is in just this respect that many a High School eleven fails to "make really good." In a team where discipline is lax some of the fellows are sure to rebel at spending "all their time training." Where the coach exercises too limited authority, or when he is too "easy," the team's record is sure to suffer in consequence. Many a High School eleven comes out a tail-ender just because the coach is not strict enough, or cannot be. Many a team composed of naturally husky and ambitious boys fails on account of a light-weight coach. On the other hand, the best coach in the country can't make a winning eleven out of fellows who won't work or be disciplined. Coach Morton's authority was unbounded. After the team had been organized for the season it took action by the Athletics Committee of the Alumni Association to drop a man from the team. But coach and captain could drop the offender back to the "sub" seats and keep him there. Moreover, it was well known that Mr. Morton's recommendation that a certain young man be dropped was all the hint that the Athletics Committee needed. Under failing health, or when duties prevented full attention to football training, a member of the team was allowed to resign. But an offending member couldn't resign. He was dropped, and in the eyes of the whole student body being dropped signified deep disgrace. In five out of the won games Dick Prescott had played left end, and without accident. Yet, as it was wholly possible that he might be laid up at any instant, the coach was assiduously training Dan Dalzell and Tom Reade to play at either end of the line. Other subs were rigorously trained for other positions, but Dan and Tom were regarded as the very cream of the sub players in the light-weight positions. Dan had played left end in one of the lesser gables, and had shown himself a swift, brilliant gridironist, though he was not quite as crafty as Prescott. Tom Reade had less of strategy than Dan but relied more upon great bursts of speed and in the sheer ability to run away from impending tackle. Now the boys were training for the team's eighth game, the one to be played against the Hepburn Falls High School, a strong organization. "Remember that a tie saves the record, but that it doesn't look as well as a winning," Coach Morton coaxed the squad dryly, as they started in for afternoon practice. "We miss the mascot that the earlier High School teams used to have," remarked Hudson. "Yes? What was it?" inquired coach. "Why, bully old Dr. Thornton used to drop in for a few minutes, 'most every practice afternoon?" replied Hudson. "I can remember just how his full, kindly old face, with the twinkling eyes, used to encourage the fellows up to the prettiest work that was in then. Oh, he was a mascot---Dr. Thornton was!" Coach Morton was of the same mind, but he didn't say so, as it would sound like a rejection on the present unpopular principal, Abner Cantwell. This afternoon there was no real team practice Mr. Morton wanted certain individual play features brought out more strongly. One of these was the kicking of the ball. After several had worked with the pigskin Morton called out: "Now, Prescott, you take the ball, and drop back to the twenty-five-yard line. When you get there name your shot---that is, tell us where you intend to put the ball. Where doesn't matter as long as it is a long kick and a true one. After you name your shot, then run swiftly to the center of the field. From there, without a long pause, kick and see how straight you can drive for the point you have named." "All right, sir," nodded Dick. Tucking the pigskin under his arm, he jogged back to the twenty-five-yard line. "Right over there!" called Dick, pointing. "I'll try to drop the ball in the front row of seats, second section past the entrance." "Very good, Prescott!" No one was sitting in the section named by Prescott, but a few onlookers who had been squatting in a section near by hastily moved. "The duffers! They needn't think I am going to hit them with the ball," muttered Dick. Then he started on a hard run. Just at center he stopped abruptly, swung back his right foot and dropped the ball. It was a hard, fast drive. The ball arched upward, somewhat, though it did not travel high. But to Dick, standing still to watch the effect of his kick there came a sudden jolt. A man had just appeared, walking through the entrance passage. His head, well up above the sloping sides of the passage at this point, was not right in line with the ball. And that man was Principal Cantwell! Several members of the squad saw what might happen, but every one of them was too eagerly expectant to make a sound to prevent the threatened catastrophe. Dick saw and half shivered. Yet in his desire to say something in the fewest words of warning, all he could think of was: "Low bridge!" Nor did Coach Morton succeed in thinking of anything more helpful, for he shouted only: "Mr. Cantwell!" "Eh?" asked the principal, turning toward the coach and therefore not seeing the ball that was now nearly upon him. Mr. Cantwell, on this afternoon, having a few calls in mind, had arrayed himself in his best. He wore a long black frock coat which, he imagined, made him look at least as distinguished as a diplomat. In the matter of silk hats, being decidedly economical, Mr. Cantwell allowed himself a new one only once in two years. But new one had been due; he had just bought one, and now wore this glossy thing in the latest style. There was no time for more warning. The descending ball was in straight line with that elegant hat. Bump! The pigskin struck the hat full and fair, carrying it from the principal's head. On sailed hat and football for some three feet, the hat managing to run upside down. R-r-r-rip! The force with which the football was traveling impaled the hat on a picket at the side of the stand. Then, as if satisfied with fits work, the football struck and bounded back, landing at the principal's feet. For one moment Mr. Cantwell was dumb with amazement. Then he saw his impaled hat and realized the extent and tragedy of his loss. The angered man went white with wrath. "What ruffian did that!" he roared. But the boys, unable to hold in any longer, had let out a concerted though half-suppressed "whoop!" and now came running to the spot. "Who kicked my hat off?" demanded the principal, pointing tragically to the piece of headgear, through the crown and past the rim of which the picket now stood up as though in triumph. "You---you got in the way of---the ball, sir," explained Drayne, trying hard to keep from roaring out with laughter. "But some one kicked the ball my way," insisted the principal, with utter sternness. "Don't tell me that no one did! That football could not By through the air without some one propelling it. Now, young gentlemen, who kicked that ball?" "I did, Mr. Cantwell," admitted Dick, pushing his way through the throng. "And I'm very sorry that anything like this has happened, sir." "On, you did it, oh?" demanded the principal, eyeing the young man witheringly. "And you actually expect an apology to restore my new and expensive hat to its former pristine condition of splendor?" "I didn't know you were there, sir," Dick explained. "You didn't appear until just after I had kicked the ball." "Prescott is quite right, Mr. Cantwell," put in Coach Morton. "None of us knew you were here in the passage until the ball had been kicked---not, in fact, until the ball was almost upon you." "Then, when you saw me, why didn't you call out to warn me?" demanded the principal, still fearfully angry, though trying to keep back unparliamentary language. "I did call out, sir," replied Dick. "There was mighty little time to think, but I called out the two quickest words I could think of." "What did you call?" demanded the principal. "I yelled 'low bridge!'" "A most idiotic expression," snorted the principal. "What on earth does it mean, anyway?" "It means to duck, sir," Prescott answered. "Duck?" retorted Mr. Cantwell, glaring suspiciously at the sober-faced young left end. "Now, what on earth does 'duck' mean, unless you refer to a web-footed species of poultry?" "Prescott was rattled, beyond a doubt, Mr. Cantwell," interposed Coach Morton. "So was I---the time was so short. All I could think of as to call out to you by name." "With the result that I looked your way--- and lost my row hat," snapped the principal. He now turmoil to take the spoiled article off the paling. He looked at it almost in anguish, for he had been very proud of that glossy article. "It's a shame," muttered Drayne, with mock sympathy. "That's what it is," agreed Dave Darrin innocently. "But---Mr. Morton---I think the matter can be fixed satisfactorily. If you call this to the attention of the Athletics Committee won't they vote to appropriate the price of a new hat out of the High School athletics fund? You know, the fund is almost overburdened with money this year." "That might not be a bad idea," broke in the principal eagerly. "Will you call this to the attention of the Committee, Mr. Morton, For it was in coming here to watch the young men that I lost my fine, new hat." "Now, I'm heartily sorry," replied Mr. Morton, "but I am certain the members of the committee will feel that money contributed by the citizens of the town can hardly be expended in purchasing hats for anyone." "But-----" Mr. Cantwell began to expostulate. Then he stopped, very suddenly. Just as plainly as anyone else present the principal now saw the absurdity of expecting a new hat out of the athletics fund. Mr. Cantwell shot a very savage look at innocent-appearing Dave Darrin. "My afternoon is spoiled, as well as my hat," remarked the principal, turning to leave with as much dignity as could be expected from man who bore such a battered hat in his hands. "The hatter might be able to block your hat out and repair it," suggested Hudson, though without any real intention of offering aid. "Our coachman had that sort of trick done to played-out old silk hat that Dad gave him." "Mr. Hudson," returned the principal, turning and glaring at this latest polite tormentor, "will you be good enough to remember that I am not extremely interested in your family history. "Back to your practice, men!" called the coach sharply, after the last had been seen of the back of the principal's black coat. "It was too bad!" muttered Dick, in a tone of genuine regret. "Say that again, and I'll make an effort to thrash you, Prescott!" challenged Hudson, with a grin. "Well, I am sorry it happened," Dick insisted. "And mighty sorry, too." "You couldn't help it." "I know it, but that hardly lessens my regret. I don't enjoy the thought of having destroyed anyone else's property, even if I couldn't help it and can't be blamed. "Prescott said he didn't know I was there!" exclaimed Mr. Cantwell angrily to himself. "Bosh! That boy has been a thorn in my side ever since I became principal of the school. Of course he saw me---and he kicked wonderfully straight! Oh, how I wish I could make him wear this hat every day during the balance of the school year! Such a handsome hat---eight dollars!" "It's a shame to tell you," confided Dave Darrin, as he and Dick headed the sextette of chums on the homeward tramp, "but you're certainly looking in great condition, old fellow." "I feel simply perfect, physically," Dick replied. "I have, in fact, ever since I first began to train in the baseball squad last season. It's wonderful what training does for a fellow! I know there's a heap of bad condition in the world, but I often wonder why there is. Why, Dave, I ought to knock wood, of course, but I feel so fine that it seems as though nothing could put me out of form." At that moment young Prescott had no idea how easily a few minutes could bring one from the best possible condition to the brink of physical despair. CHAPTER XIX LAURA AND BELLE HAVE A SECRET "Only a team of fools would hope to stop Gridley High School this year." Thus stated the Elliston "Tribune" after Gridley had walked through Elliston High School, one of the strongest school teams of the state, by a score of eight to nothing. That copy of "The Tribune" found its way over to Gridley, and fell into the hands of some of the High School boys. "Be careful, young men," warned Mr. Morton. "Don't get it too seriously into your heads that you can't be beaten, or your downfall will date from that hour. The true idea is not that on can't be beaten, but that you won't. Stick to the latter idea as well as you do to your training, and it will be a good eleven, indeed, that can get a game away from you." "Only two more to play this year, anyway," replied Hudson. "We can't lose much." "The team might lose two, and that would a worse record than any Gridley eleven has made in five years," retorted Mr. Morton dryly. "We won't lose 'em, though," rejoined Tom Reade. "Every fellow in the squad is in a conspiracy to pull the eleven through the next two games---by its hair, if necessary." "That line of thought is better than conceit," smiled the coach. The game with Paunceboro High School came off, one of the most stubbornly fought battles that Gridley had ever entered. It seemed impossible to score against this enemy. Again and again Dick broke around the left end in a spirited dash, or Dan Dalzell made one of his swift sorties at right end. Then, by the time that Paunceboro had grown used to end dashes, Gridley would make a smashing charge at center. All these styles of attack, however, Paunceboro met smilingly. In the first half there was no score. Yet Paunceboro did not succeed any better in getting through or around Gridley's line of flexible human steel. Until within ten minutes before the close of the second half, it looked like a tie between giants of the school gridiron. Then, by a series of feints in which Prescott, Darrin, Drayne and Hudson bore off the most brilliant honors, although all under Wadleigh's planning, Paunceboro was sorely pressed down against its own goal line. Just in the nick of time Paunceboro made a safety, and thus sent the ball back up the field. But it cost Paunceboro two reluctantly-given points, and that was the score---two to nothing. Gridley was still victor in every game so far played in the season. November was now far along, and there remained only the great Thanksgiving Day game. This contest, against Filmore High School, was to be fought out on the Gridley field. "Your football season will soon be over, Dick," remarked Laura Bentley, one afternoon when Prescott and Darrin, on their way back from coach's gridiron grilling, met Laura and Belle on Main Street. "This season will soon be over," replied Dick "but I hope for another next year." "And then, perhaps, at college?" hinted Belle. "If we go to college," replied Dick slowly. "Why? Don't you expect to?" asked Laura, in some surprise. "We are not sure," murmured Dick, "that we want to go to college." "Why, I thought both of you were ambitious for higher education," cried Belle. "So we are," nodded Dave. "Oh! Then, if not to college, you are going to some scientific school?" guessed Laura. "I wonder if you two could keep a secret?" laughed Dick teasingly. "Try us!" challenged Belle Meade. Dick glanced at Dave, who gave a barely perceptible nod. "No; we won't try you," retorted Dick "We'll trust you, without any promise on your part." "Good!" cried Laura, in a gratified tone. "Well?" inquired Belle, as neither boy spoke. "It's just here, then," Prescott went on, in a low tone, after glancing around to make sure that no one else was within hearing. "The Congressman from this district, in a year or so more, will have the filling of a vacancy at West Point. That means a cadetship from this district. Now, a Congressman can appoint a cadet as a matter of favoritism, or to pay a political debt to some relative of the boy he so appoints. But the custom, in this district, has always been for the Congressman to appoint the boy who comes out best in a competitive examination. The examination is thrown open to all boys, of proper age, who can first pass a good physical examination." "So you're both going to try for it?" asked Belle quickly. "No," retorted Dave very quickly. "That would make us rivals. Dick and I don't want to be rivals." "Then where do you come in?" asked Belle, glancing curiously at Darrin. "Whisper!" replied Dave, looking mischievously mysterious. After a pause he continued, almost in a whisper: "At just about the same time there will be a vacancy at Annapolis. So while Dick is trying to get a job carrying the banner for the Army, it will be little David trying for a chance to be a second Farragut in the Navy." Dick winced at his chum's rather slighting allusion to an Army career, but on this one point of preference in the way of the service, the two chums were willing to disagree. Darrin wouldn't have gone to West Point if he could. Dick admitted the greatness of the American Navy, but all his heart was set on the Army. "Both of you boys, then, are planning to give up your lives to the Flag?" exclaimed Laura. "Yes," nodded Dick; "do you think it's foolish?" "I think it's glorious!" breathed Laura. "So do I," agreed Belle heartily; "though, like Dave, I should think the Navy would be the more attractive." "Oh, the Navy is all right," gibed Dick. "It would never suit me, though. You see, a fellow in the Navy has nothing to do but ride into a fight on board a first-class ship. It's too much like being a Cook's tourist war time. Now, any Army officer, or a private soldier, for that matter, has to depend upon his own physical exertions to get him into the fight." "And an Army fellow," twitted Dave, "if he finds the fight too hard for him, can always dig a hole and hide in it. But where can a naval officer hide?" "Oh, he has it easy enough, anyway, hiding behind armor plate," scoffed Dick. "Of one thing I feel certain, anyway," said Laura thoughtfully. "You are both of you cut out for the military life. Under the most fearful conditions I don't believe either one of you would ever show the white feather." "I don't know," replied Dick gravely. "Neither one of us has ever been tested sufficiently. But I hope you're right, Laura. I'd sooner be dead, at this instant, than to feel that my cowardice would ever throw the slightest stain on the grand old Flag. I try to be generous in my opinions of others. I think I can stand almost any man except---the coward!" "I'm not a bit afraid of either one of you, on that score," broke in Belle warmly. "That's very kind of you," nodded Dave. "But of course you don't know any more about our bravery than we do ourselves. It has never been proven." "How many young men have been killed in football this year?" asked Laura quietly. "I think the paper stated, the other day, that it was something more than forty," replied Dick. "Well, don't you two play football," demanded Laura. "Don't you both jump into the crush as fearlessly as anyone, Doesn't it take about as much nerve to play fast and furious football as it does to fight on the battlefields Isn't football, in its hardest form, a great training for the soldiers" "Oh, perhaps," laughed Dick. "For that matter, Laura, I believe you could soon talk me into believing that I'm braver than good old Phil Sheridan!" "Hullo," muttered Dave suddenly. "What-----" "Where's the crowd rushing!" demanded Belle, in the same breath. "There's some trouble down the street!" cried Darrin. "And smoke, too." "It's a fire!" cried Dick, wheeling about. "Come along---all!" As the girls started to scurry down the street Dick caught Laura's nearer arm to aid her. Dave did as much for Belle. These four young people were among the first hundred and fifty to gather on the sidewalk before a store and office building that was on fire. It was a five story building. Fire had started in back on the second floor. Originating in offices empty at the time, the blaze had gained good headway ere it was discovered. It had eaten up to the third and fourth floors, and was now sweeping frontward. On the third floor the heat had cracked the window glass, and the air, rushing in, had fanned up a brisk blaze. Flames were beginning to shoot out their fiery tongues through these third story windows. "Is everyone out of that building?" demanded the policeman on the beat, rushing up. He had just learned that a citizen had gone to ring in the fire alarm, so now the policeman's next thought was directed toward life saving. There was a quick count of those who had been in the offices on the upper floors. On the fourth floor one suite of offices had been occupied as a china painting school. Miss Trent, the teacher, who had reached the sidewalk safely, now looked about her anxiously. "I had only one pupil up there, Miss Grace Dodge," replied Miss Trent, hurriedly. "I called to her and then ran. Miss Dodge started after me, then rushed back to get her purse, palette and color case." "Has anyone seen Miss Dodge?" demanded the policeman. No one had. "Then I'll get up there, if I can," muttered the officer. Dropping belt and club to the sidewalk, and pulling his helmet down tight on his head, the policeman darted into the building and up the stairs. At that moment, above the smoke and flames pouring out of the third story windows, Grace Dodge appeared at one of the windows on the fourth floor. She was hatless, and a streak of blood appeared over her left temple. "Don't jump!" shouted several men loudly. "A policeman has just started up to get you." Miss Dodge appeared somewhat dazed; it was a question whether she understood. But her face disappeared from the window way. To many of the horrified ones below, it appeared as though the imperiled girl had swayed dizzily away from the window, as though overcome by the heat and fumes from the windows below her. "Where is the fire department? Is it never coming?" wailed one woman in the throng, wringing her hands. No one here knew that the citizen who had rushed to send in the alarm had found the first box out of order. He was now rushing to another alarm box. Out of the hallway came the policeman, white-faced and tottering weakly. "I---I couldn't get up much above the second floor," he gasped, in a voice out of which the strength was gone. "I---I guess the---heat and smoke got me! But---some one---must try!" Where was that fire department? Dick, staring over the crowd, found that all of his chums had arrived. "Come on, fellows!" he yelled. "We've got to do something. Follow me!" Prescott, after one swift glance at the buildings, made a dash for the door of the one just to the right of the blazing pile. Into the stairway entrance he dashed, followed by Dave Darrin, by Tom Reade, Greg Holmes, Dan Dalzell and Harry Hazelton. "Hurrah!" yelled some one, in infectious enthusiasm. "Dick & Co. to the rescue!" CHAPTER XX IN THE LINE OF DARING That became instantly the cry: "Dick & Co. to the rescue!" Yet none of the sextette heard it. They were all inside, at the first step of their projected deed of bravery. "All of you but Dave run through the offices!" yelled Dick. "Some of the tenants must have fire-rope coils. Grab the first rope you can find and bring it to me on the roof. Hustle! Dave, you follow me!" Even to boys daily grilled on the football gridiron it was no mere matter of sport to dart up five flights of stairs at fast speed. Dick Prescott was panting as he reached the roof and threw open the skylight door. But he got out on the roof, hurrying across it, doing his best, at the same time, to gulp in chestfuls of fresh air. Then he came to the edge of the roof next to the burning building. The roof of that other building was about fifteen feet below the Roof on which Dick Prescott stood. After an instant of swift calculation young Prescott jumped. He landed, below, on the balls of his feet, though the next instant the momentum of the fall carried him forward onto his hands. In another twinkling Prescott was up, running toward the front edge of the building. He stopped at the skylight door, but discovered that the flames and smoke below shut off hope there. So he continued to the front of the roof. Here Dick glanced back, for a second, to make sure that Dave had followed safely. Darrin was on his feet, and waved his hand reassuringly. Then Dick Prescott leaned out, peering down at the front of the burning building. "There's Prescott!" shouted some of the most enthusiastic watchers. "Hurrah. Old Gridley High School!" But Dick paid no heed to the crowd. He was trying to locate the window at which Grace Dodge had appeared, and was trying to contrive how he would use a rope when one came. In the meantime Darrin, having jumped to the lower roof, remained where he had dropped, awaiting the arrival of the other fellows with a rope. After a few moments they came. Reade had a coil of inch rope, which he waved enthusiastically. "Wait until we get the rope uncoiled," called Greg. "Then we'll lower some of us down to join you" "Lower---nothing! Jump!" yelled Dave, in a stentorian quarter-deck voice. Greg obeyed, instanter. Tom flung the coil of rope below, then followed it. Hazelton and Dalzell, an instant later, were with their comrades. "Come on, now," ordered Darrin, who had snatched up the coil of rope and was darting over the roof. "Dick's waiting for us." Prescott, still looking below, heard the swish of ropes on the roof as Dave uncoiled and threw the lengths out. "Good!" yelled Dick, looking back. "Tom, you take a turn or two of the rope around that chimney, for anchor. Dave, you stand here at the roof edge to pay out the rope. Greg, you and Dan get in behind Dave to help on the hoist. See, Dave! That third window from the end--- there's where the rope wants to go." "You going down the rope?" queried Darrin dryly. "Yes." "Wait, then, and I'll tie some knots in it." "No time for that," vetoed Dick sharply. "I'll have to take my chances. Miss Dodge may be smothering, or burning. Pay it out---fast!" Dick watched until he saw that the rope had gone low enough, and that it hung before the right window. "Now, brace yourselves, fellows!" he called, between his hands, for the roar of the flames and the crackling of timbers made some sort of trumpet necessary, even at short range. On his knees, his back to the street, at the edge of the roof, Dick Prescott seized the rope. Then, with a fervent inward prayer, he started over the edge, and hung in the air, eighty feet from the ground. Down below, the ever-increasing crowd let out a cyclonic, roaring cheer. It was a foolish thing to do, for it might have rattled the young football player. But Prescott paid no attention to the racket, and kept on lowering himself, coolly. Here was where his gym. training and all his football practice came in splendidly. Every muscle was strong, every nerve true to its duty! Not once did Prescott fear that he would lose his grip and fall to the street below. Up above, at the roof's edge, stood Darrin, directing as though from quarter-deck or military-top. Dave had to lean rather far out, at that great height, but it did not make him dizzy. "There! The grand old chap has landed on the window-sill! He has gone inside!" cried Dave, turning to his comrades. "Now we can wait until we feel a signal-pull on the rope." As he turned away from the smoke that was coming up through the air Darrin realized how much smoke he had inhaled. He thumped his chest lightly, taking deep breaths. Dick was in the studio now. Close to the window, where the draught was strongest, Prescott found the smoke so thick that he had to grope his way through it; but bending low, he quickly came to where Grace Dodge lay unconscious on the floor. She looked lifeless, as she lay there. "Whew! I'm afraid she's a goner, already!" thought Dick, with a great surge of compassion. However, seizing the unconscious girl by the shoulders he dragged her swiftly over the floor to the window through which he had come. The rope still dangled there. Seizing it, Dick gave it a gentle pull---not too hard, for fear the jerk might catch good old Dave of his guard and yank him over the roof's edge. In another instant Darrin was "back on the job," peering down. Dick made a signal that Dave understood perfectly. Prescott's next care was to knot his end of the rope swiftly around Grace's body, above the waist, adjusting the coils so that considerable of the strain would come under the shoulders, where it could best be borne. Once more Dick leaned out of the window, making motions. Dave Darrin nodded. The fascinated crowd in the street looked up, breathless. Few now even thought to wonder why the fire department did not appear. At Dave's command the others on the roof with him began to hoist. Slowly, Dick aided Grace's body through the window. Then the girl, motionless, so far as she herself was concerned, swung in the air, slowly ascending. Now groans of horror went up from the street. It seemed to the onlookers below as though a dead body were being hoisted. Dick had made a loose hitch of the end of the rope so that it bound the girl's skirt about her ankles. As he watched, he saw the swinging body steady at the roof edge. Then Grace disappeared from his sight as Dave and the others hauled her to momentary safety. "Ugh!" gasped young Prescott. The smoke and the hot air, filling his lungs, drove him back from the open window to a spot where the draught was less intense. After a few moments he heard something clattering against the window frame. "What is it?" wondered Dick, dreamily, for his senses were leaving him. Rousing himself, by a supreme effort of the will, the young football player staggered toward the window. It was the rope, which Dave had lowered for him. And thoughtful Darrin had swiftly knotted a strong slip-noose at the end. Dick had just strength and consciousness enough left to slip this noose over his head and down under his armpits, drawing the noose tight. Then---so fast was the hot air and smoke overcoming him that he had to fight for it!---Dick forced his way to the sill and gave a hard tug at the rope. Then he reeled, falling back senseless upon the floor. In that same instant, not far behind him, the flames burst through the flooring. There must be some quick work, now, or Dick Prescott would meet a hero's death at seventeen! CHAPTER XXI THE PRICE OF BRAVERY Dave Darrin did not falter in his duty for an instant. He had been waiting for that tug on the rope. Now he leaned out, and as far over as was possible without pitching himself headlong into the street below. "Dick! Oh, Dick!" he roared. There was, of course, no answer, for young Prescott day senseless on the floor, smoke and hot air filling his lungs, the creeping flames threatening to pounce upon and devour him. Wondering, Dave gave a slight signal tug himself at the rope. From below there was no answer. "Something uncanny has happened, down there!" muttered Darrin. "What's wrong?" called Reade. "I wish I knew," muttered Dave. "There is no further signaling." "Then-----" That was as far as Tom got with his hint at an explanation. "Cut it," retorted Darrin briskly. "Keep the rope steady. I'm going down there." "Can you-----" "Yes!" blazed Dave recklessly. "Watch me. Here goes nothing!" As the last three words left his lips Darrin swung free over the roof edge. He was going down the straining, smooth rope now, hand under hand. The dense crowd in the street below was quick to realize that something new and tragic was on the cards. A gasp of suspense went up as Dave slowly went down. Many in the street uttered a silent prayer---for heroes are ever dear to the multitude. Dave's task now was more dangerous than Dick's original undertaking had been. The smoke was rolling up with ever increasing density. "I'll close one eye, and save that to see Dick with," Darrin muttered grimly to himself. So, with one eye closed tightly, Dave yet knew when the instant came to swing in and stand on the sill. Opening the closed eye, Darrin sought to peer into the studio. Such a gust of smoke came out at him that Darrin very nearly lost his balance from dizziness. "I can't see a blessed thing in there," Dave muttered. So he sprang inside. Now, quickly enough Dave stumbled over the prostrate figure of his unconscious comrade. Fairly pouncing upon Prescott, Dave half raised that body, then dragged it to the window. "Pull!" Darrin yelled up to Tom Reade, peering over the roof's edge. Over the roar of the fire Dave's voice did not carry well, but his gesture was seen. Reade gave the command, and the hoisting commenced, while Dave, standing at his post, though choking, and his brain reeling, swung Dick's feet clear of the sill. Then the body began to go up quickly, while the crowd watched in greater awe than ever. Dave Darrin leaped out upon the sill, holding a handkerchief over his mouth and nostrils in order to protect his lungs as much as possible. With the other hand Dave clutched at the window frame, for he had a fearful dread, now that he would lose his hold, his footing and plunge headlong into the street. Dick's body disappeared over the roof edge. After what seemed like a short age, but what was only a few moments, Reade again showed his face, dangling the noose in his hand. Then he let it fall until it hung close to Darrin. Reade and the crowd alike watched breathlessly, while Dave Darrin, fumbling, almost blindly, tried to slip the noose over his head and adjust it under his shoulders. Once he let go of the rope, half swaying out into the street. A cry of terror went up from the spectators below. Tom Reade carefully swung the rope back again. Dave caught it. After it had seemed as though he must fail Dave at last adjusted the noose under his armpits. "All right!" bellowed Tom Reade, making a trumpet of his hands. Darrin answered only by a tug on the rope. Then he hung in mid air as the hoisting began. At that moment a new sound cane on the air. The fire department, with a short circuit somewhere in its wires, had at last been notified by telephone, and the box number was pealing out on two church bells. Barely were Dave's feet clear of the top of the window casing when a draught drove the flames out. His shoes were almost licked by the red tongues. "Hurry, you hoisters!" bellowed a man in the street. His voice did not carry, but Tom Reade and his wearied helpers were doing all that could be done by strong, willing hands. Another and longer tongue of flame leaped out through the shattered window, and again Dave's swinging feet were all but bathed in fire. "Thank heaven we've got you up here, old fellow!" panted Tom Reade fervently, as Dave was hauled over the roof's edge, helping himself a little. Dave, as soon as the noose had been slipped over his head, got up on his feet, though he staggered a bit dizzily. "We must all get back up to that roof," ordered Dave, pointing to the roof down from which they had leaped a while before. "We can't," retorted Reade. "We'll have to wait for the firemen and their ladders." "Ladders---nothing!" retorted Dave, though his voice was weak and husky. "We'll make our own ladders. You, Holmes, get over against that wall. Hazelton, you beside hind Reade you climb up onto their shoulders. Now, Dan you climb up on Reade's shoulders, and you'll reach that roof up there!" Darrin's orders were quickly carried out. This trick of wall scaling was really not difficult for football men in daily practice. Dan's head was quickly above the gutter of the next roof. He pulled himself over the edge. "Stand by to catch the rope, Dan," shouted Dave. "Throw it to him, Tom." Whizz-zz! whirr-rr! That rope was over the edge and in Dan's hands. Dalzell raced to a chimney, taking two or three turns around and making fast. "Come on!" he called down. Harry Hazelton ascended the rope hand over hand, Reade following. Then Greg Holmes went up. Dave, in the meantime, was preparing the apparently lifeless Grace Dodge for the ascent. As he gave the signal those on the roof above hauled away. Grace was soon in a position of safety. Then Dick, who had not, as yet, revived, was hoisted. "Now, we'll haul you up," called down Reade. "Forget it," mocked Darrin. "Toss down the rope and I'll use my own muscles." So Dave joined them and stood beside them on the roof. "Now, we'd better make the street as soon as we can," Darrin advised. "The one who's strongest pick up Miss Dodge, and another stand by for relief. Two of you will have to tote Dick. I wish I could help, but I'm afraid my strength is 'most all out." Dave, however, led the way. By the time that the little party had descended two flights they were met by firemen rushing up. After that the task of reaching the street was easy. As the rescuers and rescued came out upon the street the crowd, now driven back beyond police lines, started to cheer. But Dave's hand, held up, acted as a silencer. Dick and Miss Dodge were carried to a neighboring drug store for attention. Now the firemen tried to run up ladders to the studio floor, with a view to fighting the flames by turning the stream on through the windows. Flames drove them back. The on-lookers were quick to grasp the fact that had no one acted before the arrival of the firemen, Grace Dodge would have been lost indeed. As it was, the fire fighters were obliged to fight the fire from the roof of the next building. The office building in which the flames had started was almost gutted before the blaze was subdued. An hour later Grace Dodge was placed in an automobile and carried to her home, a physician accompanying her. She had revived for a brief period, but had again sunk into unconsciousness. Whether her life could be saved was a matter of the gravest doubt. And Dick? Young Prescott was revived soon enough, after expert assistance had been secured. Yet he had swallowed more of the overheated air than had the girl. In the minds of the medical men there was a grave doubt as to whether his lungs could be fully restored---or whether he would be doomed to a spell of severe lung trouble, ending, most likely, in death at a later day! Scores of people turned back from that fire with tears in their eyes. They had seen this day something that they would remember all their lives. "Dick and Dave were wondering whether they had courage enough for the military service," sobbed Laura Bentley, in the privacy of Belles room. "They have courage enough for anything!" Dick was up and about the next day, though he did not go to school. Moreover, later reports placed him out of serious danger. The football squad was gloomy enough, however. Their star left end man would not be in shape for the big Thanksgiving Day game. CHAPTER XXII THE THANKSGIVING DAY GAME Say, you're a great one, Prescott, to throw us down in this way," chaffed Drayne, as Dick strolled into dressing quarters. "Oh, come, now!" broke in Darrin impatiently. "It's bad enough, Drayne, to have to play side partner to you in the biggest game in the year, without having to listen to your fat-headed criticism of better men." Drayne flushed, and might have retorted, had not Wadleigh broken in, in measured tones, yet with much significance in his voice: "Yes, Drayne; cut out all remarks until you've made good. Of course you are going to make good, but talk will sound better after deeds." Most of the fellows who were togging were uneasy. They wanted, with all their hearts, to win this day's game. First of all, the game was needed in order to preserve their record for unbroken victories. Then again, Filmore High School was a team worth beating at any time and Filmore boosters had been making free remarks about a Gridley Waterloo. So there was a feeling of general depression in dressing quarters. Dick Prescott, with his dashing, crafty, splendid, score-making work at left end, had become a necessity to the Gridley eleven. "It's the toughest luck that ever happened," grumbled Hazelton, right guard, to Holmes, right tackle. "And I don't believe Drayne is in anything like condition, either." "Now, see here, you two," broke in Captain Wadleigh behind them, as he gripped an arm of either boy, "no croaking. We can't afford it." "We can't afford anything," grinned Hazelton uneasily. "Oh, of course, we're going to win today---Gridley simply has to win," added Holmes hastily. "Yes; you two look as though you had the winning streak on," growled Wadleigh, in a low voice. "For goodness' sake come out of your daze!" "Do you think yourself that Drayne is fit?" demanded Hazelton. "He's the fittest man we have that can play left end," retorted Wadleigh. "Knocking, are you?" demanded Drayne, coming up behind them. "Nice fellows you are!" "Oh, now, see here, Drayne, no bad blood," urged Wadleigh. He spoke authoritatively, yet coaxingly, too. "Remember, we've got to keep all our energies for one thing today." "Well, I'm mighty glad you two don't play on my end of the line," sneered Drayne, looking at Hazelton and Holmes with undisguised hostility. "Cut it, Drayne. And don't you two talk back, either," warned Wadleigh sternly. "Oh, acknowledge the corn, Drayne," broke in Hudson, with what he meant for good humor. "Just say you're no good and let it go at that." There was a dead silence, for an instant, broken by one unidentified fellow, muttering in a voice that sounded like a roar in the silence: "Drayne? Humph!" "There you go! That's what all of you are saying to yourselves!" cried Drayne angrily. "For some reason you idiots seem to think I'm in no shape today. Hang it, I'm sorry I agreed to play. For two cents I wouldn't play." "Drayne can be bought off cheaply, can't he?" remarked one of the fellows. The last speaker did not intend that his voice should reach Drayne, but it did. "Say, you fellows all have a grouch on, just because I'm playing today!" quivered the victim of the remarks. "Oh, well, never mind I'll cure your grouch, then!" Seating himself on a locker box, Drayne began to unfasten the lacings of his shoes. "Here, man! What are you doing?" demanded Captain Wadleigh, bounding forward angrily. "Curing the grouch of this bunch," retorted Drayne sulkily. "Man alive, there's no time to fool with your shoes now!" warned the team captain. "I'm not going to need this pair," Drayne rejoined. "Street shoes will do for me today." "Not on the gridiron!" "I'm not going on the field. I've heard enough knocking," grumbled Drayne. A dozen of the fellows crowded about, consternation written in their faces. Prescott was known not to be fit to play. Only the day before Dr. Bentley had refused to pass him for the game. Hence Drayne, even if a trifle out of condition, was still the best available man for left end. "Quit your fooling, Drayne!" cried two or three at once. "Quit your talking," retorted Drayne, kicking off his other field shoe. "I've done all my talking." Truth to tell, Drayne still intended to play, but he wanted to teach these fellows a lesson. He intended to make them beg, from Wadleigh down, before he would go on to the finish of his togging. Drayne knew when he had the advantage of them. "Don't be a fool, Drayne," broke in Hudson hotly. "Or a traitor to your school," added another. "Be a man!" In Drayne's present frame of mind all these appeals served to fan his inward fury. "Shut up, all of you!" he snapped. "I've listened to all the roasting I intend to stand. I'm out of the game!" Several looked blankly at "Hen" Wadleigh. "Whom have you to put in his place?" Grayson demanded hoarsely. Drayne heard and it was balm to his soul. He started to pull off his football trousers. Outside, the band started upon a lively gallop. The crowd began to cheer. It started in as a Gridley cheer. Then, above everything else, rang the Filmore yell of defiance. Just at this moment Coach Morton strode into the room. Almost in a twinkling he learned of the new complication that had arisen. "Captain Wadleigh, who is to play in Drayne's stead" demanded the coach rather briskly. "Under certain conditions," broke in Wayne, "I'll agree to play." "We wouldn't have you under all the conditions in the world!" retorted Mr. Morton. "A football eleven must be an organization of the finest discipline!" Drayne reddened, then went deathly white. He hadn't intended to let the matter go this far. "Who is your best man for left end, captain?" insisted Mr. Morton. "You've got to decide like a flash. Your men ought to be out in the air now." There was a blank pause, while "Hen" Wadleigh looked around over his subs. "Will you let me play?" There was a start. Every fellow in the room turned around to stare at the speaker. It was Dick Prescott, who started eagerly forward, his face aglow with eagerness. "You, Prescott?" cried Mr. Morton. "But only yesterday Dr. Bentley reported that your lungs had not sufficiently recovered." "I know, sir," Dick laughed coolly; "but that was yesterday. "It would be foolhardy, my boy. If you went out on the field, and any exceptional strain came up, you might do an injury to your lungs." "Mr. Morton," replied the team's left end, very quietly, "I'm willing to go out on the field---and do all that's in me, for old Gridley---if it's the last act of my life." "Your hand, Prescott!" cried Mr. Morton, gripping the boy's palm. "That's the right spirit of grit and loyalty. But it wouldn't be right to let you do it. It isn't necessary, or human, to pay a life for a game." "Will you let me go on the field if Dr. Bentley passes me _today_?" queried Prescott. "But he won't." "Try him." Mr. Morton nodded, and some one ran out and passed the word for Dr. Bentley, who acted as medical director in the School's athletics. Within two minutes the physician entered dressing quarters. Coach Morton stated Prescott's request. "Absurd," declared Dr. Bentley. "Will you examine me, sirs" insisted Prescott. With a sigh the old physician opened his satchel, taking out a stethoscope and some other instruments. "Strip to the waist," he ordered tersely. Many eager hands stretched out to aid Dick in his task. In a few moments the young athlete, the upper half of his body bared, stood before the medical examiner. For his height, weight and age Prescott was surely a fine picture of physical strength. But Dr. Bentley, with the air and the preformed bias of a professional skeptic, went all over the boy's torso, starting with a prolonged examination of the heart action and its sounds. "You find the arterial pressure steady and sound, don't you," asked Dick Prescott? "Hm!" muttered Dr. Bentley. "Now, take a full breath and hold it." Thump! thump! thump! went the doctor's forefinger against the back of his other hand, as he explored all the regions of Dick's chest. A dozen more tests followed. "What do you think, Doctor?" asked Mr. Morton. "Hm! The young man recovers with great rapidity. If he goes into a mild game he'll stand it all right. If it turns out to be a rough game-----" "Then I'll fare as badly as the rest, won't I, Doctor?" laughed Dick. "Thank you for passing me, sir. I'll get into my togs at once." "But I haven't said that I passed you." Dick, however, feigned not to hear this. He was rushing to his locker, from which he began to haul the various parts of his rig. "Is it a crime to let young Prescott go on the field?" asked Coach Morton anxiously. "No," replied Dr. Bentley hesitatingly. "It might be a greater crime to keep him off the gridiron today. Men have been known to die of grief." Probably a football player never had more assistance in togging up for a game. Those who couldn't get in close enough to help Dick dress growled at the others for keeping them out. "You seem uneasy, Coach," murmured Captain Wadleigh, aside. "I am." "I can't believe, sir, that a careful man like Dr. Bentley would let Prescott go on at left end today, if there was good reason why Prescott shouldn't. As we know, from the past, Dick Prescott has wonderful powers of recuperation." "If Prescott should go to pieces, Captain, whom will you put forward in his places" "Dalzell, sir. He's speedy, even if not as clever as Prescott or Drayne." "I'm glad you've been looking ahead, Captain. Out I hope Prescott will hold out, and suffer no injury whatever from this day's work." Was Dick anxious? Not the least in the world. He was care free---jubilant. The Gridley spirit possessed him. He was going to hold out, and the eleven was going to win its game. That was all there was to it, or all there could be. In the first two or three days after his injury at the fire Dick had traveled briefly in the dark valley of physical despair. To be crippled or ill, to be physically useless---the thought filled him with horror. Then young Prescott had taken a good grip on himself. Out of despair proceeded determination not to allow his lungs to go down before the assault of smoke and furnace-like air. Grace Dodge was not, as yet, well on the way to recovery, but Dick Prescott, with his strong will power, and the grit that came of Gridley athletics, was now togging hastily to play in the great game---though he had not, as yet, returned to school after his disaster. Out near the grandstand the band crashed forth for the tenth time. Gridley High School bannerets waved by the hundreds. Yet Filmore, too, had her hosts of boosters here today, and their yells all but drowned out the spirited music. "Here come our boys! Gridley! Gridley! Gridley! Wow-ow-ow!" "Hurrah!" Then the home boosters, who had read Drayne's name on the score card took another look at their cards---next rubbed their eyes. "Prescott at left end!" yelled one frenzied booster. "Whoop!" Then the Gridley bannerets waved like a surging sea of color. The band, finishing its strain, started in again, not waiting for breath. "Prescott, after all, on left end!" Home boosters were still cheering wildly by the time that Captain Pike, of Filmore High School, had won the toss and the teams were lining, up. Silence did not fall until just the instant before the ball was put in play. Drayne, with his headgear pulled down over his eyes, and skulking out beside the grand stand, soon began to feel a savage satisfaction. Something must be ailing the left end man after all, for Dick did not seem able to get through the Filmore line with his usual brilliant tactics. Instead, after ten minutes of furious play, Filmore forced Gridley to make a safety. Then again the ball was forced down toward Gridley's goal line, and at last pushed over. Gridley hearts, over on the grand stand and bleacher seats, were beating with painful rapidity. What ailed the home boys? Or were the Filmore youths, as they themselves fondly imagined, the gridiron stars of the school world! Filmore, like Gridley, had a record of no defeats so far this season. It was a hard pill for Captain Wadleigh and his men to swallow. In the interval between the halves the local band played, but the former dash was now noticeably absent from its music. The Gridley colors drooped. CHAPTER XXIII SULKER AND REAL MAN Dave Darrin glanced covertly, though anxiously, at his chum. Was Dick really unfit to play? Dave wondered. It was not that Prescott had actually failed in any quick bit of individual or team play that he had been signaled to perform. But Darrin wondered if Dick could really be anything like up to the mark. During the interval Captain Wadleigh went quietly among his men, murmuring a word of counsel here and there. Nothing in Wadleigh's face or tone betrayed worry; intense earnestness alone was stamped on his bearing. "Now, remember, fellows, don't get a spirit of defense grafted on you," were Wadleigh's last words before the second half began. "Remember, its to be a general assault all the time. If you get on the defensive nothing can save us from losing." No sooner was the ball in motion than Gridley's line bore down upon the enemy. So determined was the assault that Filmore found itself obliged to give ground, stubbornly, for a while. Yet Captain Pike's men were not made of stuff that is easily whipped. After the first five minutes Pike's men got the ball and began to drive it a few yards, and then a few yards more, over into Gridley's territory. As the minutes slipped by the ball went nearer and nearer to Gridley's goal line. Another touchdown must soon result. Twice Pike tried to throw the ball around the left end. Wadleigh, Hudson, Darrin and Prescott, backed by quarter and left half, presented such a stubborn block that the ball did not get another yard clown the field in two plays. But Pike, who was a hammerer, made a third attempt around that left end. This time he gained but two feet, and the ball passed to Gridley. Of course, after having had its left wing so badly haltered Gridley was bound to try to work the ball through Filmore's right. As Wadleigh's signals crisped out, the Gridley players threw themselves out for a play to right. Quarter received the ball, starting fiercely to the right. Left half dashed past quarter, receiving the ball and carrying it straight to Dick Prescott. For a moment this blind succeeded so admirably, that even those on the grand stand did not see the ball given to Prescott, but believed that quarter was rushing the ball over to the right. Then, like a flash, the trick dawned. Dick Prescott had the oval, and was running with it like a whirlwind, with Darrin and Hudson as his interference, and with quarter dashing close behind them. Dick sprinted around the first Filmore man, leaving his interference to sweep the fellows over. At Filmore's second attempt to tackle, Dick ducked low and escaped. In the next instant the would-be tackler was bowled over by Darrin and Hudson, and Dick swept on with the ball. By this time all the home boosters were on their feet, yelling like so many Comanches. Filmore's half and full contrived a trap that caught young Prescott, and carried him down with the ball---but this happened at Filmore's forty-five-yard line! In the next play, Dave had the ball, on a short pass, but with Dick dashing along close to his side, and Hudson on the other flank. Before Darrin went down on the ball it had been carried to Filmore's thirty-yard line. Then it went beyond the twenty-five-yard line, and Gridley still carried the pigskin. "Dick's coming up, all right," proudly muttered Darrin to Hudson, while the next snapback was forming. "It's putting nerve into all of us," rejoined Hudson. The pigskin was only fourteen yards from the Filmore goal line when Captain Wadleigh's men had to see the ball go to Filmore. Pike's men, however, failed to make good on downs, so the oval came back into Wadleigh's possession. Now, the play was swift and brilliant. Dick got the ball around the left end once, and afterwards assisted Dave to put it through the hostile line. With the third play Dick carried the pigskin barely across Filmore's goal line and scored a touchdown. Darrin immediately after made a kick for goal. The score now stood eight to six for Filmore but only ten minutes of playing time remained. "Our fellows have saved a whitewash, and that's all," reflected Drayne. "They'd have done better with me, and I guess Wadleigh knows it by this time." "Slug's the word," Pike passed around, swiftly. "No fouling, but use your weight, dash and speed. Slam these Gridley rubes. Hammer em!" "Come on, now Gridley!" rang the imploring request from the home boosters, who were now too restless to keep to their seats. "Remember your record so far this season!" "Forceful playing, but keep cool. Use your Judgment to the last, and put a lot of speed and doggedness behind your science," was Wadleigh's adjuration. Those who followed form most close, now had their eyes on young Prescott. If he went to pieces that would leave Gridley weak at what had usually been its strongest point, especially in attack. And Gridley had the ball again. But what ailed Captain Wadleigh, the boosters wondered? For he was now sending the ball to the right wing, as if admitting that Prescott must not be worked too hard. "Use Prescott!" shouted one man hoarsely. "Prescott! Prescott!" "Yah! Dot's all right. Vot you t'ink Wadleigh has ein head for' Leafe him und Bresgott alone, and dey hand you der game a minute in!" bawled the deep bass voice of Herr Schimmelpodt who, nearly alone of the Gridley boosters, believed that the home team needed no grand stand coaching. "But they've only eight minutes left," grumbled the man sitting to the left of Herr Schimmelpodt. "Yah! Dot's all right, too," retorted the German. "Battles haf been won in less than eight minutes. Read history!" In two plays Captain Wadleigh had succeeded in advancing the pigskin less than two yards down the Filmore territory. But now hats were thrown up in the air, and frantic yells resounded when it was discovered that Dick had the ball again, and that Darrin, Hudson, Wadleigh, quarter and left half were fighting valiantly to push him through the stubborn, panting line of Filmore High School. It was a splendid fight, but a losing one. Filmore was massing all its weight, wind and brawn, and Gridley lost the ball on downs. An involuntary groan went up from the Gridley spectators. Five and a half minutes left, and the ball in the enemy's hands! That settled the game. The musicians looked at their leader, before taking the music from their instrument racks. "Keep your music on," called the leader. "We of Gridley are sportsmen enough to play the victors off the field." The play was quicker and snappier than ever. All the young men on both sides were using their last reserves of strength and wind. Pike was making a ferocious effort to get the ball back and over Gridley's goal line. But Pike lost, after three plays, and Wadleigh's men again grabbed the pigskin. "Barely two minutes!" groaned the Gridley spectators, watches in hand. Dick was seen glancing at Wadleigh and shaking his head almost imperceptibly. But a hundred people on the grand stand saw that tiny shake, and, most of all, Pike took it in. Wadleigh, before bending low over the ball held up thumb and forefinger of his right hand, formed in a circle, for a brief instant. That sign meant: "Emergency signal code!" Then he bent over to snap the ball back, and the figures that shot from quarter-back's chest carried different values from those that any enemy could guess. "Eight---eleven---four---ten!" Then the ball went back to quarter, who started from a crouch without straightening up. Gridley's whole attack seemed to swing to the right. Wadleigh, himself, from half-facing to right, took a long step toward right wing; then wheeled like a flash, and went plowing, onward, to the left. Quarter, after the start, and ere Filmore could break through, had passed the ball to half, who, on a wild sprint, had passed it to Dick Prescott. And now Dick was racing out around Filmore's right end, backed by a crushing interference of which Wadleigh was the center. Darrin, with head high, was watching for every chance at legitimate interference. Behind them all, quarter and left half pounded and pushed. An instant and Dick was free and around Filmore's end. Now, he dashed into the race of his life! Wadleigh sent a man sprawling. Dave's elbow did something to Filmore's right tackle. Just what it was none of the spectators could see. But none of the field officials interfered so it must have been legitimate. After a fight and a short, brilliant run, Dick was tackled by Filmore's fullback. One quivering instant---then Wadleigh and Hudson bumped that fullback so hard that he went down, Dick wriggling safely away and bounding toward Filmore's goal. With fire in their eyes, Gridley's center and left wing swept on. Dick Prescott was over the goal line, bending and holding the ball down! Then, indeed, the crowd broke loose all except the few hundreds from Filmore. Was it a touchdown? That was the question that all asked themselves. It was so close to the line that many onlookers were in doubt, and stood staring with all their eyes. But the ball went back for the kick, and that settled all doubts. Dave made the kick, and lost it---but who cared? A moment later and the whistle blew---the second half was over---the game finished. Filmore had bitten the dust to the song of eleven to eight. Dick's tiny head shake had been a piece of strategy prearranged with Wadleigh. It was a legitimate ruse, as honest as any other piece of football strategy intended to throw the enemy "off". Now the band was indeed thundering out, playing in its best strain. All restraint thrown aside, the spectators surged over the lines and out on the gridiron, making a rush for the heated but happy home players. The record had been kept---a season without a game lost. Filmore swallowed its chagrin and went home. Dick? He had helped nobly to save the game and the record, but now he was exhausted. Over in dressing quarters two of the subs were rubbing him down, while Dr. Bentley and Coach Morton stood anxiously by. CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION After a few days Prescott was back at school. It was noted, however, that he did not take any part in gym. work, and that he spoke even more quietly than usual, but he kept up in his recitations. Youth is the period of quick recovery. That the Thanksgiving Day game had strained the young left end there was no doubt. Within a fortnight, however, Prescott was himself again, taking his gym. work, and a cross-country run three times a week. "We ought to give Drayne the school cut," hinted Grayson. "He behaved in an abominable way right at the beginning of the critical game. He's a traitor." "Give Drayne the cut?" repeated Wadleigh, slowly, before a group of the fellows. "Perhaps, in one way, he deserved it, but-----" "Well, what can you find to say for a fellow who acted like that?" demanded Hudson, impatiently. "Drayne helped to win the game for us," replied Wadleigh moderately. "Had he played Filmore would have downed us---of that I'm sure, as I look back. Drayne's conduct put Prescott on the gridiron, didn't it? That was what saved the score for us." At the time of Grace Dodge's great peril, her banker father had been away on a business trip. It was two days later when word was finally gotten to the startled parent. Then, by wire, Theodore Dodge learned that Grace's condition was all right, needing only care and time. So he did not hasten back on that account. When he did return to Gridley, Mr. Dodge hunted up Lawyer Ripley. "I must reward those boys, and handsomely," he explained to the lawyer. "Their splendid conduct demands it." "I am sorry, Dodge, that you have been so long in coming to such a conclusion," replied the lawyer, almost coldly. "What do you mean?" "Why, you still owe Prescott and Darrin that thousand dollars offered by your family as a reward for finding you when your misfortune happened." "But my son, Bert------" "Is the bitter enemy of young Prescott, who is one of the manliest young fellows ever reared in Gridley." "But my wife has also opposed my paying the reward," argued Mr. Dodge. "She declares that the two boys were out on a jaunt and just stumbled upon me." "Your wife, like all good mothers, is much inclined to take the part of her own son," rejoined Lawyer Ripley. "However, at the time Prescott and Darrin found you, they were not out on a jaunt. They were serving 'The Blade,' and I happen to know that the young men did some remarkably good detective work in trailing and rescuing you. They started fair and even with the police, but they beat the police at the latter's own game. Dodge, by every consideration of right and justice, you owe that reward to Prescott and Darrin! If they had not found and rescued you, you might not be here today. There is no telling what might have happened to you had you been left helpless less in the custody of the pair of scoundrels who had you in that shack. I repeat that you owe that thousand dollars as fairly as you ever owed a penny in your life" "Well, then, I'll pay it," assented Theodore Dodge reluctantly, after some hesitation. "I am afraid my wife will oppose it, however." "You can tell Mrs. Dodge just what I've said, or I'll tell her, if you prefer." "Will you attend, Ripley, to rewarding all the boys for their gallant conduct in rescuing my daughter." "Yes; if you'll leave the matter wholly in my hands, and agree not to interfere" Theodore Dodge agreed to this, and Lawyer Ripley went ahead. The legal gentleman, however had a more difficult time than he had expected. It took a lot of argument, and more than one meeting, to make Dick & Co. agree to accept anything whatever. It was at last settled, however, Mr. Ripley urging upon the young men that they had no right to slight their own future prospects or education by refusing to "lay by" money to which they were honestly entitled, when it cane in the form of an earned reward from a citizen amply able to pay the reward. So Dick and Dave received that thousand dollars, which, of course, they divided evenly. In addition, each member of Dick & Co. received one hundred dollars for his prompt and gallant work in rescuing Grace Dodge from death. Of course Bert, away at private school with Bayliss, heard all about the rescue. It is not a matter of record, however, that Bert ever wrote a letter thanking any member of Dick & Co. for saving his sister. CHAPTER XXV POSTSCRIPT When the next commencement swung around Fred Ripley, who had managed to "go straight" all through his senior year, was among those graduated. What became of him will yet be learned by our readers in another volume. There are a host of other Gridley fellows also to be accounted for. Their part in the subsequent history of Gridley, and of the world in general, will also yet be told, all in the proper place. "Prin.," too, may yet come in for some attention. Dick & Co. did not take part in basket ball nor any of the organized winter athletics though they kept constantly in training. But these young men realized that the High School is, first of all, a place for academic training; so, after the football season had ended so gloriously, they went back to their books with renewed vigor. Laura and Belle, as they neared the end of their junior year, went almost from girlhood into womanhood, as is the way with girls. Yet neither Miss Meade nor Miss Bentley found Dick or Dave "too young" for their frank, girlish admiration. "You see, Dick, that we were quite right about you and Dave having all the grit that goes with the highest needs of the military profession," Laura remarked. "Your conduct at the fire shows the stuff that would be displayed by Dick & Co. in leading a charge in battle, if need be." "I guess a reasonable amount of courage, under stress, is the possession of nearly all members of the human race," laughed young Prescott. Here we shall leave our Gridley friends for a short time. We shall meet them all again, however, in the forthcoming and final volume of this series, which will be published under the title: "_The High School Captain of the Team; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard_." In this new volume we shall see more of the boys' qualities in leadership. Before we meet our popular boys in high school again the reader will find the long succession of wonderful events of their summer vacation following their junior year in the last two volumes of the "_High School Boys' Vacation Series_", which are published under the titles, "_The High School Boys' Fishing Trip; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness_," and "_The High School Boys Training Hike; Or, Making Themselves 'Hard as Nails.'_" These two narratives of a real vacation of real American boys are bound to please the many friends of Dick & Co. Be sure to read them. THE END 
17811	----	Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School OR Fast Friends in the Sororities By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. Author of Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School, etc. Illustrated PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HOWARD E. ALTEMUS [Illustration: Grace Snatched Off the White Mask. _Frontispiece--High School Girls No. 3._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A NEW ARRIVAL 7 II. CONFIDENCES 20 III. AN AUTUMN WALKING EXPEDITION 30 IV. GRACE MAKES A DISCOVERY 42 V. THE PHI SIGMA TAU 53 VI. A VISIT TO ELEANOR 68 VII. THE CLAIM OF THE "ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT" 78 VIII. ELEANOR THROWS DOWN THE GAUNTLET 85 IX. THE RESCUE PARTY 96 X. JULIA PERFORMS A SACRED DUTY 106 XI. WORRIES AND PLANS 121 XII. A RECKLESS CHAUFFEUR 129 XIII. A THANKSGIVING FROLIC 137 XIV. ELEANOR FINDS A WAY 145 XV. A WOULD-BE "LARK" 150 XVI. THE JUNIORS FOREVER 163 XVII. THE LAST STRAW 173 XVIII. THE PLAY'S THE THING 182 XIX. THE TRY OUT 191 XX. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER 199 XXI. BREAKERS AHEAD 208 XXII. AS YOU LIKE IT 215 XXIII. THE JUNIOR PICNIC 235 XXIV. CONCLUSION 252 Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School CHAPTER I A NEW ARRIVAL "Next to home, there is really nothing quite so satisfying as our dear old High School!" exclaimed Grace Harlowe, as she entered the locker-room and beamed on her three friends who stood near by. "It does seem good to be back, even though we have had such a perfectly glorious summer," said Jessica Bright. "We are a notch higher, too. We're actually juniors. This locker-room is now our property, although I don't like it as well as the one we had last year." "We'll get accustomed to it, and it will seem like home inside of two weeks," said Anne Pierson philosophically. "Everything is bound to change in this world, you know. 'We must put ourselves in harmony with the things among which our lot is cast.'" "Well, Marcus Aurelius, we'll try to accept your teaching," laughed Grace, who immediately recognized the quotation as coming from a tiny "Marcus Aurelius Year Book" that Anne kept in her desk and frequently perused. "I wonder what school will bring us this year?" mused Nora O'Malley, as she retied her bow for the fifth time before the mirror and critically surveyed the final effect. "We had a stormy enough time last year, goodness knows. Really, girls, it is hard to believe that Miriam Nesbit and Julia Crosby were at one time the banes of our existence. They come next to you three girls with me, now." "I think that we all feel the same about them," replied Grace. "Miriam is a perfect dear now, and is just as enthusiastic over class matters as we are." "It looks as though everything were going to be plain sailing this year," said Jessica. "There isn't a disturbing element in the class that I know of. Still, one can never tell." "Oh, here come Eva Allen and Marian Barber," called Grace delightedly, and rushed over to the newcomers with outstretched hands. By this time girls began to arrive rapidly, and soon the locker-room hummed with the sound of fresh, young voices. Coats of tan were compared and newly acquired freckles deplored, as the girls stood about in groups, talking of the delights of the summer vacation just ended. To the readers of "GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL," and "GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL," the girl chums have become familiar figures. It will be remembered how Grace Harlowe and her friends, Nora O'Malley and Jessica Bright, during their freshman year, became the firm friends of Anne Pierson, the brilliant young girl who won the freshman prize offered each year to the freshmen by Mrs. Gray. The reader will recall the repeated efforts of Miriam Nesbit, aided by Miss Leece, the algebra teacher, to disgrace Anne in the eyes of the faculty, and the way each attempt was frustrated by Grace Harlowe and her friends. Mrs. Gray's house party, the winter picnic in Upton Wood, and Anne Pierson's struggles to escape her unworthy father all contributed toward making the story stand out in the reader's mind. In "GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR," the girl chums were found leading their class in athletics. Here, Miriam Nesbit, still unsubdued, endeavored once more to humiliate Anne Pierson, and to oust Grace from her position as captain of the basketball team, being aided in her plan by Julia Crosby, captain of the junior team, against whom the sophomores had engaged to play a series of three games. Grace's brave rescue of Julia Crosby during a skating party and the latter's subsequent repentance restored good feeling between the two classes, and the book ended with the final conversion of Miriam after her long and stubbornly nursed enmity. David Nesbit's trial flight in his aëroplane, Grace's encounter with the escaped lunatic, who imagined himself to be Napoleon Bonaparte, were among the features which made the book absorbing from start to finish. The clang of the first bell broke in upon the chattering groups, and obedient to its summons, the girls moved slowly out of the locker-room and down the corridor, talking in subdued tones as they strolled toward the study hall. Miss Thompson stood at her desk, serene and smiling, as the girls filed in. "How well Miss Thompson looks," whispered Grace to Anne as they neared their seats. "Let's go up and see her when this session is over. It's sure to be short this morning." It was customary on the opening of school for the members of the various classes to take their seats of the previous year. Then the sections were rearranged, the seniors taking the seats left by the graduates, and the other classes moving up accordingly. The first day of school amounted to really nothing further than being assigned to one's seat and getting used to the idea of school again. Miss Thompson usually addressed the girls on the duty of High School students, and the girls went forth full of new resolutions that last for at least a week. Grace looked curiously about her. She wondered if there were to be many new girls that year. The present freshmen, direct from the Grammar Schools, sat on the front seats looking a trifle awed at the idea of being academic pupils, and feeling very strange and uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many pairs of eyes. Her glance wandered toward the new sophomore class, as though in search of some one, her eyes brightening as she caught sight of the brown-eyed girl who had won the freshman prize the previous June. The latter looked as helpless and friendless as when Grace first saw her step up on the platform to receive her money. "I shall certainly find out more about that child," she decided. "What is her name? I heard it at commencement, but I have forgotten it." Taking a leaf from a little note-book that she always carried, Grace wrote: "Do you see the freshman-prize girl over among the sophomores? What is her name? I can't remember." Then, folding the paper, she tossed it to Anne, who nodded; then wrote, "Mabel Allison," and handed it to the girl sitting opposite her, who obligingly passed it over to Grace. With a nod of thanks to Anne, Grace glanced at the paper and then at the owner of the name, who sat with her hands meekly folded on her desk, listening to Miss Thompson as though her life depended upon hearing every word that the principal uttered. "I want all my girls to try particularly this year to reach a higher standard than ever before," Miss Thompson concluded, "not only in your studies, but in your attitude toward one another. Be straightforward and honorable in all your dealings, girls; so that when the day comes for you to receive your diplomas and bid Oakdale High School farewell, you can do so with the proud consciousness that you have been to your schoolmates just what you would have wished them to be to you. I know of no better preparation for a happy life than constant observation of the golden rule. "And now I hope I shall have no occasion to deliver another lecture during the school year," said the principal, smiling. "There can be no formation of classes to-day, as the bulletins of the various subjects have just been posted, and will undoubtedly undergo some changes. It would be advisable, however, to arrange as speedily as possible about the subjects you intend to take, as we wish to begin recitations by Friday at the latest, and I dare say the changes made in the schedule will be slight." Then the work of assigning each class to its particular section of the study hall began. The seniors moved with evident pride into the places reserved for the first class, while the freshmen looked visibly relieved at having any place at all to call their own. Immediately after this the classes were dismissed, and a general rush was made to the end of the great room, where the bulletins were posted. Grace, Nora, Anne and Jessica wished to recite in the same classes as far as could be arranged, and a lively confab ensued as to what would be best to take. They all decided on solid geometry and English reading, as they could be together for these classes, but the rest was not so easy, for Nora, who loathed history, was obliged to take ancient history to complete her history group, the other girls having wisely completed theirs the previous year. Jessica wanted to take physical geography, Anne rhetoric, and Grace boldly announced a hankering for zoölogy. "How horrible," shuddered Jessica. "How can you bear to think of cutting up live cats and dogs and angleworms and things." "Oh, you silly," laughed Grace. "You're thinking of vivisection. I wouldn't cut up anything alive for all the world. The girls did dissect crabs and lobsters, and even rabbits, last year, but they were dead long before they ever reached the zoölogy class." "Oh," said Jessica, somewhat reassured, "I'm glad to hear that, at any rate." "That makes three subjects," said Nora. "Now we want one more. Are any of you going to be over ambitious and take five?" "Not I," responded Grace and Jessica in chorus. "I shall," said Anne quietly. "I'm going to learn just as much as I can while I have the chance." "Well," said Jessica, "you're different. Five studies aren't any harder for you than four for us." "Thank the lady prettily for her high opinion of your ability, Anne," said Grace, laughing. "She really seems to be sincere." "She's too sincere for comfort," murmured Anne, who hated compliments. "We haven't settled on that fourth subject yet," interposed Nora. "Why don't you all take French, it is such a beautiful language," said a soft voice behind them. "I'm sure you'd like it." The four girls turned simultaneously at the sound of the strange, soft voice, to face a girl whose beauty was almost startling. She was a trifle taller than Grace and beautifully straight and slender. Her hair was jet black and lay on her forehead in little silky rings, while she had the bluest eyes the girls had ever seen. Her features were small and regular, and her skin as creamy as the petal of a magnolia. She stood regarding the astonished girls with a fascinating little smile that was irresistible. "Please excuse me for breaking in upon you, but I saw you from afar, and you looked awfully good to me." Her clear enunciation made the slang phrase sound like the purest English. "I have just been with your principal in her office. She told me to come here and look over the list of subjects. Do you think me unpardonably rude?" She looked appealingly at the four chums. "Why, of course not," said Grace promptly, recovering in a measure from her first surprise. "I suppose you are going to enter our school, are you not? Let me introduce you to my friends." She named her three chums in turn, who bowed cordially to the attractive stranger. "My name is Grace Harlowe. Will you tell me yours?" "My name is Eleanor Savell," replied the new-comer, "and I have just come to Oakdale with my aunt. We have leased a quaint old house in the suburbs called 'Heartsease.' My aunt fell quite in love with it, so perhaps we shall stay awhile. We travel most of the time, and I get very tired of it," she concluded with a little pout. "'Heartsease'?" cried the girls in chorus. "Do you live at 'Heartsease'?" "Yes," said the stranger curiously. "Is there anything peculiar about it?" "Oh, no," Grace hastened to reply. "The reason we are interested is because we know the owner of the property, Mrs. Gray, very well." "Oh, do you know her?" replied Eleanor lightly. "Isn't she a dainty, little, old creature? She looks like a Dresden shepherdess grown old. For an elderly woman, she really is interesting." "We call her our fairy godmother," said Anne, "and love her so dearly that we never think of her as being old." There had been something about the careless words that jarred upon Anne. "Oh, I am sure she is all that is delightful," responded Miss Savell, quickly divining that Anne was not pleased at her remark. "I hope to know her better." "You are lucky to get 'Heartsease,'" said Grace. "Mrs. Gray has refused over and over again to rent it. It belonged to her favorite brother, who willed it to her when he died. She has always kept it in repair. Even the furniture has not been changed. I have been there with her, and I love every bit of it. I am glad to know that it has a tenant at last." "Mrs. Gray knew my aunt years ago. They have kept up a correspondence for ever so long. It was due to her that we came here," said Eleanor. "Is your aunt Miss Margaret Nevin?" asked Anne quietly. "Why, how did you know her name?" cried Eleanor, apparently mystified. "'This is getting curiouser and curiouser.'" The four girls laughed merrily. "Anne is Mrs. Gray's private secretary," explained Jessica. "She tends to all her correspondence. I suppose you have written more than one letter to Miss Savell's aunt, haven't you, Anne!" "Yes, indeed," replied Anne. "Her name is very familiar to me." "What class are you girls in?" said Eleanor, abruptly changing the subject. "Or aren't you all in the same class?" "We are all juniors," laughed Nora, "and proud of it. Our green and callow days are over, and we have entered into the realm of the upper classes." "Then I shall enter the junior class, too, for I choose to hob-nob with you girls. Don't say you don't want me, for I have made up my mind; and it is like the laws of the Medes and Persians, unchangeable." "We shall be glad to welcome a new classmate, of course," responded Grace. "I hope you will soon be one of us. Did Miss Thompson say that you would have to take examinations?" "She did, she did," answered Eleanor ruefully. "Still I'm not much afraid. I've studied with a tutor, so I'm pretty well up in mathematics and English. I can speak French, German, Italian and Spanish almost as well as English. You know I've lived most of my life abroad. I'll manage to pass somehow." "I should think you would," exclaimed Anne admiringly. "I hope you pass, I'm sure. Perhaps you'll be too far advanced for our class." "Never fear, my dear," said Eleanor. "My heart is with the juniors, and leave it to me not to land in any other class. But, really, I've bothered you long enough. I must go back to your principal and announce myself ready to meet my fate. I hope to know you better when examinations have ceased to be a burden and the weary are at rest. That is, if I survive." With a gay little nod, and a dazzling smile that revealed almost perfect teeth, she walked quickly down the long room and out the door, leaving the girl chums staring after her. "What an extraordinary girl!" said Jessica. "She acts as though she'd known us all her life, and we never set eyes on her until she marched in and calmly interrupted us ten minutes ago." "It doesn't seem to make much difference whether or not we like her. She has decided she likes us, and that settles it," said Grace, smiling. "What do you think of her, Anne? You are a pretty good judge of character." "I don't know yet," replied Anne slowly. "She seems charming. She must be awfully clever, too, to know so many languages, but----" "But what?" queried Nora. "Oh, I don't know just what I want to say, only let's proceed slowly with her, then we'll never have anything to regret." "Come on, girls," said Jessica impatiently. "Let's hurry. You know we promised to meet the boys as soon as school was over." The girl chums walked out of the study hall, each with her mind so full of the new girl, who had so suddenly appeared in their midst, that the proposed call upon Miss Thompson was entirely forgotten. CHAPTER II CONFIDENCES "I am the bearer of an invitation," announced Anne Pierson as the four girls collected in one corner of the locker-room during the brief recess allowed each morning. "Mrs. Gray wishes to see us all at four o'clock this afternoon. We are to dine with her and spend the evening, and the boys are invited for the evening, too. So we will have just time enough after school to go home and dress." "You had better meet at my house, then," said Grace, "for it's on the way to Mrs. Gray's. Good-bye. Be sure and be there at a quarter of four at the latest." Promptly at the appointed time the girls hurried up the Harlowe walk. They were met at the door by Grace, who had been standing at the window for the last ten minutes with hat and gloves on, impatiently waiting their arrival. As they neared Mrs. Gray's beautiful home, Anne said in a low tone to Grace, who was walking with her, "I suppose Mrs. Gray has a double motive in asking us up here to-day. I believe she wants to talk to us about Eleanor Savell. Miss Nevin called on Mrs. Gray yesterday and they were in the parlor together for a long time. After Miss Nevin had gone, Mrs. Gray told me that Miss Nevin was anxious that Eleanor should associate with girls of her own age. That is the reason she brought her to Oakdale." "Hurry up, you two," called Nora, who had reached the steps. "How you do lag to-day." "You will hear more of this later," whispered Anne. Mrs. Gray stood in the wide hall with hands outstretched in welcome. She kissed each girl affectionately, but her eyes lingered upon Anne, who was plainly her favorite. The old lady had become so accustomed to the sympathetic presence of the quiet, young girl that it seemed, at times, as though her own daughter had come back to her once more. "Come right into the library and make yourself comfy," cried Mrs. Gray cheerily. "I spend most of my time there. The view from the windows is so beautiful, and as one grows old, one resorts more and more to book friendships." "What shall we do with you, Mrs. Gray, if you keep on insisting that you are old?" said Grace. "You're not a day older at heart than any of the rest of us. Here, sit down in this nice, easy chair, while we take turns telling you just how young you are." "It is due to my adopted children that I am not a cross, crotchety, complaining old woman," said Mrs. Gray, allowing Grace to seat her in the big leather-covered arm chair. "Now, what does your Majesty crave of her loyal subjects?" inquired Grace, bowing low before the little, old lady. "Very well, if I am queen, then I must be obeyed. Draw up your chairs and sit in a circle. I want to tell you a little story. That is partly my reason for inviting you here this afternoon, although you know you are welcome whenever you choose to come." "Is it a fairy story, dear Mrs. Gray, and does it begin with 'Once upon a time'?" queried Jessica. "It is a story of real life, my child, but I'll begin it like a fairy tale if you wish it." "Oh, please begin at once," said Grace, who, at eighteen, was as fond of a story as she had been at six. "Well, 'once upon a time,' there were two sisters. They were really only half sisters, and the one was almost twenty years older than the other. The mother of the elder sister had died when she was about fifteen years of age, and two years later the father had married a beautiful young Irish girl of very good family, who loved him dearly in spite of the difference in their ages. "After they had been married a little over two years, a little girl came to them, and the older sister loved the tiny baby as dearly as she loved her beautiful, young step-mother." "Why, that sounds very much like Grimm's fairy tales!" exclaimed Nora. "Only the book people are all kings and queens, but this is even better because the heroine is actually Irish." There was a general laugh over Nora's remark in which Mrs. Gray joined. "It's a case of Ireland forever, isn't it Nora?" said Grace teasingly. "'Fine and dandy are the Irish,'" said Nora with a grin, quoting from a popular song she had heard in a recent musical comedy. "But stop teasing me, and let Mrs. Gray go on with her story." "When the baby sister, whose name was Edith, was about three years old, the beautiful young mother died and left the husband inconsolable. A year later he was killed in a railroad accident, and the elder sister, named Margaret, was left with only little Edith to comfort her. The father had been a rich man, so they had no anxiety about money, and lived on year after year in their beautiful old home, with everything heart could wish. "As Edith grew older, she developed a decided talent for music, and when she was fifteen Margaret decided to take her abroad and allow her to enter one of the great conservatories of Europe. They went to Leipsic, and Edith, who had high hopes of one day becoming a concert pianiste, continued her studies under the best instructors that money could procure. Things ran along smoothly until Edith met a young Italian named Guido Savelli, who was studying the violin at the same conservatory. His brilliant playing had already created a sensation wherever he appeared, and he gave promise of being a virtuoso. "He fell violently in love with Edith, who had her mother's beautiful blue eyes and the combination of white skin and black hair that go to make an Irish beauty. She returned his love, and after a brief engagement they were married, much against the wishes of Margaret, who thought them both too young and impressionable to know their own minds." "And did they live happy ever after?" asked Grace eagerly. "That is the sad part of my story," said Mrs. Gray, sighing. "They were anything but happy. They both had too much of the artistic temperament to live peaceably. Besides, Guido Savelli was thoroughly selfish at heart. Next to himself, his music was the only thing in the world that he really cared for. When they had been married for about a year and a half he played before the king, and soon became the man of the hour. He neglected his beautiful young wife, who, in spite of their frequent quarrels, loved him with a pure and disinterested affection. "Finally he went on a concert tour through the principal European cities, and she never saw him again. She wrote him repeatedly, but he never answered her letters, and she was too proud to follow him. She had one child, a baby girl, named Eleanor, who was the sole comfort of the heartbroken mother." At this juncture Anne and Grace exchanged significant glances. "When Eleanor was about a year old, the mother wrote Guido Savelli once more, begging him to come to her, if only for the sake of his child, but either he never received the letter or else paid no attention to it, for she received no reply. She relapsed into a dull, apathetic state, from which the repeated efforts of her sister failed to arouse her. The following winter she contracted pneumonia and died, leaving her sister the sole guardian of Eleanor." "How long ago did all this happen, dear Mrs. Gray?" queried Nora eagerly, "and is little Eleanor living?" "It was sixteen years ago, my dear," replied Mrs. Gray, "and the reason that I have told you this long tale is because the baby girl is almost a woman now, and----" "The girl is Eleanor Savell and we met her the other day," broke in Grace excitedly, forgetting for an instant that she had interrupted Mrs. Gray. "She is going to live at 'Heartsease' and---- oh, Mrs. Gray, please pardon me for interrupting you, I was so excited that I didn't realize my own rudeness." "Granted, my dear," smiled the old lady. "But how did you happen to meet Eleanor? They arrived only a few days ago." Grace rapidly narrated their meeting and conversation with Eleanor, while Mrs. Gray listened without comment. When Grace repeated Eleanor's remark about having made up her mind, the old lady looked a little troubled. Then her face cleared and she said softly: "My dear Christmas children, I am very anxious that for her own sake you should become well acquainted with Eleanor. Her aunt was here yesterday, and we had a long talk regarding her. Eleanor is an uncommon girl in many respects. She has remarkable beauty and talent, but she is frightfully self-willed. Her aunt has spoiled her, and realizes too late the damage she has done by having allowed her to grow up on the continent. They have lived in France, Germany, Italy and Spain, with an occasional visit to America, and Eleanor has always done just as she pleased. For years her aunt has obeyed her slightest whim, but as she grows older she grows more like her father, and her aunt wants her to have some steadying influence that will put a curb on her unconventional tendencies. "When she wrote me of Eleanor, I wrote her about my girls, and offered her 'Heartsease.' She was delighted with the whole thing and lost no time in getting here. So now you understand why I have told you all this. I want you to promise me that you will do what you can for this motherless girl." "But we felt sure we should like her when we saw her the other day," said Nora. "She seemed so sweet and winning." "So she is. She has her father's winning personality, and a good deal of his selfishness, too," replied Mrs. Gray. "You won't find her at all disagreeable. But she is reckless, self-willed, defiant of public opinion and exceedingly impulsive. I look to you girls to keep her out of mischief." "Well, we'll try, but I never did pride myself on being a first-class reformer," said Grace, laughing. "Where is her father now?" asked Anne. "Is it possible that he is the great Savelli who toured America two years ago?" "He is the man," said Mrs. Gray. "He is a wonderful musician. I heard him in New York City. I shall never forget the way he played one of Liszt's 'Hungarian Rhapsodies.' I must caution you, girls, never to mention Eleanor's father to her. She has been kept in absolute ignorance of him. When she is twenty-one her aunt will tell her about him. If she knew he was the great Savelli, she would rush off and join him to-morrow, she is so impulsive. She has the music madness of both father and mother. Her aunt tells me she is a remarkable performer on both violin and piano." "But why shouldn't she go to her father if he is a great musician?" said Jessica. "And why is she called Savell, if her name is Savelli?" "Because, my dear, her father has never evinced the slightest desire to look up his own child. Even if he had, he is too irresponsible and too temperamental to assume the care of a girl like Eleanor," Mrs. Gray answered. "No, Eleanor is better off with her aunt. As to her name, her aunt hates everything Italian, so she dropped the 'I' and made the name Savell." "My," said Nora with a sigh. "She is almost as remarkable as a fairy princess, after all." "Oh, I don't know," replied Grace quickly. "Her life, of course, has been eventful, but I believe if we are to do her any good we shall just have to act as though she were an everyday girl like the rest of us. If we begin to bow down to her, we shall be obliged to keep it up. Besides, I have an idea that I am as fond of having my own way as she is." "Dinner is served," announced John, the butler. The four girls arose and followed Mrs. Gray to the dining room. During the dinner Eleanor was not again mentioned, although she occupied more or less of the four girls' thoughts. Later on, David, Hippy and Reddy appeared and a merry frolic ensued. It was after ten o'clock before the little party of young folks prepared to take their departure. "Remember, I rely upon you," whispered Mrs. Gray to Grace as she kissed her good night. Grace nodded sympathetically, but went home with an uneasy feeling that playing the guardian angel to Eleanor would be anything but a light task. CHAPTER III AN AUTUMN WALKING EXPEDITION "It is simply too lovely to go home to-day," exclaimed Grace Harlowe to her three chums as they strolled down High School Street one sunny afternoon in early October. "I move that we drop our books at my house and go for a walk." "I'm willing to drop my books anywhere and never see them again," grumbled Nora O'Malley, who was not fond of study. "I ought to go straight home," demurred Anne Pierson, "but I'll put pleasure before duty and stay with the crowd." "What about you, Jessica?" asked Grace. "You couldn't drive me home," replied Jessica promptly. "Very well," laughed Grace, "as we are all of the same mind, let's shed these books and be off." After a brief stop at Grace's home, the four girls started out, keenly alive to the beauty of the day. The leaves on the trees were beginning to lose their green and put on their dresses of red and gold. Though the sun shone brightly, the air was cool and bracing, and filled one with that vigor and joy of living which makes autumn the most delightful season of the year. Once outside the gate, the chums unconsciously headed in the same direction. "I believe we all have the same place in mind," laughed Grace. "I was thinking about a walk to the old Omnibus House." "'Great minds run in the same channel,'" quoted Jessica. "I haven't been out there since the spread last year," said Anne. "I have," said Grace, with a slight shudder. "I am not likely to forget it, either." "Well we are not apt to meet any more Napoleon Bonapartes out there," said Nora, referring to Grace's encounter with an escaped lunatic, fully narrated in "GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL." They were nearing their destination when Anne suddenly exclaimed: "Look, girls. Some one is over at the old house. I just saw a man go around the corner!" The girls looked quickly in the direction of the house. Just then a figure appeared, stared at the approaching girls and began waving his hat wildly, at the same time doing a sort of war dance. "It's another lunatic," screamed Jessica. "Run, girls, run!" "Run nothing," exclaimed Nora. "Don't you know Reddy Brooks when you see him? Just wait until I get near enough to tell him that you mistook him for a lunatic. Hurrah! David and Hippy are with him." "Well, well, well!" exclaimed Hippy as the girls approached. "Here is Mrs. Harlowe's little girl and some of her juvenile friends. I'm very glad to see so many Oakdale children out to-day." "How dare you take possession of the very spot we had our eye on?" asked Grace, as she shook hands with David. "I came over to try my bird before I have it sent home for the winter," replied David. "I was just locking up." "And the exhibition is all over," cried Grace in a disappointed tone. "I'm so sorry. You see, I still have a hankering for aëroplanes." "There wasn't any exhibition, after all," said David. "It wouldn't fly worth a cent to-day. I shall have to give it a complete overhauling when I get it back to my workshop. What are you girls doing out this way?" "Oh, we just came out to walk, because it was too nice to stay indoors," said Anne. "And now we are particularly glad we came." "Not half as glad as I am," replied David, looking at her with a smile. "Speaking of walking," remarked Hippy, "I have decided to go in for a little on my own account. Object, to become a light weight. Is there any one who will encourage me in this laudable resolution, and beguile me while I go 'galumphing' over the ground?" "Oh, I know something that would be perfectly fine!" exclaimed Nora, hopping about in excitement. "Watch her," cried Hippy. "She is about to have a conniption. She always has them when an idea hits her. I've known her for years and----" "Make him stop," appealed Nora to David and Reddy, "or I won't tell any of you a single thing." "I'll desist, merely to please the Irish lady, not because I'm afraid of you two long, slim persons," said Hippy, cleverly dodging both David and Reddy. "Suppose we go on a walking expedition," said Nora. "We can start early some Saturday morning, with enough lunch to last us all day, and walk to the other side of Upton Wood and back. My sister would be glad to go with us, so that will settle the matter of having an older person along. We can have the whole day in the woods, and the walk will do us all good. We won't have many more chances, either, for winter will be upon us before we know it. It's a shame to waste such perfect days as these." "What a perfectly lovely stunt!" exclaimed Grace. "We'll write to Tom Gray, and see if he can't come, too. The walking expedition wouldn't be complete without him." "I'll write to him to-night," said David. "I certainly should like to see the good old chap." "Will there be plenty to eat?" asked Hippy. "I always feel hungry after such strenuous exercise as walking. I am not very strong, you know." "Hear him," jeered Reddy. "One minute he vows to walk until he reaches the skeleton stage, and the next he threatens to kick over all his vows by overeating." "I didn't say anything about overeating," retorted Hippy. "I merely stated that there are times when I feel the pangs of hunger." "Stop squabbling," said Jessica, "and let's lay some plans." "Where shall we lay them?" innocently asked Hippy. "Nowhere, if you're not good," said Nora eyeing him severely. Then an animated discussion began, and the following Saturday was agreed upon, the weather permitting, as the best time to go. Saturday turned out fair, and by nine o'clock the entire party were monopolizing the Harlowe's veranda. "Well, are we all ready?" said Tom Gray, as he glanced at his watch. "Everybody scramble. One, two, three, walk." Eight highly excited boys and girls accompanied by Miss Edith O'Malley, hustled down the steps, waving good-bye to Mrs. Harlowe as she stood on the veranda and watched them out of sight. The lunch had been divided into four packages and each boy strapped a package to his shoulder. Grace wore a little knapsack fitted to her back with two cross straps. "There's nothing in it but some walnut fudge that I made last night, but I couldn't resist wearing it. It belonged to my grandfather," she confided to the girls when they had exclaimed over it. "My, but it's great to be here," said Tom Gray to Grace as they entered Upton Wood. "I'm so glad I could come." "So are we," she replied. "A lark in the woods wouldn't be half the fun with our forester missing." "Back to nature for me, every time," he exclaimed, taking a deep breath and looking about him, his face aglow with forest worship. "I love the woods, too," said Grace, "almost enough to wish I were a gypsy." On down the shady wood road they traveled, sometimes stopping to watch a squirrel or a chipmunk or to knock down a few burrs from the chestnut trees they occasionally found along the way. Once they stopped and played hide and seek for half an hour. By one o'clock they were ravenously hungry. Hippy clamored incessantly for food. "Let us feed him at once, and have peace," exclaimed Nora. "I'm hungry, too. It seems an age since breakfast." A halt was made and the contents of two of the lunch packages were arranged on a little tablecloth at the foot of a great oak. The hungry young folks gathered around it and in a short time nothing remained of the lunch excepting the packages reserved for supper. "I move we all take a half hour's rest and then go on," said David. "We still have a mile to go before we are through the wood. We'll feel more like walking after we've rested a little." "Let us all sit in a row with our backs against this fallen tree and tell a story," said Grace. "Hippy, you are on the end, so you can begin it, then after you have gone a little way, Nora must take up the narrative, and so on down the line until the story is finished." "Fine," said Hippy. "Here goes:" "Once upon a time, in the heart of a deep forest, there lived a most beautiful prince. He had all that heart could wish; still he was not happy, for, alas, he was too fat." At this statement there was a shout of laughter from his listeners, at which Hippy, pretending anger, glared ferociously and vowed that he would not continue. Nora thereupon took up the narrative and convulsed her hearers with the remedies tried by the fat prince to reduce his weight. Then the story was passed on to Anne. With each narrator it grew funnier, until the party screamed with laughter over the misfortunes of the ill-starred prince. Hippy ended the tale by marrying the hero to a princess who was a golf fiend and who forced the poor prince to be her caddy. "From the day of his marriage he chased golf balls," concluded Hippy, "and the habit became so firmly fixed with him that he even rose and chased them in his sleep. He lost flesh at an alarming rate, and three months after his wedding day they laid him to rest in the quiet churchyard, with the touching epitaph over him, 'Things are not what they seem.'" Hippy buried his face in his handkerchief and sobbed audibly until David and Reddy pounced upon him and he was obliged to forego his lamentations and defend himself. "It's time to move," said Tom Gray, consulting his watch. "I don't believe we'd better go on through the wood. We'll have to about face if we expect to get home before dark." So the start back was made, but their progress was slow. A dozen things beguiled them from the path. Tom's trained eye spied a wasp's nest hanging from a limb. It was as large as a Japanese lantern and a beautiful silver-gray color. Anne stopped to pick some ground berries she found nestling under the leaves. Then they all started in wild pursuit of a rabbit, and in consequence had difficulty in finding the road again. Finally they all grew so hungry they sat down and disposed of the remaining food. "How dark it is growing," exclaimed Jessica, as they again took the road. "It must be very late." "It's after four o'clock," replied David, "and there's a storm coming, too. I think we had better hurry. I don't fancy being caught in the woods in bad weather. Hustle, everybody." As they hurried along the path a blast of wind blew full in their faces. The whole forest seemed suddenly astir. There were strange sounds from every direction. The branches creaked and the dry leaves fell rattling to the ground by hundreds. Another gust of wind filled their eyes and nostrils with fine dust. "Don't be frightened," called Tom. "Follow me." He led the way with Reddy, but the storm was upon them before they had gone ten steps. The wind almost blew them off their feet and black darkness settled down over the woods. They could just see the outlines of the trees as they staggered on, a blinding rain drenching them to the skin. Tom divided the party into two sections, four in one and five in the other. They were to hold each other's hands tightly and keep together. Frequent flashes of lightning revealed the woods in a tremendous state of agitation and it seemed better to be moving than to stand still and watch the terrifying spectacle. On they stumbled, but suddenly came to grief, for the four in front fell headlong over a tree that had been blown across the path, and the other five hearing their cries of warning too late, followed after. By the time they had picked themselves up the storm had grown so furious that they could only press miserably together and wait for it to pass. Suddenly Tom amazed them all by putting his hands to his mouth and blowing a strange kind of hollow whistle that sounded like the note of a trumpet. He repeated the whistle again and again. "You may not believe it," he said between calls, "but the hunter who taught me this, told me never to use it unless I was in dire need. Then help of some sort would surely come. It is called the Elf's Horn." "Did you ever try it before," asked Reddy curiously. "No," he answered, "I never did. I suppose it's only superstition, but I love hunter's lore. Perhaps it may work. Who knows?" "Hello-o-o!" cried a voice seemingly close by. "Hello-o-o!" "Where are you?" called Tom. "This way," answered the voice, and a light flashed a little distance off, revealing to them a man waving a lantern with one hand and beckoning with the other. One and all dashed toward the light, feeling that shelter was at hand. "It must be a hunter," panted Tom, "and he has heard the Elf's Horn." It was a hunter, and none other than old Jean. Their blind wandering had taken them straight to the hunter's cabin. "It is Mademoiselle Grace and her friends," cried the old man with delight. "When the sky grow so dark, I take my lantern and go out to my trap I have set this morning. Then I hear a strange whistle, many times, and I think some one get lost and I cry 'hello,' and you answer and I find mademoiselle and her friends." "That was the Elf's Horn, Jean," replied Tom, "and you heard because you are a hunter." "I know not what monsieur mean by Elf Horn, but I hear whistle, anyhow, and come," remarked the old man, smiling. The others laughed. "It's a shame to spoil it," replied David, "but I am afraid your Elf's Horn and Jean's helloing were just a coincidence." "Coincidence or not," replied Tom good-naturedly, "my faith in the fairy horn is now unshakable. I shall use it again if I ever need to." Before a blazing fire kindled by Jean in the big fireplace, the whole party dried themselves. The old hunter listened to the story of their mad scramble through the woods with many expressions of sympathy. It was eight o'clock when the storm had abated sufficiently to allow them to sally forth, and in a short time they were in Oakdale. Fifteen minutes later they were telling Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe just how it all happened. CHAPTER IV GRACE MAKES A DISCOVERY The Monday after the walking expedition, Grace Harlowe set out for school full of an idea that had been revolving in her busy brain for weeks. The time had come for herself and for her three chums to bind themselves together as a sorority. As charter members, they would initiate four other girls, as soon as proper rites could be thought of. It should be a Greek letter society. Grace thought "Phi Sigma Tau" would sound well. Aside from the social part, their chief object would be to keep a watchful eye open for girls in school who needed assistance of any sort. Mrs. Gray's anxiety over Eleanor Savell had set the bee in Grace's bonnet buzzing, and now her plans were practically perfected. All that remained to be done was to tell her three friends, and consult them as to what other four girls would be eligible to membership. Her proposition was hailed with acclamation by Anne, Nora and Jessica. Miriam Nesbit, Marian Barber, Eva Allen and Eleanor Savell were chosen as candidates and promptly notified to report at Jessica's home the next Thursday evening for initiation. They at once accepted the invitation and solemnly promised to be there. "'Where are you going, my pretty maid?'" said David Nesbit, stopping directly in front of Grace Harlowe as she hurried toward the Bright home the following Thursday evening. Grace laughed merrily, dropped a little curtsy and recited, "I'm going to an initiation, sir, she said." "'And may I go with you, my pretty maid?'" replied David, bowing low. "No boys allowed there, sir, she said." "That settles it," sighed David. "I suppose a sorority is about to come to the surface. Am I right, and will you take me along?" "Yes, we are going to initiate members into our new sorority, but you can't come, so you might as well be resigned to fate," retorted Grace. "We didn't receive invitations to your fraternity initiations." "Be kind to Anne, won't you. Tell her she has my sympathy," said David solemnly. "Anne is a charter member, if you please," laughed Grace. "She is spared the ordeals of initiation. But Miriam will not escape so easily. She is one of the candidates." "Ah, ha!" exclaimed David. "That's what she was so mysterious over. I tried to find out where she was going, but she wouldn't tell me. By the way, where does the affair take place?" he added, trying to look innocent. "Don't you wish you knew?" teased Grace. "However, you shan't find out from me. I know too well what would happen if you boys traced us to our lair. But I must go or I shall be late. Good night, David. Please be good and don't follow me. Promise me you won't." "I never make rash promises," answered David, smiling. "Be merciful to the candidates." Lifting his cap, the young man hurried off and turned the corner without looking back. "I wonder what I had better do," Grace mused. "I know perfectly well that David Nesbit won't go away. He will wait until he thinks I am far enough up the street and then he'll follow me. As soon as he finds out where I am going he'll rush back and hunt up Hippy Wingate and Reddy Brooks. Goodness knows what the three of them will plan." She decided to turn down a side street, go back one block and into the public library. She could easily leave the library by the side entrance and cut across Putnam Square. That would mislead David, although no doubt he would find them before the evening was over. Grace lost no time in putting her plan into action. As she hurried into the library she looked back, but saw no sign of David. When she reached Putnam Square she almost ran along the broad asphalt walk. It was fifteen minutes past seven by the city hall clock, and she did not wish to be late. The girls had agreed to be there by half past seven. She was almost across the square when her ear caught the sound of a low sob. Grace glanced quickly about. The square was practically deserted, but under one of the great trees, curled up on a bench, was a girl. Without an instant's hesitation Grace made for the bench. She touched the girl on the shoulder and said, "You seem to be in distress. Can I do anything to help you?" Then Grace gave a little surprised exclamation. The face turned toward her was that of Mabel Allison, the freshman prize girl. The glare from the neighboring light revealed her tear-swollen eyes and quivering lips. She gave Grace one long, agonized look, then dropped her head on her arm and sobbed harder than ever. "Why, Miss Allison, don't cry so," soothed Grace. "Tell me what your trouble is. Perhaps I can be of some service to you. I've wanted to know you ever since you won the freshman prize last June, and so has Anne Pierson. She won the prize the year before, you know." The girl nodded, but she could not sufficiently control herself to speak. Grace stood silently waiting until the other should find her voice. A moment more and Mabel Allison began to speak in a plaintive little voice that went straight to Grace's heart: "You are Grace Harlowe. I believe every girl in Oakdale High School knows you. I have heard so much about you, but I never dreamed that you'd ever speak to me." "Nonsense," replied Grace, laughing. "I'm just a girl like yourself. There isn't anything remarkable about me. I'm very glad to know you, Miss Allison, but I am sorry to find you so unhappy. Can't you tell me about it?" she coaxed, sitting down on the bench and slipping one arm around the shabby little figure. Mabel's lip quivered again. Then she turned impulsively toward Grace and said: "Yes; I will tell you, although no one can help me. I suppose you don't know where I live or anything about me, do you?" "No," replied Grace, shaking her head, "but I'd be glad to have you tell me." "Well," continued Mabel, "I'm an orphan, and I live with Miss Brant. She----" "Not that horrible, miserly Miss Brant who lives in that ugly yellow house on Elm Street?" interrupted Grace in a horrified tone. "Yes, she is the one I mean," continued Mabel. "She took me from an orphan asylum two years ago. I hated her the first time I ever saw her, but the matron said I was old enough to work, that I'd have a good home with her and that I should be paid for my work. She promised to send me to school, and I was wild to get a good education, so I went with her. But she is perfectly awful, and I wish I were dead." Her voice ended almost in a wail. "I don't blame you," said Grace sympathetically. "She has the reputation of being one of the most hateful women in Oakdale. I am surprised that she even allows you to go to school." "That's just the trouble," the girl replied, her voice husky. "She's going to take me out of school. I shall be sixteen next month, and exempt from the school law. So she is going to make me stop school and go to work in the silk mill. I worked there all through vacation last summer, and she took every cent of my wages. She took my freshman prize money, too." "What a burning shame!" exclaimed Grace indignantly. "Haven't you any relatives at all, Miss Allison, or any one else with whom you could stay?" Mabel shook her head. "I don't know anything about myself," she said. "I was picked up on the street in New York City when I was three years old, and as no one claimed me, I was put in an orphanage. There was one woman at the orphanage who was always good to me. She remembered the day they brought me, and she said that I was beautifully dressed. She always believed that I had been stolen. She said that I could tell my name, 'Mabel Isabel Allison,' and that I would be three years old in November, but that I couldn't tell where I lived. Whenever they asked me I cried and said I didn't know. She wanted to save my clothes for me, thinking that by them I might some day find my parents, but the matron took them away from her, all but three little gold baby pins marked 'M.I.A.' She hid them away from the matron. When she heard I was to go with Miss Brant, she kissed me, and gave them to me. She was the only person that ever cared for me." The tears stood in Grace's eyes. "You poor, little thing!" she cried. "I care for you, and I'm going to see if I can do something for you. You shan't stop school if I can help it. I can't stay with you any longer, just now, because I am going to Miss Bright's and I am late. It is eight o'clock, you see." The girl gave a little cry of fright. "Oh, I didn't think it was so late. I know Miss Brant will be very angry. She will probably beat me. I am still carrying the marks from the last whipping she gave me. She sent me out on an errand, but I felt as though I must be alone, if only for a few minutes. That's why I stopped in the square." "Beat you!" exclaimed Grace. "How dare she touch you? Why, I never had a whipping in my life! I won't keep you another minute, but wait for me outside the campus when school is out to-morrow. I wish to talk further with you." "I'll come," promised Mabel, her face lighting up. Then she suddenly threw both arms around Grace's neck and said, "I do love you, and I feel that some one cares about me at last." Then, like a flash, she darted across the square and was soon lost to Grace's view. "Well, of all things!" Grace remarked softly to herself. "I think it's high time we organized a sorority for the purpose of aiding girls in distress." "You're a prompt person. Did you really decide to come?" were the cries that greeted her from the porch as she opened the Bright's gate. "Save your caustic comments," said Grace as she handed Jessica her hat. "I have a tale to tell." "Out with it!" was the cry, and the girls surrounded Grace, who began with her meeting with David, and ended with the story of Mabel Allison. "You haven't heard anything of those boys yet, have you?" she asked when she had finished. "Not yet," said Nora, "but never fear, the night is yet young." "Where is Eleanor Savell?" asked Grace, noticing for the first time that Eleanor was not present. "You promised to go for her, didn't you, Anne?" "I did go," replied Anne, "but she wouldn't come. She said she'd come sometime when she felt like it. She was playing on the violin when the maid let me in, and how she can play! She wanted me to stay there with her and didn't seem to understand why I couldn't break my engagement with you girls. She said that she always kept her engagements unless the spirit moved her to do something else." "Is Eleanor Savell the girl who comes into the study hall every morning after opening exercises have begun?" asked Marian Barber. "Yes," Grace answered. "I forgot for a moment that you and Eva and Miriam hadn't met her. She is really very charming, although her ideas about punctuality and school rules are somewhat hazy as yet. She lives at 'Heartsease,' Mrs. Gray's property. I am disappointed because she will not be here to-night. She seemed delighted when I asked her to join our society." "As long as we know she isn't coming, don't you think we should begin the initiation?" asked Nora. "It is after eight o'clock and we can't stay out too late, you know." "Very well," said Grace. "Blindfold the candidates." The three girls meekly submitted to the blindfolding, and the chums were about to lead them to the initiation chamber, when the ringing of the door bell caused them to start. "It's David and the boys," said Jessica. "Shall I tell them that they can't come in?" "Of course," responded Nora. "You and Grace go to the door, while Anne and I stay here with our victims. Be careful they don't play you a trick." The two girls cautiously approached the door, opening it very slowly, and saw--not the three boys--but Eleanor. She smiled serenely and said: "Good evening. I decided, after all, that I would come." "Come right in," said Jessica cordially. "I am so glad you changed your mind and came. The initiation is about to begin. Have you ever belonged to a secret society?" "Never," replied Eleanor. "But now that I'm here, I am willing to try it." "Come this way." "Girls," said Grace, addressing the three blindfolded girls, "this is Eleanor Savell. You can't see her yet, but you may all shake hands with her. She is to be your companion in misery." Eleanor laughed, shook hands with the others and graciously allowed Nora to tie a handkerchief over her eyes. "All ready! March!" called Grace, and the eight girls solemnly proceeded to the initiation chamber. CHAPTER V THE PHI SIGMA TAU At the door a halt was called. "Prepare to jump," commanded Grace in a deep voice. "One, two, three! Jump down! Be careful!" The four candidates gave four uncertain jumps and experienced the disagreeable sensation usually felt in attempting to jump downward when on level ground. This was one of the oldest and mildest forms of initiation, but Nora had insisted upon it, and giggled violently as the four girls prepared for a long leap. Even Grace, who was conducting the ceremony with the utmost seriousness, laughed a little at the picture they made. "They'll do anything you tell them," whispered Nora. Which was perfectly true. To show fear or reluctance in obeying the demands made upon one, was to prove one's self unworthy of membership in the Phi Sigma Tau. "Let the music begin," said Grace. There was a faint snicker as Anne, Nora and Jessica raised three combs, wrapped in tissue paper, to their lips and began the "Merry Widow" waltz, with weird effect. "You must waltz around the room fifteen times without stopping," continued Grace, "and then sit down in the four opposite corners of the room, on the cushions provided for you." The girl chums retreated to the doorway of the room, that had previously been cleared of almost all the furniture, to watch the movements of their victims as they endeavored to circle the room the required number of times. They lost their count, bumped each other at every turn, and at last staggered dizzily toward what they thought were the corners of the room. Miriam Nesbit made straight for the door in which the chums stood, and Grace was obliged to take her by the shoulders and gently steer her in the opposite direction. Eleanor, after groping along one side of the room for a corner, was the first to find one, and sank with a sigh of relief upon the pile of cushions. The other girls had not been so successful. They all endeavored to sit in the same corner at once, and Grace was obliged to go to the rescue, and lead two of them to opposite sides of the initiation chamber. "In order to become successful members of this society, it is necessary for you to sing. You may all sing the first verse and the chorus of any song you know, only be sure that you don't choose the same song, and don't stop until you have finished," directed Grace. "Begin after I have counted three. I will wait for a minute while you choose your song. The orchestra will accompany you." There was considerable subdued laughter from the orchestra, who had been instructed to play "The Star Spangled Banner," oblivious of whatever the candidates might sing. "One, two, three!" counted Grace, and the concert began. Eva Allen chose "John Brown's Body." Miriam Nesbit, "Old Kentucky Home." Marian Barber, "Schooldays," while Eleanor contributed "The Marseillaise" in French. The orchestra dutifully burst forth with "The Star Spangled Banner," and the effect was indescribable. The orchestra broke down before they reached their chorus, and the accompaniment ended in a shriek of suppressed mirth, but the candidates went stolidly on without a smile and finished almost together. "Very well done," commended Grace. "I see you will be valuable additions to the society." The girls were then put through a series of ridiculous tests that the four chums had devised. They were made to dip their hands in water charged with electricity, caress a mechanical rubber snake that wriggled realistically, drink a cup of boneset tea apiece, and were directed finally to bare their arms for the branding of the letters of the society. The branding was done with a piece of ice, pressed hard against their bare arms, and the shock made the victims gasp for a second and wonder if they really were being burned. "You will now hold up your right hands and repeat after me," said Grace, "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute my duties as a member of the Phi Sigma Tau, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend its laws." This done, the girls received the grip of the society, the handkerchiefs were removed from their eyes and they were pronounced full-fledged members. "That oath has a rather familiar sound," remarked Miriam Nesbit, trying to recollect where she had heard it before. "I know," she said at last. "It's the oath of office taken by the President of the United States at inauguration, only you changed it to suit this sorority." "You've guessed it exactly," replied Grace. "I chose it because it sounded so much more expressive than to say, 'May my bones be crushed and my heart cut out if ever I am unfaithful to my vows.'" There was a general laugh at this, the girls agreeing that Grace's choice was infinitely less blood-thirsty. "Now that you have so bravely endured the trials of initiation, you shall receive your reward," declared Jessica. "Follow me." She led the way to the dining room, where a bountiful lunch awaited them, to which, after the manner of hungry school girls, they did full justice. "By the way," said Grace, after they had returned to the sitting room and were comfortably settled, "you never said one word about my freshman prize girl. I thought you would be awfully interested in her. For the benefit of the new members, I will say that this society was organized with a definite object, that of helping others. We are to look after girls who have no one to make things pleasant or happy for them. Why, do you know that there are quite a number of girls attending High School who come from other places, and who have to spend the holidays at their boarding houses without any fun at all? Look at this poor, little Allison girl. She works for her board in the winter, and in the mill in the summer, and now that miserable Miss Brant is going to take her out of school, and she is getting along so well, too." "Isn't it a pity," said Anne, "that people like her can't understand that if a girl were allowed to finish her education, she could earn so much more in the long run than she could by working year after year in a mill?" "We might go to Miss Brant and explain that to her," said Nora. "Perhaps she would listen to us." "I don't believe so," replied Grace. "Besides, she might be very angry and take her spite out on poor Mabel. If we could only get Mabel away from her. But if she has legally adopted her we couldn't do anything. Besides, where would she go if we did get her away?" "I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jessica thoughtfully. "I'll ask papa about it. Lawyers always know everything about such things. Maybe he could find out if Miss Brant has any real claim upon her." "That's a good idea," said Miriam Nesbit. "If we can get her away from that hateful old wretch, the sorority could adopt her. She could stay with each one of us for a month. That would be eight months, and at the end of that time she would have finished her sophomore year. Then she could get something pleasant to do through the summer vacation. That would give her some money for clothes for next year. Perhaps by that time we could find some nice people for her to stay with, or if we liked her well enough, we could go on having her with us. I'll ask my mother to-morrow, and you girls might do the same." "Miriam Nesbit, what a perfectly lovely plan!" exclaimed Grace Harlowe with rapture. "I feel sure mother would let me have her." "She can come here any time," said Jessica. "Papa allows me to do as I like." "'First catch your bird,'" said Nora wisely. "Don't plan too much, until you find out whether you can snatch her from the dragon's claws." "I feel sure we shall win," replied Grace confidently. "What do you girls think of it?" she asked, turning to Eva, Marian and Eleanor, who had so far expressed no opinion. "Count us in," said Eva and Marian in a breath. "And you, Eleanor?" asked Grace. "She can live at our house forever, if she doesn't disturb me," replied Eleanor lazily. "My aunt won't care, either. When we lived in Spain she used to help every beggar we came across, and Spain is a land of beggars. She never can resist an appeal for charity." There was a sudden silence. Then Grace said gently, although she felt irritated at Eleanor's careless speech: "I don't think Mabel Allison could really be called a beggar; and if we adopt her, we ought never to let her think that we consider her a dependent. Of course we know very little about her yet, but I think she will prove worthy. I am to see her to-morrow, and perhaps it would be better to talk a little more with her before we tell Jessica's father about it." Eleanor looked at Grace with an amused smile. "How serious you girls are," she said. "Is it school that makes you so? If it is, I don't think I shall stay long. I like to drift along and do only what my inclination prompts me to do. I hate responsibility of any sort." "Perhaps you will feel differently about school after a while," said Anne quietly. "This is my third year in Oakdale High School, and I never had any good times until I came here. As for responsibility, it is a good thing to learn to be responsible for one's self, if for no one else." "Well, perhaps you are right, but I am sure that if you had never lived long enough in one country to become acclimated, you wouldn't feel very responsible, either," said Eleanor in such rueful tones that the girls laughed, although they secretly disapproved of Eleanor's inconsequential attitude. "Did you think the examinations hard?" asked Jessica of Eleanor. "Oh, no," replied Eleanor lightly. "I had an English governess who was with us for five years. She drilled me thoroughly in English and mathematics. I loathed them both, but studied them merely to show her that I could master them. Miss Thompson said my work was good, and that if I were ambitious she would put me in the senior class, but I held out for the juniors and finally got my own way. If you are going to take such a serious view of this gay world, however, perhaps I'll wish I had joined the seniors, after all. No, I don't mean that. I'm awfully glad to know you, and feel honored at being a member of your sorority. Only I don't expect to ever be a very useful one. My aunt has spoiled me, and I frankly admit it. So, you see, there is no hope for me." She spread out both hands in a deprecating manner and shrugged her shoulders exactly as a French woman might have done. "I am sure we like you, just as you are," said Eva Allen warmly. She had been rather impressed with Eleanor. "Do you see the time?" said Nora, suddenly pointing to the old-fashioned clock in the corner. "Half past ten! I must go this minute. Sister will be worried." She immediately made for her hat and coat, the others following suit, with the exception of Eleanor, who was to wait until the coachman came for her. Once the girls were outside the gate, Marian Barber broke out with: "What a queer girl that Eleanor Savell is. She is beautiful and fascinating, but I don't know whether I like her or not." "You must like her," said Grace. "You know the members of this society must stand by each other." "But why did you ask her to join, Grace?" persisted Marian. "She is different from the rest of us. I don't believe we shall get along with her very well." "I'll tell you girls a secret," replied Grace. "Anne and Nora already know it. Mrs. Gray wants us to be nice to Eleanor for a number of reasons, and, of course, we wish to please her. Anne, Jessica, Nora and I were talking about it the other day, and while we were laying plans for this sorority, we decided to ask Eleanor to join. We thought we could learn to know her better, and she would eventually become a good comrade." "It sounds ridiculous to talk about helping a clever girl like Eleanor, but from her conversation to-night you can see that she needs some wholesome advice occasionally," said Nora bluntly. "Mrs. Gray seems to think we can be of some use in that direction, so we are trying to carry out her theory." "I think I understand the situation," said Miriam Nesbit, "and will do all I can to be nice to her, if she doesn't attempt to patronize me. I couldn't stand that. I know I used to do it. I suppose that's why it seems so unendurable to me now." "David Nesbit didn't disturb us, after all," remarked Eva Allen. "It's a wonder those boys didn't put tick-tacks on the windows or do something like that." The girls had come to the turn of the street, and were about to pass the only really lonely spot during their walk. It was an old colonial residence, the surrounding grounds extending for a block. It had been untenanted for some time, as the owners were in Europe, although both house and grounds were looked after by a care-taker. On the other side of the street was a field where the small fry of Oakdale usually held their ball games. "I always hate passing this old house," said Marian Barber. "It is so terribly still back there among those pines. I don't----" She stopped short, an expression of terror overspreading her good-natured face, as she mutely pointed toward the old house. Three ghostly figures swathed in white stole out from the shadow of the pines and glided down the wide, graveled drive toward the gate. Their appearance was terrifying. Their faces were white as their robes, and blue flames played about their eyes. They carried out in every particular the description of the regulation churchyard ghost. For an instant the six girls stood still, regarding those strange apparitions with fascinated terror. Then Eva Allen and Marian Barber shrieked in unison and fled down the street as fast as their legs would carry them. Grace, Nora, Anne and Miriam stood their ground and awaited the oncoming spectres, who halted when they saw that the girls did not intend to run. "High School boys, on a lark," whispered Grace to her friends. "Let's charge them in a body." With a bound she reached the drive, closely followed by the other girls. The ghostly three evidently considering discretion the better part of valor, left the drive and took to their heels across the lawn. But Grace, who was well in the lead, caught the last fleeing ghost by its robe and held on for dear life. There was a sound of rending cloth as the apparition bounded forward, then it caught its spectre toe on a tuft of long grass and fell forward with a decidedly human thud. The girls surrounded it in an instant. Before it had time to rise, Grace snatched off a white mask smeared around the eye-holes with phosphorus, which explained the flamelike effect, and disclosed the sheepish face of James Gardiner, one of the sophomore class. "Oh, let a fellow up, will you?" he said, with a sickly grin. "You bad boy!" exclaimed Grace. "What do you mean by dressing up like this? Don't you know you might frighten some timid person terribly?" "Initiation," said the youth, with a grin, rising on his elbow and looking as though he would like to make a sudden break for liberty. "Part of the sacred obligations of the 'Knights and Squires' frat. Three fellows of us were initiated to-night. This was the last stunt." "Well, I suppose under those circumstances we shall have to forgive you. Did you appear to any one else?" asked Grace. "Only to that old crank Miss Brant. She was scared out of her wits," replied James, laughing. "Two of your crowd got out in a hurry, too, didn't they?" "I suppose I shall have to confess that they did," replied Grace. "If I were you, James, I'd take off that costume and hurry away. Miss Brant is liable to inform the police, and they might not look at initiation stunts as we do." "That's right," said James, looking a trifle alarmed. "Wonder where the fellows went. I'd better put them on. We never thought of that. If you girls will excuse me, I'll hunt them up." "Certainly," said the girls. "Good night, James." "Good night," replied the youth. "You girls are all right. Can't scare you." With a nod to them he started across the grass on the run, his ghostly garments trailing behind him. "I'm glad that wasn't David," said Anne as James disappeared. "I was afraid when first I saw them that they might be our boys. I didn't feel frightened at all, after what Grace had said about meeting David." "Eva and Marian didn't show any great amount of courage," said Nora, laughing. "I wonder if they ran all the way home." "There they are ahead of us," said Anne. True enough, the two girls stood on the corner waiting for the others to come up. "Why don't you hurry on home?" called Nora. "'The goblins will git you, ef you don't watch out.'" "Don't tease," said Marian Barber, looking rather foolish. "We are awfully sorry we ran away, but when I saw those awful white figures coming toward us, I just had to run and so did Eva. Who on earth were they, and where did they go?" In a few words Grace told her what had happened. "That horrid James Gardiner. I'll never speak to him again," cried Eva Allen. "I hope he didn't recognize us. He'll tell every one in school about it." "I don't think he did," replied Grace. "Oh, look, girls! Here comes Officer Donavan! I was right when I said that Miss Brant would notify the police." "I hope she got a good scare," remarked Nora wickedly. "As for the ghosts, they are very likely at home by this time." CHAPTER VI A VISIT TO ELEANOR The next day, when Grace, in company with her chums, left the school building, they beheld the shabby little figure of Mabel Allison waiting for them just outside the campus. She looked shy and embarrassed when she saw the four girls bearing down upon her, and seemed half inclined to run away. Grace greeted her cordially and introduced her to her chums, whose simple and unaffected manners soon put her at her ease. "I am so glad you waited," said Grace cordially. "I have told my three friends about you, as I knew they would be as much interested in you as I am. We have made a plan and if we can carry it out, you will be able to go to school until you graduate." "You are very good to take so much trouble for me," said Mabel, the tears springing to her eyes; "but I'm afraid it won't do any good." "Don't be down-hearted," said Nora sympathetically. "You don't know Grace Harlowe. She always does whatever she sets out to do." "She's a regular fairy godmother," said Anne softly. "I know from experience." "Such flattery is overwhelming," murmured Grace. "I regret that I'm too busy to bow my thanks. But to get down to the business of the hour--tell me, Mabel, dear--did this Miss Brant legally adopt you when she took you from the orphanage, or are you bound to her in any way?" "I don't know," said the girl, her eyes growing big with wonder. "I never thought about it. I don't believe, however, that she has any legal claim upon me." "Is there any way in which you can find out?" asked Anne. "Why, yes," replied Mabel. "I could write the woman at the orphanage who was good to me. She is still there, and several times she has written to me, but Miss Brant read her letters first and then tore them up. Her name is Mary Stevens, and she would surely know!" "Then write to her at once," said Grace, "and tell her to send her letter in an outside envelope addressed to me. Your whole future depends upon her answer." Grace thereupon related to her their conversation of the previous night. "As soon as you find out about Miss Brant's claim, we shall take the matter to Jessica's father, who is a lawyer. He will help us," Grace concluded. "Then when you are free, we shall have something else to tell you. Just be patient for a few days, and don't be afraid. Everything will come right." "How can I ever thank you all?" said Mabel, taking one of Grace's hands between hers and looking at her with a world of gratitude in her eyes. "I will write to-night. I must go now or I shall be home late. Forgive me for hurrying away, but I daren't stay," she added piteously. "You know that I should like to. Good-bye, and thank you again." "Good-bye," called Grace. "I'll let you know as soon as I hear from Mary Stevens." "What a sweet little girl she is," said Jessica. "I should like to keep her with me all the time." "She is a nice child," said Grace, "and she deserves something better than her present fate." "To change the subject," said Nora, "has any one seen Eleanor to-day? She was not in English or geometry, although she may have come in late." "I don't believe she was in school at all," said Anne. "Maybe the initiation was too much for her." "Oh, I don't know. She didn't seem to mind it," remarked Jessica. "She will hear from Miss Thompson if she makes a practice of staying out of school. Attendance is one of the chief requisites in Miss Thompson's eyes." "I suppose we ought to call on Eleanor before long," mused Grace. "She has invited us, and it's our duty to call on her first. Anne has already been there. Suppose we go over now; that is, unless you girls have something else to do." It was decided at once that they could go, and soon the four chums were walking briskly down the street in the direction of "Heartsease." It was an Indian summer day and the girls congratulated themselves on having taken advantage of it. As school had closed at half past two, it was not yet four o'clock. They would have plenty of time for their call without hurrying themselves. So they strolled along, laughing and chatting in the care-free manner that belongs alone to the school girl. As they neared the house one and all exclaimed at the beauty of the grounds. The lawn looked like a great stretch of green velvet, while the trees were gorgeous in their autumn glory of crimson and gold, with here and there a patch of russet by way of contrast. Over at one side were clumps of pink and white anemones; while all around the house and in the garden beds that dotted the lawn many-colored chrysanthemums stood up in brave array. "What a delightful place 'Heartsease' is," cried Grace as she paused just inside the gate to feast her eyes upon its beauty. "Sometimes I think that autumn is the finest season of the year, and then again I like spring better." "What difference does the season make, so long as we have a good time?" said Nora blithely. "I haven't any preference. They're all good." "Eleanor will be surprised to see us," remarked Grace, as she rang the bell. "Let's hope she will appreciate the honor of having four such distinguished persons descend upon her at one time," said Anne. "Is Miss Savell in?" asked Grace to the trim maid who answered her ring. "Yes, miss," replied the maid. "Come in. Who shall I say is here?" "Say to Miss Savell that Grace Harlowe and her friends would like to see her." The maid soon reappeared and led the girls down the wide, old-fashioned hall, and, somewhat to their surprise, ushered them into the dining room, where they beheld Eleanor, arrayed in a dainty white house gown, dining alone. She arose as they entered and came forward with both hands outstretched. "How are the Phi Sigma Taus to-day?" she asked. "It was awfully nice of you to come and see me." "We thought you might be ill," said Nora. "We missed you at school to-day." "Oh, no," replied Eleanor serenely. "I am perfectly well. I really didn't feel like going to school to-day, so I stayed in bed until eleven o'clock. I am just having lunch now. Won't you join me? I am keeping house by myself this afternoon. My aunt is dining with Mrs. Gray." "Thank you," said Grace, speaking for the girls. "We all have supper at half past six and must save our appetites for that." "We usually dine about eight o'clock," said Eleanor. "We acquired the habit of dining late from living on the continent. But, come, now. I have finished my lunch. I want you to see where I live, almost entirely, when in the house." The girls followed her up the broad staircase and down the hall. Every inch of the ground was familiar to Grace. She had been there so often with Mrs. Gray. "Oh, you have the suite at the back," she exclaimed. "I love those two rooms." "You will find them somewhat changed," remarked Eleanor as she opened the door and ushered the girls into the most quietly luxurious apartment they had ever seen. Even Miriam Nesbit's room could not compare with it. "What a beautiful room!" exclaimed Grace, looking about her with delight. "I don't wonder you like to spend your time in it. I see you have your own piano." "Yes," replied Eleanor. "My aunt sent to New York for it. The one downstairs in the drawing room is all right, but I like to have this one handy, so that I can play whenever the spirit moves me. This is my bedroom," she continued, pushing aside the silken curtains that separated the two rooms. The girls exclaimed over the Circassian walnut furniture and could not decide as to which room was the prettier. "Eleanor," said Grace solemnly, "you ought to be a very happy girl. You have everything a heart can wish. Think of poor little Mabel Allison." "Oh, don't let's think about disagreeable things," said Eleanor lightly. "Sit down and be comfy and I'll play for you. What shall I play?" "Do you know the 'Peer Gynt' suite?" asked Grace. "I love 'Anitra's Dance.'" Without answering, Eleanor immediately began the "Peer Gynt" music and played the entire suite with remarkable expression. "How well you play!" exclaimed Jessica with eager admiration in her voice, as Eleanor turned around on the stool after she had finished. "I should love to hear you play on the violin. Anne heard you the other night, and told us about it." "I love the violin better than the piano, but it sounds better with a piano accompaniment. Don't you girls play?" "Jessica does," chorused her friends. "Oh, I never could play, after hearing Eleanor," said Jessica blushing. "Come on," said Eleanor, taking her by the arm and dragging her over to the piano. "You can accompany me. What do you play?" "Do you know Raff's 'Cavatina'?" asked Jessica a trifle shyly. "By heart," answered Eleanor. "I love it. Wait and I'll get the music for you." After a moment's search she produced the music, picked up her violin, and, after tightening a string, announced herself ready. The girls listened, spellbound. It seemed as though Eleanor's very soul had entered into the violin. They could not believe that this was the capricious Eleanor of half an hour before. "Whatever she may do in future," thought Grace, as she listened to the last plaintive notes of the "Cavatina," "I'll forgive her for her music's sake. One has to make allowances for people like her. It is the claim of the artistic temperament." "Please play once more," begged Nora. "Then we must go. It's almost six o'clock." Eleanor chose Nevin's "Venetian Love Song," and Jessica again accompanied her. "You play with considerable expression," said Eleanor, as Jessica rose from the piano stool. "How could I help it?" replied Jessica, smiling. "You inspired me." Eleanor accompanied the four girls down the walk to the gate and repeatedly invited them to come again. "It's your turn to come and see us now," said Grace. "Do you think you will go to school to-morrow, Eleanor? Miss Thompson dislikes having the girls stay out." "I can't help what Miss Thompson dislikes," returned Eleanor, laughing. "What I dislike is of more importance to me. I dare say I shall go to-morrow, providing I get up in time." "What an irresponsible girl Eleanor is," remarked Anne, as they walked along. "I am afraid we can't do much for her. She doesn't seem much interested in school and I don't think she is particularly impressed with our sorority." "Anne," said Jessica, "you have seen Miss Nevin, her aunt. Tell us how she looks." "She is tall," replied Anne, "and has beautiful dark eyes. Her hair is very white, but her face looks young, only she has the saddest expression I ever saw on any one's face." "I should think she would look sad after seventeen years of Eleanor's whims," remarked Nora bluntly. "It would wear me out to be with her continually, she is so changeable." "Mrs. Gray told me," remarked Anne, "that Miss Nevin's life had been one long sacrifice to the pleasure of others. First her father, then her step-sister and now Eleanor. She was engaged to be married to a young English officer, and he died of fever while stationed in India. So, there is reason for her sad expression." "I once read, somewhere," said Jessica sentimentally, "that ''Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'" "Humph!" said Nora. "If I am ever foolish enough to fall in love, I certainly don't want to lose the object of my devotion." "You can't very well," said Grace slyly, "for from all present indications I should say that he is too fat to get lost." And Nora was obliged to explain elaborately to the laughing girls, all the way home, that the object of her future devotion would not be a fat man. CHAPTER VII THE CLAIM OF THE "ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT" When Eleanor returned to school the following morning, she found that what Miss Thompson "disliked" was, after all, of considerable importance. Directly after opening exercises the principal sent for her and asked the reason for her absence of the day before. On finding that Eleanor had no plausible excuse, but had absented herself merely because she felt like it, Miss Thompson thereupon delivered a sharp little lecture on unnecessary absence, informing Eleanor that it was the rule of the school to present a written excuse for absence, and that a verbal excuse would not be accepted. "I will overlook it this time, Miss Savell," Miss Thompson said, "because you are not as yet thoroughly acquainted with the rules of this school, but do not let it occur again. And I must also insist upon punctuality in future. You have been late a number of times." With these words the principal turned to her desk and resumed the writing she had been engaged in when Eleanor entered. For a second, Eleanor stood regarding Miss Thompson with angry eyes. No one had ever before dared to speak sharply to her. She was about to tell the principal that she was not used to being addressed in that tone, but the words would not come. Something in the elder woman's quiet, resolute face as she sat writing checked the wilful girl, and though she felt deeply incensed at the reprimand, she managed to control herself and walked out of the office with her head held high, vowing to herself that Miss Thompson should pay for what Eleanor termed "her insolence." All morning she sulked through her classes, and before closing time had managed to incur the displeasure of every teacher to whom she recited. "What ails her to-day?" whispered Nora to Jessica. It was geometry hour, and Miss Ames, the geometry teacher, had just reproved Eleanor for inattention. Nora shook her head. She dared not answer, as Miss Ames was very strict, and she knew that to be caught whispering meant two originals to work out, and Nora hated originals. When the bell rang at the close of the hour, Eleanor walked haughtily by Miss Ames, giving her a contemptuous look as she passed that made the teacher tighten her lips and look severe. Grace, who was directly behind her, saw both the look and the expression on the teacher's face. She felt worried for Eleanor's sake, because she saw trouble ahead for her unless she changed her tactics. If Eleanor could only understand that she must respect the authority of her various teachers during recitation hours and cheerfully comply with their requests, then all might be well. Since Miss Leece had left the High School at the close of Grace's freshman year, she could not conscientiously say that she disliked any of her teachers. They had been both kind and just, and if Eleanor defied them openly, then she would have to take the consequences. To be sure, Eleanor might refuse to go to school, but Grace had an idea that, lenient as Miss Nevin was with her niece, she would not allow Eleanor to go that far. Grace decided that she would have a talk with Eleanor after school. It would do no harm and it might possibly do some good. She hurried down to the locker-room that afternoon in order to catch Eleanor as she left school. She had just reached there when Eleanor walked in, looking extremely sulky. She jerked her hat and coat from her locker, hastily donned them, and, without looking at Grace, left the room. "She looks awfully cross," thought Grace. "Well, here goes," and she hurried after Eleanor, overtaking her at the entrance to the school grounds. "What's the matter, Eleanor?" she asked. "Didn't you care to wait for me?" Eleanor looked at her with lowering brows. "I hate school," she said vehemently. "I hate the teachers, and I hate Miss Thompson most of all. Every one of those teachers are common, low-bred and impertinent. As for your Miss Thompson, she is a self-satisfied prig." "You must not say such things of Miss Thompson, Eleanor," said Grace firmly. "She doesn't deserve them. She is one of the finest women I have ever known, and she takes a warm interest in every girl in school. What has she done that you should speak of her as you do?" "She called me into her office this morning and made a whole lot of fuss because I didn't have a written excuse for yesterday's absence," said Eleanor angrily. "When I told her that I stayed at home because I felt inclined to do so, she almost had a spasm, and gave me another lecture then and there, ending up by saying that it must not occur again. I should like to know how she knew I was absent yesterday." "Miss Thompson always knows when a girl is absent," replied Grace. "The special teachers report to her every day. It is the rule of this school for a girl to present her excuse at the office as soon as she returns; then her name is taken off the absent list. If she is absent the second day, then a messenger is sent to her home to find out the cause. I suppose that when Miss Thompson looked over the list, she remembered seeing you at opening exercises, so of course sent for you." "She is a crabbed old maid," said Eleanor contemptuously, "and I despise her. I'll find some way to get even with her, and all the rest of those teachers, too." "You will never get along in school, Eleanor," answered Grace gently, "if you take that stand. The only way to be happy is to----" "Please don't preach to me," said Eleanor haughtily. "It is of no use. I am not a child and I understand my own business thoroughly. When I saw you girls the first day of school, I thought that you were full of life and spirit, but really you are all goody-goodies, who allow those teachers to lead you around by the nose. I had intended to ask Aunt Margaret to take me out of this ridiculous school, for some of the people in it make me tired, but I have changed my mind. I shall stay for pure spite and show that stiff-necked principal of yours that I am a law unto myself, and won't stand her interference." "Stop a moment, Eleanor. I am going no farther with you," said Grace, flushing, "but I should just like to say before I leave you that you are taking the wrong view of things, and you'll find it out sooner or later. I am sorry that you have such a poor opinion of myself and my friends, for we cherish nothing but the friendliest feelings toward you." With this, Grace walked away, feeling more hurt over Eleanor's rudeness than she cared to show. As she turned out of High School Street she heard a familiar call, and, glancing up the street, saw her three chums waiting for her on the corner. "We saw you just as you tackled Eleanor," said Nora, "so we kept away, for we thought after to-day's performances she wouldn't be in a very good humor." "What was the matter with her to-day?" asked Jessica curiously. "She behaved like a bad child in English this morning, followed it up in geometry; and Anne says that in rhetoric class Miss Chester lost all patience with her and gave her a severe lecturing." "I might as well tell you at once that Eleanor's opinion of us is far from flattering," said Grace, half laughing, although there was a hurt look on her face. "She says we are all goody-goodies and that we make her tired. She also requested me to mind my own business." "She said that to you? Just wait until the next time I see her," blustered Nora, "I'll tell her what I think of her." "On the contrary, we must treat her better, if anything, than before," said Anne quietly. "Don't you remember we promised Mrs. Gray that we would try to help her?" "Yes, I remember all that; but I can't bear to have any one say horrid things to Grace," grumbled Nora. "What a queer girl she is," said Jessica. "Yesterday she treated us as though we were her dearest friends, while to-day she scorns us utterly. It's a case of 'blow hot, blow cold.'" "That is because she has the artistic temperament," replied Anne, smiling. "You may say what you like about the artistic temperament," said Nora, "but in my opinion it's nothing more nor less than just plain temper." CHAPTER VIII ELEANOR THROWS DOWN THE GAUNTLET "The Phi Sigma Tau is to have a special meeting to-night at Jessica's," called Grace Harlowe to Nora O'Malley as the latter entered the locker-room at the close of school one day about two weeks after the initiation at Jessica's. "Does Jessica know it?" inquired Nora. "Not yet," replied Grace, "but she will as soon as she comes in. I rushed down here the minute the last bell rang, because I wanted to be here when the girls come in. You are the first, however." "Why are we to hold a meeting?" asked Nora, her curiosity aroused. "Wait and see," replied Grace, smiling. "Of what use is it to hold a meeting, if I tell you all the business beforehand?" "All right," said Nora, "you keep your secrets and I'll keep mine." "What have you heard that's new?" asked Grace. "Wait and see," replied Nora, with a grin of delight. "I am saving my news for the meeting." By this time the remaining members of the Phi Sigma Tau, with the exception of Eleanor Savell, had come into the locker-room, and had been promptly hailed by Grace. Marian Barber, Miriam Nesbit and Eva Allen after agreeing to be at Jessica's, at eight o'clock, had gone their separate ways. "Every one excepting Eleanor has been told," said Grace. "I really don't know how to approach her. She has been so distant of late." "Don't wait to ask her," said Nora decidedly. "She won't attend the meeting." "How do you know?" asked Jessica. "I'll tell you to-night," answered Nora mysteriously, "but I know positively that she won't come, because she is going to have company at 'Heartsease.' Now I've told you more than I intended to, and I shall not say another word until to-night." "Come on then," said Grace, "we won't wait any longer. Jessica, will you ask your father if he will be at liberty for a few minutes this evening?" "Certainly," replied Jessica. "Oh, I know now whom it's all about," cried Nora gleefully. "Mary Stevens." "You have guessed it," said Grace, "but, like yourself, I decline to talk until to-night." Before eight o'clock the seven girls had taken possession of the Bright's big, comfortable sitting room and were impatiently waiting for Grace to tell her news. "Before I tell you what is on my mind," said Grace, "we ought to have a president, vice president and secretary for this worthy organization. I move therefore that we choose Miriam Nesbit for president of this sorority. Those in favor say 'aye.' We'll dispense with seconding the motion." There was an instant's pause, then a chorus of "ayes" burst forth. "Contrary, 'no.'" The only "no" was from Miriam. "We appreciate the fact that you are too polite to vote for yourself, Miriam," said Grace, "but your 'no' doesn't amount to a row of pins. You're elected, so come over here and occupy the chair of state. Long live the president of the Phi Sigma Tau." Miriam, flushed with pleasure, then took the seat that Grace had vacated. She had not expected this honor and was deeply touched by it. Her summer with her girl chums at Lake George had made her an entirely different girl from the Miriam of old. Admiration for Grace and her friends had taken the place of the old animosity. Although the chums had not taken her into their inner circle, still they made much of her, and she came nearer to being one of them than any other girl in the junior class. "I am sure I thank you all," began Miriam, "and now we must have a vice president and a secretary." Grace and Anne were elected with enthusiasm to the respective offices, then Miriam requested Grace to tell the other members what was on her mind. After addressing the chair, Grace began: "I know you will all be glad to hear that Mabel has received a letter from Mary Stevens. It was addressed to me on the outside envelope and Mabel has given me permission to open and read it to you. She is willing for us to do whatever we think best. I won't attempt to read all the letter, only that part that interests us. "Here it is: 'I am so sorry about the way in which you are treated, but glad to know that you have found friends at last. Miss Brant has no claim on you whatever. She took you from the orphanage with the understanding that if you did not suit her she was to be allowed to send you back. The matron asked her why she did not adopt you, or at least appoint herself your guardian, and she said that under no circumstances would she do so; that she wanted a good maid of all work, not a daughter. I enclose a statement from the matron to this effect. I would have advised you before this to leave her, but you are too young to drift about the world alone. I hope that when I next hear from you, you will be in happier surroundings. I have always believed that your parents were people of means and that you were lost or stolen when a baby. Perhaps if they are still living you will find them some day.'" "That is about all we need," said Grace, as she folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. "The next thing to do is to see Mr. Bright." "I'll go for him at once," said Jessica, and darted off to the library, where her father sat reading. He rose, and, tucking his daughter's arm in his, walked out to the sitting room, where the Phi Sigma Tau eagerly awaited him. "Well, well!" he exclaimed, smiling at the circle of girls. "What's all this? Am I invited to be present at a suffragette's meeting or is Jessica simply anxious to show me what nice friends she has?" "No compliments allowed," laughed Grace. "We wish to ask your advice about something." "I am at your service," said Jessica's father, making her an elaborate bow. "Command me as you will." "'Tis well, most reverend sir. I thank you," said Grace, with a curtsy. "Now sit you down, I pray, for presently I have a tale to tell." Having conducted Mr. Bright with great ceremony to the arm chair in the corner, Grace established him with many low bows, much to the amusement of the girls, with whom Jessica's father was a great favorite. Then Grace began with her meeting with Mabel Allison and ended with the letter from Mary Stevens, enclosing the matron's statement. "Now, those are all the facts of the case, Mr. Bright," she concluded. "Will it be possible for us to get Mabel away from Miss Brant, or can Miss Brant hold her against her will?" "Miss Stevens' letter and the matron's statement are sufficient," answered Mr. Bright. "This woman cannot hold your little friend. Miss Brant will in all probability be very angry, and attempt to brave the matter out. Suppose you and Jessica and I go down there together, Grace, and see what we can do?" "O Mr. Bright!" cried Grace, clasping her hands delightedly, "will you, truly? Then let's go to-morrow and bring Mabel back with us." "Very well; you and Jessica meet me at my office at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon," said Mr. Bright. "But what do you girls intend to do with her, once you get her? You can't adopt her, you know." "She is to take turns living with us, papa," said Jessica, slipping her hand into her father's. "May she come here first? I'd love to have her." Mr. Bright drew Jessica to his side. "My dear child, you know that you may do as you please about it. I feel sure that she must be the right sort of girl, or you and your friends wouldn't have become interested in her. Try her, and if you like her, then she is welcome to stay as long as she chooses. I think it would do you good to have a girl of your own age in the house." "Three cheers for Mr. Bright," cried Nora. The cheers were given with a will, then the girls joined hands and danced around Jessica's father, sounding their class yell until he broke through the circle and made a rush for the library, his fingers to his ears. "Now that we have that question settled," said Miriam Nesbit, after the girls were once more seated, "I think we ought to have a sorority pin." "I think," began Eva Allen, "that my brother would design a pin for us. He is very clever at that sort of thing." "Let's have a monogram," exclaimed Grace. "Old English letters of gold on a dull-green enamel background. We can get them up for about two dollars and a half apiece. Is that too expensive?" The girls, who, with the exception of Anne, had small allowances of their own, expressed themselves satisfied; while Anne determined that for once she was justified in yielding to wild extravagance. "That's settled," said Miriam. "The next thing to do is----" But a loud ring of the door bell interrupted her speech and caused the whole party to start. "Some one to see papa," said Jessica. "Go on with what you were saying, Miriam." But before Miriam had a chance to continue, the maid entered the room, a letter in her hand. "Here's a letter, Miss Jessica," she said. "But it's such a quare name on the outside, I be wondering if it's fur yerself and no other?" Jessica looked at the envelope. It was addressed to the "Phi Sigma Tau, care of Miss Jessica Bright." "Why, who in the world can this be from? I thought no one outside knew the name of our society as yet," said Jessica as she opened the end of the envelope. Then she turned the page, glanced at the signature, and gave a little cry of surprise. "Just listen to this, girls!" she exclaimed, and read: "'TO THE PHI SIGMA TAU: "'After initiating me into your ridiculous society, you have seen fit to call a meeting of the members without directly notifying me, therefore I wish to withdraw from your sorority, as I feel that I have been deeply insulted. I have this satisfaction, however, that I would not have met with you to-night, at any rate. I am entertaining some girls in your class this evening, whom I find far more congenial than any previous acquaintances I have made in Oakdale. We are about to organize a sorority of our own. Our object will be to enjoy ourselves, not to continually preach to other people. I am deeply disappointed in all of you, and assure you that I am not in the least desirous of continuing your acquaintance. "'Yours sincerely, "'ELEANOR SAVELL.'" "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Nora O'Malley. "She says she is deeply insulted because we didn't invite her, but that she didn't intend to come, at any rate. There's a shining example of consistency for you!" "Who on earth told her about the meeting?" said Jessica. "We didn't wait to ask her to-day." "I shall have to confess that I am the guilty one," said Eva Allen. "You didn't say anything to Miriam, Marian and me about Eleanor, and when I left the locker-room I went back upstairs after a book I had forgotten. I met Eleanor on the stairs and told her about the meeting, and that you were waiting in the locker-room for her. You must have left before she got there, and, of course, she thought you did it purposely." "Oh, dear, what a mess," sighed Grace. "I didn't mean to slight her. But Nora said she knew, positively, that Eleanor was entertaining some guests to-night, so I didn't wait. By the way, Nora, what was that news of yours that you were so mysterious about this afternoon?" "Just this," replied Nora. "That Edna Wright told me, that I needn't think we were the only people that could have a sorority. I asked her what she meant, and she said that she and Rose Lynton and Daisy Culver had been invited out to Eleanor's to-night for the purpose of forming a very select club of their own. I am sorry I didn't tell you while in the locker-room, but you would insist on having secrets, so I thought I'd have one, too." "Well, it can't be helped now," said Grace. "It is a pity that Eleanor has taken up with Edna Wright. She is the only girl in the class that I really dislike. She is frivolous and empty-headed, and Eleanor is self-willed and lawless. Put them together, and they will make a bad combination. As to the other two girls, they are sworn friends of Edna's." "I think," said Nora, "that our reform movement is about to end in a glaring fizzle." "How can we reform a person who won't have anything to do with us?" asked Jessica scornfully. "Let us hold her place in this sorority open for her, and let us make it our business to be ready to help her if she needs us," said Anne thoughtfully. "Like all spoiled children, she is sure to get into mischief, and just as sure to come to grief. Mark my words, some day she'll be glad to come back to the Phi Sigma Tau." CHAPTER IX THE RESCUE PARTY It was with mingled feelings of excitement and trepidation that Grace Harlowe and Jessica Bright hurried toward the office of the latter's father the following afternoon. Now that they were fairly started on their mission of rescue, they were not quite so confident as to the result. To be sure they had unlimited faith in Jessica's father, but it was so much easier to talk about taking Mabel away from Miss Brant than to do it. "I'm terribly afraid of facing her," confided Jessica to Grace. "She is the terror of Oakdale, you know." "She can't hurt us," said Grace. "Your father will do all the talking. All we need to do is to take charge of Mabel, after Miss Brant gives her up." "Well, young ladies," said Mr. Bright, as the two girls entered his office, "I see you are prompt in keeping your appointment. Let us go at once, for I must be back here at five o'clock." "What are you going to say to that terrible woman, papa?" shuddered Jessica as they neared the Brant home. "I'm afraid she'll scratch your eyes out." "Am I really in such serious danger?" asked Mr. Bright in mock alarm. "I am glad I brought you girls along to protect me." "You haven't any idea what a crank she is, Mr. Bright," laughed Grace. "She fairly snarled at us the other day, when we were coming from school, because she said we were taking up the whole sidewalk. Poor little Mabel, no wonder she has a scared look in her eyes all the time." "Well, here we are," responded Mr. Bright, as he rang the bell. "Now for the tug of war." As he spoke the door was opened by Mabel, who positively shook in her shoes when she saw her visitors. "Don't be frightened," whispered Grace, taking her hand. "We have come for you." "May I speak with Miss Brant?" asked Mr. Bright courteously, as they stepped into the narrow hall. Before Mabel had time to answer, a tall, raw-boned woman, with a hard, forbidding face, shoved her aside and confronted them. It was Miss Brant herself. "Well, what do you want?" she said rudely. "Good afternoon," said Mr. Bright courteously. "Am I speaking to Miss Brant?" "I guess likely you are," responded the woman, "and you better state your business now, for I've no time to fool away on strangers." "You have a young girl with you by the name of Mabel Allison, have you not?" asked Mr. Bright. "Yes, I have. What's the matter with her? Has she been gettin' into mischief? If she has, I'll tan her hide," said Miss Brant, with a threatening gesture. "On the contrary," replied Mr. Bright, "I hear very good reports of her. Has she lived with you long?" "That's none of your business," snapped Miss Brant. "If you've come here to quiz me and pry around about her, you can get right out, for I'm not answering any fool questions." "I will not trouble you with further questions," replied Mr. Bright, "but will proceed at once to business. I have come to take Miss Mabel away with me. She has found friends who are willing to help her until she finishes her education, and she wishes to go to them." "Oh, she does, does she?" sneered the woman mockingly. "Well, you just take her, if you dare." "Have you legally adopted her?" asked Mr. Bright quietly. "That's none of your business, either. You get out of my house or I'll throw you out and these two snips of girls with you," almost screamed Miss Brant. "That will do," said Mr. Bright sternly. "We will go, but we shall take Miss Mabel with us. I am a lawyer, Miss Brant, and I have positive proof that this child is not bound to you in any way. You took her from the orphanage on trial, exactly as you might hire a servant. You did not even take the trouble to have yourself appointed her guardian. You agreed to pay her for her work, but blows and harsh words are the only payment she has ever received at your hands. She wishes to leave you because she can no longer endure life with you. You haven't the slightest claim upon her, and she is perfectly free to do as she chooses. She is not of age yet, but as you are not her guardian, you had no right to take money that she has earned from her, and she can call you to account for it if she chooses. However, you have imposed upon her for the last time, for she shall not spend another hour under your roof." "You touch her if you dare. She shan't leave this house," said the woman in a furious tone. "Mabel," said Mr. Bright to the young girl, who was cowering at one end of the hall, "get your things and come at once. We will wait for you. As for you," turning to Miss Brant, "if you try to stop her, you will soon find yourself in a most unpleasant position. I am certain that if you think back for an instant you will realize that you have forfeited all right to object." For a moment Miss Brant stood speechless with anger, then in her wrath she poured forth such a flood of abuse that the rescue party stared in amazement. Never had they seen such an exhibition of temper. When Mabel appeared, her shabby hat in her hand, Miss Brant reached forward and tore the hat from her. "Don't you dare leave my house with any of my property, you baggage," she hissed. "I paid for that hat and for the clothes you're wearing, and you'll send every stitch you've on back to me, or I'll have you arrested for stealing." [Illustration: "Don't You Dare Leave This House With My Property."] "Come on, Mabel," said Grace, putting her arm around the shrinking little figure. "Don't pay any attention to her. She isn't worth bothering over. You can send her back her ridiculous things. You are going to be happy now, and forget all about this cruel, terrible woman." "You brazen imp, you," screamed the woman, and rushed at Grace, who stood perfectly still, looking the angry woman in the face with such open scorn in her gray eyes that Miss Brant drew back and stood scowling at her, her hands working convulsively. "Come, girls," said Mr. Bright. "We have no more time to waste. If you have anything to say to me, Miss Brant, you can always find me at my office on East Main Street. The clothing now worn by Miss Mabel will be returned to you in due season. Good afternoon." Mr. Bright, bowing politely, motioned to the three young girls to precede him, and the party went quietly down the walk, leaving Miss Brant in the open door, shaking her fist and uttering dire threats. As for Mabel, she collapsed utterly, crying as though her heart would break. Grace and Jessica exerted every effort to quiet her sobs, and after a little she looked up, and, smiling through her tears, said brokenly: "I can't believe that it's all true--that I shall never have to go back there again. I'm afraid that it's all a dream and that I'll wake up and find her standing over me. Can she get me again?" she said, turning piteously to Mr. Bright. "My dear little girl," he said, taking her hand, "she can't touch you. I'll adopt you myself before I'll let you go back to her. Now run along with Jessica and forget all about what has passed. Good-bye, Grace. You see, your rescue party proved a success. Good-bye, daughter. Take good care of Mabel. I'll have to hurry now, or miss my appointment." Mr. Bright beamed on the three girls, raised his hat and hurried down the street, leaving them to proceed slowly toward Jessica's home. Passersby glanced curiously at the hatless, shabby young girl, as she walked between Grace and Jessica, clinging to their hands as though expecting every minute to be snatched from them. "Well, girls," said Grace, "here is my street. I must leave you now. Be good children, and----" She was interrupted by an exultant shriek, and a second later five girls appeared as by magic and gleefully surrounded the rescue party. The Phi Sigma Tau was out in full force. "Hurrah!" shrieked Nora, waving her school bag. "'We have met the enemy and they are ours.' Tell us about it quickly. Why didn't you let me go along? I was dying to cross swords with that old stone face." Then everyone talked at once, surrounding Mabel and asking her questions until Grace said, laughing: "Stop it, girls; let her get used to you gradually. Don't come down on her like an avalanche." Mabel, however, was equal to the occasion. She answered their questions without embarrassment, and seemed quietly pleased at their demonstrations. "You are the child of the sorority now, Mabel," said Miriam Nesbit, "and we are your adopted mothers. You will have your hands full trying to please all of us." "Stop teasing her," said Anne, "or she'll run away before she is fairly adopted." "It is very uncertain as to whether she will ever go further than my house," said Jessica calmly. "I need Mabel more than do the rest of you, but perhaps if you're good I'll loan her to you occasionally. Come on, Mabel, let's go home before they spoil you completely." "Considering the fact that the Bright family did two thirds of the rescuing, I suppose we shall have to respect your claim," said Nora, "but remember, Jessica, that generosity is a beautiful virtue to cultivate." CHAPTER X JULIA PERFORMS A SACRED DUTY "What have we ever done that we should be so neglected?" said David Nesbit, swinging himself from his motorcycle and landing squarely in front of Grace Harlowe and Anne Pierson while they were out walking one afternoon. "Why, David Nesbit, how can you make such statements?" replied Grace, looking at the young man in mock disapproval. "You know perfectly well that you've been shut up in your old laboratory all fall. We have scarcely seen you since the walking party. You have even given football the go by, and I'm so sorry, for you were a star player last year." "I see you have discovered the secrets of my past life," replied David, laughing. "That's what comes of having a sister who belongs to a sorority. However, you folks are equally guilty, you've all gone mad over your sorority, and left Hippy and Reddy and me to wander about Oakdale like lost souls. I hear you've adopted a girl, too. Reddy is horribly jealous of her. He says Jessica won't look at him any more." "Reddy is laboring under a false impression," said Anne. "He is head over heels in football practice and has forgotten he ever knew Jessica. As for Hippy, Nora says that he is studying night and day, and that he is actually wearing himself away by burning midnight oil." "Yes, Hippy is studying some this year," replied David. "You see this is our senior year, and we are going to enter the same college next year, if all goes well. You know Hippy never bothered himself much about study, just managed to scrape through. But now he'll have to hustle if he gets through with High School this year, and he's wide awake to that fact." "Under those circumstances, Hippy is forgiven, but not you and Reddy!" said Grace severely. "You'll have to have better excuses than football and experiments." "I'll tell you what we'll do to square ourselves," said David, smiling. "We'll take you girls to the football game next Thursday. It's Thanksgiving Day, you know, and Oakdale is going to play Georgetown College. Reddy's on the team, but Hippy and I will do the honors." "Fine," replied Grace. "But are you willing to burden yourselves with some extra girls? You see it's this way. One of the things that our sorority has pledged itself to do this year is to look up the stray girls in High School, and see that they are not lonely and homesick during holiday seasons. I used to know nearly all the girls in school, but ever so many new ones have crept in, and some of them have come here from quite a distance, on account of the excellence of our High School. After we adopted Mabel Allison, we began looking about us for other fish to fry, and found out about these girls. So every girl in the sorority has invited one or more of these lonely ones for Thanksgiving Day. They are to come in the morning and stay until the lights go out, which will be late, for mother has consented to let me have a party and all those new girls are to be the guests of honor. "Mrs. Gray is in it, too. She insists on having Anne with her on Thanksgiving, although Anne had invited two girls to her house," continued Grace. "Mrs. Gray had planned a party for us, but when we told her what we were about to do, she gave up her party and agreed to go to mine instead, on condition that Anne's family, plus Anne's two guests, should have dinner with her." "Bless her dear heart," said David, "she is always thinking of the pleasure of others. Now about the football game. Bring your girls along and I'll do my best to give them a good time, although I'm generally anything but a success with new girls. However, Hippy makes up for what I lack. He can entertain a regiment of them, and not even exert himself. Now I must leave you, for I have a very important engagement at home." "In the laboratory, I suppose," said Anne teasingly. "Just so," replied David. "Good-bye, girls. Let me know how many tickets you want for the game." He raised his cap, mounted his machine and was off down the street. "It will seem good to have a frolic with the boys again, won't it?" said Grace to Anne as they strolled along. "We do seem to be getting awfully serious and settled of late," replied Anne. "Why, this sorority business has taken up all our spare time lately. We've had so many special meetings." "I know it," replied Grace, "but after Thanksgiving we'll only meet once in two weeks, for I must get my basketball team in shape, and you see all the members belong to the society." "You ought to do extra good work this year," observed Anne, "for the team is absolutely harmonious. Last season seems like a dream to me now." "It was real enough then," replied Grace grimly. "I have forgiven, long ago, but I have not forgotten the way some of those girls performed last year. It was remarkable that things ever straightened themselves. The clouds looked black for a while, didn't they?" Anne pressed Grace's hand by way of answer. The sophomore year had been crowded with many trials, some of them positive school tragedies, in which Anne and Grace had been the principal actors. "What are you two mooning over?" asked a gay voice, and the two girls turned with a start to find Julia Crosby grinning cheerfully at them. "O Julia, how glad I am to see you at close range!" exclaimed Grace. "Admiring you from a distance isn't a bit satisfactory." "Business, children, business," said Julia briskly. "That's the only thing that keeps me from your side. The duties of the class president are many and irksome. At the present moment I've a duty on hand that I don't in the least relish, and I want your august assistance. Will you promise to help before I tell you?" "Why, of course," answered Grace and Anne in the same breath. "What is it you want us to do?" "Well, it seems that some of your juniors are still in need of discipline. You remember the hatchet that we buried last year with such pomp and ceremony?" "Yes, yes," was the answer. "This morning I overheard certain girls planning to go out to the Omnibus House after school to-morrow and dig up the poor hatchet and flaunt it in the seniors' faces the day of the opening basketball game, simply to rattle us. Just as though it wouldn't upset your team as much as ours. It's an idiotic trick, at any rate, and anything but funny. Now I propose to take four of our class, and you must select four of yours. We'll hustle out there the minute school is over to-morrow, and be ready to receive the marauders when they arrive. Select your girls, but don't tell them what you want or they may tell some one about it beforehand." "Well, of all impudence!" exclaimed Anne. "Who are the girls, Julia? Are you sure they're juniors?" "The two I heard talking are juniors. I don't know who else is in it. They'll be very much astonished to find us 'waiting at the church'--Omnibus House, I mean," said Julia, "and I imagine they'll feel rather silly, too." "Tell us who they are, Julia," said Grace. "We don't want to go into this blindfolded." "Wait and see," replied Julia tantalizingly. "Then you'll feel more indignant and can help my cause along all the better. I give you my word that the girls I overheard talking are not particular friends of yours. You aren't going to back out, are you, and leave me without proper support?" "Of course not," laughed Grace. "Don't worry. We'll support you, only you must agree to do all the talking." "I shall endeavor to overcome their insane freshness with a few well-chosen words," Julia promised. "Be sure and be on hand early." Grace chose Anne, Nora, Jessica and Marian Barber, the latter three being considerably mystified at her request, but nevertheless agreeing to be on hand when school closed. They were met at the gate by Julia and four other seniors, and the whole party set out for the Omnibus House without delay. Grace walked with Julia, and the two girls found plenty to say to each other during the walk. Julia was studying hard, she told Grace. She wanted to enter Smith next year. "I don't know where I shall go after I finish High School," said Grace. "Ethel Post wants me to go to Wellesley. She'll be a junior when I'm a freshman. You know, she was graduated from High School last June and she could help me a lot in getting used to college. But I don't know whether I should like Wellesley. I shall not try to decide where I want to go for a while yet." "Wherever we are we'll write and always be friends," said Julia, and Grace warmly acquiesced. As they neared the old Omnibus House they could see no one about. "We're early!" exclaimed Julia. "The enemy has not arrived. Thank goodness, it's not cold to-day or we might have a chilly vigil. Now listen, all ye faithful, while I set forth the object of this walk." She thereupon related what Grace and Anne already knew. "What a shame!" cried Marian Barber. "It isn't the hatchet we care for, it's the principle of the thing. Give them what they deserve, Julia." "Never fear," replied Julia. "I'll effectually attend to their case. Now we'd better dodge around the corner and keep out of sight until they get here. Then we'll swoop down upon them unawares." The avengers hurriedly concealed themselves at the side of the old house where they could not be seen by an approaching party. They had not waited long before they heard voices. "They're coming," whispered Julia. "There are eight of them. Form in line and when they get nicely started, we'll circle about them and hem them in. I'll give you the signal." The girls waited in silence. "They have trowels," Julia informed them from time to time. "They have a spade. They've begun to dig, and they are having their own troubles, for the ground is hard. All ready! March!" Softly the procession approached the spot where the marauders were energetically digging. Grace gave a little gasp, and reaching back caught Anne's hand. The girl using the spade was Eleanor. "Now I'm in for it," groaned Grace. "She's down on me now, and she'll be sure to think I organized the whole thing." For an instant Grace regretted making the promise to Julia, before learning the situation; then, holding her head a trifle more erect, she decided to make the best of her unfortunate predicament. "It isn't Julia's fault," she thought. "She probably knows nothing about our acquaintance with Eleanor; besides, Eleanor has no business to play such tricks. Edna Wright must have told her all about last year." Her reflections were cut short, for one of the girls glanced up from her digging with a sudden exclamation which drew all eyes toward Julia and her party. "Well, little folks," said Julia in mock surprise, "what sort of a party is this? Are you making mud pies or are you pretending you are at the seashore?" At Julia's first words Eleanor dropped the small spade she held and straightened up, the picture of defiance. Her glance traveled from girl to girl, and she curled her lip contemptuously as her eye rested on Grace and Anne. The other diggers looked sheepishly at Julia, who stood eyeing them in a way that made them feel "too foolish for anything," as one of them afterwards expressed it. "Why don't you answer me, little girls?" asked Julia. "Has the kitty stolen your tongue?" This was too much for Eleanor. "How dare you speak to us in that manner and treat us as though we were children?" she burst forth. "What business is it of yours why we are here? Do you own this property?" "Mercy, no," replied Julia composedly. "Do you?" "No," replied Eleanor a trifle less rudely, "but we have as much right here as you have." "Granted," replied Julia calmly. "However, there is this difference. You are here to make mischief and we are here to prevent it, and, furthermore, are going to do so." "What do you mean?" retorted Eleanor, her eyes flashing. "Just this," replied Julia. "Last year the girls belonging to the present senior and junior classes met on this very spot and amicably disposed of a two-year-old class grudge. Emblematic of this they buried a hatchet, once occupying a humble though honorable position in the Crosby family, but cheerfully sacrificed for the good of the cause. "Yesterday," continued Julia, "I overheard two juniors plotting to get possession of this same hatchet for the purpose of flaunting it in the faces of the seniors at the opening basketball game. Therefore I decided to take a hand in things, and here I am, backed by girls from both classes, who are of the self-same mind." "Really, Miss Crosby," said Edna Wright, "you are very amusing." "My friends all think so," returned Julia sweetly, "but never mind now about my amusing qualities, Edna. Let's talk about the present situation." She looked at Edna with the old-time aggravating smile that was always warranted to further incense her opponent. It had its desired effect, for Edna fairly bristled with indignation and was about to make a furious reply when she was pushed aside by Eleanor, who said loftily, "Allow me to talk to this person, Edna." "No," said Julia resolutely, every vestige of a smile leaving her face at Eleanor's words. "It would be useless for you to attempt to be spokesman in this matter, because you are a new girl in High School and know nothing of past class matters except from hearsay. But you have with you seven girls who do know all about the enmity that was buried here last spring, and who ought to have enough good sense to know that this afternoon's performance is liable to bring it to life again. "If you girls carry this hatchet to school and exhibit it to the seniors on the day of the game you are apt to start bad feeling all over again," she said, turning to the others. "There are sure to be some girls in the senior class who would resent it. Neither class has played tricks on the other since peace was declared, and we don't want to begin now. "That's the reason I asked Grace to appoint a committee of juniors and come out here with me. I feel sure that under the circumstances the absent members of both classes would agree with us if they were present. Digging up a rusty old hatchet is nothing, but digging up a rusty old grudge is quite another matter. We didn't come here to quarrel, but I appeal to you, as members of the junior class, to think before you do something that is bound to cause us all annoyance and perhaps unhappiness." There was complete silence after Julia finished speaking. What she had said evidently impressed them. Eleanor alone looked belligerent. "Perhaps we'd better let the old hatchet alone," Daisy Culver said sullenly. "The fun is all spoiled now, and everyone will know about it before school begins to-morrow." "Daisy, how can you say so?" exclaimed Grace, who, fearing a scene with Eleanor, had hitherto remained silent. "You know perfectly well that none of us will say anything about it. Why, we came out here simply to try to prevent your doing something that might stir up trouble again between the senior and junior classes. There isn't a girl here who would be so contemptible as to tell any one outside about what has happened to-day." This was Eleanor's opportunity. Turning furiously on Grace, her eyes flashing, she exclaimed: "Yes, there is one girl who would tell anything, and that girl is you! You pretend to be honorable and high-principled, but you are nothing but a hypocrite and a sneak. I would not trust you as far as I could see you. I have no doubt Miss Crosby obtained her information about this affair to-day from you, and that everyone in school will hear it from the same source. You seem determined to meddle with matters that do not concern you, and I warn you that if you do not change your tactics you may regret it. "You seem to think yourself the idol of your class, but there are some of the girls who are too clever to be deceived. They do not belong among the number who trail tamely after you, either. And now I wish to say that I despise you and all your friends, and wish never to speak to any of you again. Come on, girls," she said, turning to the members of her party, who had listened in silent amazement to her attack upon Grace. "Let us go. Let them keep their trumpery hatchet." With these words she turned and stalked across the field to the road, where her runabout stood. After an instant's hesitation, she was followed by Edna, Daisy Culver and those who had come with her. Henceforth there would again be two distinct factions in the junior class. "Good gracious," exclaimed Julia Crosby. "Talk about your human whirlwinds! What on earth did you ever do to her, Grace?" But Grace could not answer. She was winking hard to keep back the tears. Twice she attempted to speak and failed. "Never mind her, dear," said Julia, slipping her arm about Grace, while the other girls gathered round with many expressions of displeasure at Eleanor's cruel speech. "I can't help feeling badly," said Grace, with a sob. "She said such dreadful things." "No one who knows you would believe them," replied Julia. "By the way, who is she? I know her name is Savell and that she's a recent arrival in Oakdale, but considering the plain and uncomplimentary manner in which she addressed you, you must have seriously offended her ladyship." "I'll tell you about her as we walk along," replied Grace, wiping her eyes and smiling a little. "Yes, we had better be moving," said Julia. "The battle is over. No one has been killed and only one wounded. Nevertheless, the enemy has retired in confusion." CHAPTER XI WORRIES AND PLANS Although the girls belonging to Julia's party were silent concerning what happened at the Omnibus House, the story leaked out, creating considerable discussion among the members of the two upper classes. Julia Crosby had a shrewd suspicion that Edna Wright had been the original purveyor of the news, and in this she was right. Edna had, under pledge of secrecy, told it to a sophomore, who immediately told it to her dearest friend, and so the tale traveled until it reached Eleanor, with numerous additions, far from pleasing to her. She was thoroughly angry, and at once laid the matter at Grace's door, while her animosity toward Grace grew daily. But Grace was not the only person that Eleanor disliked. From the day that Miss Thompson had taken her to task for absence, she had entertained a supreme contempt for the principal of which Miss Thompson was wholly unaware until, encountering Eleanor one morning in the corridor, the latter had stared at her with an expression of such open scorn and dislike that Miss Thompson felt her color rise. A direct slap in the face could scarcely have conveyed greater insult than did that one insolent glance. The principal was at a loss as to its import. She wisely decided to ignore it, but stored it up in her memory for future reference. The sorority that Eleanor had mentioned in her letter to the Phi Sigma Tau, was now in full flower. The seven girls who had accompanied her to the Omnibus House were the chosen members. They wore pins in the shape of skulls and cross bones, and went about making mysterious signs to each other whenever they met. The very name of the society was shrouded in mystery, though Nora O'Malley was heard to declare that she had no doubt it was a branch of the "Black Hand." Eleanor was the acknowledged leader, but Edna Wright became a close second, and between them they managed to disseminate a spirit of mischief throughout the school that the teachers found hard to combat. Grace Harlowe watched the trend that affairs were taking with considerable anxiety. Like herself, there were plenty of girls in school to whom mischief did not appeal, but Eleanor's beauty, wealth and fascinating personality were found to dazzle some of the girls, who would follow her about like sheep, and it was over these girls that Grace felt worried. If Eleanor were to organize and carry out any malicious piece of mischief and they were implicated, they would all have to suffer for what she would be directly responsible. Grace's heart was with her class. She wished it to be a class among classes, and felt an almost motherly anxiety for its success. "What does ail some of our class?" she exclaimed to Anne and Nora one day as they left the school building. "They seem possessed with imps. The Phi Sigma Tau girls and a few of the grinds are really the only ones who behave lately." "It's largely due to Eleanor, I think," replied Anne. "She seems to have become quite a power among some of the girls in the class. She is helping to destroy that spirit of earnestness that you have tried so hard to cultivate. I think it's a shame, too. The upper class girls ought to set the example for the two lower classes." "That's just what worries me," said Grace earnestly. "Hardly a recitation passes in my class without some kind of disturbance, and it is always traced to one of the girls in that crowd. The juniors will get the reputation among the teachers this year that the junior class had last, and it seems such a pity. I overheard Miss Chester tell Miss Kane the other day that her junior classes were the most trying of the day, because she had to work harder to maintain discipline than to teach her subject." "That's a nice reputation to carry around, isn't it!" remarked Nora indignantly. "But all we can do is to try harder than ever to make things go smoothly. I don't believe their society will last long, at any rate. Those girls are sure to quarrel among themselves, and that will end the whole thing. Or they may go too far and have Miss Thompson to reckon with, and that would probably cool their ardor." "O girls!" exclaimed Grace. "Speaking of Miss Thompson, reminds me that I have something to tell you. What do you suppose the latest is?" "If you know anything new, it is your duty to tell us at once, without making us beg for it," said Nora reprovingly. "All right; I accept the reproof," said Grace. "Now for my news. There is talk of giving a Shakespearian play, with Miss Tebbs to engineer it, and the cast to be chosen from the three lower classes. The seniors, of course, will give their own play later." "How did you find out?" asked Anne. "Miss Thompson herself told me about it," replied Grace. "She called on mother yesterday afternoon, and, for a wonder, I was at home. She said that it was not positively decided yet, but if the girls did well with the mid-year tests, then directly after there would be a try out for parts, and rehearsals would begin without delay." "How splendid!" exclaimed Anne, clasping her hands. "How I would love to take part in it!" "You will, without doubt, if there is a try out," replied Grace. "There is no one in school who can recite as you do; besides, you have been on the stage." "I shall try awfully hard for a part, even if it is only two lines," said Anne earnestly. "I wonder what play is to be chosen, and if it is to be given for the school only?" "The play hasn't been decided upon yet," replied Grace, "but the object of it is to get some money for new books for the school library. The plan is to charge fifty cents a piece for the tickets and to give each girl a certain number of them to sell. However, I'm not going to bother much about the play now, for the senior team has just sent me a challenge to play them Saturday, December 12th. So I'll have to get the team together and go to work." "We're awfully late this year about starting. Don't you think so?" asked Nora. "Yes," admitted Grace. "I am just as enthusiastic over basketball as ever, only I haven't had the time to devote to it that I did last year." "Never mind, you'll make up for lost time after Thanksgiving," said Anne soothingly. "As for me, I'm going to dream about the play." "Anne, I believe you have more love for the stage than you will admit," said Grace, laughing. "You are all taken up with the idea of this play." "If one could live in the same atmosphere as that of home, then there could be no profession more delightful than that of the actor," replied Anne thoughtfully. "It is wonderful to feel that one is able to forget one's self and become some one else. But it is more wonderful to make one's audience feel it, too. To have them forget that one is anything except the living, breathing person whose character one is trying to portray. I suppose it's the sense of power that one has over people's emotions that makes acting so fascinating. It is the other side that I hate," she added, with a slight shudder. "I suppose theatrical people do undergo many hardships," said Grace, who, now that the subject had been opened, wanted to hear more of Anne's views of the stage. "Unless any girl has remarkable talent, I should advise her to keep off the stage," said Anne decidedly. "Of course when a girl comes of a theatrical family for generations, like Maud Adams or Ethel Barrymore, then that is different. She is practically born, bred and brought up in the theatre. She is as carefully guarded as though she lived in a little village, simply because she knows from babyhood all the unpleasant features of the profession and how to avoid them. There is some chance of her becoming great, too. Of course real stars do appear once in a while, who are too talented to be kept down. However, the really great ones are few and far between. When I compare my life before I came here with the good times I have had since I met you girls, I hate the very idea of the stage. "Only," she concluded with a shame-faced air, "there are times when the desire to act is irresistible, and it did make my heart beat a little bit faster when I heard about the play." "You dear little mouse," said Grace, putting her arm around Anne. "I was only jesting when I spoke about your love for the stage. I think I understand how you feel, and I hope you get the best part in the play. I know you'll make good." "She certainly will," said Nora. "But, to give the play a rest and come down to everyday affairs, where shall we meet to go to the football game?" "Let me see," said Grace. "The game is to be called at three o'clock. I suppose we shall all be through dinner by half past two. You had better bring your girls to my house. Each of you is to have two and Jessica has one besides Mabel. I am to have three; I found another yesterday. David promised to get me the tickets. I wonder how he and Hippy will enjoy chaperoning thirteen girls?" "I won't have the slightest chance to talk to Hippy," grumbled Nora, "and he has neglected us shamefully of late, too." "Never mind, you can have him all to yourself at my party," consoled Grace. "By the way, girls, do you think it would be of any use to invite Eleanor?" "Eleanor?" exclaimed Nora. "After what she has said to you! You might as well throw your invitation into the fire, for it's safe to say that she will do so when she receives it." Nevertheless, Grace wrote a cordial little note to Eleanor that evening, and two days later she received Eleanor's reply through the mail. On opening the envelope the pieces of her own note fell out, with a half sheet of paper containing the words, "Declined with thanks." CHAPTER XII A RECKLESS CHAUFFEUR Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and clear, with just enough frost in the air to make one's blood tingle. It had been a mild fall, with a late Indian summer, and only one or two snow flurries that had lasted but a few hours. This was unusual for Oakdale, as winter generally came with a rush before the middle of November, and treated the inhabitants of that northern city to a taste of zero weather long before the Christmas holidays. It was with a light heart that Grace Harlowe ate her breakfast and flitted about the house, putting a final touch here and there before receiving her guests. Before eleven o'clock everything was finished, and as she arranged the last flower in its vase she felt a little thrill of pride as she looked about the pretty drawing room. Before going upstairs to dress, she ran into the reception hall for the fourth time to feast her eyes upon a huge bunch of tall chrysanthemums in the beautiful Japanese vase that stood in the alcove under the stairs. They had come about an hour before with a note from Tom Gray saying that he had arrived in Oakdale that morning, had seen the boys and would be around to help David and Reddy at the "girl convention," as he termed it. Grace was overjoyed at the idea of seeing Tom Gray again. They had been firm friends since her freshman year, and had entertained a wholesome, boy-and-girl preference for each other untinged by any trace of foolish sentimentality. As she dressed for dinner, Grace felt perfectly happy except for one thing. She still smarted a little at Eleanor's rude reply to her invitation. She was one of those tender-hearted girls who disliked being on bad terms with any one, and she really liked Eleanor still, in spite of the fact that Eleanor did not in the least return the sentiment. Grace sighed a little over the rebuff, and then completely forgot her trouble as she donned the new gown that had just come from the dressmaker. It was of Italian cloth in a beautiful shade of dark red, made in one piece, with a yoke of red and gold net, and trimmed with tiny enameled buttons. It fitted her straight, slender figure perfectly and she decided that for once she had been wise in foregoing her favorite blue and choosing red. The party that evening was to be a strictly informal affair. Grace had suspected that the girls whom the members of the Phi Sigma Tau were to entertain were not likely to possess evening gowns. In order to avoid any possibility of hurt feelings, she had quietly requested those invited to wear the afternoon gowns in which they would appear at the game. Before one o'clock her guests had arrived. They were three shy, quiet girls who had worshiped Grace from a distance, and who had been surprised almost to tears by her invitation. Two of them were from Portville, a small town about seventy miles from Oakdale, and had begun High School with Grace, who had been too busy with her own affairs up to the present to find out much about them. The other girl, Marie Bateman, had entered the class that year. She had come from a little village forty miles south of Oakdale, was the oldest of a large family, her mother being a widow of very small means. As her mother was unable to send her away to school, she had done clerical work for the only lawyer in the home town for the previous two years, studying between whiles. She had entered the High School in the junior class, determining to graduate and then to work her way through Normal School. By dint of questioning, Grace had discovered that she lived in a shabby little room in the suburbs, never went anywhere and did anything honest in the way of earning money that she could find to do. The realization of what some of these girls were willing to endure for the sake of getting an education made Grace feel guilty at being so comfortably situated. She determined that the holidays that year should not find them without friends and cheer. After a rousing Thanksgiving dinner, in which the inevitable turkey, with all its toothsome accompaniments, played a prominent part, the girls retired to Grace's room for a final adjustment of hair and a last survey in the mirror before going to the game. High School matters formed the principal theme of conversation, and Grace was not surprised to learn that Eleanor had been carrying things with a high hand in third-year French class, in which Ellen Holt, one of the Portville girls, recited. "She speaks French as well as Professor La Roche," said Miss Holt, "but she nearly drives him crazy sometimes. She will pretend she doesn't understand him and will make him explain the construction of a sentence over and over again, or she will argue with him about a point until he loses his temper completely. She makes perfectly ridiculous caricatures of him, and leaves them on his desk when class is over, and she asks him to translate impertinent slang phrases, which he does, sometimes, before he realizes how they are going to sound. Then the whole class laughs at him. She certainly makes things lively in that class." The sound of the bell cut short the chat and the four girls hurried downstairs to greet Jessica, Mabel and the girls who were the Bright's guests. Nora and Anne, with their charges, came next, and last of all David, Tom and Hippy paraded up the walk, in single file, blowing lustily on tin horns and waving blue and white banners. A brief season of introduction followed, then Grace distributed blue and white rosettes with long streamers that she had made for the occasion, to each member of the party. Well supplied with Oakdale colors, they set out for the football grounds, where an immense crowd of people had gathered to see the big game of the season. "I shall never forget the first football game I saw in Oakdale," said Anne to David as they made their way to the grandstand. "It ended very sensationally for me." "I should say it did," replied David, smiling. "Confidentially, Anne, do you ever hear from your father?" "Not very often," replied Anne. "He is not liable to trouble me again, however, because he knows that I will not go back to the stage, no matter what he says. He was with the western company of 'True Hearts' last year, but I don't know where he is now, and I don't care. Don't think I'm unfeeling; but it is impossible for me to care for him, even though he is my father." "I understand," said David sympathetically. "Now let's forget him and have a good time." "Hurrah! Here comes the band!" shouted Hippy. The "Oakdale Military Band" took their places in the improvised bandstand and began a short concert before the game with the "Stars and Stripes," while the spectators unconsciously kept time with their feet to the inspiring strains. When the two teams appeared on the field there were shouts of enthusiasm from the friends of the players, and the band burst forth with the High School song, in which the students joined. After the usual preliminaries, the game began, and for the next hour everything else was forgotten save the battle that waged between the two teams. Miriam Nesbit, Eva Allen and Marian Barber, with their guests, joined Grace's party, and soon the place they occupied became the very center of enthusiasm. Reddy, who was playing left end on the home team, received an ovation every time he made a move, and when towards the end of the game he made a touchdown, his friends nearly split their loyal throats in expressing their approval. It was over at last, and Oakdale had won a complete victory over the Georgetown foe, who took their defeat with becoming grace. As soon as Reddy could free himself from the grasp of his school fellows, who would have borne him from the field in triumph if he had not stoutly resisted, he hurried to his friends, who showered him with congratulations. "O you Titian-haired star!" cried Hippy, clasping his hands in mock admiration. "You are the rarest jewel in the casket. Words fail to express my feelings. "'O joy, O bliss, O rapture! Let happiness now hap! I am a sea of gurgling glee, with ecstacy on tap.'" Hippy recited this effusion in a killing falsetto voice, and endeavored to embrace Reddy fervently, but was dragged back by Tom and David, to Reddy's visible relief. "He's the idol of the hour. Don't put your irreverent hands on him," was David's injunction. "But I adore idols," persisted Hippy. "Let me at him." "Quit it, fat one!" growled Reddy, with a grin. "I'll settle with you later." With gay laughter and jest, the young folks made their way from the grounds and started down the road toward home. The whole party, walking four abreast, had just turned the curve where the road ended and Main Street began, when there was a hoarse honk! honk! and a runabout decorated in blue and white, containing Eleanor and Edna Wright, bore down upon them at lightning speed. The girls, uttering little cries of alarm, scattered to both sides of the road, with the exception of Mabel Allison, who, in her hurry to get out of the way, stumbled and fell directly in the path of the oncoming machine. CHAPTER XIII A THANKSGIVING FROLIC But sudden as had been Mabel's fall, Grace Harlowe was equal to the emergency. With a bound she reached the middle of the road, seized Mabel and dragged her back just as the runabout passed over the place where she had fallen. It almost grazed her outstretched hand, then shot on down the road without slackening its speed for an instant. There was a cry of horror from the young folks that ended in a sigh of relief. David and Tom Gray quickly raised Mabel to her feet and turned to Grace, whose face was ghastly, while she trembled like a leaf. The reaction had set in the moment she realized that Mabel was safe. Jessica and Nora had both begun to cry, while the faces of the others fully expressed their feelings. "Grace," said Tom in a husky voice, "that was the quickest move I ever saw any one make." Grace drew a long breath, the color returned to her pale face and in a measure she recovered herself. "Some one had to do something," she said weakly. "I was the nearest to her, that's all. Are you hurt, Mabel, dear?" she asked, turning to the young girl, who stood by Jessica, looking white and dazed. "It came so suddenly," she faltered, "I couldn't get up. It was awful!" She shuddered, then burst into tears, burying her face in Jessica's shoulder. "There, there," soothed Jessica, wiping her own eyes. "It's all right now. Stand up straight and let me brush your coat. You are all mud." "Here come the would-be murderesses now," cried Hippy. "They actually managed to stop and turn around, and now they are coming this way. One of them is my pet abomination--Miss Wright. She used to call me 'fatty' when I was little, and I've never forgiven her. But who is the reckless young person playing chauffeur? She ought to be put in jail for exceeding the speed limit." "Hush!" said Grace. "Here she is." The runabout had stopped and Eleanor alighted. Ignoring the four chums, she walked up to Miriam Nesbit. "Will you please tell me if any one is hurt?" she asked pettishly. "I saw some one fall, but couldn't stop the machine. I supposed the highway was for vehicles, not pedestrians four abreast." "Miss Savell, you have just missed running over Miss Allison," said Miriam coldly. "Had it not been for Miss Harlowe, there would have been a serious accident. I should advise you to drive more carefully in future, or you may not escape so easily another time." Eleanor flushed at these words and said haughtily, "I did not ask for advice, I asked for information." "Very true," replied Miriam calmly, "but you see I have given you both." "You are the most ill-bred lot of girls I have ever seen," returned Eleanor crossly, "and I think you are making a great deal of unnecessary fuss over a small matter. Why didn't your prize orphan get out of the way with the rest of you? Besides, you have no right to block a public highway, as you did. I am very sorry I came back at all." Turning on her heel, she walked back to the runabout, climbed in and drove down the road like the wind, apparently indifferent as to what comment her heartless behavior might create. "Who on earth is that girl?" inquired Reddy Brooks. "She has about as much sympathy as a stone." "That is Eleanor Savell," replied Anne Pierson, "and she can be nice if she wishes, but she doesn't like us very well. That's why she was so hateful." "So that's the famous Eleanor?" said Tom Gray in a low tone to Grace. "Aunt Rose was telling me about her this morning at breakfast. I supposed she was a great friend of yours." "She was, but she isn't," returned Grace. "That's rather indefinite. However, I'll tell you about it as we go back." "She certainly can't complain as far as looks are concerned," said Hippy. "She must have yards of blue ribbon that she won at baby shows when but a mere infant." "Attention, boys and girls," cried Grace. "Let us forget what has happened and have just as good a time to-night as we can. We mustn't spoil the party." "I move that we give Grace Harlowe a special round of applause for being a heroine," cried Hippy. "Hurrah!" His example was quickly followed and the noise of the cheering brought people to their doors to see what the excitement was about. "Do stop," protested Grace. "People will begin asking all sorts of questions." "Don't interfere with our simple pleasures," expostulated Hippy. "Let us howl in peace. High School yell next, please." By the time the party had reached the center of the town where their ways parted, the shadow cast by the near accident had almost disappeared. By eight o'clock that evening the last guest had arrived, and the Harlowe's hospitable home was the scene of radiant good cheer. Mrs. Gray, enthroned in a big chair in one corner of the drawing room, was in her element, and the young folks vied with each other in doing her homage. The sprightly old lady was never so happy as when surrounded by young folks. She had a word or smile for each one, and the new girls who had at first felt rather timid about meeting her, were soon entirely at ease in her presence. The greater part of the furniture had been removed from the big living room and the floor had been crashed; while a string orchestra that made a specialty of playing for parties had been hired for the pleasure of those who cared to dance. As dancing was the chief amusement at nearly all of the young people's parties in Oakdale, the floor was filled from the beginning of the first waltz until supper was announced. This was served at two long tables in the dining room, Mrs. Gray occupying the seat of honor at the head of one, and Miss Thompson, who was a favorite at High School parties, the other. There were miniature ears of corn, turkeys, pumpkins and various other favors appropriate to Thanksgiving at each one's place. In the center of one table stood two dolls dressed in the style of costume worn by the Pilgrim fathers and mothers. They held a scroll between them on which was printed the Thanksgiving Proclamation. In the center of the other table were two dolls, one dressed in football uniform, a miniature football under its arm, while the other, dressed as a High School girl, held up a blue banner with O. H. S. on it in big, white letters. This had been Grace's idea. She had dressed the dolls with the idea of contrasting the first Thanksgiving with that of to-day. There was a great craning of necks from those at the one table to see the central figures on the other, but soon every one settled down to the discussion of the dainties provided for them. The supper ended with a toast to their young hostess, which was drunk standing, and then the guests repaired to the drawing room, where impromptu stunts were in order. Every one was obliged to do something, if only to make a remark appropriate to the occasion. Nora sang, Anne recited, Grace and Miriam did a Spanish dance that they had practised during vacation with remarkable spirit and effect. Jessica was then detailed to play, and under cover of her music, Tom, Reddy, David and Hippy left the room, Tom returning presently to announce solemnly that an original one-act drama, entitled "The Suffragette," written by Mr. Wingate and presented by a notable cast, would be the next offering. After a moment's wait, Hippy, Reddy and David appeared, and were greeted with shouts of laughter. Reddy minced along in a bonnet and skirt belonging to Mrs. Harlowe, while Hippy wore a long-sleeved gingham pinafore of Grace's, which lacked considerable of meeting in the back, and was kept on by means of a sash. After deliberately setting their stage in full view of the audience at one end of the room, the play began, with David as the meek, hen-pecked husband, Hippy as the neglected child, who wept and howled continuously, while Reddy played the unnatural wife and mother, who neglected her family and held woman's suffrage meetings in the street. The dialogue was clever, and the action of the sketch so ridiculous that the audience laughed from the first line until the climax, especially when the suffragette was hustled off to jail by Tom Gray, in the rôle of a policeman, for disturbing the peace, while her husband and child executed a wild dance of joy as she was hauled off the scene, protesting vigorously. The applause was tremendous and the cast were obliged to bow their thanks several times before it subsided. Songs, speeches and recitations followed rapidly until everyone had contributed something in the way of a stunt. Then the guests formed two long lines from the living room straight through the big archway into the drawing room, and soon a Virginia reel was in full swing, led off by Mr. Harlowe and Mrs. Gray, who took her steps as daintily as when she had danced at her first party so many years before. After the reel, the young folks romped through "Paul Jones," and then the party broke up, all declaring that never before had they had quite such a good time. As Grace sleepily prepared for bed, she felt a little thrill of pride at the success of her party, and her only regret was the fact that of all those invited, Eleanor was the only one who had refused to be present. CHAPTER XIV ELEANOR FINDS A WAY Now that Thanksgiving was past, basketball became the topic of the hour. The juniors had accepted the challenge of the senior class, and had agreed to play them on Saturday, December 12, at two o'clock, in the gymnasium. Only two weeks remained in which to practise. Their sorority enthusiasm had so completely run away with them that they had even neglected basketball until now. Therefore Grace Harlowe lost no time in getting Miss Thompson's permission to use the gymnasium, and promptly notified her team and the subs. to meet there, in gymnasium suits, prepared to play, that afternoon. The instant the last bell sounded on lessons, ten girls made for their lockers, and fifteen minutes later the first team and the subs. were moving toward the gymnasium deep in the discussion of the coming game and their chances for success over their opponents. A brief meeting was held, and the girls were assigned to their positions. Grace had fully intended that Miriam should play center, but when she proposed it, Miriam flatly refused to do so, and asked for her old position of right forward. "You are our captain," she declared to Grace, "and the best center I ever saw on a girls' team. It would be folly to change now. Don't you agree with me, girls?" Nora was detailed as left forward, while Marian Barber and Eva Allen played right and left guards. The substitutes were also assigned their positions and practice began. Before they had been on the floor twenty minutes the girls were thoroughly alive to the joy of the game and worked with the old-time dash and spirit that had won them the championship the previous year. Now that they were in harmony with each other, they played with remarkable unity, and after an hour's practice Grace decided that they were in a fair way to "whip the seniors off the face of the earth." "I never saw you girls work better!" she exclaimed. "It will be a sorry day for the seniors when we line up on the twelfth." "There'll be a great gnashing of senior teeth after the game," remarked Nora confidently. "Do you know, girls," said Grace, as they left the gymnasium that afternoon, "I am sorry that Eleanor won't be peaceable. I wanted her to like every bit of our school life and thought she'd surely be interested in basketball. I suppose she will stay away from the game merely because we are on the team. It is really a shame for her to be so unreasonable." "Grace Harlowe, are you ever going to stop mourning over Eleanor?" cried Miriam impatiently. "She doesn't deserve your regret and is too selfish to appreciate it. I know what I am talking about because I used to be just as ridiculous as she is, and knowing what you suffered through me, I can't bear to see you unhappy again over some one who is too trivial to be taken seriously." "You're a dear, Miriam!" exclaimed Nora impulsively. It was the first time that the once haughty Miriam had ever referred publicly to past shortcomings, although from the time she and Grace had settled their difficulties at the close of the sophomore year, she had been a changed girl. "Where are Anne and Jessica to-day?" asked Eva Allen. "Anne and Jessica have refused point blank to honor us with their presence during practice," announced Nora. "I asked Jessica to-day, and she said that they didn't want to know how we intended to play, for then they could wax enthusiastic and make a great deal more noise. It is their ambition to become loud and loyal fans." "What a worthy ambition," said Marian Barber, with a giggle. "They are such noisy creatures already." There was more laughing at this, as Anne and Jessica were by far the quietest members of the sorority. "Remember, we practise to-morrow after school," called Grace as she separated from her team at her street. As she walked slowly down the quiet street, deep in thought, her ear caught the sound of an approaching automobile, and she looked up just in time to see Eleanor drive by in her machine. Grace nodded to her, but her salutation met with a chilly stare. "How childish she is," thought Grace. "I suppose she thinks that hurts me. Of course it isn't exactly pleasant, but I'm going to keep on speaking to her, just the same. I am not angry, even if she is; although I have far greater cause to be." But before the close of the week Grace was destined to cross swords with Eleanor in earnest, and the toleration she had felt was swallowed up in righteous indignation. During the winter, theatrical companies sometimes visited Oakdale for a week at a time, presenting, at popular prices, old worn-out plays and cheap melodramas. These companies gave daily matinées as well as evening performances, and the more frivolous element of High School girls had in time past occasionally "skipped school" to spend the afternoon in the theatre. By the girls, this form of truancy was considered a "lark," but Miss Thompson did not look at the matter in the same light, and disciplined the culprit so severely whenever she found this to be the cause of an afternoon's absence that the girls were slow to offend in this respect. All this Eleanor had heard, among other things, from Edna Wright, but had paid little attention to it when Edna had told her. Directly after cutting Grace Harlowe, she had turned her runabout into Main Street, where a billboard had caught her eye, displaying in glaring red and blue lettering the fact that the "Peerless Dramatic Company" would open a week's engagement in Oakdale with daily matinées. Eleanor's eyes sparkled. She halted her machine, scanning curiously the list of plays on the billboard. "The Nihilist's Daughter" was scheduled for Thursday afternoon, and Eleanor decided to go. She wasn't afraid of Miss Thompson. Then, possessed with a sudden idea, she laughed gleefully. At last she had found a way to effectually annoy the principal. CHAPTER XV A WOULD-BE "LARK" Eleanor Savell and the seven girls who formed their sorority were the first to enter the study hall on Tuesday morning. As soon as a girl from any of the three lower classes appeared she was approached by some of the former and a great deal of whispering and subdued laughter went on. A few girls were seen to shake their heads dubiously, and a number of those termed "grinds" were not interviewed. The majority, however, appeared to be highly delighted over what they heard, one group standing near one of the windows, of which Eleanor was the center, laughed so loudly that they were sent to their seats. Among the number to whom nothing was said were the members of the Phi Sigma Tau, and as the morning advanced they became fully aware that something unusual was in the wind. Several times they caught sight of a folded paper being stealthily passed from one desk to another, but as to its contents they had no idea, as it was not handed to any one of them. At recess there was more grouping and whispering, and Grace was puzzled and not a little hurt over the way in which she and her friends were ignored. Such a thing had not happened since the basketball trouble the previous year. "Eleanor started that paper, whatever it is," said Nora O'Malley to the Phi Sigma Tau, who stood in a group around her desk. "She was here when I came in this morning, and I was early, too. It is some masterpiece of mischief on her part, or she wouldn't take the trouble to get here on time." "Here comes Mabel," said Jessica. "Maybe she has seen the paper. Mabel, dear, did you see that paper that has been going the rounds this morning?" Mabel nodded. "What was written on it, Mabel?" asked Grace curiously. Mabel looked distressed for a moment then she said, "I wish I might tell you all about it, but I gave my word of honor before I read it that I wouldn't mention the contents to any one." "Then, of course, we won't ask you," said Anne Pierson quickly. "But tell us this much--is it about any of us?" "No," replied Mabel. "It isn't. It is something I was asked to sign." "And did you sign it?" asked Jessica. "I certainly did not," responded Mabel. "It was----" she stopped, then flushed. She had been on the point of telling. "I am sorry I ever saw it," she continued. "I can't bear to have secrets and not tell you." "That's all right, Mabel," said Marian Barber, patting her on the shoulder. "We don't want you to tell. If it doesn't concern us we don't care, do we, girls?" "No, indeed," was the reply. Just then the bell sounded and the girls returned to their seats with the riddle still unsolved. Nothing more was seen of the mysterious paper, and Grace came to the conclusion that it had been nothing important, after all. On Wednesday, aside from a little more whispering and significant glances exchanged among the pupils, not a ripple disturbed the calm of the study hall. It was therefore a distinct and not altogether pleasant surprise when Miss Thompson walked into the room, dismissed the senior class and requested the three lower classes to remain in their seats. After the seniors had quietly left the study hall, Miss Thompson stood gravely regarding the rows of girls before her. Her eyes wandered toward where Eleanor sat, looking bored and indifferent, and then she looked toward Grace, whose steady gray eyes were fixed on the principal's face with respectful attention. "I don't believe Grace is guilty, at any rate," thought Miss Thompson; then she addressed the assembled girls. "Something has come to my ears, girls," said the principal, "that I find hard to credit, but before you leave here this afternoon I must know who is innocent and who is guilty." Miss Thompson paused and a number of girls stirred uneasily in their seats, while a few glanced quickly toward Eleanor, who was looking straight ahead, the picture of innocence. "You all know," continued the principal, "that it is strictly forbidden for any pupil to absent herself from school for the purpose of attending a circus, matinée or any public performance of this nature. I have so severely disciplined pupils for this offence that for a long time no one has disobeyed me. I was, therefore, astonished to learn that a number of girls, regardless of rules, have taken matters into their own hands and have decided to absent themselves from school to-morrow in order to attend the matinée to be given in the theatre. Such a decision is worse than disobedience--it is lawlessness. Unless a severe example is made of the offenders, the standard of the school will be lowered. Therefore, I intend to sift this matter to the bottom and find out what mischievous influence prompted this act of insubordination. "Report says that this movement originated in the junior class, and that a paper has been circulated and signed by certain pupils, who pledged themselves to play truant and attend the matinée to-morrow." The eyes of Grace and her chums turned questioningly toward Mabel Allison, who nodded slightly in the affirmative. So that was what all the whispering and mystery had meant. Grace inwardly congratulated herself on having kept clear of the whole thing. None of her friends were implicated, either. Even Mabel had refused to sign. "I have dismissed the senior class, because I have been assured of their entire ignorance of the plot. What I insist upon knowing now, is who are the real culprits, beginning with the girl who originated the paper to the last one who signed it. I am going to put every girl on her honor, and I expect absolutely truthful answers. The girls who signed the paper I have mentioned will rise." There was a moment of suspense, then Eleanor Savell proudly rose from her seat. Her example was followed, until two thirds of the girls present were standing. The principal stood silently regarding them with an expression of severity that was decidedly discomfitting. "That will do," she said curtly, after they had stood for what seemed to them an age, but was really only a couple of minutes. "You may be seated. The girl who composed and wrote that agreement will now rise and explain herself." Without hesitating, Eleanor rose and regarded the principal with an insolent smile. "I wrote it, Miss Thompson," she said clearly. "I wrote it because I wished to. I am sorry you found out about it, because it has spoiled all our fun." There was a gasp of horror at Eleanor's assertion. No one had ever before spoken so disrespectfully to their revered principal. "Miss Savell," said the principal quietly, although her flashing eyes and set lips showed that she was very angry, "if you have that paper in your possession, bring it to me at once, and never answer me again as you did just now. You are both disrespectful and impertinent." But Miss Thompson's anger toward Eleanor was nothing compared with the tempest that the principal had aroused in Eleanor. The latter flushed, then turned perfectly white with rage. Still standing, she reached down, picked up a book from her desk and took from it a paper. "This," she said, in a low tense voice, "is the paper you wish to see. I do not choose to let you see it, therefore I shall destroy it." [Illustration: "I Do Not Choose to Let You See This Paper."] Then she deliberately tore the offending paper into shreds and scattered them broadcast. "I hope you understand that I am not afraid of you or any other teacher in this school," she continued. "I have never been punished in my life, therefore I am not liable to give you the first opportunity. I despise you, because you are a ridiculous prig, and I am glad of an opportunity to tell you so. As for the persons who told you about our plan, words cannot express my contempt for them, and right here I accuse Grace Harlowe and her sorority of getting the information from Mabel Allison yesterday and carrying it to you. They are all tale-bearers and sneaks." With these words, Eleanor angrily flung the book she held on the desk and walked down the aisle toward the door, but Miss Thompson barred her way. "Stop, Miss Savell," she commanded. "You shall not leave this room until you have apologized to the girls whom you have unjustly accused and to me. I will not tolerate such behavior." Eleanor glared at the principal, whose face was rigid in its purpose, then sank into the nearest vacant seat, saying defiantly: "You may keep me here all night if you like, but, I meant what I said, and I shall retract nothing." Nevertheless she did not again attempt to leave the room. She had met with a will stronger than her own and she realized it. Ignoring Eleanor's final remark, Miss Thompson once more turned her attention to the matter in hand. "Those girls who are not in any way implicated in this matter are dismissed," she said. About one third of the girls arose and prepared to leave the study hall, the Phi Sigma Tau being among the number. Grace motioned the girls to hurry. She wished to leave the room with her friends before Miss Thompson noticed them. She knew the principal would insist on an apology from Eleanor, and neither she nor her friends wished it. For the first time since Eleanor had chosen to cut their acquaintance Grace was thoroughly angry with her. She could not forgive Eleanor for having accused her and her friends of carrying tales before almost the entire school; therefore a forced apology would not appease her wounded pride. She drew a breath of relief when the eight girls were safely outside the study hall door. "Hurry up," she said. "We'll talk when we get outside school. Don't stop for a minute. If Miss Thompson notices that we are gone, she'll send after us." The girls silently donned their wraps and fled from the building like fugitives from justice. Once on the street a lively confab ensued, all talking at once. "Let's take turns talking," cried Grace, laughing. "We shall understand each other a little better." "Now, what do you think of Miss Eleanor?" cried Nora. "She has certainly shown her true colors this time." "I never heard of anything more unjust than the way she accused us, when we knew nothing about her old plan," said Marian Barber. "It was abominable," said Eva Allen. The other girls expressed their disapproval in equally frank terms. "I suppose it did look as though I told you girls," said Mabel Allison, who had joined them at the gate. "You know I was with you at recess, right after the paper had been passed to me. I don't think Miss Savell intended me to see it. It was passed to me by mistake." "Very likely," agreed Grace. "I wonder who did tell Miss Thompson. I saw several girls with the paper, but hadn't the remotest idea what it was all about. You know Miss Thompson is awfully down on 'skipping school.' She threatened last year to suspend Edna Wright for it." "There will be weeping and wailing in the 'Skull and Crossbones' crowd,'" exclaimed Nora. "They are all in this mix-up, and if they aren't suspended, they'll be lucky." "Are you going to stand up for Eleanor now, in the face of what she said about all of us before those girls, Grace?" asked Marian Barber hotly. "No," said Grace shortly. "She deserves to be punished. The things she said to Miss Thompson were disgraceful, and I shall never forgive her for the way she spoke of us." "I wouldn't say that, Grace," remarked Anne. "You can never tell what may happen to change your views." "It will have to be something remarkable in this instance," replied Grace grimly, as she bade the girls good-bye. "Remember, girls, basketball practice again to-morrow, and the rest of the week. Miss Thompson has promised me the gymnasium. Please make it a point to be on hand." "Good-bye, Grace," chorused her friends, and went on down the street discussing the probable fate of the would-be truants. * * * * * To return to those youthful transgressors. They were spending a most uncomfortable half hour with Miss Thompson. She was merciless in her denunciation of their conduct, and the terror of suspension arose in more than one mind, as they listened to her scathing remarks. It had all seemed a huge joke when they planned it, but there was nothing funny about it now. When, with the exception of Eleanor, the principal dismissed them, they filed decorously out, very uneasy in mind. Miss Thompson had taken their names, but had not stated their punishment and it was certain that they would be made to feel the full weight of her displeasure. When the last girl had disappeared the principal turned to Eleanor. "I will listen to your apology, Miss Savell," she said coldly. Eleanor looked scornfully at the principal, and was silent. "Do you intend to obey me, Miss Savell?" asked Miss Thompson. Still there was no answer. "Very well," continued Miss Thompson. "Your silence indicates that you are still insubordinate. You may, therefore, choose between two things. You may apologize to me now, and to-morrow to the girls you have accused of treachery, or you may leave this school, not to return to it unless permitted to do so by the Board of Education." Without a word Eleanor rose and walked haughtily out of the room. CHAPTER XVI THE JUNIORS FOREVER When the four classes assembled Thursday morning, every girl, with the exception of Eleanor, was in her seat. Her absence created considerable comment, and it was a matter of speculation as to whether she had purposely absented herself or really had been suspended. After conducting opening exercises, Miss Thompson pronounced sentence on the culprits. They were to forfeit their recess, library and all other privileges until the end of the term. They must turn in two themes every week of not less than six hundred words on certain subjects to be assigned to them. If, during this time, any one of them should be reported for a misdemeanor, they were to be suspended without delay. Their penalty was far from light, but they had not been suspended, and so they resolved to endure it as best they might. Grace Harlowe felt a load lifted from her mind when Miss Thompson publicly announced that she had not received any information from either Mabel Allison or the Phi Sigma Tau. "Thank goodness, none of us were concerned in that affair," she told the members of her basketball team at recess. "There are two girls on the sophomore and three on the freshman team whose basketball ardor will have to cool until after the mid-year exams." "You might know that some of those silly freshmen would get into trouble," said Nora scornfully. "'Twas many and many a year ago, In an age beyond recall, That Nora, the freshman, lowly sat At one end of the study hall." recited Anne Pierson in dramatic tones. There was a burst of laughter from the girls at this effusion, in which Nora herself joined. "What a delicate way of reminding me that I once was a freshman!" she exclaimed. "Anne has a new accomplishment," said Grace. "She can spout poetry without trying." "Small credit is due me," said Anne, smiling. "Anyone can twist 'Annabel Lee' to suit the occasion." "By the way, Anne," said Grace, "as you are a poet, you must compose a basketball song to-day, and I'll see that the juniors all have copies. It's time we had one. Let me see what would be a good tune?" "'Rally Round the Flag,'" suggested Miriam Nesbit. "That has a dandy swing to it." Grace hummed a few bars. "The very thing," she exclaimed. "Now, Anne, get busy at once. You'd better sing the tune to yourself all the time you're writing it, then you'll be sure to put more dash and spirit into it." "I wish the day of the game were here," said Jessica plaintively. "I have been practising a most encouraging howl. Hippy, David and Reddy have a new one, too. Reddy says it's 'marvelously extraordinary and appallingly great.'" "I can imagine it to be all that and more if Hippy had anything to do with its origin," said Nora. "Wasn't it nice of Miss Thompson to exonerate us publicly?" asked Anne. "She is always just," replied Grace. "I can't understand how Eleanor could be so rude and disagreeable to her. She has disliked Miss Thompson from the first." "I wonder whether she apologized to Miss Thompson last night," mused Grace. "I feel sure that she didn't, and I am just as sure that she won't get back until she does." "We shall manage to exist if she doesn't," said Jessica dryly. She felt a personal grudge against Eleanor for her accusation against Mabel, who had grown very dear to her and whom she mothered like a hen with one chicken. "She'll probably appear at the game in all her glory," said Miriam Nesbit. "She can go to that, even though she is on bad terms with the school." The recess bell cut short the conversation and the girls returned to their desks with far better ideas of the coming game than of the afternoon's lessons. Saturday, December 12, dawned cold and clear, and the girls on both teams were in high spirits as they hustled into their respective locker-rooms and rapidly donned their gymnasium suits. The spectators had not yet begun to arrive, as it was still early, so the girls indulged in a little warming-up practice, did a few stunts and skipped about, overflowing with animal spirits. Julia Crosby and Grace took turns sprinting around the gymnasium three times in succession, while Miriam Nesbit timed them, Grace finishing just two seconds ahead of Julia. By a quarter of two the gallery was fairly well filled and by five minutes of two it was crowded. The juniors, with the exception of Eleanor Savell's faction, arrived in a body, gave the High School yell the moment they spied their team, and then burst forth with the basketball song, led by Ruth Deane, a tall junior, who stood up and beat time with both hands. Anne had composed the song the week before. The juniors had all received copies of the words and had learned them by heart. They now sang with the utmost glee, and came out particularly strong on the chorus, which ran: "The juniors forever, hurrah, fans, hurrah! Our team is a winner, our captain's a star. And we'll drive the senior foe, from the basket every time. Shouting the war cry of the juniors." There was a great clapping of hands from the admirers of the juniors at this effort, but the seniors promptly responded from the other end of the gallery to the tune of Dixie, with: "The seniors are the real thing. Hurrah! Hurrah! Our gallant team now takes its stand, And all the baskets soon will land. We shout, we sing, the praises of the seniors." Hardly had the last notes died away, when the referee blew the whistle and the teams hustled to their positions. Grace and Julia Crosby faced each other, beamed amiably and shook hands, then stood vigilant, eyes on the ball that the referee balanced in her hands. Up it went, the whistle sounded and the two captains sprang straight for it. Grace captured it, however, and sent it flying toward Miriam, who was so carefully guarded that she dared not attempt to make the basket, and after a feint managed to throw it to Nora, who tried for the basket at long range and missed. There was a general scramble for the ball, and for five minutes neither team scored; then Marian Barber dropped a neat field goal, and soon after Grace scored on a foul. The junior fans howled joyfully at the good work of their team. The seniors did not intend to allow them to score again in a hurry. They played such a close guarding game that, try as they might, the juniors made no headway. Then Julia Crosby scored on a field goal, making the score 3 to 2. This spurred the junior team on to greater effort, and Miriam made a brilliant throw to basket that brought forth an ovation from the gallery. This ended the first half, with the score 5 to 2 in favor of the juniors. "They'll have to work to catch up with us now," said Nora O'Malley triumphantly to the members of the team, who sat resting in the little side room off the gymnasium. "We have the lead, but we can't afford to boast yet," replied Grace. "The seniors played a fine game last half, and they'll strain every nerve to pile up their score next half." "We shall win," said Miriam Nesbit confidently. "I feel it in my bones." "Let's hope that your bones are true prophets," laughed Marian Barber. "O girls!" exclaimed Eva Allen from the open door, in which she had been standing looking up at the gallery. "Eleanor is here. She and her satellites are sitting away up on the back seat of the gallery." "Where?" asked Nora, going to the door. "Oh, yes, I see her. She looks as haughty as ever. It's a wonder she'd condescend to come and watch her mortal enemies play." "I suppose she hopes we'll lose," said Marian Barber. "That would fill her with joy." "Then we'll see that she goes away in a gloomy frame of mind," said Nora, "for we're going to win, and don't you forget to remember it." Just then the whistle blew, and there was a scramble for places. This time Julia Crosby won the toss-up, and followed it up with a field goal. Then the seniors scored twice on fouls, tying the score. The juniors set their teeth and waded in with all their might and main, setting a whirlwind pace that caused their fans to shout with wild enthusiasm and fairly dazed their opponents. Grace alone netted four foul goals, and the sensational playing of Nora and Miriam was a matter of wonder to the spectators, who conceded it to be the fastest, most brilliant half ever played by an Oakdale team. The game ended with the score 15 to 6 in favor of the juniors, whose loyal supporters swooped down upon them the moment the whistle blew and pranced about, whooping like savages. "That was the greatest game I ever saw played under this roof," cried David, wringing Grace's hand, while Hippy hopped about, uttering little yelps of joy. Reddy circled about the victors almost too delighted for words. He was filled with profound admiration for them. "The boys' crack team couldn't have played a better game," he said solemnly, and the girls knew that he could pay them no higher compliment, for this team was considered invincible by the High School boys. "Perhaps we'll challenge you some day, Reddy," said Grace mischievously. "I believe you'd win at that," he said so earnestly that every one laughed. "It was a great triumph," said Jessica proudly, as she stood with Mabel and Anne in the locker-room while the girls resumed street clothing. "And my new howl was a success, too." "Glad to know that," said Grace. "There were so many different kinds of noises I couldn't distinguish it." "There was one noise that started that was promptly hushed," said Anne. "You heard it, too, didn't you Jessica?" "Oh, yes, girls, I intended telling you before this," replied Jessica. "Just before the last half started, Miss Thompson and Miss Kane came in and walked to the other end of the gallery. Well, Eleanor and her crowd saw them, and what do you suppose they did?" "Hard to tell," said Nora. "They hissed Miss Thompson. Very softly, you may be sure," continued Jessica, "but it was hissing, just the same. For a wonder, she didn't hear it, but every girl in the junior class did. They were sitting down front on the same side as Eleanor's crowd. You know what a temper Ruth Deane has and how ferocious she can look? Well, the minute she heard it she went back there like a flash, looking for all the world like a thunder cloud. She talked for a moment to Edna and Eleanor. They tossed their heads, but they didn't hiss any more." "What did Ruth say to them?" asked Grace curiously. "It must have been something remarkable, or they wouldn't have subsided so suddenly." "It was," giggled Jessica. "She told them that if they didn't stop it instantly, the juniors would pick them up bodily, carry them downstairs to the classroom and lock them in until the game was over." "How absurd!" exclaimed Grace. "They would never have dared to go that far." "I don't know about that," said Nora O'Malley. "Ruth Deane is a terror when she gets fairly started. Besides, she would have had both High Schools on her side. Even the boys like Miss Thompson." "It was an effectual threat at any rate," said Jessica. "They left before the game was over. Perhaps they were afraid of being waylaid." "I suppose they couldn't bear to see us win," said Grace. "But, O girls, I am so proud of our invincible team. It was a great game and a well-earned victory." "We ought to celebrate," said Miriam. "Come on. Here we are at Stillman's." Without waiting for a second invitation, the Phi Sigma Tau trooped joyfully into the drug store. CHAPTER XVII THE LAST STRAW The days glided by rapidly. The Christmas holidays came, bringing with them the usual round of gayeties. Thanks to the Phi Sigma Tau, the lonely element of High School girls did not lack for good cheer. As at Thanksgiving, each member of the sorority entertained two or more girls on Christmas and New Year's, and were amply repaid for their good deed by the warm appreciation of their guests. Tom Gray came down for the holidays, bringing with him his roommate, Arnold Evans, a fair-haired, blue-eyed young man of twenty, who proved himself thoroughly likable in every respect. He lost no time in cultivating Miriam's acquaintance, and the two soon became firm friends. Tom gave a dinner to his roommate, inviting "the seven originals," as he expressed it, and Miriam, who felt that at last she really belonged in the charmed circle. David was even more pleased than his sister over the turn affairs had taken. To have Miriam a member of his own particular "crowd" had always been David's dearest wish, and the advent of Arnold Evans had done away with Miriam being the odd one. So the circle was enlarged to ten young people, who managed to crowd the two weeks' vacation with all sorts of healthful pleasures. There were coasting and sleighing parties, and on one occasion a walk to old Jean's hut in Upton Wood, where they were hospitably entertained by the old hunter, who had smilingly pointed to the wolf skins on the wall, asking them if they remembered the winter day two years before when those same skins held wolves who were far too lively for comfort. Then the story of their escape had to be gone over again for Arnold's benefit. They had stayed until the moon came up, and, accompanied by the old hunter, had walked back to Oakdale in the moonlight. After the holidays came the brief period of hard study before the dreaded mid-year examinations. Basketball enthusiasm declined rapidly and a remarkable devotion to study ensued that lasted until examinations began. By the last week in January, the ordeal was past. Eleanor Savell had not yet returned to school. Whether or not she would be allowed to return was a question that occasioned a great deal of discussion among three lower classes of girls. Edna Wright and the other members of the sorority organized by Eleanor were loud in their expressions of disapproval as to Miss Thompson's "severity" toward Eleanor. They talked so freely about it, that it reached the principal's ears. She lost no time in sending for them, and after a session in the office, they emerged looking subdued and crestfallen; and after that it was noted that when in conversation with their schoolmates, they made no further allusion to Miss Thompson's methods of discipline. There was a faint murmur of surprise around the study hall one morning, however, when Miss Thompson walked in to conduct the opening exercises, accompanied by Eleanor, who, without looking at the school, seated herself at the desk nearest to where the principal stood. When the morning exercises were concluded, Miss Thompson nodded slightly to Eleanor, who turned rather pale, then rose, and, facing the school, said in a clear voice: "I wish to apologize to Miss Thompson for impertinence and insubordination. I also wish to publicly apologize to the members of the Phi Sigma Tau for having accused them of treachery concerning a certain matter that recently came up in this school." "Your apology is accepted, Miss Savell. You may take your own seat," said the principal. Without looking to the right or left, Eleanor walked proudly up the aisle to her seat, followed by the gaze of those girls who could not refrain from watching her. The Phi Sigma Tau, to a member, sat with eyes straight to the front. They had no desire to increase Eleanor's discomfiture, for they realized what this public apology must have cost her, although they were all equally puzzled as to what had prompted her to humble herself. Eleanor's apology was not due, however, to a change of heart. She still despised Miss Thompson as thoroughly as on the day that she had manifested her open scorn and dislike for the principal. As for Grace and her friends, Eleanor was particularly bitter against them, and laid at their door a charge of which they were entirely innocent. Eleanor had told her aunt nothing of her recent trouble in school, but had feigned illness as an excuse for remaining at home. After attending the basketball game her aunt had told her rather sharply that if she were able to attend basketball games, she was certainly able to continue her studies. Eleanor had agreed to return to school the following Monday, and had started from home at the usual time with no intention whatever of honoring the High School with her presence. She passed the morning in the various stores, lunched in town and went to a matinée in the afternoon. In this manner she idled the days away until the holiday vacation came, congratulating herself upon her success in pulling wool over the eyes of her long-suffering aunt. But a day of reckoning was at hand, for just before the close of vacation Miss Thompson chanced to call at Mrs. Gray's home while Mrs. Gray was entertaining Miss Nevin, and the truth came out. When Miss Nevin confronted her niece with the deception Eleanor had practised upon her, a stormy scene had followed, and Eleanor had accused Grace Harlowe of telling tales to Mrs. Gray, and Mrs. Gray of carrying them to her aunt. This had angered Miss Nevin to the extent that she had immediately ordered Eleanor to her room without telling her from whom she had received her information. For three days Eleanor had remained in her room, refusing to speak to her aunt, who, at the end of that time, decreed that if she did not at once apologize roundly and return to school her violin and piano would both be taken from her until she should again become reasonable. In the face of this new punishment, which was the severest penalty that could be imposed upon her, Eleanor remained obdurate. Her violin and piano were removed from her room and the piano in the drawing room was closed. Still she stubbornly held out, and it was not until the day before the beginning of the new term that she went to her aunt and coldly agreed to comply with her wishes, providing she might have her violin and piano once more. Aside from this conversation they had exchanged no words, and Eleanor therefore entered school that morning still believing the Phi Sigma Tau to be at the bottom of her misfortune. In spite of her recent assertion that she could not forgive Eleanor, Grace's resentment vanished at sight of her enemy's humiliation. A public apology was the last thing that either she or her friends desired. Her promise to Mrs. Gray loomed up before her. If Eleanor really did believe the Phi Sigma Tau innocent, then perhaps this would be the opportunity for reconciliation. After a little thought, she tore a sheet of paper from her notebook and wrote: "DEAR ELEANOR: "The members of the Phi Sigma Tau are very sorry about your having to make an apology. We did not wish it. We think you showed a great deal of the right kind of courage in making the public apology you did both to Miss Thompson and to us. Won't you come back to the Phi Sigma Tau? "YOUR SINCERE FRIENDS." At recess Grace showed the note to her friends. She had signed her name to the note and requested the others to do the same. Here she met with some opposition. Nora, Marian Barber and Eva Allen were strongly opposed to sending it. But Jessica, Anne and Miriam agreed with Grace that it would be in fulfillment of the original promise to Mrs. Gray to help Eleanor whenever they could do so. So the Phi Sigma Tau signed their names and the note was passed to Eleanor directly after recess. She opened it, read it through, and an expression of such intense scorn passed over her face that Nora, who sat near her and who was covertly watching her, knew at once that Grace's flag of truce had been trampled in the dust. Picking up her pen, Eleanor wrote rapidly for a brief space, underlined what she had written, signed her name with a flourish, and, folding and addressing her note, sent it to Grace. Rather surprised at receiving an answer so quickly, Grace unfolded the note. Then she colored, looked grave and, putting the note in the back of the text-book she was holding, went on studying. By the time school was over for the day, the girls of the Phi Sigma Tau knew that Eleanor had once more repudiated their overtures of friendship and were curious to see what she had written. "Don't keep us in suspense. Let us see what she wrote," exclaimed Nora O'Malley as the seven girls crossed the campus together. "Here it is," said Grace, handing Nora the note. Nora eagerly unfolded the paper and the girls crowded around, reading over her shoulder, Grace walking a little apart from them. Then Nora read aloud: "TO THE PHI SIGMA TAU: "Your kind appreciation of my conduct in the matter of apology is really remarkable, coupled with the fact that your inability to refrain from discussing my personal affairs with Mrs. Gray forced this recent humiliation upon me. To ask me to return to your society is only adding insult to injury. I am not particularly surprised at this, however. It merely proves you to be greater hypocrites than you at first seemed. "ELEANOR SAVELL." "Well, of all things!" exclaimed Marian Barber. "Grace Harlowe, if you ever attempt to conciliate her again, I'll disown you." "What does she mean by saying that we discussed her affairs with Mrs. Gray?" cried Jessica impatiently. "We have always tried to put her best side out to dear Mrs. Gray, and you all know it." "The best thing to do," said Anne, smiling a little, "is to tell Mrs. Gray all about it. We might as well live up to the reputation Eleanor has thrust upon us. It isn't pleasant to admit that we have failed with Eleanor, but it isn't our fault, at any rate. I am going there this afternoon. I'll tell her." "May I go with you, Anne?" asked Grace. "You know I'd love to have you," Anne replied. "As long as I was the first to agree to look out for Eleanor, I have decided I had better be with you at the finish," said Grace, as the two girls walked slowly up the drive. "The finish?" asked Anne. "Why do you say that, Grace?" "You've heard about the last straw that broke the camel's back, haven't you?" asked Grace. "Well, Eleanor's note is the last straw. I know I said that once before, and I broke my word. I don't intend to break it again, however. I am going to ask Mrs. Gray to release me from my promise." CHAPTER XVIII THE PLAY'S THE THING Excitement ran high in the three lower classes one morning in early February when Miss Thompson requested that those interested in the production of a Shakespearian play go to the library directly after school, there to discuss the situation. When the gong sounded dismissal, about sixty girls with dramatic aspirations made for the library. The Phi Sigma Tau entered in a body. They had decided at recess to carry away as many laurels as possible, providing they could get into the cast. Miss Tebbs, teacher of elocution; Miss Kane, teacher of gymnastics, and Miss Thompson stood at one side of the library talking earnestly as they noted each newcomer. "Oh, look!" whispered Jessica, clutching Nora's arm. "There's Eleanor and her crowd." "Then look out for squalls," replied Nora. "She'll try to be the whole cast, and will get a magnificent case of sulks if she can't have her own way." "Sh-h-h," warned Eva Allen. "She'll hear you. Besides, Miss Thompson is going to speak." The principal held up her hand for silence and the groups of girls engaged in subdued conversation ceased talking and turned their attention toward her. "You are all aware that each year the senior class gives a play, which they choose, manage and produce with no assistance save that given by Miss Tebbs," said the principal. "So far the three lower classes have never given a play. Some time ago Miss Tebbs suggested that as we need money for special books in the library which our yearly appropriation does not cover, we might present a Shakespearian play with good effect, choosing the cast from the freshman, sophomore and junior classes. "The first thing to be thought of is the play itself. After due consideration, we decided that 'As You Like It' is better suited to our needs than any of the other Shakespearian dramas. In it are twenty-one speaking characters, besides numerous lords, pages and attendants. We shall probably use about fifty girls, thus making it an elaborate production. By the attendance this afternoon I should imagine that you are heartily in favor of our project and that we shall have no trouble in making up the cast. As Miss Tebbs has charge of the situation, I yield the floor to her. She will explain to you about the giving out of the parts." There was an enthusiastic clapping of hands as Miss Thompson smiled and nodded to the girls, then left the room. Miss Tebbs then stated that on Friday afternoon after school there would be a "try out" for parts in the gymnasium, in order to find out what girls were most capable of doing good work in the cast. Just what the test would be had not been decided. It would be well, however, to study the chosen play and become familiar with it; also each girl must bring a copy of the play with her. If the girls wished to ask any questions, she would answer them as far as possible. Miss Kane would help with the posing and coaching when the thing was fairly started. The girls crowded around Miss Tebbs and Miss Kane, asking all sorts of questions. "One at a time, girls," laughed Miss Tebbs. "I have not asked you to enact a mob scene." Under cover of the confusion, Grace and her three friends slipped out of the library. "'The play's the thing,'" quoted Nora, "and me for it." "That is for the judges to decide," said Jessica sagely. "Perhaps they won't even look at you." "Do you think any one could see my Irish countenance and fail to be impressed?" demanded Nora. "Really and truly, Nora, the more you travel with Hippy, the more you talk like him," remarked Grace. "I consider that a compliment," replied Nora, laughing. "Hippy says awfully funny things." "Look at our little Anne," said Jessica. "She is actually dreaming. Tell us about it, dear." "I was thinking of the play," said Anne dreamily. "I do so want a part, if only a little one." "You'll be chosen for Rosalind, see if you aren't," predicted Grace. "Oh, no," said Anne. "Some one else will be sure to get that. Besides, I'm too short." "But, Anne, you've had stage experience," said Jessica. "You ought to get it." "Not in a Shakespearian play," replied Anne, shaking her head. "I might not do well at all with that kind of part." "Never fear, you'll be the star before you know it," said Nora. By Friday, there was nothing on the school horizon save the cherished play. Before school, at recess, and even in classes it was the topic of the hour. To the eager girls the day seemed particularly long, and a heartfelt sigh went up when the dismissal gong rang. As the four chums hurried toward the gymnasium, Anne suddenly caught Grace by the arm with a faint gasp of surprise. Glancing quickly down at her friend to ascertain the cause of Anne's sudden agitation, Grace saw her friend's eyes following the figure of a tall, distinguished-looking man who was just disappearing down the corridor leading to the gymnasium. "What's the matter, Anne?" asked Grace. "Do you know that man?" "No," replied Anne, "but I know who he is." "He must be a remarkable person, considering the way you gasped and clutched me," laughed Grace. "That man is Everett Southard, the great Shakespearian actor," said Anne almost reverently. "I saw him in 'Hamlet' and his acting is wonderful." "No wonder you were surprised," said Grace. "It fairly takes my breath. I've seen ever so many pictures of him and read magazine articles about him. What do you suppose he is doing in Oakdale, and at the High School--of all places?" "Time will tell," said Nora. Then she suddenly clasped her hands. "O girls, I know! He's here for the try-out!" "Why of course he is," exclaimed Grace. "Now I remember Miss Tebbs showed me a magazine picture of him one day last year, and told me that she had known him since childhood. Besides, he is playing a three-night engagement in Albany. I read it in the paper last night. It's as plain as can be. Miss Tebbs has asked him to run up here and pick out the cast." "Good gracious," said Jessica. "I shall retire in confusion if he looks at me. I won't dare aspire to a part now, and I had designs on the part of Phebe." "Don't be a goose," said Nora. "He's only a man. He can't hurt you. I think having him here will be a lark. Won't some of those girls put on airs, though. There he is talking with Miss Tebbs now." The girls entered the gymnasium to find there nearly all of those who had attended the first meeting in the library increased by about a score of girls who had decided at the last minute to try for parts. Eleanor stood at one end of the great room, with Edna Wright and Daisy Culver. Grace thought she had never seen Eleanor looking more beautiful. She was wearing a fur coat and hat far too costly for a school girl, and carried a huge muff. Her coat was thrown open, disclosing a perfectly tailored gown of brown, with trimmings of dull gold braid. She was talking animatedly and her two friends were apparently hanging on every word she uttered. "No wonder Eleanor has an opinion of herself," said Nora. "Look at Daisy and Edna. They act as though Eleanor were the Sultan of Turkey or the Shah of Persia, or some other high and mighty dignitary. They almost grovel before her." "Never mind, Nora," said Grace. "As long as you retain your Irish independence what do you care about what other girls do?" "I don't care. Only they do act so silly," said Nora, with a sniff of contempt. "Sh-h-h!" said Jessica softly. "Miss Tebbs is going to call the meeting to order." A hush fell over the assembled girls as Miss Tebbs stepped forward to address them. "I am very glad to see so many girls here," she said. "It shows that you are all interested in the coming play. Although you cannot all have parts, I hope that you will feel satisfied with the selection made this afternoon. In order that each member of the cast may be chosen on her merit alone, my old friend, Mr. Southard, kindly consented to come from Albany for the sole purpose of giving us the benefit of his great Shakespearian experience. Allow me to introduce Mr. Everett Southard." He was greeted with a round of applause, and after bowing his thanks, the eminent actor plunged at once into the business at hand. He spoke favorably of the idea of an all-girl cast, saying that each year many girls' colleges presented Shakespearian plays with marked success. The main thing to be considered was the intelligent delivery of the great dramatist's lines. The thing to do would be to find out what girls could most ably portray the various characters, it would be necessary to try each girl separately with a few lines from the play. In order to facilitate matters, he suggested that those girls who really desired speaking parts step to one side of the room, while those who wished merely to make the stage pictures, step to the other. Out of the eighty girls, about thirty-five only stepped over to the side from which the principal characters were to be chosen. Many of the girls had no serious intentions whatever regarding the play, and the awe inspired by Mr. Southard's presence made them too timid to venture to open their mouths before him. Jessica, whose courage had fled, would have been among the latter if Nora had not seized her firmly by the arm as she prepared to flee and marched her over with the rest of the Phi Sigma Tau. Eleanor and Edna Wright were among the junior contestants, while there was a good showing of sophomores and freshmen. Mr. Southard took in the aspirants with keen, comprehensive glance. His eyes rested a shade longer on Eleanor. She made a striking picture as she stood looking with apparent indifference at the girls about her. Then his quick eye traveled to Grace's fine face and graceful figure, and then on to Anne, whose small face was alive with the excitement of the moment. A breathless silence had fallen over the room. Every eye was fixed on the actor, who stood with a small leather-covered edition of "As You Like It" in his hand. Miss Tebbs stood by with a pencil and pad. The great try-out was about to begin. CHAPTER XIX THE TRY OUT "Will the young lady on the extreme right please come forward?" said Mr. Southard pleasantly, indicating Marian Barber, who rather timidly obeyed, taking the book he held out to her. At his request, she began to read from Orlando's entrance, in the first scene of the fourth act. She faltered a little on the first two lines, but shortly regained her courage and read on in her best manner. When she had read about a dozen lines he motioned for her to cease reading, said something to Miss Tebbs, who made an entry on her pad, and beckoned to the girl next to Marian to come forward. Straight down the line he went, sometimes stopping a girl at her third or fourth line, rarely allowing them to read farther than the eleventh or twelfth. Nora was the second Phi Sigma Tau to undergo the ordeal. As she briskly delivered the opening lines, the actor stopped her. Taking the book from her, he turned to the part where Touchstone, quaintly humorous, holds forth upon "the lie seven times removed." "Read this," he said briefly, holding out the book to Nora. Nora began and read glibly on, unconsciously emphasizing as she did so. Down one page she read and half way through the next before Mr. Southard seemed satisfied. Then he again held conversation with Miss Tebbs, who nodded and looked smilingly toward Nora, who stood scowling faintly, rather ill-pleased at attracting so much attention. "It looks as though Nora had made an impression, doesn't it!" whispered Jessica to Grace, who was about to reply when Mr. Southard motioned to her. Grace, who knew the scene by heart, went fearlessly forward, and read the lines with splendid emphasis. Marian and Eva Allen followed her, and acquitted themselves with credit. Then Eleanor's turn came. Handing her coat, which she had taken off and carried upon her arm, to Edna Wright, she walked proudly over, then, without a trace of self-consciousness, began the reading of the designated lines. Her voice sounded unusually clear and sweet, yet lacked something of the power of expression displayed by Grace in her rendering of the same scene. When she had finished she handed the book back with an air of studied indifference she was far from feeling. She had decided in her own mind that Rosalind was the part best suited to her, and felt that the honor now lay between herself and Grace. No other girls, with the exception of Nora, had been allowed to read as much of any scene as they two had been requested to read. But Eleanor had reckoned without her host, for there was one girl who had not as yet come to the front. The girl was Anne Pierson, who in some mysterious manner had been all but overlooked, until Miss Tebbs spied her standing between Grace and Nora. "Can you spare us a moment more, Mr. Southard?" said Miss Tebbs to the actor, who was preparing to leave. "You have almost missed hearing one of my best girls. Come here, Anne, and prove the truth of my words." Grace drew a long breath of relief. She had eagerly awaited Anne's turn and was about to call Miss Tebbs's attention to Anne, just as that teacher had observed her. As most of the girls present had heard Anne recite, there was a great craning of necks and a faint murmur of expectancy as she took her place. They expected her to live up to her reputation and she had scarcely delivered the opening line before they realized that she would not disappoint them. Her musical voice vibrated with expression and the mock-serious bantering tones in which she delivered Rosalind's witty speeches caused Mr. Southard to smile and nod approvingly as she gave full value to the immortal lines. Her change of voice from Rosalind to Orlando was wholly delightful, and so charmingly did she depict both characters that when she ended with Orlando's exit she received a little ovation from the listening girls, in which Mr. Southard and Miss Tebbs joined. "She's won! She's won! I'm so glad," Grace said softly to Nora and Jessica. "I wanted her to play Rosalind, and I knew she could do it. Look, girls! Mr. Southard is shaking hands with her." True enough, Anne was shyly shaking hands with the great actor, who was congratulating her warmly upon her recent effort. "I have never before heard an amateur read those lines as well as you have to-day, Miss Pierson," he said. "I am sure Rosalind will be safe with you, for few professional women could have done better. If I am anywhere near here when your play is enacted, I shall make it a point to come and see it." Shaking hands warmly with Miss Tebbs and bowing to the admiring girls, Mr. Southard hurriedly departed, leaving his audience devoured with curiosity as to the chosen ones. Anne stood perfectly still, looking rather dazed. The unexpected had happened. She was to have not only a part, but the best part, at that. The girls gathered eagerly about her, congratulating her on her success, but she was too overcome to thank them, and smiled at them through a mist of tears. "Look at Eleanor," whispered Nora to Grace. "She's so angry she can't see straight. She must have wanted to play Rosalind herself. I told you she'd sulk if she couldn't be the leading lady." Grace glanced over toward Eleanor, who stood biting her lip, her hands clenched and her face set in angry lines. "She looks like the 'Vendetta' or the 'Camorra' or some other Italian vengeance agency, doesn't she?" said Nora with a giggle. Grace laughed in spite of herself at Nora's remark, but regretted it the next moment, for Eleanor saw the glances directed toward her and heard Nora's giggle. She turned white and half started toward Grace, then stopped, and, turning her back upon the Phi Sigma Tau, began talking to Edna Wright. Just then Miss Tebbs, who had been busy with her list, announced that she would now name the cast, and all conversation ceased as by magic. Miriam Nesbit was intrusted with the "Duke," while Marian Barber was to play "Frederick," his brother. Jessica was in raptures over "Phebe," while Nora had captured "Touchstone," Eva Allen, "Audrey," and, to her great delight, Grace was told that she was to play "Orlando," with Eleanor as "Celia." The other parts were assigned among the sophomores and freshmen who had made the best showing, Mabel Allison getting the part of Jaques. "You will report for rehearsal next Tuesday afternoon after school, when typewritten copies of your parts will be handed you," said Miss Tebbs, as she was about to leave the room. The moment Miss Tebbs ceased talking the girls began, as they gathered in little groups around the lucky ones and gave vent to their feelings with many exclamations of approval and congratulation. Several girls approached Eleanor, but she fairly ran from them and hurried out of the gymnasium after Miss Tebbs with Edna Wright and Daisy Culver at her heels. "There goes Eleanor after Miss Tebbs," observed Marian Barber. "What do you suppose she's up to now?" "Oh, never mind her," said Nora impatiently. "You'll see enough of her during rehearsal. It will be so pleasant to rehearse with her, considering that she isn't on speaking terms with any of us." Had the girl chums known then what Eleanor "was up to," it would have been a matter of surprise and indignation to all of them. After imperiously commanding her satellites to wait for her in the corridor, Eleanor overtook Miss Tebbs just outside Miss Thompson's office. "I want to speak to you, Miss Tebbs," said Eleanor as the teacher paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Well, what can I do for you, Miss Savell?" "I want to speak to you about the play. I wish to play Rosalind," said Eleanor with calm assurance. "But, my dear child, Anne Pierson is to play Rosalind," replied Miss Tebbs. "Mr. Southard particularly commended her work. Did you not hear what he said?" "Oh, yes; I heard him complimenting her," replied Eleanor complacently, "but I feel sure that I can do more with it than she can. I did not do my best work to-day. Besides, Miss Pierson is too short. I am certain of making a better appearance." "What you say about appearance is quite true, Miss Savell," replied Miss Tebbs frankly. "Beyond a doubt you would make a beautiful Rosalind; but I am convinced that no other girl can enact the part with the spirit and dash that Miss Pierson can. Your part of Celia is very well suited to you, and you can win plenty of applause playing it. You must understand, however, that once having given out a part, I should not attempt to take it from the girl I had given it to simply because some other girl desired it. That would be both unfair and unjust. The only thing I could promise you would be to allow you to understudy Rosalind in case anything happened to Miss Pierson. Would you care to understudy the part?" Eleanor was silent for a moment. Miss Tebbs, looking a trifle impatient, stood awaiting her reply. "I should like to do that," Eleanor said slowly, a curious light in her eyes. "Thank you very much, Miss Tebbs." "You are welcome," replied the teacher. "Be sure and be prompt at rehearsal next Tuesday." As Miss Tebbs entered the office, Eleanor turned and walked slowly down the corridor. "So Miss Tebbs thinks I ought to be satisfied with 'Celia,'" she muttered. "Very well, I'll rehearse Celia, but I'll understudy Rosalind, and it will be very strange if something doesn't happen to Miss Pierson." CHAPTER XX THE ANONYMOUS LETTER After the parts had been given out, rehearsals for the play went merrily on. There were many hitches at first, but finally things settled down to smooth running order, and as the time for its presentation approached Miss Tebbs had good reason to feel jubilant. Each girl seemed bent on distinguishing herself, and that teacher was heard laughingly to declare that she had an "all star cast." In spite of rehearsals, Grace Harlowe's team found time for a few basketball games, and whipped the senior team twice in succession, much to the disgust of Captain Julia Crosby, who threatened to go into deep mourning over what she called "her dead and gone team." She even composed a mournful ditty, which she sang in their ears in a wailing minor key whenever she passed any of them, and practically tormented them, until they actually did win one hard-fought victory over the juniors, "just to keep Julia from perpetrating her eternal chant," as one of them remarked. Eleanor had outwardly settled down to the routine of school work in a way that surprised even her aunt. But inwardly she was seething with rebellion toward Miss Thompson and hatred of the Phi Sigma Tau. She had fully determined that Anne Pierson should never play Rosalind, and had hit upon a plan by which she hoped to accomplish her ends. The Phi Sigma Tau were completely carried away with Anne's impersonation of Shakespeare's heroine, and any blow struck at Anne would be equally felt by the others. Anne had been absent from one rehearsal and thus Eleanor had had an opportunity to show her ability. She had done very well and Miss Tebbs had praised her work, though in her secret heart Eleanor knew that Anne's work was finer than her own. But the means of gratifying her own personal vanity blinded her to everything except the fact that she wanted to play Rosalind regardless of Anne's superior ability. To settle Miss Thompson was not so easy a matter, and though Eleanor racked her brain for some telling method of vengeance, no inspiration came until one afternoon in early March. Professor La Roche, irritated to the point of frenzy, ordered her from his class, with instructions to report herself to Miss Thompson. As she entered the open door of the principal's office she noticed that the room was empty of occupants. She stopped, hesitated, then went softly in, a half-formed idea in her mind that did not at first assume definite shape. "If Miss Thompson comes in, I suppose I shall have to report myself," thought Eleanor. "While I'm here, I'll just look about and see if I can't find some way to even up that public apology she made me make." Gliding over to the open desk, she ran her eye hastily over the various papers spread out upon it. At first she found nothing of importance, but suddenly she began to laugh softly, her face lighted with malicious glee. "Here's the wonderful paper that Miss Tabby Cat Thompson is going to read before the 'Arts and Crafts Club' to-morrow," she murmured. "I heard her telling Miss Chester about it yesterday. She said it took her six weeks to prepare it on account of the time she spent in looking up her facts. It will take me less than six minutes to dispose of it." Seizing the essay with both hands, she tore it across, and then tore it again and again, until it was literally reduced to shreds. These she gathered into a heap and left in the middle of the desk. Glancing about to see that no one was near, she was about to step into the corridor when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Quick as a flash she flung open the door of the little lavatory just outside the office and concealed herself just as a girl turned from the main corridor into the short passage leading to the principal's office. Eleanor, holding the door slightly ajar, peered stealthily out at the new-comer, who was none other than Grace Harlowe. Having no recitation that hour, Grace had run up to the office to obtain Miss Thompson's permission to use the gymnasium that afternoon for basketball practice. A hasty glance inside the office revealed to Grace that the principal was not there. She hesitated a moment, walked toward the desk, then turned and went out again. The moment she turned the corner, Eleanor darted out of the lavatory and fled down the corridor, just as the bell rang for the end of the period. In a moment the main corridor was filled with girls from the various classrooms, and, joining them, Eleanor entered the study hall without reporting her dismissal from French class. She was somewhat nervous and trembled a little at the thought of her near discovery, but felt not the slightest qualm of conscience at her ruthless destruction of another's property. On the contrary, she experienced a wicked satisfaction, and smiled to herself as she pictured Miss Thompson's consternation when the latter should discover her loss. Best of all, the principal would never find out who did it, for Eleanor vowed never to admit her guilt. She decided to go at once to Professor La Roche and apologize, so that he would not report her to Miss Thompson. Without a doubt an effort would be made to find the culprit, and if it were proven that she did not return to the study hall as soon as dismissed from French, she might be asked to account for it, and thus call down suspicion upon herself. On her way to rhetoric recitation, she stopped at Professor La Roche's door, greatly astonishing him by a prettily worded apology, which he readily accepted and beamed upon her with forgiving good-nature. Feeling that she had bridged that difficulty, Eleanor entered the classroom to find Miss Thompson talking in low, guarded tones to Miss Chester, who looked both, shocked and surprised. She caught the words "entirely destroyed," "serious offence" and "investigate at once," Then the principal left the room and Miss Chester turned to the class and began the recitation. To Eleanor's surprise, nothing was said of the matter that day. School was dismissed as usual, and the girls went out without dreaming that on the morrow they would all be placed under suspicion until the person guilty of the outrage was found. The following morning, after opening exercises, Miss Thompson stated briefly the destruction of her paper. "I was out of my office barely ten minutes," she said, "yet when I returned some one had ruthlessly torn the essay to bits and left the pieces piled in the middle of my desk. As I had spent considerable time and research in getting the subject matter together, the destruction of the paper is particularly annoying. Whoever was contemptible enough to engage in such mischief must have known this. It looks like a deliberate attempt to insult me. It is hard to believe one of my girls guilty, yet it is not probable that any one outside could be responsible. A girl who would wilfully do such a thing is a menace to the school and should be removed from it. I am not going to any extreme measures to find the miscreant. Were I to question each girl in turn I fear the offender might perjure herself rather than admit her guilt. But I am confident that sooner or later I shall know the truth of the matter." As Miss Thompson concluded, she looked over the roomful of girls who sat watching her with serious faces. Which one of them was guilty? Time alone would tell. At recess that morning the subject of the play was for once forgotten in the excitement occasioned by the principal's recent disclosure. Groups of girls indignantly denied even the thought of such mischief. "I don't believe Miss Thompson would ever suspect us of any such thing," remarked Jessica to her friends. "Of course not, goose," replied Grace. "She knows us too well for that." But it was with a peculiar apprehension of something unpleasant that Grace answered a summons to the principal's office just before school closed for the day. "Grace," she said, as the young girl entered the office, "were you in my office yesterday afternoon between half past one and a quarter of two?" "Why, yes, Miss Thompson. I came to ask permission to use the gymnasium, but you were out, so I came back and asked you just before school closed." "Yes, I remember that you did," replied the principal. "However, I want you to read this." Grace took the paper, looking rather perplexed, and read: "Ask Miss Harlowe what she was doing in your office between half past one and a quarter of two yesterday." "A PASSERBY." "Why--why----" stammered Grace, her eyes growing large with wonder. "I don't understand. I came here at that time, for I looked at the clock as I came in, but I was only here for a second." Then the truth dawned upon her. "Why, Miss Thompson," she cried, "you surely don't think I tore up your essay?" "No, Grace, I don't," replied the principal. "But I believe that the one who wrote this note is the one who did do it, and evidently wishes to fasten the guilt upon you. It looks to me as though we had a common enemy. Do you recognize either the paper or the writing?" "No," replied Grace slowly, shaking her head. "Vertical writing all looks alike. The paper is peculiar. It is note paper, but different from any I ever saw before. It looks like----" She stopped suddenly, a shocked look creeping into her eyes. "What is it, Grace?" said Miss Thompson, who had been closely watching her. "I--just--had a queer idea," faltered Grace. "If you suspect any one, Grace, it is your duty to tell me," said the principal. "I cannot pass lightly over such a piece of wanton destruction. To clear up this mystery, should be a matter of vital interest to you, too, as this letter is really an insinuation against you." Grace was silent. "I am waiting for you, Grace," said the principal. "Will you do as I wish?" The tears rushed to Grace's eyes. "Forgive me, Miss Thompson," she said tremulously, "but I can tell you nothing." "You are doing wrong, Grace, in withholding your knowledge," said the older woman rather sternly, "and I am greatly displeased at your stubbornness. Ordinarily I would not ask you to betray any of your schoolmates, but in this instance I am justified, and you are making a serious mistake in sacrificing your duty upon the altar of school-girl honor." "I am sorry, Miss Thompson," said Grace, striving to steady her voice. "I value your good opinion above everything, but I can tell you nothing you wish to know. Please, please don't ask me." "Very well," responded the principal in a tone of cold dismissal, turning to her desk. With a half-stifled sob, Grace hurried from the room. For the first time, since entering High School, she had incurred the displeasure of her beloved principal, and all for the sake of a girl who was unworthy of the sacrifice. For Grace had recognized the paper. It was precisely the same style of paper on which Eleanor Savell had declined her Thanksgiving invitation. CHAPTER XXI BREAKERS AHEAD The dress rehearsal for "As You Like It" was over. It had been well nigh perfect. The costumes had for the most part been on hand, as the senior class of five years previous had given the same play and bequeathed their paraphernalia to those who should come after. Rosalind's costumes had to be altered to fit Anne, however, on account of her lack of stature. Also the lines in the text where Rosalind refers to her height underwent some changes. The final details having been attended to, Miss Tebbs and Miss Kane found time to congratulate each other on the smoothness of the production, which bade fair to surpass anything of the kind ever before given. There was not a weak spot in the cast. Anne's work had seemed to grow finer with every rehearsal. She had won the repeated applause of the group of teachers who had been invited to witness this trial performance. Grace, Nora, Eleanor and Miriam had ably supported her and there had been tears of proud joy in Miss Tebbs's eyes as she had watched the clever and spirited acting of these girls. "Be sure and put your costumes exactly where they belong," called Miss Tebbs as the girls filed off the stage into the dressing room after the final curtain. "Then you will have no trouble to-morrow night. We want to avoid all eleventh-hour scrambling and exciting costume hunts." Laughing merrily, the girls began choosing places to hang their costumes in the big room off the stage where they were to dress. Anne, careful little soul that she was, piled her paraphernalia neatly in one corner, and taking a slip of paper from her bag wrote "Rosalind" upon it, pinning it to her first-act costume. "The eternal labeler," said Nora, with her ever-ready giggle, as she watched Anne. "Are you afraid it will run away, little Miss Fussbudget!" "No; of course not," said Anne, smiling. "I just marked it because----" "You have the marking habit," finished Jessica. "Come on, girls. Don't tease Anne. Let her put tags on herself if she wants to. Then a certain young man who is waiting outside for her will be sure to recognize her. Has anyone seen that Allison child? It's time she put in an appearance." "Just listen to Grandmother Bright," teased Anne. "She is hunting her lost chick, as usual." With merry laugh and jest the girls prepared for the street. Grace and her friends were among the first to leave, and hurried to the street, where the boys awaited them. "Hurrah for the only original ranters and barnstormers on exhibition in this country," cried Hippy, waving his hat in the air. "Cease, Hippopotamus," said Nora. "You are mistaken. We are stars, but we shall refuse to twinkle in your sky unless you suddenly become more respectful." "He doesn't know the definition of the word," said David. "How cruelly you misjudge me," said Hippy. "I meant no disrespect. It was a sudden attack of enthusiasm. I get them spasmodically." "So we have observed," said Nora dryly. "Let's not stand here discussing you all night. Come on up to my house, and we'll make fudge and have things to eat." "I have my car here," said David. "Pile into it and we'll be up there in a jiffy." "It's awfully late," demurred Grace. "After ten o'clock." "Never mind that," said Nora. "Your mother knows you can take care of yourself. You can 'phone to her from my house." In another minute the young people had seated themselves in the big car and were off. "Did you see Eleanor's runabout standing there?" Nora asked Grace. "Yes," replied Grace. "I was rather surprised, too. She hasn't used it much of late." "How beautiful she looked to-night, didn't she?" interposed Jessica. "Are you talking of the would-be murderess, who froze us all out Thanksgiving Day?" asked Hippy. "What is her latest crime?" Grace felt like saying "Destroying other people's property and getting innocent folks disliked," but refrained. She had told no one of her interview with Miss Thompson. Grace knew that the principal was still displeased with her. She was no longer on the old terms of intimacy with Miss Thompson. A barrier seemed to have sprung up between them, that only one thing could remove, but Grace was resolved not to expose Eleanor--not that she felt that Eleanor did not richly deserve it, but she knew that it would mean instant expulsion from school. She believed that Eleanor had acted on the impulse of the moment, and was without doubt bitterly sorry for it, and she felt that as long as Eleanor had at last begun to be interested in school, the thing to do was to keep her there, particularly as Mrs. Gray had recently told her of Miss Nevin's pleasure at the change that the school had apparently wrought in Eleanor. Could Grace have known what Eleanor was engaged in at the moment she would have felt like exposing her without mercy. During the first rehearsals Grace, secretly fearing an outbreak on Eleanor's part, had been on the alert, but as rehearsals progressed and Eleanor kept strictly to herself, Grace relaxed her vigilance. Directly after the chums had hurried out of the hall to meet the boys, Miss Tebbs had decided that opening the dressing room on the other side of the stage would relieve the congestion and insure a better chance for all to dress. Calling to the girls who still remained to move their belongings to that side, Miss Tebbs hurried across the stage to find the janitor and see that the door was at once unlocked. By the time the door was opened and the lights turned on the remaining girls flocked in, their arms piled high with costumes. Foremost among them was Eleanor. Hastily depositing her own costumes in one corner of the dressing room, she darted across the stage and into the room from which she had just moved her effects. It was empty. She glanced quickly about. Like a flash she gathered up a pile of costumes marked "Rosalind," covered them with her long fur coat and ran through the hall and down the steps to where her runabout was stationed. Crowding them hastily into the bottom of the machine, she slipped on her coat, made ready her runabout and drove down the street like the wind, not lessening her speed until she reached the drive at "Heartsease." * * * * * The young people passed a merry hour at Nora's, indulging in one of their old-time frolics, that only lacked Tom Gray's presence to make the original octette complete. "We'll be in the front row to-morrow night," said Hippy, as the young folks trooped out to the car. "I have engaged a beautiful bunch of green onions from the truck florist, Reddy has put all his money into carrots of a nice lively color, the exact shade of his hair, while I have advised Davy here to invest in turnips. They are nice and round and hard, and will hit the stage with a resounding whack, providing he can throw straight enough to hit anything. He can carry them in a paper bag and----" But before he could say more he was seized by David and Reddy and rushed unceremoniously into the street, while the girls signified their approbation by cries of "good enough for him" and "make him promise to behave to-morrow night." "I will. I swear it," panted Hippy. "Only don't rush me over the ground so fast. I might lose my breath and never, never catch it again." "Oh, let him go," said Nora, who had accompanied them down the walk. "I'll have a private interview with him to-morrow and that will insure his good behavior." "Thank you, angel Nora," replied Hippy gratefully. "You will be spared any obnoxious vegetables, even though the others may suffer." "For that you walk," said David, who had dropped Hippy and was engaged in helping the girls into the machine. "Never," replied Hippy, making a dive for the automobile. "I shall sit at the feet of the fair Jessica. Reddy will be so pleased." "Every one ready?" sang out David, as he took his place at the wheel after cranking up the machine. "All ready, let her go," was the chorus, and the machine whizzed down the street. CHAPTER XXII AS YOU LIKE IT The big dressing rooms on each side of the stage at Assembly Hall were ablaze with light. There was a hum of girlish voices and gay laughter, and all the pleasant excitement attending an amateur production prevailed. The dressing had been going on for the last hour, and now a goodly company of courtiers and dames stood about waiting while Miss Tebbs and Miss Kane rapidly "made up their faces" with rouge and powder. This being done to prevent them from looking too pale when in the white glare of the footlights. Miriam Nesbit as the "Duke" looked particularly fine, and the girls gathered around her with many exclamations of admiration. Nora's roguish face looked out from her fool's cap in saucy fashion as she flitted about jingling her bells. Grace made a handsome Orlando, while Jessica looked an ideal shepherdess. "Where's Anne?" said Grace as Nora paused in front of her. "I haven't see her to-night. I suppose she's over in the other dressing room. Miss Tebbs said that some of the costumes were moved over there after we left last night. What time is it? I didn't wear my watch to-night because I didn't want to risk losing it." "It's almost half past seven," said Jessica. "I asked Miss Tebbs for the time just a few minutes ago." "Let's go and find Anne at once, then," said Nora. "It's getting late, and she surely is dressed by this time. Then we'll look through the hole in the curtain at the house. People are beginning to arrive." "Wait a minute," said Jessica. "There's Mabel. Doesn't she look great as Jaques? Come here, dear," called Jessica. Mabel Allison joined the three girls, who hurried across the stage to the other dressing room in search of Anne Pierson. "Why, I don't see her here," cried Grace, making a quick survey of the room. "She must be somewhere about, for----" "There she goes now," exclaimed Nora, who stood in the door, looking out on the stage, "and she has her hat and coat on. How strange. I wonder if she knows how late it is?" Sure enough, Anne was hurrying toward the opposite dressing room. The three girls made a rush for her. "Why, Anne," said Grace. "What is the matter? We thought you had dressed over here and were looking for you." "Girls," replied Anne, "I've been on a wild-goose chase. I can't stop to tell you about it now, but you shall hear as soon as I have a chance. Will you help me with my costume and make-up? I'm awfully late, and haven't a minute to spare." "Why of course we will," said Grace. "Give me your hat and coat, dear. Where did you put your costumes? It won't take you long to dress, for most of the girls are dressed and over on the other side, so you have the place to yourself." "Over in that corner," replied Anne, taking off her collar and unfastening her white shirt waist. "Don't you remember, I labeled them and you laughed at me for doing so?" "Of course we do," said Nora, making a dive for the corner where Anne had piled her costumes the previous night. "They're not here," she announced after a brief but thorough search. "Miss Tebbs must have had them moved to the other room. She opened it last night after we left. Grace, you help Anne, and Jessica and Mabel and I will run across and look for them." With these words, Nora was off, the other two girls at her heels. "Tell me what kept you, Anne," said Grace, as the latter began arranging her hair for the first act. "Grace," said Anne rather tremulously, "I won't wait until the others come back to tell you why I came so late. Just after I had finished my supper and was putting on my wraps a boy came to the door with this note." Anne went over to where her coat hung and took out an envelope. Drawing a note from it, she silently handed it to Grace, who read: "MY DEAR ANNE: "Will you come up to my house before going to the hall? I wish to give you something to wear in the play. "Yours affectionately, "ROSE R. GRAY." "Why, how unlike Mrs. Gray to send for you at the eleventh hour," said Grace in a puzzled tone. "No wonder you were late. What did she give you?" "Nothing," replied Anne. "It was a trick. She never wrote the note, although the writing looks like hers, and so does the paper. She was very indignant over it and sent me back in the carriage, telling the coachman to return for her, for of course she will be here to-night. I would have arrived much later if I had been obliged to walk. I ran almost all the way up there. You know Chapel Hill is quite a distance from my house." "I should say so," replied Grace. "Who could have been so mean? Anne, why do you suppose----" Grace stopped suddenly and stared at Anne. "Anne do you think that Eleanor could have written it?" she said slowly, as though reluctant to give voice to her suspicion. "I am afraid so," replied Anne. "She is the only one who could profit by my being late. Yet if she did write the note, she should have realized that going to Mrs. Gray's would scarcely keep me away long enough to miss my first entrance. You know I don't come on until the second scene." "There is something more behind this," said Grace, "and I'm going to find out, too." She darted to the door and opened it upon Nora and Jessica, who were on the threshold. "We can't find them," they cried in alarm, "but we told Miss Tebbs and she'll be here in a minute." "We didn't say a word to any one else," said Nora, "because they must be somewhere about, and there is no use in stirring up a lot of unnecessary excitement." "Wise little Nora," said Grace, patting her on the shoulder. "Here comes Miss Tebbs now." She stepped courteously aside to allow the teacher to enter the dressing room, then, following her, closed the door. "What is this I hear about losing your costumes, Anne?" asked Miss Tebbs rather impatiently. "I cautioned the girls last night about taking care of their things." Anne flushed at the teacher's curt tones. "I put them all in that corner, plainly marked, before I left here last night," she answered. "When I came here to-night they were gone." "That is strange," said the elder woman. "Have you made a thorough search for them in the other room?" "We've gone over every inch of the ground," exclaimed Jessica, "and we can't find a trace of them. We didn't ask any of the girls about them, because if we couldn't find them we feel sure the others couldn't. So we just kept quiet." "I don't know what is to be done, I'm sure," said Miss Tebbs in an anxious tone. "It is eight o'clock now and the curtain is supposed to run up at 8.15. I can hold it until 8.30, but no longer. The house is already well filled. You might get through the first act in a borrowed gown, Anne, but what can you do in the second? You know how that costume had to be altered to fit you. If it can be found before the second act, all will be well, but suppose you go on in the first act, and it can't be found, what then? You will spoil the whole production by appearing in an incorrect or misfit costume, besides bitterly disappointing the two girls who will have to give up their costumes to you. It is doubly provoking, because Mr. Southard is here to-night, and is particularly anxious to see your work." "Miss Tebbs," exclaimed Grace, "Eleanor Savell has a complete 'Rosalind' outfit. She had it made purposely. One of the girls told me so. You know she understudies Anne. Couldn't Anne use that?" "Impossible, Grace," said Miss Tebbs. "Eleanor is taller than Anne. Anne's lack of height is her one drawback. If she had not shown such exceptional talent, 'Rosalind' would have certainly fallen to Miss Savell or yourself. I am very sorry, but it looks as though Miss Savell will have to play Rosalind after all, and she must be notified at once." The three chums turned to Anne, who was biting her lip and trying hard to keep back her tears. Nora and Jessica looked their silent sympathy, but Grace stood apparently wrapped in thought. Miss Tebbs moved toward the door, but as she placed her hand on the knob Grace sprang eagerly forward. "Miss Tebbs," she cried, "don't ask Miss Savell. I believe I can find those costumes yet. Wait here and in five minutes I'll tell you whether I have succeeded. Please don't ask me what I am going to do. Just trust me and wait. You will let me try, won't you?" she pleaded. "Certainly, my child," said Miss Tebbs, "but remember time is precious. I'll give you five minutes, but if----" "I'll be back in that time," cried Grace, and was gone, leaving Miss Tebbs and the three chums mystified but faintly hopeful. Across the stage she flew and into the other dressing room. The object of her search was not there. Out she rushed and collided with a girl who was about to enter. "Pardon me," said Grace, glancing up, then seized the girl by the arm. "Eleanor Savell," she exclaimed sternly. "You know where Anne's costumes are. Don't attempt to deny it." Eleanor looked contemptuously at Grace and tried to shake herself free, but Grace's grasp tightened. "Answer me," she said. "Where are they?" [Illustration: "Where Are Anne's Costumes?" Cried Grace.] "Let me go," said Eleanor angrily. "You are hurting my arm. What do I care about Miss Pierson's costumes?" "You will care," replied Grace. "For if you don't instantly tell me where they are, I shall call the whole cast and expose you." "If you do, you will merely make yourself ridiculous," hissed Eleanor, her eyes blazing. "What grounds have you for such an accusation?" "I can't prove that you are responsible for their disappearance, but I do know that you shall not play 'Rosalind,' if the costumes are never found." "How can you prevent me!" asked Eleanor in insolent tones. "You are not running this production." "I have no time to waste in arguing the matter," returned Grace with admirable self-control. "What I want is the truth about the costumes and you must answer me." "'Must,'" repeated Eleanor, raising her eyebrows. "That is putting it rather strongly. No one ever says 'must' to me." "I say it to you now, Eleanor, and I mean it," said Grace. "I am fully convinced that you have hidden Anne's costumes and I am equally certain that you are going to produce them at once." "Then you are laboring under a delusion," replied Eleanor, with a disagreeable laugh, "and I should advise you to devote that tireless energy of yours, to minding your own business." "This is my business," replied Grace evenly, "and if you wish to avoid any unpleasantness you will make it yours." "Your threats do not alarm me," sneered Eleanor. "I am not easily frightened." "Very well," replied Grace, looking steadily at her enemy. "I see that I shall be obliged to call Miss Thompson back here and tell her who destroyed her essay. Knowing that, do you suppose you can make her believe that you did not hide Anne's costumes?" Eleanor's insolent expression turned to one of fear. "No," she gasped, "don't call Miss Thompson. You know she hates me, and will disgrace me in the eyes of the girls." "And you richly deserve it, Eleanor," replied Grace, "but if you produce Anne's costumes at once, I'll agree to say nothing. Hurry, for every second is precious." "I can't get them," wailed Eleanor. "What shall I do?" "Where are they?" asked Grace, with compressed lips. "At--'Heartsease,'" said Eleanor, and burst into tears. "Oh, what a mess," groaned Grace. "It will take an hour to go there and back. Oh, I must act quickly. Let me think. Mrs. Gray's coachman would drive me out, but those horses are so slow. Eleanor," she exclaimed, turning to the weeping girl, "is your runabout outside?" "Yes," sobbed Eleanor. "Then that settles it," cried Grace. "I will go after the things. Tell me where to find them. Have you a latch key? I can't bother to ring after I get there." "I'll go and get my key," said Eleanor, wiping her eyes. "They're in the wardrobe in my bedroom." "All right, wait for me at the door and don't say a word. Here come some of the girls." Though the time had seemed hours to Grace, her interview with Eleanor had lasted barely five minutes. She hurried back to where Miss Tebbs and the three chums awaited her, followed by the curious eyes of a number of the cast, who wondered vaguely why Grace Harlowe was rushing around at such a rate. "Borrow a gown for Anne, Miss Tebbs, for the first act," she cried. "I'll have the missing costumes here in time for the second. Only I can't play Orlando. Miriam will have to play it; she's my understudy, you know. Ethel Dumont can play Miriam's part. They've rehearsed both parts, and will be all right. Please don't refuse me, Miss Tebbs, but let me go. It's for Anne's sake. Nora, please bring me my street clothes." As she spoke, Grace began rapidly divesting herself of her costume. "Very well, Grace, have your own way," replied the teacher reluctantly. "I'll go at once and get a gown for Anne. But don't dare to fail me." "Thank you, Miss Tebbs. I'll not fail." Slipping into her long coat and seizing her fur hat, Grace made for the street, stopping for an instant to take the key from Eleanor, who stood waiting at the door. "Can you manage the machine?" faltered Eleanor. "Yes," said Grace curtly. "Go in at once. If you are seen, the girls are apt to ask questions that you may find hard to answer truthfully." "Thank goodness, David and Tom taught me something about automobiles last summer," thought Grace as she prepared to start, "or I should have been powerless to help Anne to-night. I am going to exceed the speed limit, that's certain." A moment later she was well into the street and on her way to "Heartsease." It was a memorable ride to Grace. It seemed as though the runabout fairly flew over the ground. "I've only been ten minutes on the way," she breathed as she neared her destination. Leaving the runabout outside the grounds, she ran up the drive, and, inserting her key in the door, opened it softly and entered the wide, old-fashioned hall. Up the steps she hurried, meeting no one, for Miss Nevin was at Assembly Hall and the servants' quarters were at the back of the house. Knowing the house as she did, Grace went straight to Eleanor's room and to the wardrobe. Sure enough, Anne's missing costumes were lying in a neat heap on the floor. Assuring herself that everything was there, Grace piled them up in her arms and sped softly down the stairs, opened the door, and in a twinkling was down the drive and into the runabout. She drove back even faster than she had come. As she passed the city hall clock she drew a breath of relief. It was ten minutes of nine. The first act was hardly half over. Leaping from the machine with the lost costumes she ran triumphantly into the dressing room. "Here she is," shrieked Nora in delight. "I knew she'd make good." "Are they all there, Grace," anxiously inquired Miss Tebbs. "You dear, good child. Where did you find them?" "That is a mystery which even Sherlock Holmes can never solve," replied Grace, laughing. "Where's Anne?" "She's on just now with Celia," replied Miss Tebbs, "and is playing up to her usual form, but she is very nervous and almost broke down after you left. She feels that you made too great a sacrifice for her in giving up your part." "Nonsense," said Grace. "Why should I have sacrificed the star to my own personal vanity? Miriam Nesbit can play Orlando as well as I, and makes a more striking appearance at that." "I don't agree with you, Grace, for you were an ideal 'Orlando,'" replied Miss Tebbs. "However it's too late for regret, and the best I can do now is to make you assistant stage manager. Some of those girls need looking after. Miss Savell had a bad case of stage fright and almost had to be dragged on. She forgot her lines and had to be prompted. She's all right now, but I am devoutly thankful she didn't play 'Rosalind,' for she certainly would not have done justice to it." Grace smiled grimly as she listened to Miss Tebbs. She could not feel sorry at Eleanor's recent agitation. Now that the excitement was over, Grace felt her anger rising. Eleanor's thirst for glory and revenge had been the means of losing Grace the part that she had so eagerly looked forward to playing, not to mention the narrow escape Anne had run. Still, on the whole, Grace felt glad that so far no one knew the truth. "I think I'll go into the wings. It's almost time for the curtain," she said to Miss Tebbs. But before she could reach there, the curtain had rung down and the audience were calling for Celia and Rosalind, who took the call hand in hand. Then Rosalind took two calls and bowed herself into the wings and straight into Grace's arms. "O Grace, how could you do it?" said Anne, with a half sob. "You gave up your part for me. It's too much. I shan't----" "You shall," replied Grace, hugging her. "Run along and put on male attire. I found your stuff and some time I'll tell you where, but not now." The play progressed with remarkable smoothness, and the various actors received unstinted applause from the audience, but from first to last Anne was the star. Her portrayal of Rosalind left little to be desired. Time after time Mr. Southard led the applause, and was ably seconded by Hippy, Reddy, David and Tom, who fairly wriggled with enthusiasm. Next to Anne, Nora, perhaps, came second. Her delivery of Touchstone's lines was delightful and she kept the audience in a gale of mirth whenever she appeared. It was over at last. The closing line of the Epilogue had been spoken by Rosalind, and she had taken five curtain calls and retired with her arms full of flowers. The principal actors in the play had been well remembered by friends, and the dressing rooms looked like a florist's shop. "I'm so sorry. I'd like to begin all over again," said Nora, as she rubbed her face with cold cream to take off her make-up. "There's an end to all things," said Jessica practically, "and really I'm glad to get back into everyday clothes." "Hurry up, slowpokes," said Grace Harlowe, popping her head in the door. "Tom Gray is here. He and David are waiting outside with their cars. We are all going up to Nesbit's for a jollification given in honor of Rosalind, who is at present dressed in everyday clothes and shaking hands with the great Southard. He and Miss Tebbs are going, too, and so is Mrs. Gray." "Come in, Grace, and tell us where you found Anne's costumes," said Nora, giving her cheeks a final rub. "We're devoured with curiosity." "'Thereby hangs a tale,'" replied Grace, "but I refuse to be interviewed to-night. I'll see you outside. If you're not there in three minutes, I'll put Hippy on your trail." Closing the door, Grace walked slowly toward the entrance. The majority of the girls had gone. Anne still stood talking with Mr. Southard and Miss Tebbs. "Grace, come here and speak to Mr. Southard," called Miss Tebbs. "Has Nora gone? Mr. Southard wishes to congratulate her and you, too." "She'll be out in a couple of minutes," said Grace, as she advanced to greet the great actor. "But I am not in line for congratulations, as I was not in the play." "I am very sorry that you could not play Orlando to-night. I remember your work at the try-out," said Mr. Southard in his deep, musical voice. "Miss Tebbs has told me of the sacrifice you made. You deserve double congratulations for the part you played behind the scenes." "It was nothing," murmured Grace, her color rising. "If you are ready, suppose we go. Mrs. Gray wishes you and Mr. Southard to go in her carriage, Miss Tebbs. The rest of us will go in the two automobiles." As they moved toward the door, Grace left them. Going back to the dressing room, she rapped sharply on the door. "Last call! Look out for Hippy!" she cried, then hurried to catch up with the others. But before she reached them she was confronted by Eleanor. "I've been waiting to see you ever since the play was over," said Eleanor sullenly. Grace looked at her in silence. "Well?" she said coldly. "What are you going to do about to-night--and everything?" asked Eleanor. "Are you going to tell Miss Thompson?" "So far I have told nothing, Eleanor," said Grace sternly. "You deserve no clemency at my hands, however, for you have repeatedly accused myself and my friends of carrying tales. Something we are above doing. You have refused our friendship and have been the means of estranging Miss Thompson and myself. "When first you came to High School, I promised Mrs. Gray that I would help you to like High School life. For that reason I have overlooked lots of things, but to-night caps the climax, and I tell you frankly that I thoroughly despise your conduct, and if ever again you do anything to injure myself or my friends, I shall not hesitate to bring you to book for it." Eleanor stood clenching her hands in impotent rage. Grace's plain speaking had roused a tempest in her. "I hate you, Grace Harlowe, fifty times more than ever before," she said, her voice shaking with anger. "I intended to leave this miserable school at the end of the year, but now I shall stay and show you that you cannot trample upon me with impunity." Without answering, Grace walked away, leaving Eleanor to stare moodily after her. CHAPTER XXIII THE JUNIOR PICNIC With the first days of spring, the longing to throw down her books and fairly live in the open returned to Grace Harlowe with renewed force. "I do wish school were over," she said with a sigh to her three chums, as they strolled home one afternoon in May. "I don't mind studying in the winter, but when the spring comes, then it's another matter. I long to golf and play tennis, and picnic in the woods and----" "That reminds me," said Nora, interrupting her, "that last fall the juniors talked about giving a picnic instead of a ball. We didn't give the ball, so it's up to us to go picnicking." "That's a fine suggestion, Nora," said Jessica. "I move we post a notice in the locker-room and have a meeting to-morrow after school. "I can't be there," said Anne regretfully. "To-morrow is one of my days at Mrs. Gray's, but whatever you do will suit me." "Awfully sorry, Anne," said Grace. "We might call it for the day after to-morrow." "No, no," protested Anne. "Please don't postpone it on my account." The notice was duly posted in a conspicuous place in the locker-room the next day, and the entire class, with the exception of Anne, met in one of the smaller rooms off the gymnasium at the close of the afternoon session. "Esteemed juniors and fellow-citizens," said Grace, after calling the meeting to order. "It is true that no one has particularly requested me to take charge of this meeting, but as I posted the notice, I feel that I am responsible for your presence here to-day. We have before us two matters that need attention. One is the annual entertainment that the junior class always gives, the other the election of class officers. Last year we gave a ball, but this year so far we have done nothing. I move that we proceed at once to elect our president, vice president, secretary and treasurer, and then decide what form of entertainment would be advisable." "Second the motion," said Nora. "All those in favor say 'aye,' contrary, 'no.'" "Carried," said Grace, as no dissenting voices arose. "Nominations for president are now in order." "I nominate Grace Harlowe for president," exclaimed Miriam Nesbit, springing from her seat. "Second the motion," said Eva Allen. It was carried with enthusiasm before Grace had time to protest. "I nominate Miriam Nesbit for president," said Grace. This was also seconded and carried. Then Edna Wright rose and nominated Eleanor Savell. This closed the nominations for president, and the matter when put to vote resulted in Grace's election by a majority of ten votes over Miriam, Eleanor having received only five. It was plain to be seen that in spite of the rival faction, Grace held first place in the hearts of most of her class. Miriam Nesbit was elected vice president, Marian Barber treasurer, and, rather to Grace's surprise, Eleanor was chosen as secretary, Edna Wright again nominating her after doing some vigorous whispering among the two back rows of girls. The only other girl proposed being one who was not particularly popular in the class. "I always suspected Edna Wright's lack of sense," whispered Nora to Jessica. "The idea of nominating Eleanor for secretary when she knows how Eleanor hates the Phi Sigma Tau, and doesn't speak to any of us. I certainly didn't vote for her." "Nor I," responded Jessica. "Funny Grace would never tell us about that costume business. I know Eleanor was mixed up in it." "Of course," nodded Nora, and turned her attention to the meeting just in time to hear Grace put the motion for the picnic and say "aye" with the others. The date for the affair was set for the following Saturday, the weather permitting, and it was generally agreed that Forest Park, a natural park about twelve miles from Oakdale, would be an ideal place to picnic. A refreshment committee was appointed, also a transportation committee. The girls were requested to pay fifty cents apiece to the treasurer. "If we find that this is not enough, we will levy another tax," Grace announced. "I'm not positive about the first collection," muttered Nora. "I'm perpetually broke." "So am I," said Jessica. "My allowance lasts about two days, and then I am penniless for the rest of the month." The details having been disposed of, the members decided to meet in front of the High School the following Saturday morning at nine o'clock. The transportation committee was to have two big picnic wagons in readiness and the juniors went home with pleasant anticipations of a day in the woods. "Won't it be fun?" exclaimed Grace joyously, as she walked down the street, the center of the Phi Sigma Tau. "Great," said Miriam Nesbit. "I suppose we could all squeeze into David's automobile." "I believe we'd better not," replied Grace. "It might create bad feeling among the girls. We don't want them to feel that we think ourselves too exclusive to ride with them." "I'll wager anything Eleanor and Edna won't go with the crowd," said Eva Allen. "I don't know about that," remarked Nora O'Malley. "Eleanor has just been elected secretary, therefore it behooves her to keep on the right side of those who elected her." "She owes her office to Edna Wright," said Marian Barber, "and also to the fact that her opponent, Miss Wells, is not popular. For my part, I think Miss Wells would have been a better secretary. We could at least have gotten along peaceably with her. I can't see why Eleanor accepted, knowing she would have to act with us in class matters." "I have noticed that ever since the play she has been trying to gain a footing in the class," said Miriam Nesbit thoughtfully. "She has gone out of her way to be nice to girls that she used to snub unmercifully. We are the only ones she keeps away from. I believe she will try to influence the rest of the class against us." "She'll have to hurry up if she does it this term," said Nora. "Perhaps she won't come back to school next year, she is so changeable," said Jessica hopefully. "Yes, she will," said Grace, taking part in the discussion for the first time since it had touched on Eleanor. "How do you know?" was the question. "She told me so the night of the play," was Grace's answer. "Girls, I have never told you about what happened that night. Anne knows, but, you see, it particularly concerned her. I was too angry at the time to trust myself to tell any one else. As members of the same sorority, I know that you can be trusted not to repeat what I shall tell you." In a few words Grace told the story of Eleanor's treachery, omitting, however, the part concerning Miss Thompson. She had decided to reveal that to no one. "Well, of all things," said Nora O'Malley. "I knew she was to blame. So she threatened revenge, did she?" "Yes," replied Grace. "That is why I have told you this. Be careful what you do. Never give her a chance to take advantage of you in any way, for she is determined to make mischief. Now let us forget her, and talk about the picnic." With the talk of the picnic, Grace's warning soon passed from the girls' minds. They had no knowledge of the trials that their senior year was to bring them or how fully the truth of Grace's words was to be proved. * * * * * The day of the picnic dawned fair and cloudless. By nine o'clock a merry party of laughing, chattering girls had gathered in front of the High School, where the two immense wagons generally used by Oakdale picnickers, each drawn by four horses, awaited them. For a wonder every one was on time, and the start was made with a great fluttering of handkerchiefs, accompanied by enthusiastic cheers and High School yells. As they rattled down the street people paused and looked smilingly after them. Oakdale was very proud of her High School boys and girls, and enjoyed seeing them happy. The Phi Sigma Tau were seated in one end of the second wagon, with the exception of Grace, who had perched herself on the driver's seat, and was holding an animated conversation with the driver, old Jerry Flynn, whom every one knew and liked. Grace always cultivated old Jerry's acquaintance whenever she had the chance. To-day he was allowing her to drive, while, with folded hands, he directed her management of the lines. Grace was in her element and gave a sigh of regret as they sighted the park. "I could go on driving four horses forever, Mr. Flynn," she exclaimed. "Do let me drive going back?" "Sure yez can, miss," said the good-natured Irishman, "and it's meself'll hellup yez, and show yez how to do it." The committee on entertainment had provided a series of races and contests for the morning. After lunch there would be a tennis match, and then the girls could amuse themselves as they chose; the start home to be made about six o'clock. Grace and Nora decided to enter the hundred-yard dash. "The prize is a box of stationery bought at the ten-cent store, so I am anxious to win it," Nora informed them. "In fact, all the prizes came from that useful and overworked place. I was on the purchasing committee." "I shall enter the one-legged race. I always could stand on one foot like a crane," announced Jessica, "and hopping is my specialty." There was an egg and spoon race, a walking match, an apple-eating contest, with the apples suspended by strings from the low branch of a tree, to be eaten without aid from the hands, and various other stunts of a similar nature. The morning passed like magic. Each new set of contestants seemed funnier than the preceding one. Nora won the coveted box of stationery. Jessica ably demonstrated her ability to outhop her competitors, while Eva Allen covered herself with glory in the apple contest. Grace, after losing the hundred-yard dash, laughingly refused to enter the other contests. "I mean to win at tennis this afternoon," she said, "so I'm not going to waste my precious energy on such little stunts." After the midday luncheon had been disposed of, the entire class repaired to the tennis court at the east end of the park. A match had been arranged in which Grace and Miriam Nesbit were to play against Ruth Deane and Edna Wright, who was an indefatigable tennis player, and therefore figured frequently in tennis matches held in Oakdale. At the last minute, however, Edna pleaded a severe headache and recommended Eleanor in her place. "But I never have played with her," protested Ruth Deane, "and how do I know whether she can play?" "Try her," begged Edna. "I have played with her and she is a wonder." It was with considerable surprise and some misgiving that Grace discovered that Eleanor was to play. "I seem fated to oppose her," Grace thought. "I wonder at her consenting to play against us. I'll keep my eye on her, at any rate, for I don't trust her." Grace's fears were, in this instance, groundless, for Eleanor played a perfectly fair game from start to finish, and proved herself a powerful antagonist. Her serves were as straight and accurate as a boy's, and she played with great spirit and agility. Indeed, the sides were so evenly matched that junior excitement rose high and numerous boxes of Huyler's were wagered against the result. The game stood forty-all. Two vantages scored in succession were needed by one side to win. Grace forgot everything but the fact that she desired the victory. With her, going into a game meant winning it. Five minutes later the match was over. She and Miriam had won against worthy opponents. "That was an evenly matched game," exclaimed Nora, as Grace and Miriam strolled to where their friends were seated upon the grass. "You played like professionals." "Eleanor is a better player than Edna Wright," said Grace. "Her serves are wonderful. We had all we could do to hold our own." "There's a trout brook over there," said Nora, "and I had forethought enough to borrow a fishing rod and line from Hippy. It is jointed, so it didn't get in any one's way. I left it with the lunch baskets. Therefore, as I'm not afraid of angle worms, I'm going to dig some bait and fish. Want to come?" "Not I," laughed Anne. "Miriam and I are going up under the trees and read Browning." "The idea of going to a picnic and reading!" exclaimed Jessica. "Come on, girls, let's go with Nora." She hastily rose, brushed off her gown and followed in Nora's wake, accompanied by Eva and Marian. "Come with us, dear," said Anne to Grace, who stood looking dreamily toward a patch of woods to the left. "No indeed," replied Grace. "I'm going to explore a little in those woods yonder." "Don't go far," called Anne anxiously, as Grace turned to go. "I won't," she answered. "See you later." As she reached the cool shadows of the little strip of woods she drew a long breath. How delightful it was to hear the rustle of the leaves over her head, and tread upon Nature's green carpet of soft, thick moss. Forgetful of her promise, Grace wandered farther and farther on, gathering the wild flowers as she went. She found plenty of trilliums and violets, and pounced with a cry of delight upon some wild pink honeysuckle just opening. After stripping the bush, she turned into a bypath that led straight up a little hill which rose before her. Scrambling up the hill, Grace reached the top and looked about her. Nestling at the foot of the elevation on the side opposite to the one she had climbed stood a small one-story cottage. "How funny," thought Grace. "I didn't know there was a house anywhere near here. I'm going down there for a drink of water. I'm awfully thirsty." Suiting the action to the words, Grace hurried toward the cottage. As she neared it she noticed that the door was wide open. "Some one is at home, that's certain," she said to herself. "I hope they won't be cross at my asking for a drink. Why," she exclaimed, "there's no one living here at all. I think I'll venture in, perhaps there's a well at the back of the house." Entering, she found that the cottage consisted of but two rooms. The front one was absolutely bare, but the back one contained an old stove, a broken-down sink and a rickety chair. At one side was a good-sized closet. Opening it, Grace found nothing save a dilapidated old coat. Just then she caught the sound of rough voices just outside the cottage. "I tell ye, Bill, we've got to do the job to-night and hike for the West on that train that goes through Oakdale at 3.15 in the morning," said a voice that was almost a growl. "I'm wid yer, Jim," answered another voice in correspondingly savage tones. "Even to layin' a few out stiff if dey gets in de way." Grace listened. She heard heavy footsteps, and, peeping into the room, she saw a burly figure outlined in the front door in the act of entering. She glanced toward the back door. It was closed and fastened with a bolt. If she could slip out that way, she could make a run for the picnic grounds, but she dared not try to pass the two men who had just appeared. The few words of their conversation proved them to be lawless. Noiselessly she slipped into the closet and drew the door almost shut. She would hide until they had gone. They were not likely to linger long in the cottage. Minute after minute went by, but the intruders showed no signs of leaving. "What shall I do?" Grace breathed, wringing her hands. "They're real, downright burglars of the worst sort, and they're planning a robbery. It's getting late, too, and the girls will soon be going back. Oh, I must get out of here, but I won't try to go until I find out whose house they're going to rob." The men talked on, but, listen as she might, Grace could get no clue. "There ain't a soul on the joint except the judge and one old servant," growled Bill. "The rest o' the bunch'll be at the weddin' of one o' the girls. I laid low and heard 'em talkin' about it to-day. The judge's got money in the house, too. He always keeps it around, and that old Putnam place is pretty well back from the road." Grace waited to hear no more. She had obtained the information she sought. They were going to rob and perhaps murder good old Judge Putnam. Slipping quietly out of the closet, she approached the back door and cautiously took hold of the bolt. To her joy it moved easily. Exercising the greatest care in sliding it back, she lifted the latch. It made no sound, and, holding her breath, she softly swung open the door and ran on tiptoe around the corner of the house. Throwing away her bouquet as she ran, she made for a clump of underbrush at one side of the cottage. Here she paused, and hearing no disturbance from inside, she continued her flight. But she had lost her sense of direction, and after fifteen minutes' wandering was about to despair of finding her way, when she espied the honeysuckle bush that she had stripped earlier in the afternoon. This put her on the right track, but she was farther away from the picnic grounds than she had supposed, and when tired and breathless she at last reached them, it was only to find them deserted. The party had gone back to town without her. Grace stood staring about her in blank dismay. It was nearing seven o'clock, and she was twelve miles from Oakdale. Why hadn't the girls waited? Grace felt ready to cry, then the vision of the poor old judge, alone and at the mercy of the two ruffians, flashed before her. "I'll walk to Oakdale," she said, with a determined nod of her head. "And I'll not stop for an instant until I notify the police." Grace never forgot that lonely walk. The darkness of a moonless night settled down upon her before she had gone three miles, but she would not allow herself to think of fear. She stumbled frequently as she neared her journey's end, and her tired body cried out for rest, but she pushed resolutely on, almost sobbing with relief as she entered the suburbs of the town. It was nearly eleven by the city hall clock when she hurried up the steps of the police station. "Well, well!" said Chief Burroughs, as Grace rushed unceremoniously into his office. "Here's the lost girl now. I just received word that you were missing. Your father and one of my men left here not five minutes ago. They went to the livery to hire a rig." "Oh, try and stop them, Mr. Burroughs," cried Grace excitedly. "'Phone the livery and tell them that I'm here. Then listen to me, for I've walked all the way from Forest Park and there's no time to lose." "Walked from Forest Park?" exclaimed the chief, as he turned to the 'phone. "Why that's a good twelve miles and----" "I know," interrupted Grace, then was silent, for the chief had begun talking to the livery. "It's all right," he said, hanging up. "They'll be here directly. Caught them just in the nick of time, however. Now what's on your mind, Grace?" "They're going to rob old Judge Putnam," Grace burst forth incoherently. "He's all alone. Oh, do send some one out there quickly, or it may be too late. Isn't there a telephone in the judge's house? He ought to be warned." "Who's going to rob the judge? What are you talking about, my child?" asked the chief. "No, the judge has no 'phone. He thinks them a nuisance." Grace rapidly told of her adventure in the woods, and her escape from the cottage. Before she had finished Chief Burroughs had begun to act. Summoning three special policemen, he narrated briefly what he had just heard, and five minutes later Grace had the satisfaction of knowing that, fully armed, they were well on their way to the Putnam estate. "I can't understand why the girls didn't miss me," she said to the chief, as she sat awaiting her father's appearance. "Miss Bright and Miss O'Malley, who were in the second wagon, thought you were in the first with Miss Pierson and Miss Nesbit, and vice versa," replied the chief. "The second wagon broke down when about half way home. It took over half an hour to get it fixed, so when it did arrive the girls in the head wagon had all gone home. Your mother grew uneasy when ten o'clock came, so she telephoned your friends, and on comparing notes you were found to be among the missing." "What a mix-up," laughed Grace. "No wonder I wasn't missed. I'm sorry mother was uneasy, but she'll forgive me when she hears my tale. Oh, I hope nothing has happened to the poor old judge." "Well, we'll soon know," replied the chief. "Now, you just take it easy and rest until your father comes. You need it after a twelve-mile walk. Of all the brave little girls----" The ringing of the telephone cut the chief short. Grace gave a long sigh and leaned back in the big chair. She was so tired. Her eyelids drooped---- "Well, I declare!" said the chief, as he turned from the telephone, for Grace was fast asleep. CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION The special policemen sent out to the Putnam estate were not doomed to disappointment. After an hour's waiting, their patience was rewarded, and the two housebreakers appeared upon the scene. Before they could do any damage they were apprehended and a bag containing a complete outfit of burglar's tools was taken away from them. They fought desperately, but without avail, and were marched to jail to await their hearing. Judge Putnam was greatly agitated over the affair. He had a large sum of money in the house, not to mention old family silver and other valuables. "I realize I've had a narrow escape," he exclaimed to the chief the next day. "I might have been murdered in cold blood. I'll have a burglar alarm put in at once and a telephone, too. I had no business to let all the servants except old James go for the night. Who did you say brought the news? Tom Harlowe's little girl? She always was a wide awake youngster. I wonder what I can do for her to show her that I appreciate her bravery?" "I don't believe she'd accept anything, Judge," replied the chief. "She's not that sort." "We shall see. We shall see," said the judge, rubbing his hands. "I have a plan I think she'll listen to." In the meantime, on reaching home Grace had been cried over by her mother and put to bed as though she were a baby. The story had been told by her chums throughout the school the next day, and Grace found herself the "observed of all observers." "Any of you would have done the same," she said when surrounded by a bevy of admiring schoolmates. "That's what you always say," exclaimed Nora. "But let me tell you I should have been in hysterics if I had been left alone in the dark twelve miles from nowhere." Judge Putnam did not at once make his plan known to Grace. He called, thanking her and complimenting her on her bravery and presence of mind. "I shall have something to ask you when school closes, my dear child," he said as he rose to go. "Something that concerns you and your friends, and you mustn't say 'no' to an old man." "What on earth does he mean?" said Grace to her chums, as she repeated the judge's words. "I shall be eaten up with curiosity until school closes." "Wish to goodness it was over now," growled Nora O'Malley. "I don't believe the last of June will ever come." The morning after commencement, eight highly excited girls gathered on the Harlowe's veranda. Grace had received a note from Judge Putnam requesting that the Phi Sigma Tau call upon him at ten o'clock that morning. "Do hurry," said Jessica, as they neared the judge's beautiful home. "The sooner we get there the sooner we'll know." "Good morning, young ladies," said the judge, bowing with old-time gallantry as James ushered the eight girls into the library. "You look like a garden of roses. There's nothing like youth; nothing like it. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable while I tell you why I asked you to come and see an old man." "You are just like Mrs. Gray, Judge," said Grace, "always imagining yourself old, when you know you're just a great big boy." "Very pretty, my dear," chuckled the judge. "But if I am as young as you say, then I must do something to keep young. Now, the way I propose doing it is this: I have a camp up in the Adirondacks that needs attention, so I wrote my youngest sister about it and she agrees with me. She is going up there this week with a couple of servants to open the bungalow and put it in readiness for eight girls who call themselves the Phi Sigma Tau, providing their fathers and mothers can spare them for a few weeks. Do you think they will care to go?" "Oh-h-h-h! How lovely!" breathed the eight girls in concert. "Care to go? Well I should say so. It will be the greatest lark ever," cried Grace. "If you know any young men who can make themselves useful, we might invite them. I don't like the idea of being the only boy, you know." "David and Tom," said Grace and Anne. "Hippy can go, I'm sure," said Nora. "Not to mention Reddy and Arnold Evans," murmured Jessica, with a glance at Miriam. "It looks as though I shall not lack masculine company," remarked the judge, with twinkling eyes. "Tell your parents that my sister will write them." "I move that we give three cheers and the High School yell for Judge Putnam, and then go straight home and get proper permission," cried Grace. The cheers were given with a will, and after shaking hands with the judge, the girls said good-bye. "How did Judge Putnam know about the Phi Sigma Tau; even to its name?" asked Marian Barber curiously. "Lots of people know of it," remarked Eva Allen. "Girls," said Grace earnestly, "don't you think our society has been a success so far?" "Yes, indeed," was the united answer. "Our sorority has made us fast friends, loyal to each other, through good and evil report," she continued. "Let us resolve now, that during our senior year we will stand firmly together, and make the Phi Sigma Tau represent all that is best and most worthy in High School life." When next we meet Grace Harlowe and her girl chums, they will have entered upon their senior year at High School. In "GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways," we shall learn how the Phi Sigma Tau kept their sorority pledge. Eleanor Savell will again seek revenge, and Grace Harlowe will once more prove herself equal to the occasion. 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You will at once discover that a given outlay of money will buy more of the ALTEMUS books than of those published by other houses. Every dealer in books carries the ALTEMUS books. * * * * * Sold by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price =Henry Altemus Company= 507-513 Cherry Street, Philadelphia The Motor Boat Club Series =By H. IRVING HANCOCK= The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. 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IRVING HANCOCK= In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. Grammar School Boys Series =By H. IRVING HANCOCK= This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar school boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. 1 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. 2 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. 3 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. 4 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. High School Boys' Vacation Series =By H. IRVING HANCOCK= "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. The Circus Boys Series =By EDGAR B. P. DARLINGTON= Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. 1 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. 2 THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. 3 THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. 4 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. The High School Girls Series =By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M.= These breezy stories of the American High School Girl take the reader fairly by storm. 1 GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshman Girls. 2 GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics. 3 GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, Fast Friends in the Sororities. 4 GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. The Automobile Girls Series =By LAURA DENT CRANE= No girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. 1 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWPORT; Or, Watching the Summer Parade. 2 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or, The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail. 3 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow. 4 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT CHICAGO; Or, Winning Out Against Heavy Odds 5 THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT PALM BEACH; Or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious printer's punctuation errors corrected. Varied hyphenation where a consensus could not be ascertained, retained. Page 9, "friend" changed to "friends" (became the firm friends) Page 49, "its" changed to "it's" (I think it's high) Page 54, word "were" inserted into text (thought were the) Page 74, word "a" inserted into the text (You have everything a) Page 111, removed double word "to to" (want to go) Page 143, "entiled" changed to "entitled". Page 145, "Harlowe's" changed to "Harlowe" (Harlowe lost no) Page 175, word "ran" removed from text. Original read "surprise ran around" (surprise around) Page 254, "your" changed to "you're" (you know you're) The Boys of Steel Series: Book list was missing the numerals 3 and 4. 
18587	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 18587-h.htm or 18587-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/5/8/18587/18587-h/18587-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/5/8/18587/18587-h.zip) THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH Or Hugh Morgan's Uphill Fight by DONALD FERGUSON [Frontispiece: "Are you through?" demanded, Hugh sternly.] The Goldsmith Publishing Co. Cleveland Made in U. S. A. Copyright, 1919 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A FENCE WITH A HISTORY II. THE BOYS OF OLD SCRANTON III. HUGH SHOULDERS A HEAVY TASK IV. IN FOR A FROLIC V. THE TRAGIC AFFAIR ON THE ROAD VI. MAKING A GOOD JOB OF IT VII. CALLED OUT FOR PRACTICE VIII. THAD MAKES A DISCOVERY IX. JUST BETWEEN CHUMS X. A VISITOR FROM BELLEVILLE HIGH XI. HUGH'S PETS IN DANGER XII. THE TRAP XIII. A COLD RECEPTION XIV. NICK AS A GAP-STOPPER XV. PRETTY POLLY UNDER SUSPICION XVI. THE RESCUE AT HOBSON'S MILL-POND XVII. LITTLE BRUTUS AND HIS "COLLECTION" XVIII. A STRAIGHT DRIVE FOR THE TRUTH XIX. HUGH REACHES HIS GOAL XX. LOOKING FORWARD--CONCLUSION THE CHUMS OF SCRANTON HIGH CHAPTER I A FENCE WITH A HISTORY "The best day so far this spring, fellows!" "It feels mighty much like baseball weather, for a fact, Otto!" "True for you, K. K., though there's still just a little tang to this April air." "What of that, Eli? The big leagues have opened shop all over the land, and the city papers are already full of baseball scores, and diamond lore. We ought to be getting busy ourselves in little old Scranton." "Allandale High is practicing. Sandy Dowd and I saw a bunch of the boys out on their field after school yesterday, didn't we, Sandy?" "That's right, we did. And I understand Belleville expects to put an extra hard-hitting nine in the game this season. They're still sore over the terrible drubbing Allandale gave them last summer." "Since Scranton has now become a member of the Three-Town League, taking the place of Lawrence when that nine dropped out, seems to me we ought to lose no time if we expect to commence practicing. That same Allandale team swept the circuit, you remember, like a hurricane." "We've plenty of good material, fellows, believe me, right here in Scranton High. And somehow I've got a hunch that we're going to make even mighty Allandale take a tumble before the season gets old." "Don't boast too soon, Eli Griffin. That's a wee Yankee trick you must have inherited from your forebears." "Easy for you to say that, Andy McGuffey. Why, you're a regular old pessimist, like all your canny Scotch ancestors were. You love to look at the world through smoked glasses. On my part, I prefer to use rose-colored ones, and expect the best sort of things to happen, even if I do get fooled lots of times." A number of well-grown lads were perched in all sorts of grotesque attitudes along the top rail of the campus fence. That same fence of Scranton High was almost as famous, in its modest way, as the one at Yale known throughout the length and breadth of the whole land. It had stood there, repaired at stated and frequent intervals, for at least two score of years. Hundreds upon hundreds of Scranton lads, long since grown to manhood, and many of them gone forth to take their appointed places in the busy marts of the world, kept a warm corner in their hearts for sacred memories of that dear old fence. Many a glorious campaign of sport or mischief had been talked over by a line of students perched along the flat rail at the summit of that same fence. More than one contemplated school mutiny had been hatched in excited whispers amidst those never-to-be-forgotten historic surroundings. Why, when a few years back the unthinking and officious School Directors voted to have that fence demolished, simply because it seemed to be out of keeping with the grand new building that had been erected, a storm of angry protest arose from students and parents; while letters arrived from a score and more of eminent men who were proud to call Scranton their birthplace. So overwhelming was the flood, that a hurry call for an extra meeting of the Board went out, at which their former ill-advised decision was rescinded. And so there that fence remained, beloved of every boy in Scranton, the younger fry only longing for the day to come when passing for the high school they, too, might have the proud privilege of "roosting" on its well-worn rails. Possibly it will still be in existence when some of their sons also reach the dignity of wearing the freshman class colors, and of battling on gridiron and diamond for the honor of Old Scranton. As to the identity of the boys in question, from whom those remarks proceeded, they might just as well be briefly introduced here as later, as all of them are destined to take part in the lively doings that will be recorded in this and in other volumes of this series. Otto was Otto Brand; Eli Griffin came of New England parentage, and had some of the traits that distinguish Yankees the world over, though a pretty fine fellow, all told; Andy McGuffey, as his name would indicate, could look back to a Scotch ancestry, and occasionally a touch of the brogue might be detected in his speech; Sandy Dowd had red hair, blue eyes and a host of very noticeable freckles; but could be good-natured in spite of any drawbacks; while the lad called "K. K." was in reality Kenneth Kinkaid; but since boys generally have little use for a name that makes a mouthful, he was known far and wide under that singularly abbreviated cognomen. The Committee on Sports connected with Scranton High was a body of seniors appointed by the students themselves, and given authority to handle all questions connected with athletics. As a rule, they carried out their duties in a broad-minded fashion, and not only merited the confidence of the entire school but also the respect of the faculty as well. There was considerable anxiety abroad just at present, because it was well known that the committee had been discussing the possible make-up of the baseball team to which would be given the proud privilege of representing the school that season in the Three-Town League. No one knew absolutely just who would be selected among the numerous candidates, though, of course, it was only natural that many entertained wild hopes, which were only doomed to disappointment. Two more boys came sauntering along, and found places on the "roost." One of these was a burly fellow with a pugnacious face and a bold eye. He seemed to be no favorite among the boys, though they treated him with a certain amount of respect. Well, there is never a town or a village but has its particular bully; and for several years now Nick Lang had ably filled that role in Scranton. He was a born "scrapper," and never so happy as when annoying others. A fight appeared to be the acme of pleasure with him, and it was seldom that he could be seen without some trace of a mix-up on his face in the shape of scratches, or a suspicious hue about one of his eyes. The other boy was Leon Disney, the "under-study" of Nick. While just as tough as the other, Leon never displayed the same amount of boldness. He would rather attain his revenge through some petty means, being a born sneak. The boys only tolerated Leon because Nick chose to stand up for him; and every one disliked to anger the Lang fellow, on account of his way of making things unpleasant for others. The general talk continued, with Nick taking part in it, for he at least was known to be a smart hand at athletics, and had often led in such things as hammer-throwing and wrestling. During the course of the conversation, which had become general, Eli chanced to mention the name of Owen Dugdale. "Why, they say that even he aspires to get a place on the substitute list, just to think of his nerve. Perhaps a few other fellows might feel they'd been slighted if the committee turned them down for Owen Dugdale." "Hold up there a bit, Eli," said K. K., reprovingly. "If I were you I'd go a little slow about running a fellow down, just because he happens to be called Owen Dugdale, and live with a queer old gentleman he calls his grandfather, but who chooses to keep aloof from Scranton folks as if he were a hermit. I happen to know that two of our most respected chums, Hugh Morgan and Thad Stevens, seem to have taken a great liking for that dark-faced chap. I've seen Owen in their company considerably of late." Eli gave a snort of disdain. He was one of those impulsive boys who often say disagreeable things on the spur of the moment, and then perhaps afterwards feel sorry for having done so. Evidently, he had taken a notion to dislike the said Owen, and did not care who knew it. "That fellow had been a mystery ever since he and his ancient granddaddy came to Scranton, and started to live in that old house called The Rookery, and which used to be thought a haunted place. I've always had a hunch they must be some relation to the notorious Luther Dugdale who has had a bad reputation as a dishonest operator down in the Wall Street district in New York. Why, lately I even asked my cousin in a letter about that man, and he wrote me the old chap had strangely disappeared some years ago, carrying off a big bunch of boodle dishonestly gained. Well, I'm not saying it's the same old rascal who's living in our midst right now, but, fellows, you can draw your own conclusions, for they came here just two years ago this summer!" "Wow! that's something new you're telling us, Eli!" "It takes _you_ to pick up clues, and you'll miss your vocation if you don't look for a job with the Government Secret Service, believe me, Eli!" "So Hugh Morgan has taken up with that gloomy looking chap Owen, has he?" remarked Nick Lang, with a suggestive wink at his crony, Leon. "Mebbe, now, I might badger him into having a friendly little bout with fists through that kid. As the rest of you happen to know I've tried about every other way to make the coward fight, and he only gives me one of his smiles, and says he's opposed to scrapping. That wise mother of his has tied little Hughy to her apron strings, seems like; but I'll get him yet, see if I don't." The other fellows exchanged significant looks and nods. Hugh Morgan had apparently always been more or less of an enigma to them. They knew he was no coward, for only the last winter he had leaped boldly into the river at the risk of his own life, and saved little Tommy Crabbe just when the unfortunate child was about to be drawn by the fierce current under the ice. Still, no one had even known Hugh to be engaged in a fight. There was some deep object back of his reluctance so to demean himself, most of the fellows believed, and as he was so well liked, they respected his motives. Just then keen-eyed Andy McGuffey was heard to cry out: "Speak of an angel and you'll hear the rustle of his wings, and there comes our Hugh right now. See, he's waving his hand to us, and is hurrying along at almost a run. Say, it may be he's fetching some news from the committee, because he told me he had an idea they'd reach an understanding this afternoon. Yes, he's looking mighty wise, so I reckon we're going to hear something drop." CHAPTER II THE BOYS OF OLD SCRANTON The boy advancing toward the comrades perched on the campus fence was bright of face, and with laughing eyes that made him hosts of friends. Few had ever seen Hugh Morgan angry, though there was a report that on a certain occasion he had stopped to give old Garry Owen the truckman a piece of his mind, and threaten to have him arrested if he was ever seen beating his poor horse when the animal was stalled with a load too heavy for his strength. Yes, and although Garry was known to have a fiery Irish tongue, he had been subdued by the arguments which Hugh hurled at him, and meekly promised to go easy with his stinging whip after that. Hugh seemed to be a trimly built lad, who evidently believed in keeping not only his mind but his body also well trained, since so much depended on good health. He lived with his mother and smaller sister. His father had been dead some years now, but apparently the widow had plenty of means to afford them a good living. They resided in a nice house and kept one servant. Most of the boys of Scranton High thought Hugh a fine fellow, and envied Thad Stevens the privilege of being his closest chum. A few, however, had no use for Hugh, and among them were such fellows as Nick Lang and Leon Disney. They pretended to dislike him because he had no "nerve," which was only another method of saying that he absolutely declined to be egged into a dispute, and had a wonderful way of cooling off all would-be fighters who dared him to a fist test. Those who knew Hugh best felt certain there must be some good and valid reason for his action in this respect. He had taken none of them into his confidence, however, and they could only surmise what it might be. The general consensus of opinion was that possibly at some time in his younger years, Hugh may have shown signs of an ungovernable temper, and his wise mother had made him solemnly promise never to allow himself to be drawn into a fight unless it was to protect some one weaker than himself who was being rudely treated by a bully. He nodded his head as he drew near the group, for by now the eager boys had left their lofty perch, and gathered in an excited bunch to learn what was in the wind. "News, fellows!" exclaimed the latest addition to the group, "great news for the Scranton lovers of baseball!" "Then the committee have finished making out their programme, and mebbe even decided on the lucky candidates who'll have a chance to show what they've got in them to put the school on the map this year?" "A pretty good guess for you, Eli, so go up head," laughed Hugh; "for I've just been told that is what has come about. Their deliberations have closed, and presently there will be a general call issued for a full meeting, at which their report is to be read. Then everybody will know whether or not they have been deemed worthy of making a try for honors in the diamond this season." "We'll all be mighty glad when it's over, and those of us who are unfortunate enough to get left high and dry can know the worst," said K. K. "Huh! you needn't lose any sleep over that, K. K.!" exclaimed Sandy Dowd. "Everybody knows you're a jim-dandy at the bat, and a clever fielder in the bargain. Wish I had as much chance as you and Hugh here of making the nine. But then we must put faith in our committee, and believe they'll select the ones they firmly believe are best fitted for the job of holding down those heavy sluggers of Allandale. The rest of us can root for the glory of old Scranton, and even that counts." "But the committee, it seems, have gone even further," continued Hugh, looking around at the eager faces of his chums, and also some who could hardly be classed under that head. "Go on and tell us the news, Hugh! Don't ye see we're just dying to know?" pleaded Andy McGuffey. "Have they been in touch with Allandale and Belleville?" asked the sagacious Eli. "It seems that last night they went over to Allandale to meet the committee of that place, as well as the one representing Belleville," continued Hugh. "Matters of every kind were taken up and discussed. The meeting ended with a programme being laid out that is to be rigidly adhered to. Two weeks from tomorrow, Saturday, we will find ourselves up against Belleville; and on the following Saturday it's to be Allandale. Those two clubs have found a way of having their meetings come off on Wednesday afternoons at three, a special favor granted by the directors of the respective schools on account of there being but three clubs in the league." "Two weeks, and as yet we don't even know who's going to be on our team!" burst out Eli. "Seems to me that's an awful short time to get settled down into our best stride. Allandale will have a terrible bulge on us, Hugh, because I hear they've kept almost the same team that carried off the honors last year." "If anything it's said to be some stronger," added Sandy Dowd, ponderously, for he had a habit of looking solemn at times, in spite of his blue eyes, red hair and mottled face. "An Allandale fellow told me they expected to wipe up the earth with both Belleville and Scranton this term." "Huh! better spell able first," grunted Eli. "I hope there's no more delay than is necessary about notifying the candidates who've been selected to appear on the athletic field after school every day, and keep hustling till supper time. We've just _got_ to make the sand fly, if we expect to catch up with those older teams." "Well," Hugh assured him, "you'll know all about it by tomorrow night, because the last knot will have been untied by then, and everybody notified to come out to the meeting. Then beginning on next Monday afternoon, hard practice for the lucky ones, to be continued every decent day during the week, with a game against a picked nine on Saturday." "Will Mr. Leonard coach the team as he promised, Hugh?" asked K. K. Mr. Leonard was the assistant of the head of the Scranton schools, a pretty fine sort of a young man, who had gained quite some fame as an athlete while at Princeton, and was well fitted for the task of athletic instructor, which post he filled in addition to other duties. "He told me he would take the greatest pleasure in trying to build up a winning team for Scranton," Hugh informed them. "Good for Mr. Leonard, he's a dandy!" exclaimed Eli; and that seemed to be the consensus of opinion; though Nick was seen to allow his upper lip to curl a bit at mention of the athletic instructor's name. There was a reason back of that, as the other boys well knew, for they remembered the time when Nick had been handled pretty briskly by Mr. Leonard, and made to apologize for some rude remark he had thrown out heedlessly in his rough way. It could hardly be expected that Nick would ever have a very good opinion of the young man who had humbled his swollen pride in the presence of the same fellows whom he had so long ridden rough-shod over. "Well, the afternoon is getting on, and supper-time will be around before long; so, for one, I'm going to head for home," observed K. K. There was a general exodus, and the famous fence was soon abandoned by the entire group of boys. They started off by twos and threes, with the general drift of conversation circling around the one great subject--the meeting to be called for Saturday night in the school, at which the report of the committee would be made, together with an announcement as to their choice as to candidates to be tried out for the various positions on the season's team. Hugh and K. K. walked along in company. Hugh always fancied the Kinkaid boy, for there was something dependable about him that won the confidence of almost all his mates. K. K. was one of the most remarkable chaps, who, while engaging in the customary rough and tumble sports of boys with red blood in their veins, still seemed able to keep himself always tidy and neat. No one ever knew how he did it, and a few were wont to call him a "sissy," but K. K. was far from that. Only one boy attending Scranton High could really come under such a name, and he was Reggie Van Alstyne, who had always been a veritable dude. "Oh! I had nearly forgotten an errand my mother commissioned me to do for her," Hugh suddenly exclaimed. "I'll have to leave you here, K. K., and turn back." The other laughed. "Too much baseball on the brain, I reckon, Hugh," he went on to say; "but then, with your fetching us that good news, it wasn't to be wondered that you let such a little thing as an errand for your mother slip out of your mind. If I can help any, tell me, Hugh." "Oh! no, I've just got to step in at Madame Pangborn's and ask her something. My mother is interested in Red Cross work, you know, and the old Madame has a connection with the French branch of that service. Most of the material the ladies of Scranton have been getting ready is sent abroad through the queer old lady, who, they say, once used to queen it at the court of Louis Napoleon. She's over eighty years of age now, but quite rich, I've been told. And if you've never been in her house you'd be interested in seeing how she lives. That wonderful green parrot of hers can rattle off a whole string of songs and sayings. It almost gives you the creeps to hear Jocko performing, for it strikes you as what Andy McGuffey would call uncanny. Well, so long, K. K. I hope you make the team, all right." "Same to you, Hugh; but nobody doubts that, for we all think you're away above all the rest of the Scranton boys as an all-round athlete, barring none. Some may be able to outdo you in their specialty, but they're weak in other stunts." So they parted, K. K. continuing on his way home, while Hugh turned into a side street, and went whistling along after the manner of a boy whose mind knew no care. Presently he came to a large house. It was rather dingy on the outside, but Hugh, who had often been indoors, knew there was some elegant old mahogany furniture, as well as other mementoes of the former life of the Madame when she filled a high niche at the French court, before the republic was inaugurated. His knock at the door--for instead of an electric bell the lady insisted on using one of those enormous old silver-plated knockers, that used to be the fashion fifty or sixty years back--was answered by a colored woman, who seemed to know the boy, for she smiled pleasantly. "Yassir, de missus is in," she told him in answer to his question. "Jes' yo' walk on back to de library, honey, an' dar you'll find her, sewin' like she always does dese amazin' times. You knows de way, I reckons, sah." "I certainly do, Sarah," he assured her as he started along the wide hall. When he knocked gently at the library door, he was told to enter, which Hugh proceeded to do. A very wrinkled and old woman sat in a big chair. The table was covered with material for all sorts of bandages, and such things as are urgently needed wherever hideous war is raging. Hugh noticed that at sight of him Madame Pangborn seemed pleased. He wondered why, but was not long in learning. "Oh! I am glad you've dropped in to see me, Hugh," she told him; "because something very strange has happened, and perhaps you might be able to advise me. In fact, Hugh, I fear I am being systematically robbed!" CHAPTER III HUGH SHOULDERS A HEAVY TASK Hugh hardly knew how to take that astonishing declaration on the part of the old lady. He remembered that she was very peculiar in some ways, and the very first thought that flashed into the boy's mind was to the effect that Madame Pangborn might be getting what some fellows would, impolitely of course, have called "daffy." Still her black eyes flashed with all their old-time vigor, and she appeared to be very much in earnest. More to humor her than anything else Hugh remarked in a sympathetic voice: "I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Of course if I can do anything for you I'll be only too glad of the chance. Would you mind telling me about it?" "Thank you for your kindness, my son," she went on, eagerly. "You see, a woman of my age, who has studied human nature for a long time, comes to know the weaknesses of boys, even while believing in them to the utmost. At times the temptation may be more than their powers of resistance can stand, and they are irresistibly impelled to take something that excites their cupidity. I am prone to believe most of them find it possible to resist such an inclination. Still, alas! I have known of occasions where the temptation carried the day. This seems to be one of them. My heart is feeling very sore over it, too. I thought at first to speak to Chief Wambold, but somehow I hesitated. And then it happened precisely as before." "Do you mean to say you have missed something on two separate occasions, ma'am?" Hugh hastened to ask, beginning to realize now that "where there was smoke there must be a fire," and that after all there was something more in this affair than a mere specter brought into being through an old lady's whim. "Yes, it has occurred twice, and on each occasion that same boy chanced to be in my house. Oh! it is too bad, too bad! And he such a quiet and respectful young chap in the bargain." "Please tell me more about it, for I can't possibly be of any assistance to you, Mrs. Pangborn, unless I know the facts," Hugh continued, his curiosity beginning to rise by jumps. "The first time," the old lady went on to say, consulting what seemed to be a diary which she picked up from her overloaded table, "was just a week ago today. I had been busy as usual, for an additional number of pieces came in from those kind ladies of Scranton who are helping me sew for the brave wounded poilus of my country, valiant France. This lad brought in a package which Mrs. Ackerman had given into his charge. I remember I chatted with him quite a while, and was interested in all he said so respectfully; for it happened I had heard a number of peculiar things in the way of town gossip concerning him and his aged grandfather." She paused as if to recover her breath. Hugh, on his part, had started as though he might have received a sudden shock. Possibly his thoughts flew instantly toward one particular boy who happened to have an old grandfather, and about whom there had always been more or less mysterious comment in the town. "After he had gone away, letting himself out at my request, so as to save Sarah from coming up from the kitchen, I had occasion to pass into the other room, which also opens into the front hall. Something impelled me to idly count over some souvenir spoons that I have personally collected from various parts of the world, and each one of which has a peculiar value for me far, far beyond its pecuniary worth. "To my surprise and dismay I found that there were only eleven, when there should have been twelve. I keep them there on a table so as to show them to some of my kind lady friends, for I am particularly proud of my collection, and Sarah had only that morning brightened them all superbly until they glistened. "So I called her up and asked her if she could remember counting the spoons at the time she cleaned them. She assured me solemnly that the entire twelve were in the open case when she placed them on the table at my orders. "It remained a puzzle to me for a whole week. I believed, of course, that Sarah must have unconsciously mislaid a spoon, which would be found sooner or later. At the same time I remembered the visit of that lad, who had never been in my house before, and how he might have glanced into the drawing-room through accident, and seeing my souvenir spoons, been tempted to purloin one. But every time that terrible thought flashed into my mind I indignantly refused to harbor it, I love all boys so much. "Then again today he came with more work turned in by Mrs. Ackerman, who had for some reason of her own selected him as her messenger. I actually forgot all my ugly suspicions in the charm of his manly conversation, until some time after he had gone, again, at my suggestion, letting himself out. I hurried into the drawing-room, and with trembling fingers proceeded to count my spoons. There were but ten of them left in the open box. Another had strangely vanished!" Hugh almost gasped, he was so tremendously interested in this thrilling recital. "You are certain you did not make any mistake, Mrs. Pangborn?" he asked, for want of something better to say. "Please step into the other room and count them for yourself, Hugh," she quickly told him. "You can use the connecting door if you wish, instead of passing around by way of the hall." Hugh came back a minute later. His face was very grave. "It is just as you told me, ma'am," he remarked, softly, at the same time shaking his head, as though he could not bring himself to believe it was as bad as the old lady suspected; that there must be some other and reasonable explanation for the vanishing of the spoons; surely Owen Dugdale could not be guilty of such a base theft! "What can I believe, Hugh?" she almost wailed. "I do not walk in my sleep, and that colored girl is as honest as your own mother, I feel positive. Please tell me you will try and find out the answer to this distressing puzzle." "I can easily promise you that I will at least do my level best to learn where your property went, Mrs. Pangborn; and if possible recover it for you," he hastened to assure her. "Thank you very much, my son. As soon as I saw you I seemed to feel an inspiration that Providence had sent you to me in my distress. For it would break my heart if I were compelled to have that poor, weak boy arrested, and charged with so grievous a breach of the law. You being a boy may be able to have a certain amount of influence over him. You may even induce him to own up to his act, and send me back my precious spoons. The ones taken by some accident are the very ones I value most." "While I give you my promise willingly enough, ma'am," Hugh went on to say deliberately, "I want to add that I can't believe it possible Owen Dugdale could be so small and mean as to yield to an impulse, and take anything that belonged to another." "That is splendid of you, Hugh!" she cried, her black eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "I love a boy who has faith in his fellows, and thinks the best of them, no matter how circumstantial evidence may seem to blacken their characters. And my son, if only you can find an explanation of this puzzle that will exonerate your young companion, I shall be very happy indeed. A great load will have been removed from my poor old heart. I would rather lose the entire twelve spoons than learn that Owen Dugdale were guilty." "Then you will not say a word of this to any one," he continued, "particularly Chief Wambold, who everybody knows has a great itching to shine as a wonderful sleuth, but makes himself only ridiculous whenever he tries to unearth any uncommon happening?" "I gladly give you my promise to keep silent, Hugh," she assured him, holding out her withered hand, resplendant with lovely gems, diamonds, rubies and pearls, for like most French women, the Madame was more than commonly fond of jewelry. "And from what you say, as well as your mentioning the boy's name before I spoke it, I assume that you know Owen Dugdale?" "I have latterly become greatly interested in him, ma'am, and we have been much together," he told her simply. "Since I pride myself on being something of a reader of human nature, I feel almost certain that there must be a great mistake somewhere; and that when the truth is discovered, you and I will laugh, and say it was ridiculous for us to even think Owen could have taken the spoons!" The old lady's eyes glistened as she heard these brave words. Standing up for a friend was one of Hugh Morgan's leading traits; and yet, if the truth were known, he did not feel _quite_ so positive as his words would indicate. Things certainly looked dark for the Dugdale boy. Hugh, when he came to think over the whole matter, was bound to be smitten with a grave fear lest the worst come to pass. "Somehow I seem to have unbounded confidence in your ability to accomplish the impossible, Hugh Morgan," she told him, which words of praise thrilled him to the heart, for he was, after all, human and a boy. "Only good words have come to me about you from all those with whom I converse; for though you may think it odd in an old woman who never had a son of her own, I have all my life been interested in other people's children, particularly boys, seven of whom I have had educated at my expense. Ah! they are either fighting bravely for the life of France just now, or else filling patriots' graves in the battle country." Hugh asked a few more questions that chanced to occur to him. Then he prepared to take his leave. "I will think it all over, ma'am," he remarked, as she gave him her dainty if wrinkled hand to press, "and like as not I'll conjure up some scheme by which we can prove whether Owen is innocent or guilty. You see I could be hidden in that room and a trap set, you sending him word to call for a package you wished him to deliver. Then if he went out without even looking into the drawing-room, and yet another of your spoons disappeared, we'd know to a certainty that the trouble lay inside this house." "Hugh, you give me fresh hope!" she cried, with her eyes glistening as though the tears were trying to flow. "Oh! I would almost pray that something of the sort turned out to be the case, for somehow I have taken a great interest in Owen Dugdale. I mean later on to find an opportunity to meet that wonderful grandfather of his, for somehow I suspect he may turn out to be an exile of note who has taken this means for hiding his identity. I have known eminent Russians to do that from fear of the Czar's secret agents." Hugh could not but remember how some of the people chose to believe old Mr. Dugdale was keeping in hiding from some far less honorable cause; but of course he did not say anything about that. He went out of Madame Pangborn's big house with a sense of having undertaken a great responsibility; and realizing that an up-hill task lay upon his young shoulders which might test his utmost abilities to carry through. CHAPTER IV IN FOR A FROLIC The high-school boys and girls of Scranton, like those of most other communities, delighted in getting up occasional entertainments so dear to the hearts of young people. A straw-ride late in the summer; it might be a class-spread under difficult conditions on account of the envy of the other grades at school; and once in a while a jolly barn dance was engineered by a committee composed of both sexes. There was just such a pleasant outing arranged for this same Friday night. Some of the fellows had made up a party to go out several miles to where a big barn, as yet empty of the anticipated crop of hay, offered them excellent facilities for a merry hop. A trio of darky players had been engaged. The leader was quite famous through that section of country and had played at such affairs for years. Everybody for miles around knew Daddy Whitehead and the fiddle from which he could extract the most enticing music boys and girls had ever danced to; while his assistants, Mose Coffin and Abe Skinner were fairly good with the violoncello and oboe, making a good combination capable of playing up-to-date dances, as well as others known to the fathers and mothers of the present generation. These affairs were conducted with a due respect to the proprieties. A middle-aged lady invariably went along in the carryall to chaperone the young people, although there was a deal of fun going and coming back home, as well as on the floor of the great barn, with its many lanterns to serve in lieu of electric lights. Hugh was going, of course. He and his best chum, Thad Stevens, had a pretty fair car in which to transport the two girls whom they had invited as their partners. These same girls were co-eds with Hugh and Thad on the weekly paper which Scranton High issued, just as many other schools do. They were named Sue Barnes and Ivy Middleton. Sue was Hugh's company, while the dark-haired vivacious Ivy seemed to have a particular attraction for Thad. By the way, since Thad has thus far not been introduced to the reader, it might be a good idea to say a few words about him before going any further with the exciting events that happened on the Friday night of the barn hop. Thad was a quick-tempered lad, in which respect he seemed to differ radically from Hugh, who somehow managed to keep his under wonderful control, as though he had long practiced holding it in subjection. Strangely enough, Thad's folks came of Quaker stock, and "thee" and "thou" had been familiar words to his young ears. But Thad apparently had not inherited the peaceful ways of his ancestors, for he had been in more than a few battles with some of his more pugnacious school companions, nor did he always come out from these encounters first best. All the same, Thad was a pretty clever chap, and Hugh had always been very fond of his chum. They got on wonderfully well together, and seldom had the least "tiff." It was Thad who had secured his father's old car for the special occasion. He turned up at Hugh's house about half-past seven that evening. It was a calm night, and the moon was just rising in the east, being a little past her full period. "Say, this couldn't be improved on any, according to my notion, Thad," Hugh remarked, as, attracted by the call of the klaxon outside, he hurried forth, wearing his overcoat, for the night air was quite chilly, it being still only April. "A bang-up night for a dance," echoed the enthusiastic Thad; "just cool enough to keep us from getting overheated. The farmer's wife will make the coffee, and spread a table for us in her big kitchen, she promised; and the girls are to provide lots of good things. We're mighty lucky for once, Hugh." "How many do you think will be on hand?" asked the other, settling down alongside the driver. "Well, ten couple have solemnly promised to attend, barring some accident; and I reckon there may be several more show up, because we've done lots of talking about the jolly time we expected to have. I only hope that Nick Lang and his crowd will have the decency to stay away. If they show up there's bound to be trouble brewing." "I'm afraid so," acceded Hugh, seriously, "for Nick is never so happy as when he's making other folks miserable. But the farmer has a stout hired man, who will be on deck to keep an eye on our cars, and other conveyances; so there'll hardly be any tricks attempted with the lines, taking wheels off buggies, and all such practical jokes, such as those fellows dearly love to play." "I heard Owen Dugdale was coming," Thad went on to say, as they started off, "which is something unusual for him, because up to now we've never seen him at a hop." "Now how did you learn that?" laughed Hugh. "Oh! a little bird told me," replied the other. "Fact is, Hugh, pretty Peggy Noland told my sister Grace Owen had asked her to be his company to this hop, and she had accepted, because somehow she always liked Owen." "Whew! I wonder now how Nick Lang will feel about that?" ventured Hugh. "You know Peggy used to have him for her company a number of times. But I remember how annoyed she looked at the class spread when he acted so rudely, and made everybody present wish he had stayed at home." "Oh! Peggy says she will never, never go anywhere again with that terrible Nick Lang. She never did like him any too well, and now she detests him. I only hope Nick isn't mean enough to try to pick on Owen because Peggy's accepted his offer to take her to the barn hop." There were so many other things pressing on Hugh's mind just then that he did not give the matter much attention. Later on, perhaps he might have it brought forcibly before him, and in a manner bordering on tragedy in the bargain. Hugh meant to take Thad into his confidence at the first favorable opportunity. He knew his chum would never breathe a syllable of what he told him; and possibly two heads might prove better than one in solving what promised to be a great enigma. But the time was too short now to even mention the matter. Perhaps later on as they chanced to come together between the dances he would find the opening he sought to confide in Thad. He did excite the other's curiosity, however, by saying just before they drew up in front of the Barnes' home: "I've got something queer to tell you, Thad, when I get the chance. Perhaps it'll come while we're resting between dances. I've undertaken a pretty big proposition, and I'd like to have you share it with me." "Well, now, you _have_ got me guessing," chuckled Thad. "What a fellow you are for undertaking big things. Nothing seems to faize you, Hugh, Can't you just give me a little clue to feed on till you explain it all? It's mean to stir me up like that, you know, old fellow." "All I can tell you now," said Hugh, who had discovered some one peeping out through the lace curtains at the parlor window, and knew how anxious Sue must be for him to run up the steps and ring the door bell, "is that it concerns Owen Dugdale. So just let your curiosity-mill work on that until I can spin the whole odd yarn." "Whew! you've twisted me up worse than ever now," he heard Thad muttering, as he hastened to make for the door, where the eager Sue awaited him, having seen the car stopping at the curb. As Ivy lived only a short block away, they speedily had her installed alongside the chattering Sue in the back seat; though possibly on the way home the girls might prefer to change partners, as Ivy was heard to say she just dearly loved to be alongside the chauffeur when out in a car, because the view was so much better. On the road they passed several vehicles, all bound in the same direction. Now it was a slow car that managed to roll along "like an ice-wagon," as Thad laughingly called out on going ahead. Then again it was a buggy pulled by a horse; for there were actually a few of these almost extinct quadrupeds still to be found in some of the family stables of Scranton. "Listen! that must be the carryall ahead of us," called out Thad, not venturing to turn his head when he spoke, because the road was rather poor, with ditches on either side, while the moon gave rather a poor light, since it had not yet risen above the haze near the horizon. Some one aboard was noisily tooting the horn, for some boys seem to be up to all manner of mischief every hour of the day, and dearly love to make a noise in the world, even though it rasps on other people's ears distressingly. Once they arrived at their destination, they found it a very gay scene. The barn had been quite prettily decorated by some of the girls who had come out during the last two afternoons after school to sweep the floor, and instruct the farmer and his helper just where to hang the many lanterns they had fetched along. There was Daddy Whitehead, with his famous fiddle, which he was already tuning up, so as to be ready to commence operations; while his "band," consisting of Abe Skinner and Mose Coffin, sat there with huge grins on their faces, and also an expectant look. They had undoubtedly noted the huge hampers of eatables that came with each party, and could anticipate a delightful break in the monotony of sawing away, or blowing steadily into that oboe instrument. Chattering girls and boys were soon strewn all about the place. The farmer and his good wife seemed to be enjoying the picture, since it must have reminded them of somewhat similar episodes in their own younger years, when life seemed buoyant, and without any trouble such as time always brings in its train. Soon the first dance started, and immediately the floor was covered with happy couples whirling in the maze of a waltz. More vehicles arrived, and others joined in the festivities. This continued for two solid hours, with brief respites to allow both musicians and dancers a chance to "rest up." Then some of the girls were called upon to pass into the kitchen of the farmhouse to start work at getting supper ready; though none of the boys were allowed to accompany them, being told that they would only interfere with the work. It happened that among those who took this duty on themselves were both Ivy and Sue, so that Hugh and Thad found they were without partners. They were feeling a bit fatigued in the bargain, and following the example of several other fellows who were in the same fix, they strolled outside for a breath of cool air, taking care to pick up their overcoats, as they were flushed from exercise. Here Thad demanded that Hugh explain what his strange words meant with reference to Owen Dugdale. He listened while the other told the story in low tones; for while they believed themselves alone in the moonlight, it was always possible that some other fellow might be loitering close by, and thus overhear what was not intended for his ears. Thad of course was deeply interested by what he heard. He, too, declared that it seemed preposterous to think that Owen could demean himself so much as to deliberately steal what belonged to the queer old French madame. At the same time Thad admitted he considered the circumstantial evidence fairly strong. "My father's a lawyer, you know, Hugh," he went on to say, "and I've heard him say circumstantial evidence has hanged many an innocent man. We ought to go mighty slow about believing Owen guilty without better proof than his having been in the house on both occasions." CHAPTER V THE TRAGIC AFFAIR ON THE ROAD "Let's walk up the road a bit," suggested Hugh. "It's too cool to sit here after getting so heated up inside the barn. And Sue told me they'd be all of a quarter of an hour laying the supper out." "I'm with you, Hugh. After those cranky dances, it'll do both of us good to step out in some other way than that silly tango, and monkey climb. Have you thought up any scheme yet for learning the truth about Owen?" "Not yet," came the reply, "though I've several ideas on tap, and may settle on one soon. It's such a serious affair that I'm afraid to hurry too fast. Why, if the boy is innocent, as we both seem to believe, he'd be terribly humiliated if he learned that he had been under suspicion. I've found out he's quite proud, and that's one reason he hasn't mingled with the young folks much since coming to our town. He knows there are strange rumors about his grandfather, and that some people are even talking about Mr. Dugdale as if they suspected him of being a notorious crook in hiding." "Listen! what's all that loud talking ahead there mean?" suddenly exclaimed Thad. They both stopped short, and held their breath while listening. "Would you believe it!" cried Thad, "that was certainly Nick Lang's gruff voice I heard just then. If that chap's around this region, he's come out on purpose to kick up some sort of a shindy. It would be just like his way." Hugh felt a thrill pass over him. It was as though some innate warning told him he would sooner or later be mixed up in the mess Nick meant to start. Somehow, his thoughts instinctively flew to Owen Dugdale, and he remembered what Thad had remarked earlier in the evening about the possibility of Nick picking on Owen simply because Peggy Noland chose to accompany the other to the hop, in preference to accepting Nick for a partner. The voices were growing even more boisterous. "Let's get a move on us, and sprint up that way, Hugh," suggested Thad, unable to restrain his impatience. "Might as well," the other grimly told him. Accordingly, they started to run. All the while they could hear disputing voices raised in anger and excitement. Apparently, Nick was aroused, and looking for trouble; when he allowed himself to jump into this aggressive mood, somebody was liable to feel the weight of his heavy fist before the end of the affair came. At least such had always been the case in the past. Nick was not the only one doing the talking. Hugh thought he several times caught the sound of a voice that might belong to Owen. Then there were also others in the heated argument, some of them apparently egging the pugnacious Nick on, while yet a few more seemed to be trying to cast oil on troubled waters. At least Owen was not alone with Nick and his ugly cronies, Hugh realized, though, after all, that would not count for much. Fellows like Leon Disney and several others of the same stripe would be only too well pleased to pair off and attack any other boy who might show a disposition to interfere with the designs of their leader, the bully of the town, big blustering Nick Lang. Faster still did Hugh and Thad run along. They feared lest something happen before they could arrive on the spot. Both of them were grimly resolved that they would never stand by and see that overgrown fellow abuse a smaller boy like Owen. As they drew nearer, they discovered that Owen was trying to stand up for his action. He seemed to be declaring that any fellow had a perfect right to ask a girl to accompany him to a dance, and if she did not wish to accept she would say so. He was not trying to cut anybody out, and if Peggy Noland would rather go home with another fellow, Nick, for instance, she had only to say so. But so long as she gave him to understand that she preferred to have him for an escort, he did not mean to be driven away by anybody, no matter if they were twice his size. Somehow, when Hugh caught the drift of what Owen was saying, his heart burned within him, for he realized that the boy was made of the right kind of stuff. In build and muscular ability he was no match for Nick Lang; but evidently his courage was equal to any test; and it is that makes the man, not his physique alone. "Bully for Owen!" Thad could be heard muttering between his pants as he raced along; "if that big coward strikes him, he's going to answer to me for it, no matter what happens." Now that was just what was passing through Hugh's mind at the same moment. True, a social hop might be one of the last places in the wide world for a boy to allow himself to be drawn into a brutal fight; but if his hand were forced by Nick Lang everything else must be forgotten, Hugh decided. Somehow, he felt better after that. He could even think of his mother without any burning regret and shame, for had she not impressed it upon his mind years back that no matter how averse a boy may be to entering a fist fight, when it is in defense of a girl, or a smaller lad, he is perfectly justified in so doing, putting aside all his scruples, even his sacred promise to his mother. Matters were now getting pretty close to the breaking point. They could hear Nick ranting as to what he ought to do to a fellow who played him such a trick as to come between him and the girl he had always taken to hops and singing school. "Do you know what I got a good mind to do to you, sonny?" he roared, and doubtless added emphasis to his words by shaking that big fist of his under Owen's nose. "I haven't the least idea," replied Owen, steadily enough, considering that he must surely know sufficient concerning Nick's ways to understand the danger he was in. "All I say is that I had a perfect right to ask any girl to come to the hop with me. Since she accepted, you must look for an explanation from Peggy. I'm sure I don't feel obliged to ask you whether I can breathe the same air as you do or not. The country is big enough for both of us, Nick Lang. You go your way, and I'll go mine." "I'll go when I'm done with you, and not a minute before," snarled the other. "So get ready to take your medicine. Mebbe when Peggy sees your nose all bloody, and one eye closed up, with a black circle coming around the other, she won't think you so pretty a sight." "What's going on here?" It was Hugh who asked this as he and Thad managed to arrive on the scene, to discover a group of boys standing there on the moonlit road surrounding the two principals in the heated argument, who were facing each other so threateningly. Nick turned his head to take a look. Even in the moonlight, the sudden grin that came upon his red face was noticeable. Apparently it pleased him to know that the boy whom he had never thus far been able to coax into a row with him had arrived on the spot. He must have judged that this was a piece of double luck, in that he might take revenge upon the one who had interfered with his pleasure, and at the same time force Hugh Morgan, who had never been known to engage in any rowdy practices, to enter into a rough-and-tumble scrap with him. "Hello! so you're there, are you, Hugh Morgan?" he called out, with a ring of savage delight in his heavy voice. "Glad you've dropped in just in time to see me give a good friend of yours a little lesson in politeness. Here's Owen saying how he thinks it good taste to step in between a fellow and his best girl. I'm meaning to knock a different notion into his silly head. Sometimes you have to pound things into some people, you understand." "I'd advise you to try nothing of the sort, Nick," said Hugh, steadily. At that the other laughed aloud. "Why, you don't mean to tell me you'd stick in your little oar, Hugh, and try to teach me a few tricks, do you? I could put you on your back with one hand behind me. Fellers that are tied to their mother's apron strings ain't apt to know a heap about how to take care of themselves in a stand-up fight. Mebbe now you're meaning all of you to pick on me? Well, I've got a few nervy pals hangin' around who'd like nothing better than to have you try that game." Owen had not attempted to escape while Nick's attention was thus taken up with the newcomers, though possibly he might have been forgiven had he done so, considering all the conditions. But evidently Owen had plenty of nerve, even though he might be lacking in brawn equal to the bully's larger figure. Nick now turned again upon the other. His gestures became even more offensive, as though despite Hugh's grave warning, he meant to attack Owen, come what might, and give him the drubbing which according to his, Nick's light, was long overdue. Suddenly, without the least warning, his fist shot out. Owen apparently was not expecting such a cowardly blow, and hence must have been taken unawares. The consequence was that the blow landed on the side of his head when he tried instinctively to duck. It sounded horribly suggestive, and made Hugh's blood fairly boil as anger swept over him in a wild wave. Owen staggered and fell. Gamely, he attempted to scramble to his knees, and before Nick could prevent him had even done this, trying to strike back in return. The boy was furious because of having been dealt such a foul blow; he would have leaped at the giant just then if the necessity arose. Nick was in his element. Scenes like this were so frequent in his life that he fairly delighted in them, just as another boy less pugilistic in his nature might glory in taking snap-shot pictures, catching fish, or camping in the woods. Fighting and Nick Lang were synonymous terms, it might almost be said. Sweeping the threatening hand of Owen aside almost contemptuously, Nick suddenly sent in another swift jolt, such as he knew so well how to deliver, having taken a few lessons from some reformed prize fighter. Poor Owen went down again in a pitiful heap. He did not have the slightest chance against such a master in the art of delivering heavy blows that could not be parried. As one of the boys who looked on with staring eyes, too much afraid of the bully to interfere, was heard to say, it was "like taking candy from the baby for Nick to strike that boy, unacquainted with the art of self-defense." This time the boy was really unable to do more than struggle to his knees. There he knelt trying to recover his breath, and not yet wholly conquered, though unable to make any further threatening gestures toward his cruel oppressor. Hugh had already started to quietly remove both his overcoat and the under one. These he handed over to Thad for safe-keeping. Nick saw his actions with keen delight. Apparently, the hope he had entertained of forcing Hugh Morgan into meeting him in a clean-cut issue, to see which would prove the better man, was about to be realized. "It's just got to be done, I see," Hugh was saying, as he faced the leering victor in the unequal affair just concluded. "You big coward, I'm going to teach you that there's danger in picking on a boy smaller than yourself. In other words, you're due for a thrashing you'll never forget. Now look out for yourself!" CHAPTER VI MAKING A GOOD JOB OF IT A fight between two boys is not a very pleasant subject with which to deal. In this particular circumstance there were, however, mitigating conditions that would almost make it a pleasure to describe the battle. Hugh was standing up for the rights of the weak, and had only plunged into the scrimmage when he saw that Nick had treated Owen in a most cruel manner. Once he started in and he meant business. There could be no half-way measures in handling so crafty and unprincipled a customer as the town bully. He must be carried off his feet with the impetuosity of the attack; and while still bewildered thoroughly punished. As Hugh had well said he needed a lasting lesson. Perhaps after this Nick would think twice before attacking a weaker boy, who might have a friend capable and willing to take up cudgels in his behalf. Nick flourished those big fists of his, and commenced to dance tauntingly around as though meaning to enlist the admiration of his cronies, who had never yet seen him come out of a battle second-best, and therefore deemed him invincible. Hugh leaped at him with fury glowing in his eyes. Some powerful fever seemed to have utterly overwhelmed the boy. Thad and those others stared as though they could not believe their vision. Was this impetuous boy who struck down Nick's guard as though nothing could restrain his attack, the same Hugh Morgan who on numerous occasions had been known to arbitrate a dispute, and declare that it was not worth getting into a temper over? A miracle seemed to have happened. The sight of Nick's brutal treatment of Owen Dugdale must have transformed Hugh into a merciless avenger. In that supreme moment he had constituted himself the champion of all those lads in Scranton who, in times past, had suffered cruel wrongs at the hands of the sneering bully. There was a furious exchange of blows. Nick knew how to fight, but on this occasion something seemed to go wrong with his customary programme. Why, when he hit out his hardest, and expected to see his antagonist reeling back before the blow, to his consternation, it was cleverly warded off, and the next instant something crashed against his own face that made a myriad of luminous stars, never indexed in the galaxy of the heavens, flash before his eyes. Then Nick was seen to stagger, and fall down. That was perhaps the first time he had ever taken a dose of his own medicine. How often had he stood jeeringly over some wretched fellow whom he had sent to grass, counting him out with monotonous chant, in which the joy of brutal victory was prominent? "Get up and try it again!" said a stern voice. "That is only a taste of what is due you! I hope you have not had enough yet, you cowardly brute!" Leon Disney and those two other cronies of Nick's were holding their breath with dismay. They had never expected to see the time when any one could knock their boastful leader out in this easy fashion. What previous opinions they had entertained concerning Hugh Morgan's prowess must now be reversed. Stung by this taunt, Nick immediately scrambled to his feet. He seemed a bit what he himself would have termed "groggy," being familiar with the slang of the prize ring, but in spite of this he leaped wildly at his enemy. Thad Stevens feared for his chum when he saw the fury of this attack; but he need not have worried. Hugh was able to look out for himself. Although those boys had never known him to take part in a single encounter, Hugh had apparently made a study of the art of self-defense. There can be no harm in knowing _how_ to fight, if one is resolved never to indulge in the game save as a very last resort. And whatever reason it was by which Hugh had bound himself up to the present, apparently the time had arrived when he could break his promise with honor. There was another brief struggle, exceedingly brief, to tell the truth. Then, for the second time, Nick, the boss of all juvenile Scranton up to this amazing hour, was thrown heavily to the ground, on which he landed with a terrible crash. "That's two for you!" said Hugh, in a hissing voice, as though he might be speaking between his set teeth. "Now, if you're able get up again, and give me a chance to finish my job, of which I'm already sick." Nick was not yet defeated, though it took him longer to rise this time than before. He was wary, too, and plainly disliked the idea of coming in contact with those sturdy arms of Hugh Morgan. Seeing that Nick did not mean to attack him, but had commenced to say harsh things in the endeavor to force his rival to assume the aggressive, in hopes that the advantage would fall to his share, Hugh lost no time in obliging him. Vain were Nick's most desperate efforts to ward off the inevitable. Hugh had decided to finish the bout with this third round, and the way he pummeled staggering Nick almost dazed Leon Disney and those other fellows, staring as though in the throes of a nightmare. When for the third time clumsy Nick went down heavily before the attack of the aroused Hugh, he refused to make the least effort to get on his feet. Evidently Nick was a wise boy in one sense; he knew when he had had enough of an unpleasant thing. "Are you through?" demanded Hugh, sternly. "If you say the word I'll have some of your crowd stand you up on your pegs again, so I may knock you down. While I'm at it I want to make it a thorough job. Have you had all you want for tonight?" In deadly fear lest Hugh be tempted to put his threat into execution, Nick managed to swallow his pride, and mumble that he guessed he must be out of condition just then, a fact so evident that Thad had to laugh aloud. "All right, then," said Hugh, stepping back, for he had been standing over the fallen boy in a threatening attitude, like a Roman gladiator who had thrown his rival, and was waiting to see what signal the emperor gave so as to decide the vanquished man's fate. He took one look around at Leon and those two other fellows. They quailed before his fierce glance. "If any of the rest of you feel like having a try with me while I'm in the humor, now's your chance! Don't all speak at once, please," said Hugh, grimly. When they saw him take a step in their direction, they shrank back. Although not averse to having a little entertainment of the sort at times, none of them seemed to particularly fancy being made a scapegoat. "We're satisfied, Hugh," said Leon, hurriedly. "Nick got trimmed neat and good. It's been coming to him for a long time, I guess." There is a saying to the effect that "rats desert a sinking ship"; and when Nick's hour for defeat arrived, even these hitherto admiring cronies threatened to turn their backs on him. Aroused by this taunt, he scrambled to his feet. Nick was a sight indeed with his face bloody, and one of his eyes giving evidence of going into mourning. He snarled something at Leon with a degree of his one-time ferocity, and the other turned back to assist him off the field. Nick stopped to look back. He made no threat, but the malevolence in that stare toward Hugh told better than words would have done what bitterness was in his heart. No town bully is dethroned without his hating the object of his humiliation. Hugh had better be on his guard, for every one knew that Nick Lang would never rest until he had at least tried to even up the score. Hugh calmly put on his garments again. Thad and the others were voicing their admiration for his recent gallant deed, but somehow their praise seemed to grate on the boy's nerves. "Please don't keep on saying those things, fellows," he begged them, presently. "I know you mean it in kindness, but I'd rather try and forget this unpleasant business. I had to break a promise tonight, and it hurts ten times worse than any of the few cracks Nick got in at me. But then my mother always told me she would not for worlds have me stand by and see a bully injure one weaker than himself. I just had to do it, that's all there is to it. And, Owen, old chap, I'm mighty glad I happened to be around to give you a helping hand." Owen Dugdale had watched all this exciting happening with varied emotions. Each time his detested oppressor had gone crashing to the earth, he seemed to feel his own injuries less and less. When the fight was over, and Nick had received such a decided thrashing, Owen felt like dancing around. He was a boy, every inch of him, with all a boy's feelings; and Nick had humiliated him dreadfully, as well as taken a mean advantage over him on account of his superior strength. "I'm a thousand times obliged to you, Hugh!" cried the grateful Owen, wringing the other's hand vigorously; "of course this winds up my evening's pleasure, and I was enjoying myself more than any time in my whole life." "Why should it put a stop to your fun?" demanded Hugh. "What if you have got a bloody nose, and a lump on your forehead. See here how my knuckles are badly skinned, will you; and I fancy I've something of a scratch on my right cheek, where he got to me. We'll wash up back of the farmhouse, you and I, Owen. Of course all the folks will have to know what's happened; but then we needn't be ashamed of the part we took in the little circus." "Yes, be a sport, Owen," said Thad, encouragingly. "There isn't a single girl at the hop but who will sing out 'good!' when they hear that Nick Lang met his match tonight. And say, Owen, Peggy Noland will likely clap her hands with joy when she learns of what's happened, and then be extra nice when she sees how that brute marked you. Sympathy is akin to love you know, they say, Owen." Owen had to laugh at this good-natured "joshing," but he allowed himself to be persuaded to accompany Hugh to the rear of the farmhouse. Here Thad soon secured a basin, and some warm water, as well as soap and a towel. The boys performed their ablusions, and in the end made quite a respectable appearance. "Why, both of you are all right," said Thad, gaily, after the job had been completed. "Just think how Nick will look when he shows his face again. Chances are he'll stick to his house all day Saturday and Sunday; and when school opens on Monday prepare to listen to a tough story of how he got up in the night and in the dark ran plumb up against a half-open door, which would account for his black eye and swollen face. Oh! I know, because I've spun that yarn myself once." Supper was announced just then, and the boys trooped in to enjoy the bountiful spread that had been provided for them. A buzz ran around the room, and all eyes were fastened on Hugh and Owen in eager curiosity. Thad thought it up to him to explain what had happened, so that no one might rest under a misapprehension. And when he briefly described how Hugh had so thoroughly whipped the hitherto invincible town bully, every one applauded. It might be noticed also that pretty Peggy Noland looked at her company with unshed tears in her eyes; and she was unusually good to Owen the balance of the evening, so that he had a jolly time of it, taken in all. CHAPTER VII CALLED OUT FOR PRACTICE When Monday saw the gathering of boys and girls at school, there were two subjects that seemed to engross their conversation. One of these concerned the royally good time enjoyed by those who had been at the barn hop on Friday evening; and of course the other was connected with the meeting held in the schoolhouse Saturday night, at which almost every boy in town had been present, to hear the report of the Athletic Committee, and learn who the lucky ones were. Of course four-fifths of the aspirants entertained hopes that lightning might be so kind as to strike the little rod which each had modestly erected. There were doubtless burning regrets when the long list had been finished, many disappointed fellows trying to laugh, and appear as though they had never wanted the job anyway. The call had gone forth for every boy selected to appear on the field immediately after school that same Monday afternoon, for initial practice. There was considerable speculation as to who would finally bear off the honors, and make the first string of players. Being a substitute was as much as some of them had any desire for, for as such they might share in the glory, and have only a small measure of the actual work. When just before school took up, Nick Lang came along, he was the "cynosure of every eye," as Reggie Van Alstyne was heard to remark in his elegant way. Nick had evidently made up his mind to just "grin and stand it." He could scowl in his old fashion, and thus restrain others from being "too fresh." These fellows need not begin to imagine themselves all Hugh Morgans, and they had better leave him alone unless they were seeking trouble. Dr. Carmack thought it his duty that morning, at general exercises, to speak of the meeting which he had attended on Saturday night. "It was a thoroughly representative meeting of Scranton young people," he went on to say in his cordial way, which always endeared him to the students of all the schools under his jurisdiction. "The committee carried out their business in a commendable manner, and submitted a list of names of acceptable candidates that in my opinion could not be excelled. Let every one who is given the opportunity to contest for the prizes, do his level best; and when later on the nine has been selected we all hope and believe they will bring great honor to Old Scranton High." Of course the good doctor had been told about the little affair on the road at the time the barn hop was in progress; but he was a wise pedagogue, and made no mention of it in his address. Nick writhed in his seat every time he saw the principal look his way, his guilty conscience causing his fears to rise, with the thought that he might be further humiliated before the entire school. But the encounter had taken place far beyond the jurisdiction of the school rules; and Dr. Carmack was usually satisfied to let his boys settle these things among themselves. Besides, doubtless, he grimly concluded that Nick, whose reputation as a universal bully of course he knew full well, had been pretty well punished already, since his bruised face and dark-rimmed eye spoke eloquently. Later on that morning, when Hugh had occasion to go to the office of the Head on some errand, he met with an unusually warm reception. "Pardon me for speaking about what I know must be a sore subject with you, Hugh," remarked the principal, as the boy was about to depart after concluding his errand. "But I have had a graphic account of that miserable affair Friday night. Permit me to say that you acted quite right, and I commend you for it. The boys of Scranton are deeply indebted to you for punishing a brutal bully. I understand that it has always been much against your principles to engage in a fight; which makes your championing the cause of a weaker boy all the more justifiable." "Oh! you are giving me far too much credit, Doctor Carmack," said Hugh, reddening with confusion. "I could hardly claim I had any great scruples about not engaging in such things that are almost universal among boys. But years ago I promised my mother never to let my temper get the better of me; and under no conditions to strike a companion in anger, unless it was to save myself from a beating, or to whip a bully who was abusing some one weaker than himself." "Then you have a very wise mother, Hugh, let me tell you!" declared the gentleman, who knew boys "like a book," from long association with thousands of them. "She doubtless had her reasons for asking you to take that pledge." "I have never told even my chum, Thad Stevens, what it meant, sir," said the boy, eagerly, "but I do not mind speaking of it to you." "Please don't do it, Hugh, if it brings up any memories that you would rather forget," exclaimed the principal, "though I feel honored by what you say." "But I do not mind telling you, sir; indeed, I would rather do so, for it must seem strange to you that when I can use my fists so well, apparently, I should all this while have avoided every chance for trouble with others. The fact of the matter is, Doctor Carmack, that I am constituted very like my father was; and once upon a time his temper got the better of him, so that he attacked a man who had insulted him, and seriously injured him. That man always had a limp through the remainder of his life. He and my father became good friends, but my dad could never forgive himself for what he did. He used to say that it was a mercy he had not actually killed the man in his blind passion. And after he died, my good mother, seeing that I had just the same Morgan temper, once I was thoroughly aroused, feared that it might get me into some dreadful trouble. And so she told me about my father, and I made her that solemn promise which, until Friday night, had never been broken." There was a suspicious moisture in the eyes of the doctor. He squeezed the hand of Hugh vigorously, as though he could easily love such a manly boy. "Of course you told your good mother all about it, Hugh, when you got home?" he went on to say, with a trace of huskiness in his voice. "I could not have slept a wink, sir, if I had not gone to her room, and kneeling beside her bed poured out the whole story. She cried a little, because, I suppose, it brought back some old memories that had often saddened her; but she told me again and again I had done exactly as she would have wished me to. Oh! she is the most sensible mother any fellow ever had, I assure you, sir." "And I also believe that you are supremely blessed in that respect, Hugh," said the gentleman, solemnly. "Be very careful that you never in all your life do anything to bruise the heart of that noble mother. I thought it best not to mention anything in connection with the matter. For one thing I could see you had done your work thoroughly, and that Nick had already received sufficient punishment. That is all, Hugh, and I thank you for taking me into your confidence." When afternoon finally came around, and school was over early, there was a scramble among the boys, and a great hurrying home to get a bite to eat, after which, of course, every fellow who had any sort of baseball uniform would don the same, and show up at the grounds to take part in the practice. The air seemed surcharged with some electrical influence. All the talk was along the line of baseball slang. Even many of the girls were drawn to the spot to watch what went on, for they had become enthusiasts, and were in prime condition to "root" for Scranton High when the time came for the first contest on the diamond. The scene was a busy one, with scores of boys doing various stunts--knocking flies to those in the field, passing balls with the vigor of veterans, and chattering like a lot of magpies all the while. Out of this throng, Mr. Leonard, the athletic instructor, once a Princeton player of some note, was expecting to bring order, and get some kind of game started. Baseball is quite unlike football. In the latter instance, every boy has to receive an education before he is at all fitted to fill the position assigned to him. There must be long arduous drills in a dozen particulars, from bucking the line, and carrying the ball, to making a flying tackle, or punting. Then the intricate system of signals must be thoroughly learned, so that instinct takes the place of reason in the carrying out the play. But every kid plays baseball from the time he can toddle. By degrees they keep on improving their game, so that when they arrive at the dignity of high school freshmen honor, it is only a question of ability, rather than any necessity as to education in the art of driving home a runner, or snatching a liner hot from the bat. So Mr. Leonard anticipated having only to inoculate his bunch with the proper virus and ambition, after which he could let the drilling do the rest. Among others who were out was Nick Lang. There was nothing really strange about that fact, because Nick would almost rather play ball than eat; and any boy about whom this can be said must be pretty fond of the National sport. Nick had always shown considerable knack in playing, though he was apt to make himself disagreeable, and want to run things. Possibly this trait might not show so prominently, now that his conceit had been so heavily bumped in his encounter with Hugh. Then again, Mr. Leonard was not the only one to let a boy take advantage of him. He would make sure, if Nick were to get on the nine through his superior playing, to have a substitute handy capable of taking his place; and at the first sign of insubordination, it would be good-by to Nick and farewell to his hopes of playing on the team. Hugh was surprised not to see Thad Stevens among those present. Thad had received a summons along with thirty other boys. Hugh guessed it must be something pretty serious that could keep his chum from turning up. Perhaps, when he ran home to change his clothes, his mother had given him an errand to do. Thad was an obedient boy, and although he may have begrudged the afternoon lost, still there would be plenty of time to train for his position, if he had the luck to be selected in the end. All the time they worked, and afterwards with picked nines played a short game, Hugh kept on the lookout, but no Thad showed up. This was so queer that Hugh made up his mind he must drop in at the Stevens domicile on his way home to supper, and find out what had happened to keep his chum, who was as enthusiastic as himself over baseball matters, from coming around for the first test. More than once that afternoon Hugh received warning words from some of the other boys concerning Nick Lang. "He isn't the kind of a fellow to forget and forgive, Hugh, remember," K. K. went on to say, with a shake of his head. "I've studied the beast, and I know how he's made up. Right now he glares at you every time he happens to come near. And if looks could kill, they'd be conducting your funeral tomorrow, Hugh. He's a tough one, all right, and you knocked the conceit out of his head when you gave him that dandy black eye. Be on your guard, Hugh, and never trust Nick Lang; for he's not only a brute but a treacherous one in the bargain." But Hugh only laughed on hearing this warning. "Thank you for what you say, K. K." he told the other. "You make the fourth fellow to tell me about the same thing. But really, I don't believe there's as much danger as you seem to believe. Fellows like Nick are careful not to get struck by lightning twice. The burnt child dreads the fire, they say. Nick's bark is worse than his bite; and I think I've drawn the fangs of the wolf, K. K. Thank you again." CHAPTER VIII THAD MAKES A DISCOVERY When Hugh, on his way home, came in sight of the Stevens place, he was quite surprised to discover his chum Thad seated on one of the low gate posts, and apparently waiting for him to pass along. "Why, hello! what does this mean, I'd like to know?" burst out Hugh. "After being honored with summons to come out and start practice at baseball, you run home to get on your togs and then forget all about it. But, joking aside, what really did happen to you, Thad, tell me?" Thad was looking unusually serious, Hugh thought. Evidently something quite out of the usual line must have occurred to detain him; and Hugh, on his part, would not have been a natural boy had he not felt more or less curiosity concerning its nature. "Oh! that was only an accident," the other commenced saying. "I begrudged losing my first chance to get limbered up; but so far as that goes, there'll be plenty of occasions later on. You see, I had to go on an important errand for my mother." "It must have taken you out of town, then," remarked Hugh; "or else you'd have showed up at the athletic grounds later on." "The fact of the matter is, I had to run over to Chestnut Hill, which you know is some ten miles away," explained Thad, as he made room alongside for his chum. "It was a matter that could not be delayed, so I didn't even bother running to the field to report to Mr. Leonard. At that I hoped to breeze along fast enough to fetch me back in time to have a little turn with the boys; but I counted without considering that I was dealing with an old car; and sure enough one of the back tires had to take on a puncture." "And as you didn't carry an extra tire along, you just had to lay off and mend the same," chuckled Hugh. "I was afraid that might happen the other night when on our way to the hop; but we were lucky enough to escape it. Of course, on the road home, I wouldn't have cared much, because all the fun was over by then; and the girls would consider it something of a joke for us to bump along on a flat tire. But I see the old flivver in by the barn, so you did manage to get it home after all, eh, Thad?" "Oh! yes, though I made a beastly mess of my tire-mending, I'm afraid. I ought to take a few more lessons in that art, because I've always been weak there. And when I found how late it was after getting here I concluded not to hustle around to the grounds. I guessed you'd be cropping up to find out what had become of a certain baseball crank who had played hookey. So I've been sitting here about ten minutes, I should judge." "Is that all?" asked Hugh. "Well, no, it isn't," snapped Thad, "though I wonder how your sharp eyes noticed anything peculiar about my manner. There is a lot more to tell you, Hugh." "Suppose you get started then, and let's hear of your adventures," the other went on to say, with kindling interest. "Did any tramp try to hold you up on the road; or was it necessary for you to stop and help put out a fire in some farmhouse; like the time both of us had that pleasure, and received the biggest dinner we ever got away with as a reward?" Thad shook his head in the negative. "If you kept on guessing all day long I don't believe you'd hit the mark, Hugh. Still, in one sense you're right when you call it an adventure; though a pretty mild one. I'll tell you about it." "Wish you would, Thad," grumbled Hugh, pretending to look anxious to hurry along on his way home. "Playing ball for three hours gives a fellow a ferocious appetite, you know; and we have chicken pot pie at our house tonight, which is one of my favorite dishes. So please get a move on you." "Well, after I managed to mend my tire, being set on accomplishing the job if it took me till dark, I started along the road, and presently drew near town. That was about half an hour ago, I should imagine. I had just stopped to take another look at the tire, which seemed to be flattening more or less, when I heard some one calling weakly. When I turned to look I found that by some accident I had stopped exactly in front of that queer old place which we've always called the Rookery, because it looks as if spooks might live there." As Thad paused to catch his breath, Hugh elevated his eyebrows. Apparently his interest no longer flagged, for he instinctively guessed that something unusual must come out of Thad's mention of the strange old place, where, as he well knew, Owen Dugdale and his eccentric grandfather lived by themselves. "When I caught the sound of a voice again," continued Thad, "I was interested, because I had heard the one word 'help' uttered. Some one must be in trouble, I told myself; and then all of a sudden I remembered who lived there. So I started my machine and moved off the road, to leave it clear for other cars to pass by if any came along. After that I jumped out and hurried over to the stone wall that, as you know, surrounds the wild-looking grounds of the place. "The voice still sounded, and I could see somebody lying on the ground there. I vaulted the low stone wall, and soon found that it was old Mr. Dugdale. He seemed glad to see me, though really he didn't know me from Adam, because I had never had a word with him before. "While out taking exercise in the grounds he had been suddenly seized with an acute attack of rheumatism or sciatica in one of his legs, and had been unable to get back to the house alone. Then seeing me stop and step out to look at my mended tire, he had called as loud as he could, to attract my attention, hoping that I'd be kind and neighborly enough to help him to the house; for as he explained to me his grandson Owen was off playing ball just then." "Yes," Hugh broke in with, "Owen was on deck, and did splendidly. He may be able to make the team if he continues to improve. So you, of course, assisted the old gentleman, as he asked, and got him safely to his house?" "Yes, that's what I did," replied Thad, "and it seemed that his pains began to leave him once he got to walking. He said it was characteristic of the disease to come and go suddenly and mysteriously. When we arrived I had to help him up the steps, for he insisted on my coming in. Well, to tell you the honest truth, Hugh, I was a little curious to see what that queer old house did look like inside, and so I didn't hold back at all. Now, you've likely never been there yourself, even though you've been getting pretty intimate with Owen lately?" "Once he asked me to step in, but it happened that I was in a hurry to get home. I supposed some time or other he would renew the invitation, but I also remembered that his grandfather was said to be queer, and averse to meeting strangers; so I've thought nothing about it. Well, is there anything more coming, or does that end your adventure?" Thad drew a long breath, and looked sober. "I only wish it did, that's right, Hugh," he continued, mysteriously. "Up to then the whole thing hadn't amounted to a row of beans, so far as giving me a thrill went. But the worst was yet to come." "Go on, and don't stop so often, Thad," urged Hugh. "I believe you do it just to tantalize me. What wonderful secret did you discover there? Is that old house the rendezvous of a nest of counterfeiters, or might it be where they manufacture moonshine whiskey, like those mountaineers do down in Georgia?" "Oh! come, it's nothing like that, Hugh, so don't allow your imagination to carry you away. I did get something of a shock, though, and I guess you'll feel the same way when you learn about it. Well, the old gentleman asked me who I was, and if I knew his grandson Owen, as well as a lot of other questions. Fact is, Hugh, I rather guess he must have taken a violent liking for me right on, the spot, for when I said I must be going two different times, he begged me to stay with him just a little while longer. "I knew I would be too late for the ball practice anyhow, and besides I didn't have on my old suit, because mother had asked me not to wait to change my clothes. So I sat down again each time, and answered some more questions. The old gentleman interested me a whole lot in the bargain, and I soon made up my mind that those silly people who had been hinting that Old Mr. Dugdale might be that notorious Wall Street speculator who had such a bad name, and who'd disappeared several years ago, didn't know what they were talking about. Why, he is a polished gentleman, and a foreigner at that, I tell you, Hugh. "He started talking about his grandson. How his wrinkled face lighted up when I said my chum, Hugh Morgan, had taken a great fancy for Owen, and that I shared in the same feeling. You could see easily enough that Mr. Dugdale believes the sun rises and sets in that boy of his. Nothing would do, finally, but that he should take me to seen the den Owen had fitted up for himself, because there was plenty of room in the big house, and every fellow he knew had some kind of a den in which he could keep his boyish treasures, in the way of foreign postage stamp albums, photos taken by himself connected with outings he had been on, college flags and burgees, and well, just such traps as the average boy liked to see around him when he's out of school, and settling down to read a favorite book. "Of course, Hugh, I told him it would be too much for his aching leg, but he assured me the pain had now all left him; and he wanted to know if there was anything I could suggest that Owen might have to add to his comfort while at home studying his lessons or reading. So I went with him upstairs. Say, it's a real queer house, and must look a whole lot spooky at night time; because they only burn lamps and candles, for there's no electricity connection at all, or any gas either, I suppose. "At the end of a long hall we came to where three steps led down into a room. It was a bully place, I will say that, with plenty of light from a lot of small dinky windows that faced on three sides of the room. Owen had fixed it up in good taste in the bargain. He must have plenty of spending money, because there were lots of traps around, from a pair of expensive snow shoes hanging on the wall to a splendid toboggan tilted up in a corner. "In fact, Hugh, the place was pretty well filled with boy truck. It looked cozy to me, and I ought to know something about a boy's den; haven't I arranged mine seven separate times, until now it's back where I started? Well, of course, to please the old gentleman, I walked around, and peeked at things and told him Owen had as fine a loafing place as any boy in Scranton; which sort of talk seemed to tickle Mr. Dugdale a heap. "Then, Hugh, I got my shock, all right. It seemed to grip my heart just as if an ice-cold hand had been laid on it. You see, in nosing around I chanced to set eyes on something that lay half hidden among some papers on a side table. Hugh, you could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw that it was a souvenir tea spoon, an ornate one at that, representing some foreign city, I don't know which, for I was too flustered by my terrible discovery to look close. Now, what do you think of that?" CHAPTER IX JUST BETWEEN CHUMS "Oh! I'm sorry to hear that, Thad!" exclaimed Hugh. "Are you dead certain it was a souvenir spoon you glimpsed? Couldn't you have been mistaken?" The other boy shook his head in the negative. "I sure wish I could say so, Hugh, and that's a fact," he replied; "but I've got pretty good eyes, and I ought to know what such things look like, for hasn't my mother been collecting the same for ten years now. Of course, ours are all of this country, representative of cities and places she and dad have visited. But this one was different. I'm as certain as anything that it must have come from some foreign place, because the style and marking stamped is of no American workmanship." Evidently, what he had just heard caused Hugh considerable anxiety. It seemed as though things were getting darker for Owen Dugdale with every passing day. Even stout-hearted Hugh felt his doubts rising. He wondered if, after all, he had made a mistake in his judgment of Owen, and his belief in the boy's honesty. Hugh remembered some of the things that were being said around town concerning the old man of the dismal place called the "Rookery." His aversion to meeting people, as well as other odd traits about him, had caused no end of talk. Some even said they were not Americans, but foreigners, English possibly. Altogether Hugh felt considerably exercised. He shut his teeth hard together, however, and told himself that no matter how many suspicious circumstances seemed to surround Owen, he would still continue to have faith in the boy. "Whenever I think of Owen's clear eyes," he told Thad, "and the way they look you fair and square in the face, I feel positive that boy can't be a sneak and a thief. No one with such honest eyes could do mean things. Such fellows are patterned on a different model nearly always." "Well, I've believed a good deal as you do myself, Hugh," admitted Thad. "Just take that Leon Disney, for instance. There's a chap who never could look straight at any one he was talking to." "You're right, Thad. He keeps on shifting his eyes up and down all the while. I've often noticed it about Leon, and made up my mind it was an uneasy conscience that made him act so." "Then, after all I've told you, Hugh, you still believe in Owen?" "I'm going to hold firm until the evidence is all in," said the other. "You're a good friend, I must say," Thad hastened to observe, a gleam of honest admiration showing in his eyes. "I only hope you'll stand by me as well, in case I ever get into any trouble, that's all." "I'd stand by you to the last ditch, and then some," Hugh told him, with an affectionate smile; "for we're chums, and what's the use of having a pal unless he '11 go through thick and thin for you. But I'm a little surprised about one thing, Thad." "Do you mean about my actions in that house, Hugh?" "I should have thought you'd been quick to say something about the spoon, so as to draw the old gentleman out," continued the other. "Oh! I didn't dare do such a thing as that, Hugh. It would have been pretty bold in me, you know." "There might be ways to do it without seeming rude, Thad. For instance, what was to hinder you from picking it up and expressing your admiration for such a thing. Then by using your eyes, you could have told whether Mr. Dugdale was surprised at seeing the spoon there, or not. His actions more than anything he might say would have given you a pointer, don't you see?" "Yes, I can understand that all right, now you've mentioned it, Hugh," chuckled the other. "It's so easy to grip a thing after some one has shown you how. Remember those envious Spanish courtiers who tried to take Columbus down a peg by saying it was a simple thing to discover America, since all you had to do was to set sail, and heading into the west keep going on till you bumped up against the islands that at that time they thought were the East Indies. Then, you remember, Columbus asked them to stand an egg on end, which they tried and tried without success, until he gently cracked one end, and it stood up all right. Oh! yes, I can see now I might have done a lot of things that didn't happen to occur to me just then." "I'm sorry you let such a good chance slip by without nailing it," said Hugh. "Well, it might happen," added Thad, as though an idea had come into his brain like an electric flash, "that another opportunity will come along, and if it does, I give you my word I'll learn something worth while." "How did you like the old gentleman," continued Hugh; "and after meeting him, do you take any stock in the stories that have been floating around town about his being the clever rascal who disappeared from Wall Street two years ago?" "Why, he seemed very pleasant, so far as I could see," replied Thad, slowly. "Course I don't pretend to be a smart enough reader of human nature to say positively that old Mr. Dugdale is all to the good; but he is well read, and I seemed to see what looked like a twinkle in the corners of his eyes as though he might have a fair sense of humor in his make-up." "He liked you, too, didn't he, Thad?" continued Hugh. "Well, to be honest with you, I really believe the old gentleman did act a little that way. Perhaps, it was because he'd heard Owen mention my name as one of his few friends; and Mr. Dugdale was wanting to show how pleased he felt to know me. Yes, he acted as if he would like to see me again; in fact, he asked me to come in some time, and visit Owen in his den, for the boy often seemed lonely, he told me." "Poor Owen! let's hope this will all come out right in the end, then," Hugh finally said, as though his own mind was made up not to allow the latest discovery to influence him against the Dugdale boy. "But we've got to admit," added the other, seriously, "that it adds to the tangle a heap, and makes it look worse than before. However, I'll try and learn a thing or two. Give me a little, time to get my slow wits working, Hugh; and I may have more news for you. All the same, it wouldn't surprise me if you took a spurt and came in across the line ahead of me." "Whatever makes you say that?" demanded Hugh. "Oh! I know you so well, that's all," laughed his chum, giving him a nudge in the side with his elbow. "I wager the chances are ten to one you're beginning to turn over a little scheme in your mind right now. How about that, Hugh?" "If I am," retorted the other, "I don't intend telling you the first thing about it until there's some solid foundation for the theory to rest on." "Same here," chuckled Thad, with a wink that had a deal of significance about it, Hugh could see. "Mebbe I've got a whiff of an idea myself that might turn out worth while; but wild horses couldn't drag a hint of the same from me so early in the game. So we're quits on that score, you see, Hugh." The other jumped down off the wide-topped post, as though he thought he should be continuing on his way home. "I must be going, Thad," he remarked. "Supper-time, almost, you know; and besides I have some chores to do. When a fellow will keep pets the way I do, he's got to expect to spend some little time looking after them. I wouldn't want to let any of mine suffer for lack of attention." "And I wager they never do, Hugh!" declared the other, with his customary stanch faith in his chum. "You have it fixed so that your homing pigeons can always get feed from a trough that allows only a scant ration to come down at a time, your 'lazy boy's self-feeder,' I've heard you call it. And as for those fine Belgian hares that would take first prize at any rabbit show, they live on the fat of the land. Right now you're cultivating a bed of lettuce for them, as well as a lot of cabbages, and such truck. Oh! no fear of any dumb beast, or bird going hungry when it has Hugh Morgan for an owner." "Thank you for the neat compliment, Thad," said Hugh, the glow in his eyes telling how much he appreciated such honest praise. "I may have my faults, like every boy has, but being cruel to or neglectful of little creatures that are in my keeping isn't one of them. I'd hate to think I could let a poor rabbit go hungry. I'd get out of bed in the middle of the night, cold as it might be, and go out to my hutch, if I got an idea in my head that I'd left a window open that might allow a draught to blow in on the poor things." "Well, I don't take to pets the same as you do, Hugh, but all the same I can understand how you feel about them. It's the right way, to, and no boy with any heart in him could be mean to helpless little animals. I warrant you I know one fellow in Scranton who wouldn't get out of his warm bed for any pet that ever lived." "I suppose you're meaning Nick Lang," remarked Hugh. "Well, I don't know. To tell you the truth, that boy is a mystery to me. Sometimes I think that, bad as he seems to be, Nick isn't quite all yellow; that there's a little streak of white in his make-up." "Why, you surprise me, Hugh, when I hear you say that, and after all you've seen of his mean ways, too. Think how he started to beat poor Owen up that night; yes, and for years back he's been a big bully, trying to have things his own way, and ruling by might of his fists. Why, nearly everybody in Scranton believes him to be utterly irreclaimable. What makes you say such a queer thing?" "I may be mistaken after all," said Hugh, slowly, "but here's a singular thing I saw only yesterday. I haven't mentioned it to a living soul, but it set me to thinking, and wondering whether, after all, if a big hulking fellow like Nick were given a fair chance to make good, he mightn't change and astonish the neighborhood. "I was going along a side street when I got a thrill. There was a buggy with a frisky horse attached standing in front of a house. The man had gone inside and very imprudently left his child, a little fellow of some five years of age, to sit there in the vehicle, not even bothering to hitch the beast. "Well, the boy, like most kids would do, had started playing with the whip; and I saw him give the horse quite a blow. No doubt he was imitating his father in doing that. The spirited beast started rearing, and then acted as if about to make a dash down the street. It would have been putting the child's life in danger, you can easily see. "I started to run, but never could have made it. Then I saw some one jump for the horse's head, and have a little tussle with the animal. It was Nick Lang. He hadn't stopped to think of any danger to himself. I drew up and watched him. He conquered the beast, fastened him to a hitching post, and then started to scold the white-faced little boy for having touched the whip. The bully was showing in his nature, after all, that splendid exhibition of nerve and quick wit. "Nick noticed me then, for the first time, and acted confused, as if caught doing something he would not like folks to know. He shook his finger in the boy's face again threateningly, gave me a sneering look, and then stalked along down the street whistling like anything. And, Thad, the boy who could do a thing like that off-hand can't be quite _all_ bad, though people oughtn't to be blamed for thinking he is. So-long, Thad!" CHAPTER X A VISITOR FROM BELLEVILLE HIGH On the following afternoon, which chanced to be Tuesday, more boys than before appeared at the recreation grounds for practice. Mr. Leonard had sent out an urgent call for every one of the numerous candidates to be on hand, since they expected to organize two nines. They would have a fierce game, in order that he might have an opportunity to watch the actions of every aspirant, and get pointers as to his capacity for filling a gap. The boys appeared in all sorts of suits, some even hunting up football togs because they had no others handy, and felt that they must make some sort of a show at appearing in uniform. But the suits would be ready on time, for a local tailor had agreed to make as many as were needed of various sizes, and to have them done with a rush. Already Mr. Leonard, being furnished with ample funds, had ordered bats and balls, bases, and all manner of necessary adjuncts that go with a well-organized baseball team. Meanwhile, they must make a virtue of necessity, and do the best they could with the stock in hand. After some knocking of balls, and catching of flies, the boys were tooled off in two fairly matched nines, and a game was started. They had just got well along in this, when Thad, who was sitting on a bench alongside Hugh, it being their turn at bat, suddenly remarked: "Hello! we're going to be spied on, it seems, Hugh; for notice that chap coming along on his motorcycle, will you? Don't you know who he is, just because he's wearing a pair of big goggles, and has his cap pulled down over his forehead? Why, that's a Belleville boy named Oliver Kramer. They call him O. K. for short; and I kind of guess it stands for his character pretty well, because he's straight. I'm a little surprised to see _him_ nosing around here today, trying to find out what sort of crowd Scranton High can put in the field." "Oh! there's nothing queer about that, Thad," Hugh remonstrated, quickly. "You can easily see it stands to reason those fellows over in Belleville are anxious to get a line on what we expect to do, so as to know just how much push they ought to put in their own work. He isn't trying to spy things out, or he wouldn't come up so boldly. See, there, he's starting to speak to Mr. Leonard now, and the old Princeton athlete is shaking hands with him. Like as not O. K. has a dad who used to be a college-mate of Mr. Leonard." Hugh himself, followed by Thad, walked that way. Hugh had been told by Mr. Leonard that he was to be the field captain of the Scranton High team. In fact, that seemed to be taken for granted by all the boys, who were very well satisfied to have such a general favorite and all-round good athlete for a leader. Consequently, Mr. Leonard had caught Hugh's eye, and made a beckoning motion with his hand, evidently wishing him to meet the Belleville boy. But the two had run across one another on several previous occasions, it happened. Hugh shook hands with O. K. cordially, as did also Thad. The latter was already ashamed of having entertained such thoughts in connection with this friendly visit of the owner of the motorcycle, whom he had always known to be a fine chap. "Our fellows are practicing this afternoon, just as your crowd is, Captain Morgan," O. K. was saying. "I would have been with them, only yesterday I happened to hurt a finger a bit, for you see I'm the catcher of our nine, and it was thought best for me to lay off a few days so as to let it mend." "And you dropped over to see if we were making any headway, I suppose?" remarked Hugh, while Mr. Leonard went off to resume his duties, anxious to see every play that came along; for he would not have much time to decide on the line-up of the team, which must afterwards get all the practice possible, in order to do Scranton High justice. O. K. laughed good-naturedly. "I hope, now, you won't suspect me of being a spy, and trying to pick up pointers which might serve us later on in a hotly contested game," he went on to say. "Fact is, I'm so much of a baseball crank that I live and move and have my being in the great game. I came over hoping to find you'd made a bully good start, because we Belleville boys want your strongest team to face us a week from next Saturday. We expect to win the game, that goes without saying, but none of us will be satisfied to have a regular walkover of it." "Make your mind easy on that score, O. K.," snapped Thad, aggressively. "We expect to have a lot of hard-hitting and splendid fielding boys on the diamond, who will be out for blood. If you get the better of Scranton High, you'll deserve all the praise you receive; and we'll be the first to give you a cheer." "Well, I'm beginning to believe a little that way myself," admitted O. K. in his frank way, as Nick Lang knocked out a screamer that went far over the head of the center fielder. "That chap is a born batter. I reckon, now, he must be your best card in the pack." "Oh! we've got a few others who can meet the ball," advised Thad, proudly. "Watch that throwin', will you? Mighty few fellows could send the ball all the way from deep center to the home plate, as straight as a die. That kid's name is Sandy Dowd. You may not be so glad to see him work later on, O. K. Just warn your sluggers they needn't expect any home-runs if they put the ball out in center." They stood there and watched for some little time. Occasionally the boy from Belleville would make some remark. His eyes sought the agile figure of the athletic instructor from time to time. "One thing you Scranton fellows are lucky in, which is, having such a splendid coach as Mr. Leonard. Why, he used to go to Princeton with my dad, as I only learned a day or so ago. He's coming over to take dinner with us next Sunday. Let me tell you, he's some peach of a physical director. Dad says he was one of the most popular fellows in college, and that as a half-back on the gridiron, he made a reputation second to none." Hugh and Thad looked especially pleased to hear this outside praise of the man for whom they themselves had come to entertain the utmost respect and admiration. "Yes," said Hugh, warmly, "we expect that if Scranton has any show in the games that are to be played in the Three-town League this season, most of the credit will lie at the door of Mr. Leonard. He seems to be a wonder at getting a boy to bring out every atom of energy and vim that lies in him. Only Nick Lang acts surly under him. That's the big fellow who made that three-bagger a while ago. He's the bully of the town." "Used to be, you mean, Hugh, up to the time--" began Thad, when the other shook his head at him discouragingly. "None of that now, if you please, Thad. We want to forget bygones, and only remember that we're in the baseball world these days. There, Eli hit the ball a good hard smack, but it went straight at the short-stop, who handled it neatly for an out. Our turn out in the field now, Thad. Glad to have seen you, O. K. Carry a message back home to Belleville for me, will you? Tell your fellows Scranton High has found herself at last, in the world of sports, and is primed to give both Belleville and Allandale a hard tussle for the prize." "I'll tell them that with pleasure, Captain Morgan," replied the other, "and add a few remarks of my own about what I have seen of your hustling crowd over here. May the best nine win, and the contests leave no after bitter sting. If we can't get the prize, we'd be glad to see you fellows beat Allandale, because they'd be unbearable if they won two years running." O. K. soon afterwards mounted his motorcycle and went spinning along the road like a streak, leaving a cloud of dust behind him, also an odor of gasoline. The practice game continued with varying fortunes. In fact, it mattered very little which side won, as various pitchers were being tried out under the eagle eye of Mr. Lawrence; his principal object being to form an opinion as to the respective merits of the many players. When another afternoon they met again, doubtless Mr. Lawrence would have decided to eliminate several of the players as utterly beyond hope of ever making the regular nine. So by degrees he would decide who was best fitted for each and every position, with a number of able substitutes, who could be called on should there be any change necessary during a game, from injury, or because a certain player failed to do what was expected of him. After the game had come to an end, and the crowd commenced to separate, as usual, Hugh and Thad started to walk home together. They overtook Owen Dugdale and hastened to join him. Both boys doubtless had a little thrill just then, remembering how often the other had been in their thoughts lately. Owen seemed to be in great spirits. "I never knew that I had it in me to become so fond of baseball as I seem to be doing right now," he told them. "Of course I played a little at several kinds of games like cricket, and since coming here to Scranton I've been knocking flies for some of the boys, and playing in scrub games. But now I enjoy it ever so much, though, of course, I don't dream that I'll have the good luck to be selected for the team, when there are so many who know more about the game than I do." "You can safely leave all that to Mr. Leonard, Owen," said Hugh. "I've been keeping tabs on your play at short, and honestly, I want to say, you're doing mighty well. I heard Mr. Leonard say so, too. While you may not be picked for that position, there's a likelihood that you will be held as a substitute. Only practice your batting all you can, Owen; that's your weakest point. I'll show you a wrinkle about bunting that may help you a lot." "Thank you, Hugh, ever so much!" exclaimed the other, his fine eyes glowing with gratitude. "You've always been mighty kind to me, for a fact. Was that boy on the motorcycle one of the Belleville fellows? I thought I heard Otto Brand say so." "Yes," replied Hugh, "his name is Oliver Kramer, thought they call him just O. K., as we dubbed our comrade K. K. for short. He hurt his hand, and is laid off for a spell, because he is the catcher of the Belleville High team, you see. O. K. is a fine chap. He ran over here to see what we were doing, and to warn us we'd have to get a hustle on if we hoped to have even a look-in, because Allandale is working like anything, while Belleville means to do her best this year." "Belleville had better get a move on," suggested Thad, caustically, "unless she wants to share the fate of poor old Lawrence. Both teams beat Lawrence so badly last season that her club disbanded, for the fellows started to squabbling among themselves, which of course ruins any organization going." So, chatting as they walked along, the three boys finally parted at a corner where their several ways led in different directions. Hugh glanced back over his shoulder once in the direction of the receding figure of Owen Dugdale. What was in his mind just then it might be hard to say; but at least the expression on his face would indicate that his former confidence in the Dugdale boy had not yet been extinguished. CHAPTER XI HUGH'S PETS IN DANGER "Rotten luck, Hugh, to have that practice game called off this afternoon just because it rained a little. The ground wasn't drenched very much, and we could have done some work, anyhow. But it's too late now." Thad was on the way home from school on Wednesday afternoon when he said this. He had hastened and overtaken the other a block or so away from the campus. Already the rain had stopped. Mr. Leonard, however, had sent word around that there would be no baseball practice that day; but for every one to be on hand Thursday P. M., as no excuses would be taken for absence, when every day counted so much now. "Hold on, please, Hugh and Thad!" called some one from the rear; and looking back they discovered a lame boy called Limpy Wallace, who always carried a crutch and had to twist his body in a curious fashion when he wished to make speed. Limpy could get over ground wonderfully well, considering the difficulties under which he labored. More than once he had been held up by Doctor Carmack to the other boys at Scranton High as a rebuke for their laziness. If a fellow who had so much to contend with could always appear so satisfied, and manage to get along as well as he did, they ought to be ashamed to dawdle, and waste time when they had all their faculties intact. Limpy Wallace was a constant and consistent admirer of Hugh Morgan. In fact, he might be said to fairly worship the other boy, who had always treated him most kindly, and seemed to sympathize with his having been cheated by a cruel Fate out of the ordinary pleasures connected with the average boy's life. Limpy Wallace would have gone far out of his way to do Hugh a favor. He now came bounding along, with his crutch making rapid jumps, and apparently every muscle in his poor distorted body in action. But his thin face was lighted up with eagerness. Evidently, it was no ordinary motive that had caused the lame boy to exert himself so earnestly in order to overtake the two chums. "I've got something to tell you, Hugh," he panted, for he was almost out of breath, owing to his exertions; an ordinary boy might have run over that same stretch without showing it much, but it must have been a strenuous undertaking for the cripple. "Glad to hear it," laughed Hugh. "I'm waiting to have some one tell me that our team is going to wipe up the ground with both Allandale and Belleville when we come to grips. Is your news of that sort, Limpy?" Of course he was only joking when he said this. Every one called the other Limpy, nor did he seem to mind it a particle; indeed, only from the teachers at school and his folks at home was it likely that he ever heard his name of Osmond spoken. "Shucks! it hasn't a thing to do with baseball, or any other outdoor sport, Hugh," the cripple hastened to say. "Because I heard your name mentioned plainly I felt that you ought to know what little I managed to pick up." "All right, then, Limpy, start ahead, and spin the yarn," said Hugh. "Has some one been remarking what a poor excuse of an athlete Hugh Morgan is; and that he ought never to have been given his job as field captain of the Scranton High baseball team? It's no more than I expected, Limpy, and my feelings can't be hurt a bit; so don't try to spare me." "Listen, then, please, and you, too, Thad, seeing that you're his chum," began the other, eagerly. "It was just an accident, you understand, because I never yet was intentionally guilty of trying to overhear what other fellows were saying. I had been tired out at recess, and was lying down on that bench, you remember, that stands in the corner of the grounds. It happens to have a back to it, and I guess no one could notice me there. The other fellows were walking around in bunches, and talking to beat the band. All at once I heard your name spoken, and in an angry voice; so I just raised my head a little to take a peep. Who should I see standing near by but that big bully, Nick Lang, and his faithful shadow, Leon Disney." Thad dug his elbow into Hugh's short ribs as if to emphasize the remark just made by Limpy Wallace. When two such arch schemers as Nick and Leon got off by themselves, and were seen to have their heads together, the chances were there must be some mischief afloat. "Well, after that I just lay still and listened, because I felt sure they must be getting up some sort of a game to play even with you, Hugh, because you gave Nick such a beautiful trouncing the other night, so I was told. It was hard luck that I could only catch a word now and then, for some of the boys were calling out to each other; and that silly clown, Claude Hastings, had begun to sing one of his comic songs, while he capered around like a baboon. But I did hear Nick say the words: 'Get even,' 'show him who's who in this burgh,' and 'Belgian hares.' Do they put you wise to anything, Hugh?" "I should say they did, Limpy!" ejaculated the impetuous Thad, even before Hugh could speak the first word in reply. "Why, who's got prize Belgian hares in Scranton but Hugh Morgan? Now, that cunning old schemer, Nick Lang, knows how much Hugh thinks of his pets, and the chances are ten to one he's hatched up a scheme to steal or kill every lasting one of the rabbits. It would be just like him. Hugh, of course you'll be forewarned, and take the necessary precautions to nip his little plot in the bud." Hugh himself looked serious. A slight frown could be seen on his usually calm and reposeful face. "I could stand almost any attempted injury to myself a lot better than having my poor dumb pets made the object of revenge," he went on to say, soberly. "Limpy, this is certainly news you've brought me. I'm a thousand times obliged to you for taking the trouble." "Oh! not at all, Hugh. Why, there's nothing I wouldn't do to help pay back all your kindness to me in the past. Some people think a lame boy has no feelings, but you've never considered it so; you've always acted as if you felt mighty sorry for a boy so badly afflicted. And I can never forget how you shamed Pete Garinger into begging my pardon for something mean he threw at me. All I hope is that you catch those curs in the act, and give them what they deserve, if they really try to hurt your poor little pets." "Make your mind easy on that score, Limpy," asserted Thad, with his accustomed show of confidence, "we'll fix a trap to get the sneaks, should they call in the dead of night. They'll think they've run up against a threshing machine, all right, when Hugh and myself start in to maul them." "Suppose you come over later in the afternoon, Thad," suggested Hugh, as they arrived at their customary parting spot. "Meanwhile, I'll take a look at my rabbit hutch, and try to figure just how we can turn the tables on Nick and Leon, if they should pay me a visit tonight." "Make it as severe as you can, Hugh," begged Thad; "nothing could be too hard for a pair of miserable schemers who, to get even with a fellow they dare not face openly any longer, would creep into his rabbit house like thieves in the night, and either steal his property, or injure it so that there'd be no chance to exhibit the hares in a show." "See you later on, and we can tell better then," was all Hugh said, for if he had any idea simmering in his brain just then, he did not care to mention it until he had found a chance to "look around," as he termed it. "I'll be across inside of half an hour, you can bet on that!" called out Thad, as he hurried away. He was as good as his word. Indeed, Hugh had hardly started to make his investigation of the premises before he heard his chum come through the gate, slamming it after him. There was an outbuilding back of the barn, which had been intended for a storage house of some sort, but not used by the present occupants of the premises. This Hugh had commandeered, and fitted to his purpose. The upper part he had made into a pretty fine loft for his fancy homing pigeons. When the first of his pedigreed youngsters arrived at the flying stage, he meant to have considerable fun taking them ten or twenty miles away, and then letting them loose, in the expectation of finding them at home when he got back. After that, it would be longer flights until he could learn whether he had any record breakers in his flock. In the lower part of the building, Hugh had his long-eared Belgian hares. There was now quite a family of them, what with the old ones, and seven strapping youngsters. Hugh took great pleasure in watching his pets, and figuring out how he could improve on their quarters, so as to make them more comfortable in every way. "Well, have you struck any promising scheme yet, Hugh?" demanded Thad, as he breezed into the hutch, seeming to guess that he would find his chum there, and not in the house. "I've just been fixing things in my mind," returned Hugh, quietly, "and trying to determine how any intruder would expect to get in here. Why, up to now such a thing as having my hares stolen never once occurred to me. Really I'm surprised to find what confidence I've been placing in all Scranton; when there have been bad eggs among the boys from away back. Do you know I've never had a fastening on this window here, not even a stick to hold the lower sash down. It's about time I woke up and insured the safety of the poor things." "But you do lock the door every night," interjected Thad; "because I've seen you do that same thing." "Oh! just as a matter of form," confessed the other, "for I've never dreamed it was necessary. Any fellow could have climbed in by that window of a night, if he'd chosen to." "Do you suppose, Hugh, that Nick Lang knows about that unguarded window'?" "I was figuring that out," mused Hugh, "and, really, I believe he does. I'll tell you what I base that supposition on. Some time ago, a fellow came to see me, and tried to buy a pair of my hares; but his figures and mine didn't agree, and so we failed to make a bargain. But I showed him my place here, and he examined it all through. I even can remember that he gave the window a little upward push, speaking at the time of the necessity for all pets to have plenty of pure air, or their dens would become foul smelling. That boy was Tip Slavin, and I understand that he's pretty thick with Nick and Leon. They must have heard about his visit here, and pumped him dry. So if they do make me a night visit, depend on it this window will figure big in their calculations." Thad chuckled as though pleased. "That makes it simple, then, Hugh," he went on to say, exultantly, "for with such a thing settled, it ought to be easy for us to hatch up some scheme to play hob with their plan of campaign. It'd just about serve the sneaks right if we set a spring-gun trap that'd give them a dose of fine bird-shot; but then I don't suppose you'd want to go quite as far as that. Look here, Hugh, I believe right now, you've already settled on some sort of surprise for those fellows when they come snooping around here. If that's a fact, you're going to up and explain its workings to your best chum, ain't you?" CHAPTER XII THE TRAP Hugh heard his chum through, and then quietly went on to say: "Yes, I have got a little plan that ought to teach them a lesson, and cool off their ardor a bit. In the first place, we can easily rig up a small platform just above this window here. I've got several stanchions and a board. It wouldn't take us more than half an hour to complete it, I reckon. But we must make it extra strong, you know." "But I don't know," pleaded Thad, helplessly. "Why should this lovely little shelf up there be so strong? Are we going to perch on it, and drop down on top of the night birds after they let themselves in? Is that the game, Hugh?" "Not quite, Thad. It's the tub that must balance up there!" "Tub! Great Scott! are you figuring on giving Nick and Leon their usual Saturday night bath?" gasped the other, still groping in the dark. "Something like that," chuckled Hugh, "only it will be _such_ a surprise to those chaps, and cold, too, ugh! as cold as ice can make it." "Go ahead and explain a lot more," Thad demanded. "I'm beginning to get just an inkling of the game. Whew! I believe you've been reading of the pranks the fellows play in the boarding schools, with a tub of water suspended over a door, so that when an unlucky boy opens it he is drenched to the skin." "That's about the idea," Hugh acknowledged. "Nothing particularly brilliant or original about it, I own up, but the best we can do under the circumstances." Then he went on to explain the particulars, showing Thad how the tub could be balanced nicely, so that when a cord attached to it was jerked, it would tilt over beautifully, discharging its full contents without itself falling down. Thad listened, and grunted. Plainly he was a bit disappointed. "It sounds pretty good, Hugh," he admitted, finally, "and will of course give the rascals a great scare; but seems to me as if it's hardly vigorous enough. According to my mind, we ought to make the punishment fit the crime. When a couple of low-down scamps try to kill the dumb pets of a fellow who has never gone out of his way to harm them, and are caught with the goods on, they ought to be treated to a dozen good wipes with a cowhide whip, something that'll make 'em yell bloody murder. But just as you say, we can try this dodge, and discourage them from any more funny business around your coop." "Then the sooner we start in and get busy, the better," suggested Hugh, whose motto had always been that of "strike while the iron is hot." Thad was ready to do his share in any labor, so that presently the sound of much sawing and hammering oozed out from the rabbit hutch, where the chums continued to work for nearly an hour. At the end of that time they had completed the job so far as the platform over the window was concerned. Hugh had done more than this, for by cleverly arranged boards he constructed a regular trap; so that when the boys managed to climb through the window, they would naturally crouch down directly in range of the coming water-spout. "There," said Hugh, finally, "that is all done, and I think fills the bill. I'll go after the galvanized iron wash-tub now." "Be sure and fetch the biggest one you can," suggested the greedy Thad, with a sly grin. "You see, we ought to deal generously with our guests, even if they're uninvited ones. I believe in going the whole hog when about it." "Depend on me to do the right thing by Nick and Leon," Hugh assured him. "When I have visitors drop in on me in this off-hand way, I always want to be ready to treat them well. But I'm afraid they'll think our reception committee rather frigid, eh, Thad?" He soon came back bearing a massive tub that aroused the admiration of Thad. "That certainly is a jim-dandy wash-tub!" he declared. "I'm glad now we made the shelf big enough. I reckon you had the dimensions of this thing in your mind when doing your measurements, Hugh." Next they lifted the tub on to the platform above. It could be readily balanced on the edge so that a very slight pull from the cord would tilt it forward, when the propensity for water to seek its own level would do the rest. They tested it a number of times, and it worked splendidly. "When filled with water, it would only add to the gaiety of things," Thad said, fervently. "But where will we be all the time, Hugh?" he now asked. "I've arranged all that," he was assured. "One of the objects of these upright boards is to act as a cover for us, as well as to form a trap for our guests. You see, I happen to know that Leon Disney owns a hand electric torch like the one you showed me the other day that your uncle in the city sent out, and which I want you to fetch over when you come after supper. Just as like as not, he'll use it through the window before they try to enter, so as to make sure the coast is clear. That's why I've been so careful not to leave anything around that might excite suspicion." "Just so," laughed Thad, merrily, for as he was not going to get an icy ducking, he felt as though he could afford to be happy; "after fellows have worked so hard to jimmy their way into the premises of another, it'd be a shame to discourage their efforts in the beginning. We might paint a sign 'welcome,' and put it over the window, Hugh, just to let them know everything is lovely, and the goose hangs high." "I'll step outside, and take a peep in through the window to find out how things look," suggested Hugh, which he proceeded to do. "Nothing to excite anybody's suspicion that I can see," he announced. "The tub is completely out of sight, just as I expected it would be, and even the cord connecting it with our hiding place couldn't be noticed unless you knew all about it beforehand. I guess our work is done, all but filling the reservoir." Procuring a bucket, they set to work. One carried and the other poured, standing on the short step-ladder in order to better reach the elevated tub. "There, it's as full as I dare make it," Hugh finally announced. "And for one, I'm not half sorry," Thad added, "because toting water isn't altogether fun. That bucket is heavy enough to nearly pull your arms out of their elbow sockets. You said something about _ice_, didn't you, Hugh?" "Yes, I had that in mind. After supper, when we come out here to take up our vigil, I'll get a lot of small chunks from the ice-house and put it in the water. It'll make it lovely and cold, I warrant you, unless our guests delay their coming too long." Nothing more being necessary, the boys adjourned to the house, where in Hugh's den they talked various matters over with the customary enthusiasm of live boys. Naturally, these affairs, as a rule, concerned the athletic happenings just then on the carpet, and particularly the baseball rivalry about to break out in a series of hotly contested games between Scranton, Belleville and the formerly victorious Allandale High team. Later on, Thad went home to his supper, though Hugh had pressed him to stay and share his meal, for they were often at each other's table. "Like to," said Thad, shaking his head, "but it happens I've got a few things I ought to attend to. Then again there's that hand-torch you asked me to fetch over with me. Another time will have to do, Hugh." Hugh laughed scornfully. "Tell all that to your grandmother, Thad, will you?" he exclaimed. "Just as if I didn't know that your folks religiously have corned beef and cabbage every Thursday night, which is a favorite dish with your dad, likewise with a certain fellow of my acquaintance. Now, _we're_ only going to have chicken pot-pie at our house, and of course that doesn't appeal to you like your pet fare. Oh I well, I understand how things go, and I'll let you off this time. I don't believe you've ever taken a meal at my house on a Thursday since I've known you." Thad laughed as though not at all abashed. "I guess you're on to my weak spot, all right, partner," he hastened to say in the boldest manner possible. "But really and truly, I have got some things I want to do, though of course they could be postponed if absolutely necessary. Some time perhaps you'll be having my plebeian dish over at your house; then try asking me if you dare." He turned up about seven o'clock, just after darkness had set in, for the moon was getting very old now, and a late riser. The two boys sat in Hugh's den for considerably more than an hour, talking and planning. Both showed vague signs of nervousness, however. Thad in particular frequently walked over to a window and looked out. Doubtless he was thinking what a joke on them it would be if the marauders came much earlier than expected, when all their fine work with that tub of icy water would go for naught. "Hadn't we better be making a start, Hugh?" he finally asked. "Don't forget we have to handle that ice first, and get things ready." "All right," the other replied. "We'll make for the rabbit hutch, and here's hoping that we don't have a long watch all for nothing." The ice was soon procured. Hugh cracked it in rather small pieces. He did this for two good reasons. First it would chill the water more speedily when in this condition; then again the chances of knocking one of the interlopers on the head with a heavy lump of ice falling quite some distance would be obviated. Hugh did not intend that this prank should end in a tragedy, if he could help it. When everything had been arranged to suit Hugh, the boys retired within the rabbit hutch, and the door was fastened with the padlock, which Hugh could undo when the time came by leaning far out of the open window. They took up their positions in the place already selected, and wrapped in complete darkness awaited coming events. The time passed very slowly, but since they had dressed warmly, they did not suffer from the chilly air, for it was only April, and the warmth of summer still far distant. Nine o'clock struck. Bless that town clock, by means of which they could tell the hour; for Thad was beginning to believe it much later than it really was. He yawned, and stretched a bit, shifting his position. Then Hugh touched him on the arm, and his low whisper came in Thad's very ear. "Sh! something stirring outside!" Thad had heard it, too. Either the night wind had arisen; and was sighing through the branches of the big oak that hung partly over the rabbit hutch, or else some living object had moved; for what the boys heard as they crouched there quivering with suspense and anticipated victory was certainly in the nature of a creeping sound. Yes, now there came to the ears of Thad what must be low whispers. Nick and his fellow conspirator had undoubtedly arrived and were scanning their contemplated field of operations! CHAPTER XIII A COLD RECEPTION Then the boys in hiding saw a strange glow around them. Undoubtedly Leon was making use of his electric hand-torch, and both of the intended raiders must be pressing their noses against the glass of the small window, trying to form some sort of idea as to what awaited them. Neither Hugh nor Thad more than breathed. The latter clutched the stout cord in a firm hand, ready to give the quick jerk when he believed the proper moment had arrived. Apparently, the fellows outside must have concluded that everything was just lovely, for they could now be heard softly opening the window, and pushing the sash carefully back out of the way. While climbing in through the opening thus made, they did not wish to thrust a foot against the glass, and cause a smash that might be their undoing; oh! trust that shrewd general, Nick Lang, for looking out against any such accidents; he had been in this business a long time now, and understood all the ins and outs of it. More low whispering followed. Evidently, Nick was trying to coax Leon to climb in first, so that he could light the way with his torch; but that sly fox held back. It was Nick's special game, and consequently he should be the one to do the honors of the occasion. After a little grumbling beyond the open window, Thad and Hugh heard the soft pad of shoes scraping against the boards. Nick had started to enter. The yawning aperture, and the apparent lack of any signs of danger lured him on. Ah! if he had only dimly suspected what a wonderful reception awaited him in that same rabbit hutch, undoubtedly Nick could not have been tempted to take that important step; indeed, he would have turned and run for it with all speed. But "when ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," the old saying runs; and Nick was happy in not having a glimmer of the truth. He should not be long in making his entrance. The window was only five feet from the ground, and within easy reach. Besides, Nick was an unusually strong boy, which fact in itself had been one reason for his having been able to play the part of town bully as long as he did. The sounds changed their nature. Evidently, Nick had managed to pull himself over the window-sill. He was now inside the hutch, perhaps kneeling on the floor, and directly under the tilted tub that stood on the shelf above! Hugh gripped his cord still more firmly. It was almost time for something to happen. Perhaps before another minute had passed the avalanche would descend, and give two startled fellows the surprise of their lives. Now Nick was lending his companion a helping hand. It may not have been through generosity that Nick acted thus; perhaps he dimly suspected that the cowardly Leon might wish to draw back, and allow him to carry out the nefarious business alone and unaided; and Nick was bent on making his crony share in the act, so that he could not turn on him and betray him in the future. Yes, Leon was coming along. He made more noise than the other, for Nick could be heard growling, and telling him to be careful if he didn't want to fetch the owner of the rabbit hutch down on them with blood in his eye, and perhaps a stout baseball bat for a weapon. Thad softly chuckled on hearing this. No doubt, in his mind he was saying that something in the way of a reception far less warm was hovering over the heads of the two "innocents abroad." That made Thad think of Mark Twain, and he wondered whether the illustrious Tom Sawyer and his chum, Huckleberry Finn, had ever arranged a more fetching reception committee than this one of Hugh's. Leon seemed quite clumsy about climbing up; the fact of the matter was, he came rather unwillingly, and might have held back only that the determined Nick had taken a firm grip on his coat collar, and held on tenaciously, bent on making sure of having company in his dark deed of slaughter, or robbery, whichever he had in mind. Thad would have given almost anything for the privilege of taking a sly peep; but he had been sternly enjoined against doing this same thing by Hugh. The other, however, found it necessary to put his head beyond the corner of the upright boards, so as to make sure that both boys were there, and ready for their bath. One brief look was enough for Hugh. Leon had depressed his hand-torch so that its glow only fell on the floor; but enough light was diffused throughout the place to disclose two kneeling figures directly under the tub. Hugh waited no longer, but gave the cord a strong pull. There was a sudden surge, and down came a terrific Niagara of icy water that completely deluged Nick and Leon. They let out involuntary yells that were of a piercing intensity. Nor was this all, for Hugh must have given the cord an extra hard pull, or else the fastenings of the tub had not proved stanch enough; for down it came with an infernal jangling that must have completed the fright of the precious pair of intruders. Indeed, it even gave Thad a start, with all that racket, and the cries of the terrified boys adding to the volume of sound. "Now give us some light, Thad!" called Hugh, wishing to glimpse the drenched culprits before they could scramble through the opening again, and make their escape. Thad was so excited he could hardly remember what he had done with his new electric hand-torch. So he ran his fingers around on the floor, feeling here and there in eagerness, all the while strange sounds coming to their ears from the other end of the rabbit hutch. Then he managed by accident, or great good luck, to touch what he was searching for, and instantly Thad flooded the place with its illumination, after which both of them stepped forward. They were just in time to glimpse a pair of legs vanishing through the opening. Then came a heavy crash accompanied by dismal groans, after which they heard the sounds of footsteps as the two boys scurried around the building, wishing to keep from being seen. When Hugh and Thad looked out of the window there was no one in sight. They turned and stared at each other. Then Thad doubled up like a closed hinge, and shook with boisterous laughter. "Oh! what a circus that was, Hugh!" he cried. "Why, I don't know what I'd have given just for a chance to watch those two chaps swimming around. And, say, that big tub falling must have nearly scared Leon to death. I wonder now, did it happen to hit either of them when it came tumbling down after emptying out all the iced water? Oh! I'll laugh myself nearly sick every time I think of this dandy trap of yours." Of course, the interior of the Belgian hares' quarters was a sight to behold, after all that downpour; but anticipating this, the careful Hugh had placed his pets where they could not be injured by the flood. "See here what they left behind them," remarked Hugh, picking up what turned out to be a stout gunny-sack. "Well, I'm glad to find this, because it seems to prove that they meant to steal my hares, and not kill them." "Just about as bad in the long run!" declared Thad, scornfully. "Like as not that Nick would have thrown them into the river, with a stone tied to the bag, in order to hide all traces. Then, no matter how much you might suspect them, you couldn't prove a thing. But Hugh, they made a terrible slip if they figured on that, because, see here what I've found." He held something up. "Leon's hand-torch, for a certainty!" exclaimed Hugh. "In his sudden fright he lost it, and was in too great a hurry to think of trying to find his property again." "You've got him where you want him, all right, Hugh," snapped Thad, suddenly. "All you have to do is to leave this here and fetch Chief Wambold around to notice that it lies in your rabbit hutch. Then Leon will have to explain how he came to leave it here." "Oh! I sort of feel that those fellows have been punished enough as it is," the other went on to say, slowly. "You're too easy on the skunks, Hugh, take my word for it," said Thad, with a trace of disappointment in his voice. "A fellow like Nick Lang never can appreciate such a thing as leniency. You've got to give him what he believes in, and that's brute force. Well, then, if you won't have Leon arrested, at least you can keep this hand-torch as a trophy of the momentous occasion. It'll serve to remind you of this pleasant night's entertainment. While not so fine a torch as mine, still it seems to be O. K. You'll do that, I hope, Hugh?" But the other shook his head. "I don't want the thing, Thad, I assure you I don't," he said. "I'll send it to Leon with a little satirical note, telling him that while I thank him very much for leaving me his torch, I have always made it a rule not to accept presents from those who were not my intimate friends; and that, therefore, I'm returning it with the hope that in the future he may put it to better use than in the past." Thad laughed. "Oh! well, you must have your way, Hugh, I reckon; and really, that will set the pair guessing. They'll understand we're on to their identity, and of course will be more or less anxious to know just what you mean to do about it." "One thing I'm sure of," added Hugh, "which is, that Nick Lang can never be made to change his habits by harsh measures. Some of these fine days I may find a chance to do him a great favor; and by heaping coals of fire on his head, force him to see a light." Thad heard his chum say this with more or less astonishment. Apparently, while he had the utmost faith in Hugh's ability to do most things, at the same time he considered that this would be in the form of a miracle. He smiled, and again shook his head in the negative. "Well, you don't believe they'll come again tonight at any rate, do you, Hugh?" he asked, as they prepared to leave the rabbit hutch. "Not one chance in ten," the other told him. "I mean to fix this window so it can't be easily opened. Besides, my window is on this side of the house, and I've got a cord arranged whereby a weight will fall on the floor of my room if anybody tried to get in here, after I've fixed the little jigger. I own a shotgun, you know, Thad, and can fire up in the air out of my window if there's any alarm. Tomorrow I'll put heavy wire netting over the window, that will insure the safety of my pet Belgian hares, and my homing pigeons. Now let's be heading toward the house, and going to bed; for you promised to sleep with me, you know." CHAPTER XIV NICK AS A GAP-STOPPER On Saturday afternoon the field was the scene of another gathering. Almost every boy in town had come out to see what success the Scranton High fellows were making with their new team. Besides, there were many little knots of high-school girls present, all eager to watch some fellow in whom they felt especial interest. Then, from time to time, older folks began to show up, until quite a gathering could be seen in the grandstand and on some sections of the bleachers. Perhaps Scranton did not possess as fine buildings as Allandale, for instance, because the spirit of sport had long been rampant in the other town, while Scranton seemed to have been half asleep until latterly; but they were good enough, and commodious in the bargain. The field itself could hardly have been surpassed. It was unusually level, and stretched away to such a distance that it must needs be quite a slugger who could make a home-run hit on those grounds. Still it had been done. There was at least one member of the team who had shown an ability to send the ball out over the head of a fielder, and to such an astonishing distance that by the time it was recovered and returned to the diamond, he had raced completely around the circuit for a home run. Mr. Leonard had by now completed his choice of the team. He had watched the play of the boys, and decided on just who best seemed fitted to fill the various positions. Of course, as time passed, this schedule of players was subject to possible changes, but on the whole the physical instructor believed he had built up the strongest team Scranton could put in the field that season. Much must depend on the pitching staff. It remained to be seen how the twirlers would "pan out" under fire. At present Mr. Leonard was working strenuously, trying to put more "ginger" into their work; and also teaching them some of the wrinkles of the game, as known to semi-professionals like himself. Greatly to the surprise as well as delight of Owen Dugdale, he had been notified that he was to cover short. Indeed, others were not as much astonished as Owen himself, because they had been admiring the splendid way in which he fielded his difficult position there, accepting chances that many fellows would have allowed to let get by them for fear of making an error, and with wonderful success. Once Owen got his hands on the ball, and he could shoot it across to first like a rifle bullet. His accuracy and speed were simply grand; everybody cheered when he sent the ball "screaming" across to the man guarding the initial sack; or on occasion hurled it to Hugh on third for a double. Then again, Owen was improving in his batting. Hugh had gone to great pains to give him many pointers, and the fruit of this was seen by the clever way in which Owen could lay down a pretty bunt, the ball rolling along just inside the line in a tantalizing fashion, and headed for first or third, as the occasion might require. The player who can be depended on to bunt successfully two times out of three attempts is always a valuable accessory to a club; since he is thus able to push a runner along; and perhaps get his own base in the bargain, when the others are busily engaged in trying to catch the fellow on the bases. Short-stop must always be an agile chap, who is especially quick both at decisions and throwing. Even though he snatch up the ball, and thus make a fine stop, if his judgment is poor or his throwing arm lame, he can often bungle his work, and prove of little help to his team. There would still be another full week before the first game with Belleville. If fair weather favored them the Scranton boys hoped to put in daily practice, and speed up in their team work, as well as signals. The pitchers, too, needed considerable more practice before they could be said to be at their best; in fact, they would all be better off for two more weeks of hard work, which, however, could not be obtained. Two teams were made up for this afternoon, one of them the regulars, and the other a "scrub," though with some fair players aboard, mostly substitutes. Mr. Leonard himself meant to play at various positions for the latter team. He chanced to be one of those remarkable all-round handy men, capable of filling a job as catcher, first baseman, second, short-stop or fielder. He even astonished the boys during the afternoon play by taking his place as a slab-artist in the pitcher's box; and some of his shoots and drops puzzled the hard hitters on the regular team, so that they whiffed at thin air, and thus passed out on strikes. The pitchers had been evenly divided, and all showed considerable ability after their caliber. Some seemed to have considerable "stuff" with them, and mystified the batters with their delivery. Others were hit freely, and runs were either earned or else made with the assistance of errors more or less glaring. The weak places in the team's play were being noted by Mr. Leonard, who would take measures to stop the leaks after a fashion of his own; through advice and practical instructions, if he could; and should these means fail, then by a radical change in the line-up. As Hugh had been made field captain, he would have charge of the playing to a considerable extent. On this account, he took an especially keen interest in all that went on. When Nick Lang, who played centre field, made a difficult catch of a great fly from Mr. Leonard's bat, no one applauded more than did Hugh; while Thad behind the bat stood and scowled, for somehow he disliked the idea of the town bully having any part in the team's work. When he took occasion to speak of this during their turn at bat, as he and Hugh sat by themselves on the lower bleacher seats, watching the game, the other took him to task for his way of thinking. "You've got to get over that personal way of thinking, Thad, when you belong to a ball club like Scranton High," he said, earnestly. "Now we all know what Nick is, and few fellows like to play in a game where he has any part; but remember that he is one of the high-school students, and on that account has just as much right to aspire to a place on the representative team as you or I." "But he always makes trouble wherever he goes," expostulated Thad, still unconvinced, it seemed; "and mark my words, he'll do something to try and break up this team, if things don't go just to suit his ideas." "Please don't forget Mr. Leonard when you say that, Thad. Depend on it, he's going to keep his eye on Nick right along. If the fellow shows any insubordination, he'll get his walking papers like a flash, and perhaps be booted off the grounds in the bargain, if he gets too fresh." "Well, perhaps you're right, Hugh," grumbled Thad. "Mr. Leonard must know a heap more than a boy like me, who sees everything on the surface. And I admit that was a cracking good catch Nick made, after such a hard run. He can field, all right, and he is a gap-stopper in center field, for a fact." "There, look at him send out a screamer right now, that ought to be good for a double!" exclaimed Hugh. "You see, we need Nick on the team. He is one of our mainstays at bat and in the field. If only Mr. Leonard can control him, he's apt to be of great assistance to us in winning games. The boy who would take his place isn't really in the same class with Nick as a player. So let's try to forget all about our natural aversion while we're playing ball. If we act that way, the other fellows are apt to follow suit. And, Thad, conquering your feelings may be the means of bringing a glorious victory to Scranton High. Wouldn't you think yourself well repaid for just repressing your antipathy toward Nick Lang?" "Of course you're right, Hugh, as you nearly always are. I'm so quick-tempered I make all sorts of silly blunders. But look there, I can see a cloud of dust up the road yonder. Now I wouldn't be at all surprised if we had another friendly visit from that Belleville fellow, O. K. He's taking quite an interest in Scranton, it seems, and has run over again this Saturday to find out how we're improving. We must jolly him along, Hugh, and never let him see we're feeling a bit of anxiety over our pitchers." Sure enough, the rider of the motorcycle proved to be Oliver Kramer, the same boy who had been over before to take a look at the Scranton players. He came alongside the two chums sitting on the bleachers, and deposited his machine so that it would be safely out of the way. "Hello! fellows!" he remarked, cheerily, as he held out his hand to Hugh. "Here I am again, right side up with care, as the clown in the circus always says. Glad to meet you again, Captain Morgan, and you also, Thad Stevens. Mr. Leonard was over to dinner at our house Sunday, and he invited me to drop in any old time, and see how your crowd was making out. I hope now you don't object to my being here, Hugh?" "Not in the least, O. K.," Hugh told him, smilingly. "We're pushing along pretty fairly, and ironing out some of the wrinkles as we go. Lots still to be done before we're ready to try conclusions with your team at Belleville; but with such a capable coach as Mr. Leonard, we believe we'll get there in time." They watched the play go on. There were some really clever stunts done that called for loud cheers on the part of the small crowd present. O. K. added his strident voice to the shouts. "Great work that, old top!" he shouted at Sandy Dowd, who had made a magnificent steal to second, after getting first on a single, his slide amidst a cloud of dust being the grand climax of the feat; for though the catcher sent the ball down in a direct line to the baseman, still the red-headed Sandy had his hand on the bag at the time he was touched, and there was no disputing the "safe on second" of the umpire. For three innings did O. K. sit there and enjoy the game. He was a baseball enthusiast of the first water, and never could get quite enough of his favorite sport. Of course he preferred taking part in a game, but the next best thing was to watch others play, and comment on their mistakes; just as most people can play the critic while watching a game of billiards and always feel they could have improved on the shot that missed connections. "Well, what do you think now, O. K.?" asked Hugh later on, when the Belleville boy made preparations as though about to start homeward. "Do you notice any improvement in our work? Have we gone up or down, in your judgment?" "Yes, be honest, now, O. K., and say," asked Thad. "We can take criticism without flinching. You know what your team can do; have we any show against Belleville, or that strong aggregation at Allandale?" "Honestly, between man and man, fellows," said the other, earnestly, "I can see the greatest sort of improvement in your play. When you get your team work down a bit better and closer to scientific principles, you're going to make both the other clubs in the Three-Town League hustle some to hold their own. I'm glad to see it, too, because it means we'll have to do our level best if we hope to win. And that insures some mighty lively ball games during the short season while we're playing against each other." Hugh felt satisfied, for he believed O. K. to be quite honest in what he said. CHAPTER XV PRETTY POLLY UNDER SUSPICION "Hello! Thad, that you?" "Nobody else, Hugh. I rather thought I'd hear your voice when I stepped over to the 'phone. What's doing this fine Sunday afternoon?" "Are you in for a little walk with me, Thad?" "Just what would please me a heap, Hugh. Anything particular moving?" "There you go suspecting that I've got something on tap just because I call up and invite you to cover a few miles, when the weather is so fine. But for once you've hit the nail on the head, my boy." "That settles it, then. I'll rush right over, and join you, Hugh." "Be careful and don't break your neck in your hurry, Thad. My news can keep; and what would poor Scranton High do for a catcher in the game next Saturday if you fractured your collar-bone?" Whether Thad took the advice to heart or not, he certainly made his appearance at the home of his best chum in an incredibly brief space of time, flushed in the bargain, and with an eager light lurking in his eyes. "Nothing doing until we get safely out of town," said Hugh, firmly; "so you'll have to put the brake on your impatience." "Huh!" grumbled Thad, "that sounds as if what you had to tell me was of vast importance, so that you didn't want to run any risk of others cribbing the news. Now you have got me guessing to beat the band, Hugh. I wonder if those Belleville fellows have been up to any dodge to learn our signals, and how our pitchers are practicing certain pet balls?" "Oh! I'll relieve your mind that far by telling you it has nothing whatever to do with the game next Saturday; for that matter it's not about baseball at all. You're doing those fine chaps at Belleville a gross injustice to even hint at their thinking of spying on us." Thad grinned as though he had won a point. "Well, I take it all back, then, Hugh," he hastened to say, contritely. "And now that point's settled, there's only one more thing it could be about." "Notice that shrub bursting into bloom, will you?" remarked Hugh. "No one ever saw a prettier sight than that is right now." "Have you learned anything more about----" "We'll take a turn here, and walk along the canal toward the big mill-pond," interrupted Hugh. "That's always a favorite walk of mine; and, to tell the truth, I haven't been out to the mill-pond for a long time. The fishing there hasn't been very good this season, some of the boys told me. Besides, I've been kept so busy with my studies, baseball matters, and several other things I'm interested in, that I haven't had much time for fishing this spring. Nobody loves it more than I do, either, as you happen to know." Thad heaved a sigh, and shook his head. "No use trying to coax you, Hugh, when you've made up your mind not to let out even a little peep. A fellow might wheedle until he fell over, and you'd still be as hard as adamant. Yet it's right. Makes me think of the old saying that a single man can lead a mule to water, but a dozen can't make him drink--not comparing you to a mule, of course." They chatted as they walked, until presently the town had been left behind them. "Now I'll open up and tell you what's been worrying me," announced Hugh, suddenly. "The fact of the matter is, I was called over to Madame Pangborn's this morning after getting home from church. She told me a third spoon has disappeared!" "Great guns! is that so, Hugh? And, say, was Owen there on the day it went glimmering?" demanded Thad, frowning. "I'm sorry to have to say yes to that," returned Hugh, slowly. "It was yesterday it happened. She persisted in leaving the spoons just where I saw them. I advised her to do that, for if they were hidden away we might never discover the thief. As on the other occasions, Owen came in with a bundle for the Red Cross, sent by the same lady who had intrusted him with a package twice before." "All I can say is, it's getting a heap serious for our new friend, Owen. Hugh, do you think the poor chap might be what they call a kleptomaniac; that is a person who has an irresistible inclination to take things that don't belong to him, or her, and generally has no use for them after stealing the same? It's really a disease, I've read. Some very rich people are affected by it, particularly queer old ladies." "You're jumping ahead too fast, Thad," remonstrated Hugh, chidingly. "I haven't admitted yet that I suspect Owen more than I did before. In fact, these occurrences, such as his being in the house each time a spoon vanishes, may turn out to simply be coincidences." "That sounds just like you, Hugh. You're the best kind of a friend anybody ever could have. Perhaps now you've got a clue of some sort that you wouldn't mind telling me about?" "I've been wondering whether the culprit is a human being after all," remarked Hugh, to the utter astonishment of his comrade, who burst out with: "Whew! you're aiming high, I must say, old chap. If not a human being, what sort of a creature could the clever thief be? I've heard of monkeys stealing things and hiding the same away in a spirit of covetousness; but then the old lady doesn't happen to have a simian for a household pet, that I know of." "No, but she has got a poll-parrot, as I told you, Thad!" observed Hugh, calmly. "Oh! do you suspect that a silly bird could go and carry off not only one spoon but three of them?" gasped the other boy. "What would a parrot want of such objects, and where would she hide them?" "Remember, this is only guess work on my part, because, so far, I haven't any positive evidence that it's so. But I remembered once reading an article about some birds having a weakness that way. Generally it was a raven that did it, and hidden away in a dark corner they would find trinkets and spoons and all sorts of things that were of no possible use to any bird. In every instance they seemed to be bright and tempting, as if the bird had no eye for dingy things. Well, these spoons have recently been scoured and cleaned so that they shine splendidly!" "Oh! now that you mention it, Hugh," broke out Thad, "I remember that several years ago, before I knew you, with another boy I climbed a tall tree to peek in at the nest of a pair of crows. Well, sir, besides the young ones, what did we find but three strange things. One was a key, pretty rusty at that; another seemed to be a piece of metal that might have fallen off a motor car on the road; it was made of brass, and still shone fairly well. The third I've forgotten about, though I've still got them all at home somewhere. At the time, Dick Saunders and I laughed, and said the old mother crow had fetched her babies some playthings to keep them amused while she and her mate were off hunting grubs and corn and such crow food." "Well, all of which goes to prove that my little theory mightn't be so far fetched as you seemed to think in the beginning," said Hugh. "I mean to look around closely the next time I drop in to see the Madame. Perhaps if I picked up a tiny green feather that must have come from Pretty Poll, and on the table close to the case that holds the spoons, it might clinch matters." "Whew! I only hope you do!" declared Thad. "I'd hate to learn that Owen had any hand in taking those spoons. The sooner we find out the truth, the better for all concerned. It'll not only relieve our minds, as well as that of the old lady; but either prove or disprove the suspicions we're right now entertaining toward that poor boy." He looked very determined when saying this, just as though he had made up his own mind to hasten the dénouement; but of that he did not say anything to Hugh. "My plan at present is to find a chance to hide in the room, and have the old lady let her parrot free to fly around," continued Hugh, reflectively. "You see, as a rule, the bird is held by a fine chain, and made to stay by her perch; but the lady as much as admitted, when scolding her pet, that every now and then Polly managed to get loose by pecking at the ring about her leg; and had a great time flying squawking in and out of the rooms before anybody could catch her again." Thad clapped his hand in glee. He had changed his mind considerably after hearing all these things in the line of a convincing argument, as mentioned by Hugh. "Why, if it should turn out that way, Hugh, it'd make a story well worth writing up for the magazines, or a big New York daily paper. I hope now you'll get busy on this scheme right away, so we'll know the truth. Parrots are mighty cunning birds, for a fact. I knew one once that used to mock everybody going by. What fun we boys used to have trying to teach him to say things that mebbe his mistress wouldn't exactly approve of, though, honestly, Hugh, they weren't very tough, just boys' slang, you know. I'm glad now you asked me to take this walk with you. For all we can tell, it may have some influence in solving this puzzle that's got both of us guessing." When Thad said this, he of course could have no idea how near he was hewing to the truth. That walk was fated to have a very considerable influence on the course of events, and also upon the solving of the riddle; but we must not anticipate. The two lads continued to saunter along. They chatted on other subjects besides the mystery of the old lady's lost souvenir spoons. The matter of outdoor sports was much in their minds those days, when sleepy old Scranton was waking from her Rip Van Winkle nap of twenty years, and girding herself to accomplish a few things on the diamond and the gridiron. So they drew gradually nearer to the famous Hobson mill-pond, where for generations the boys of Scranton had been accustomed to swim and fish in the good old summer time, and skate in the winter, the canal leading close to its location. The old mill was no longer in use, but with its moss-covered wheel made a very picturesque sight that artists often painted with delight. The pond itself was of fair size, and surrounded with trees and bushes. In fact, it was quite a lake. On one side there stood a large ice-house, and when the surface of the pond was covered with a foot of clear firm ice, many of the residents of the town had their supply cut and stored in places built partly underground, in order that they might have all the ice they wanted through the dog days. Hugh and Thad had almost arrived at the mill-pond when they suddenly heard loud voices. There was screaming in shrill tones that would indicate the presence of children near by. "What does all that row mean, Hugh?" snapped Thad, looking suddenly interested. "They're playing around the pond, those kids, and like as not one of them may have fallen in! Let's get a move on us and see!" Hugh seemed to be of the same opinion, for he started on a rapid gallop. Louder rang out the shrill cries. There could be no doubt now as to some one being frightened; and considering the loneliness of the mill-pond region, it was easy to guess Thad had hit the truth when he surmised that a child must be in danger of drowning. CHAPTER XVI THE RESCUE AT HOBSON'S MILL-POND The two boys covered the short distance in an incredibly brief space of time. As they rounded the bend just beside the mill-pond and saw the whole scene spread out before them, their eyes were immediately fastened on a stirring picture close by. Two little colored girls were running up and down the shore doing most of the screaming, and acting as though half frightened to death. The reason for their alarm was not hard to see, for at some little distance out from the bank a small boy, as black as the ace of spades, was having a terrible time trying to keep his footing on a plank that had been a part of a rude raft, doubtless fashioned by his own hands. He had wished to "show-off" before his little playmates, and after rudely fastening several boards taken from the tumble-down old mill into a crude attempt at a raft, had boldly launched the same. With a pole he had stepped aboard, and then proceeded to "cut capers." Encouraged by the admiration of the other children, he must have become more and more reckless, so that he soon reached a point far enough distant from land to prevent him from touching bottom with his pole. This sudden discovery may have alarmed him, and in his endeavor to paddle, he had caused his raft to part in sections. So there he was now clinging to one plank, and in immediate danger of falling into the water, which out there was doubtless many times over his head. "Keep steady, there, boy!" shouted Thad. "Stick to your plank, and we'll get you ashore all right! Don't be scared, whatever you do! Thad, how can we reach him?" "There's an old boat pulled up on the shore a little ways above here," said the other quickly, for he had the faculty of thinking of everything when an emergency arose, an admirable trait in any boy. So they started on a run, heading for the spot, and hoping the tragedy would hold off until they could launch the old craft, which leaked more or less, but was likely to hold long enough for them to accomplish the rescue. Passing the two small girls, Thad shot out words of encouragement to them. "Stop that screaming!" he told them, with an air of authority. "You only rattle the boy, don't you know? We're going after a boat so as to get out to him. It's close by, and much safer than swimming. Tell him to keep still, and we'll get him in a jiffy!" Of course he did not slacken his pace any while jerking out these words. They at least seemed to have some effect on the two children, for they stopped shrieking. Just as the boys reached the boat, however, the cries broke out again with redoubled energy. Thad glanced back, and immediately exclaimed: "He's fallen in, Hugh! We've got to hurry, you know!" "Here's one of the paddles; do you see anything of the other?" demanded Hugh. Luckily Thad discovered it immediately. The "paddles" were crude affairs chopped out of boards by some of the boys who used the boat while swimming; but all the same they answered a purpose. With a rush the old boat was pushed down the sloping sandy shore and into the mill-pond. Hugh and Thad sprang aboard and each snatching up a paddle, they commenced to urge the unwieldy craft along as best they might. As they worked, they could see what was going on ahead of them. The little chap evidently had considerable pluck about him, for he was making a really gallant fight for his life, trying to cling to the board, which was wobbling about in the water at a great rate. Twice his frantic hold seemed lost, but on each occasion he managed to regain it. Nature urges every human being or animal to struggle to the utmost when threatened with death by drowning. Some boys have even discovered that they could swim when they had to, or go down; though it is a risky experiment which should never be resorted to. Hugh's heart seemed to be almost in his throat as he watched the struggles of the poor little chap. Black or white, it made not the least difference to him just then; that child's life was as precious in his mother's sight as if he were the pink and white darling of a wealthy family. Nearer they came to the scene. Oh! if only he might manage somehow to retain his grip just twenty seconds longer, they would be on hand, and ready to drag him over the side of the old boat to safety. Hugh, deep down in his heart prayed that it might be so. He also figured how he would plunge overboard at the last second, if necessary, and dive after the sinking child, for he must be saved. They both worked as never before in their lives. Possibly that old boat swept through the water of the mill-pond at a faster rate than it had ever indulged in, even with twice the number of paddlers aboard. A precious human life was at stake, and this fact brought out every atom of energy those two gallant lads could summon to the fore. Fortune was kind, and the plucky little colored boy continued to show wonderful tenacity of purpose; for he managed to retain his slipping grip on the turning plank until Hugh could bend over and take a grip of his kinky wool. It may not have been the most pleasant way to effect a rescue, but there was no time for being particular. While he thus held the child above water, Thad bent down and got hold of the boy's arms. That settled it, for they speedily hauled him aboard. The two little girl companions of the rescued child, whose admiration for his boldness had undoubtedly been the main cause for his taking such great risks, stopped screaming when they saw that he was safe in the boat. The boys now made for the shore, as the boat was taking in water very fast, and already their feet were soaking wet. Besides, the sooner they reached land the better, because the boy had fainted from excess of fright, and also on account of the desperate endeavor he had made to keep from sinking. A minute later and Hugh lifted him from the boat. "We've got to get a fire started right away, Thad!" he exclaimed. "The air isn't as warm as it might be, and he'll be shivering soon. Besides, it's a long walk to town. Later on perhaps we may be able to stop some car or vehicle going in on the road, and take them all home. Here's my match-safe, so speed up a blaze, please." It was fortunate that Hugh always made it a practice to have matches with him. There could be no telling when they might come in very handy, as on the present occasion; for there was no house near by at which they could seek assistance. Thad was always a good hand at making a fire, and he quickly found plenty of fine tinder which flashed up when a match was applied. Then more wood was carefully placed on the little blaze, until in a brief time he had a cheery fire roaring. Hugh laid the boy down where he could feel the comfortable heat. He understood that the child could not have swallowed any water to speak of, because he managed to keep his head above the surface, save in the very end of his struggle. It was only a swoon or faint, and likely the child would come out of it quickly. He rubbed the little hands, and waited to see signs of returning animation. Two minutes afterwards the boy's eyes opened. He looked puzzled to see Hugh bending over him, and to hear the crackling of the fire. "It's all right, my boy," said Hugh, encouragingly; "you fell into the water after your raft went to pieces, and we pulled you out. Now we mean to dry your clothes by the aid of this nice fire, and after that we'll see you get home. Here are your little playmates, you see. You can thank them for screaming, because only for that we might not have come up in time." The boy allowed his hand to run up and down his other wet sleeve. "Dem's my Sunday-best clo's, too. Mebbe mommy she won't whale me fo' gettin' dem all soaked like this," he muttered to himself disconsolately. "Don't you worry about that," chuckled Thad, who had overheard the childish complaint. "Your mother, whoever she may be, will be so thankful that she hasn't lost her boy she'll forgive you anything. And you're a brave little chap in the bargain, because you did put up a nervy fight for your life, that's certain." They succeeded in drying his clothes, and then, as a large car was seen coming along the road with only a single man in the same, Hugh ran over to hail the driver and beg him to take them all into town. Luck favored them again. The man in the big car turned out to be Major McGrew's chauffeur, whom Hugh knew to speak to, as he was a baseball enthusiast of the first water. When he heard what had happened, he told Hugh to fetch the boy along; and also the two other kids; he'd have them home in a jiffy, for it was less than a mile to town. The colored people, as so often happens, lived in a certain section of Scranton, being very clannish in their habits. Hugh did not doubt but that he could easily learn just where the boy lived. He looked at him several times trying to remember where he could have seen the little fellow before, because there seemed to be something familiar about his face; but somehow he failed to connect him with any family he knew. When presently they entered the district where the colored folks had their homes, their coming created quite a flutter. To have a fine big car fetching a trio of colored children home was an event of importance. Boys and girls, and a sprinkling of older persons as well, hurried to ascertain what it could mean. Doubtless they were quick to sense the fact that something out of the common run must have occurred to cause such a happening. Hugh recognized an old man he knew as a preacher, and addressing himself to this person he hastened to explain. "These children were up at the old mill-pond, and the boy had made a raft on which he was having the time of his life, when the thing separated, and left him clinging to one plank where the water was quite deep. We chanced to hear the girls' screams and got to the spot in time to push out in an old boat and get hold of him just as he was sinking. He's a plucky little chap, I want to tell you. Only for the way he held on to that plank, he must have drowned before we could reach him. We dried his clothes at a fire we made, and have brought him home. I wish you would send for his mother, and tell her not to punish him. He's been very close to death, and has had a lesson he'll never forget." The old man took a look at the boy. "Why, it's sure enough little Brutus!" he exclaimed, as though just discovering this fact, for the boy had kept his face partly hidden, through shame and fear; then turning to some of the wide-eyed youngsters clustering around, the parson went on to say; "Here, you Adolphus Smith, run like the wind over to Madame Pangborn's and tell Sarah her boy needs her, because he's been in the pond; but be sure to let her know Brutus is all right!" The boy shot away like a flash, while Hugh turned and looked at Brutus again; for now he knew that he had seen him over at the Pangborn mansion. CHAPTER XVII LITTLE BRUTUS AND HIS "COLLECTION" It was not long before they discovered a woman running like mad toward the spot. Of course this was no other than Sarah, whose heart had been chilled by the news fetched by Adolphus Smith, the truth being considerably garbled, it is to be feared. She arrived panting, and with her eyes full of horror, as though she fully expected to find her darling Brutus lying there all wet and cold. Upon discovering the shrinking little form, she seized him in her arms, and dropping to the ground began rocking back and forth as she hugged him tight, meanwhile covering his ebony little face with motherly kisses. "Hebben be praised, I ain't done lost my Brutus after all. Dat 'Dolphus he skeered me nigh to death wif his stuttering story as how my chile be'n in de mill-pond. What's all dis row about, anyhow? I hopes none o' you folks done play a joke on me, dat's right. It'd be de wustest thing yuh eber done, let me tells yuh." The parson thereupon proceeded to tell her the real facts. Sarah hugged the rescued boy some more, and then on hearing how his life had been saved by the actions of two white boys, she looked up at Hugh and Thad. "Why, it am de young Morgan boy, glory, if it ain't!" she ejaculated, and Hugh was a little afraid the good woman, in her gratitude, might want to transfer her embraces from Brutus to him, so he held out his hand, with one of his smiles, saying: "We were only too glad to be on the spot and give the boy a helping hand, Sarah. I didn't know at the time he was your child, though that wouldn't have made any difference. We dried his clothes at a fire we made, and he's all right." Sarah, even as she squeezed Hugh's hand, was looking at Brutus out of the tail of her eye, as though an awful thought had just then burst upon her. "An' he hab on his bestest Sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes, too. I done hopes dey ain't shrunk on him, so he cain't git in 'em agin. Dat clerk he nebber guarantee dat dey wouldn't creep up if de boy he done falls in de pond. But how did it happen, I'd like to know." Hugh thereupon took it upon himself to explain just how Brutus in trying to "show-off" before his little girl companions had ventured out too far, and managed to cause his raft to go to pieces. Sarah looked threatening, so Hugh hastened to "pour oil on troubled waters." "Brutus has suffered enough for punishment, I should think, Sarah," he told her. "He's had his lesson, and will never try anything like that again. You should be thankful it's no worse. Besides, let me tell you, he's a little hero. He fought like everything to save himself, and never let out so much as a cry. The girls did all the yelling. You ought to be proud of his grit." "That's right, you had, Sarah," added Thad, thinking it his duty to "put in an oar" so as to save Brutus from the "smacking" he seemed to be dreading. This sort of talk mollified the mother. She even looked proudly around at the clustering neighbors, for by now every denizen of Darktown had apparently been drawn to the spot, all wild to hear what had happened. Her look was in the shape of a challenge. It seemed to say: "Dere now, what do yuh good-for-nothin' coons think of my Brutus, after hearin' dese white boys say as how he's a real hero? Don't any ob yuh ebber ag'in ask me why I gives him dat name. Guess I knows my history, an' didn't I see it in him when he was a little baby? Dar ain't another hero in dis whole place, dat's right!" She turned to Hugh again. Brutus took advantage of his opportunity to creep over to another woman, who also petted him, and who the boys afterwards learned was his aunt, a washerwoman of the town. "Dat boy he ain't like de rest of de kids, I wants yuh to know, Marse Morgan," she was saying, eagerly. "All de boys 'round heah dey spends dere time aplayin' in de street, or agittin' into trouble. My Brutus he's different. Jest yuh come wif me an' see how he done play all by hisself. I'd like yuh to know he ain't a wuthless little rascal, dat chile." Hugh seemed about to beg Sarah to let them off, but Thad, for some reason, perhaps just through mere curiosity, hastened to say: "Come on, let's take a peek, Hugh. I've got an engagement in a short time, but this'll only take a few minutes. We're some interested in Brutus, you know. I guess he's bound to make a name for himself some day." So they followed Sarah as she led the way to a nearby cottage. "Dat's whar we libs, me an' Brutus and my sister, Nancy, her as takes in washin' six days in de week, an' teaches de infant class in Sunday school on de seventh day. Yuh see we done got a cabin in de rear where Nancy she washes. So we fits up one end fo' Brutus' playhouse, same as de white chillun dey hab playhouses in de yard. He sets dar most ob de day a havin' de time o' his life playin' sojer with de buttons, and settin' out his Noah's Ark animals. I allers knowed dat boy was different from de rest o' de kids. Parson Brown, he say he sure enough hab de makin' o' a good preacher in him, fo' he talks by de hour to his toys." So Hugh and Thad had a look-in. They found everything in order, showing that Nancy was not slovenly about her work. The tubs were hung on the wall, and a basket of soiled clothes standing ready for the next day's washing. Over at the far end of the cabin was the special precinct devoted to Brutus and his toys. Hugh glanced at the accumulation. He saw that the boy was one of those who love to accumulate things. He had numerous little assortments of curious articles, picked up here and there, all of which had excited his love for collecting. Thad was heard to chuckle as though he found it quite amusing; but he turned this off with a cough as Sarah glanced inquiringly toward him. "Yuh see how dat boy he spend his time," the proud mother went on to say. "Right here he play and play de whole blessed day long. He ain't nebber done tired o' talkin' to his toys, and asettin' o' 'em in lines like dey was in school. I always hab an idea in my head Brutus, he either make a good parson or else he bound to be a school teacher, I ain't zactly made up my mind yet which it'll be." "It's plain to be seen, Sarah," said Hugh, as he turned away, "that your boy is different. I certainly hope he'll grow up to be a man you'll be proud of. You won't punish him for what happened today, will you? We promised him we'd ask you to go easy with him; he was dreadfully alarmed about his clothes, and seemed to think more about them than that his life had been in deadly peril." "Bless yuh, honey, I ain't meanin' to do the leastest thing to dat sweet chile. Clothes kin be boughten agin, but I never'd be able to git anudder Brutus. But if he goes out to dat drefful mill-pond agin, I'm feared I'll have to skin him, and dat's a fact." So the two chums strolled on, heading for another part of the town. Both of them had been highly edified by what they saw and heard in the colored settlement. "I'd like to ask you one thing, though, Thad; what were you chuckling at while we were in that cabin that shares the honors of a wash-house with Brutus and his wonderful collection of toys?" "Oh! something struck me as funny, that's all, Hugh. The fact is, just when Sarah was prophesying all those wonderful things that might be in store for Brutus, from being a great soldier, or an eloquent parson who could frighten people into repenting of their sins, I took stock of all that junk the boy's gone and collected, and do you know, I was thinking that the chances were he'd make a successful hustler in the 'rags, old iron, old clothes' line, when he grew up." Hugh also laughed on hearing that. "Nobody can tell," he went on to say. "The veil of the future hides such things from our mortal eyes, as Dominie Pettigrew said the other Sunday. Brutus may turn out to be a wonder; and again there's a chance of his being only an ordinary day laborer." "Well, if he keeps on taking risks just to show off before the girls," observed Thad, drily, "I rather guess he won't grow up at all, but die young. But I'll leave you here, Hugh, as I have a date with some one for half-past four this afternoon." "Oh! is that so?" chuckled the other; "well, go along, and don't bother making excuses. I wouldn't have you break an appointment with Ivy for anything." "You're away off this time, Hugh, for it happens that it isn't Ivy Middleton, or any other slip of a girl," Thad hastened to say. He did not offer to explain, and the other thought he looked somewhat mysterious; but while his curiosity may have been slightly aroused, Hugh did not feel justified in making any further inquiries. If Thad did not wish to tell him, it was all right; even between chums there may be little secrets. "I may see you later on, though," Thad added, as he was turning away; "that is, if I'm successful in my errand." Which remark further aroused the wonder of his comrade, who could not imagine what Thad had in mind. Hugh went home, and picking up a book he was reading, proceeded to renew his interest in the story. Half an hour slipped away in this fashion. Then he heard a jolly whistle down on the street, which he knew full well. Sure enough, it was Thad coming hurriedly toward the Morgan home. He discovered Hugh at the window and waved his hand. Even at that distance Hugh saw his face was flushed, just as his manner was buoyant. "Now I wonder what that boy has been up to," Hugh said to himself, as he awaited the coming of Thad; but cudgel his brain as he might, Hugh never once suspected the errand of his chum could have anything to do with the solving of the puzzle that was assuming all the characteristics of a heavy burden on his, Hugh's, shoulders. Thad presently burst in upon him, for he knew the way to Hugh's den, and thought nothing of going in and out of the Morgan house as though he belonged there. Hugh motioned to a chair. "Sit down and cool off," he told Thad. "You look all heated up, as if you'd been running fast." "Well, so I have, part of the way," gasped the other; "and it's quite some distance out to the Rookery, you must remember." "What's that?" exclaimed Hugh; "do you mean to say your appointment was with Owen Dugdale after all?" "Shucks! no, but with his old grandfather," snickered Thad. "Owen's gone off for the afternoon with Mr. Leonard in the athletic instructor's flivver, and paying a visit to Barton. I knew about that when I called Mr. Dugdale up around noon today, for he has a telephone, it happens, and told him I'd accept his invitation to drop in again to chat with him, and would be over by about four. Well, in the language of Alexander, or some other old worthy of ancient times, it was _veni, vidi, vici_ with me; I came, I saw, I conquered! What do you think of that, Hugh?" With the words he suddenly drew something from a pocket and held it in front of his companion's nose. It was a souvenir spoon, one of unique pattern, Hugh saw, and he had a thrill as he comprehended just what it might mean. CHAPTER XVIII A STRAIGHT DRIVE FOR THE TRUTH "So, you stole Owen's spoon, did you?" Hugh said, reprovingly. Thad made a gesture as though he thought his chum was putting it hard. "I simply borrowed it, that's all, Hugh," he hastened to explain. "Of course I haven't any use for souvenir spoons, or any other kind of spoons, either, for that matter. I was tired of all this beating around the bush, and made a straight drive to find out the truth. Either that boy is innocent, or else he's guilty, and now we can learn which it is." "What do you plan to do, now you have the spoon?" demanded Hugh. "Why," explained Thad, "I thought perhaps you'd agree to take me over to call on Madame Pangborn, even if it is Sunday. The better the day the better the deed; and our main object would be to solve the horrible mystery that's been hanging over poor Owen's head all this while, even if he doesn't know about it. What do you say to that, Hugh?" The other boy seemed to consider, while Thad watched his face eagerly. It was just like Thad to go directly at the heart of the matter, for his was rather an impetuous nature. After all, perhaps it might be the easiest way in which to settle the question. Hugh at least would be glad to lay his burden down, for it had been an uphill fight all the way. Besides, there was so much need of his being able to pay full attention to baseball matters, with the first game only six days off, that he would welcome any means for winding up his self-appointed task. "Well, it might be best to drop in on the old lady and have her identify that spoon as one of her set," he finally observed. "Once that fact was established, we would have some solid foundation to build on. As it is now, we're just groping in the dark." "Then you agree, do you, Hugh?" "Call it a bargain, Thad. I'll take you around to call on the old lady. She's a nice soul, and will be glad to see us. In fact, when we were talking about a number of things the last time I was in her house, and I chanced to mention your name, she asked me to fetch you around sometime. Of course she knows who you are, but I guess you've never really met her. She's a wonderful old woman, and heart and soul bent on getting all sorts of comforts for the wounded soldiers of her beloved la belle France." Thad looked greatly pleased. "Then let's be starting out right away," he suggested. "It might be, Owen would get home before he expected to, and I'd a heap sooner he wasn't around when we were on our way to the Pangborn house. Somehow, I'd hate to look the boy in the face after doing what I did; though you understand it was done in the hope of clearing up this awful puzzle." "No need of saying that, Thad, because I know what your feelings are. My plan would have been to pick up the spoon incidentally, and admire it. Then it would be easy to tell from the manner of Mr. Dugdale whether he knew where it came from. I don't suppose you thought to do anything like that, now?" "Why, no," came the reply; "for you see, I'd laid out my plan of campaign, and wanted to hew close to the line. The quickest way to settle the whole matter, according to my calculations, was to just show the old lady the spoon, and ask her if it was one of the missing ones. But please get a move on you, Hugh. I'm fairly quivering with suspense, because I somehow feel that we're on the verge of making a big discovery." "Perhaps we are," his chum told him, without any show of elation, "but if it convicts Owen Dugdale of this thing, I'll be mighty sorry." He led the way downstairs, and secured his cap from the rack. Then the two lads hurried out of the front door, heading in the direction of the big house where the old French lady lived, and which had lately been turned into a sort of general headquarters for the Red Cross workers. There some of the ladies of Scranton could be found day after day, sewing and packing such garments as had been brought in, so that they might be sent across the sea to the country where the brave poilus were in the trenches defending their native land against the aggressor, and slowly but surely pressing the Teutonic hosts back toward the border. "I'm going to ask you a favor, Hugh," remarked Thad, presently, as they drew near their intended destination. "Go ahead and ask it, then," he was told. "Let me run this little game, won't you, please--that is, I mean, allow me to introduce the subject of souvenir spoons, and then show the old lady the one I've got in my pocket right now?" "That seems only fair," Hugh assured him. "Since you've taken it on yourself to crib that spoon from Owen's den, it's up to you to do the honors. I'll only be too glad to have you do most of the talking. Yes, and about the time you flash that thing in front of her eyes I'll be shivering for fear we learn the worst." "Nothing like heroic treatment when you've got a cancer gnawing at your vitals, as surgeons all say," remarked Thad, rather pompously. "I'm aiming at the bull's-eye now, you understand. It's going to win or lose, and no more tom-foolery about it." When Hugh rang the door-bell, it was Sarah who answered, showing that she had not lingered very long at home after the boys left, but had returned to her duties with the madame, who doubtless paid extravagant wages for her services. She smiled broadly at sight of them. "I sure is glad to see yuh agin, bofe ob yous," she said. "I done tells de missus all 'bout hit, and she says as how it was on'y what she'd spect of dat young Mistah Morgan." "Thank you for telling me that, Sarah," Hugh went on to say; "it's pleasant to know some one thinks well of you. Is Mrs. Pangborn at leisure? I hope she isn't taking a nap just now?" "Deedy she ain't dat, suh; she's on'y readin' in de library. An' she be mighty glad tuh see yous bofe." So she led the way along the wide hall, to usher the boys into the commodious library. Bookcases lined the walls, and it seemed to be an ideal place, where a student might enjoy himself very much indeed. Just then, however, there were several sewing machines shoved aside, and much evidence to the effect that on weekdays this same library might be a beehive of industry, with women chattering as they sewed. The old lady looked surprised at seeing them, but the welcoming smile and the extended hand were evidence that she was not displeased. "I've taken the liberty of fetching my chum, Thad Stevens, around to see you, Mrs. Pangborn," Hugh was saying as he sat down. "You've heard me talk of him more than a few times; and even expressed the wish that I might introduce him to you. He's interested in nearly everything that concerns me, and we seem to work together like a well-ordered team, even if we do have an occasional little spat, which is to be expected." Madame Pangborn loved boys, as has been said before. She understood them wonderfully well, too, considering that she had never had one of her own. So she laughed at what Hugh said. "I'm doubly glad you have dropped in to see me today, Hugh," she told him, "for more reasons than one. In the first place, I want to hear at first hand just what did happen out there at that terrible mill-pond; and how you managed to save that little boy of my Sarah from drowning. He sometimes comes here with her to spend a part of a day, and I like to talk with him, he seems so original, so bright, and so curious about everything I possess, too." "Oh! it didn't amount to very much, so far as we were concerned, I mean," Hugh expostulated; "but since Sarah has told you about it, I suppose I might as well spin the whole story. We consider that we were lucky to be around, that's all, for I guess little Brutus would have been with the angels before now if we hadn't happened along, and heard all that shrieking from the colored children." Then he went on to tell about it, even to what had happened after Brutus arrived home in the big car, the object of attention in Darktown, with Sarah running like mad to find out what the garbled account brought by Adolphus Smith might really mean. The old lady was highly interested in the story, which really Hugh managed to tell quite cleverly, even injecting some humor in his narrative. "So that is how Sarah comes to be calling her Brutus a hero, is it?" Mrs. Pangborn went on to say, with a smile. "I had never heard her say such a word before, and considered it rather queer in a mother whose child had been close to drowning. According to my mind, you and your chum are really the ones most deserving of that title; but I'll spare your blushes, young men. Now tell me what you are doing in the line of outdoor sports; because I hear there are great goings on around this section of country; and I suppose I must give up next Saturday afternoon to journeying over to Belleville, in order to encourage our valiant Scranton High boys." Both of them started telling of the things that were being done in a baseball way; and as they were enthusiasts, they found it easy to enlarge upon such a favorite theme. Thad, however, had begun to show signs of nervousness, and Hugh suddenly remembering that they had come there with a particular motive in view, drew out of the conversation, leaving it to his chum to carry it on with the old lady. Thad only waited for a favorable opening, when he was ready to "sail in." This came when the Madame chanced to mention her travels in many lands, and the fond memories she had of all her visits. "But when I shall eventually return to my beloved France," she remarked sadly, "I anticipate many a heartache to see the terrible condition of the fair country that has been turned into a howling wilderness by the vandal German armies. Ah! I almost dread the day, much as I yearn to tread my native soil again." "My chum was telling me that you had quite a collection of queer souvenir spoons," Thad remarked just then, thinking he had found just such an opening as he wished. Madame Pangborn shot Hugh a suggestive look, as if wondering how far he had confided in his chum. "Yes, it is true, I have taken considerable pleasure collecting spoons in some of the many cities I visited, all of them wonderfully unique," she went on to say, with a sigh; "but perhaps, after all, it is a useless and pernicious habit, since it may tempt some weak one, and cause trouble." Then Thad brought out what he had in his pocket. Hugh held his breath. "Please take a look at this spoon, will you, Mrs. Pangborn," said Thad, "and tell me if you have ever seen one like it before!" She gave the speaker a quick, suspicious look, and eagerly took the little object. For a minute or so she turned it over and over, while the two boys were quivering with suspense. Then she spoke. "Ah! quite a charming specimen of Old English silver workmanship, and I must say it is exceedingly handsome; but it represents a city in which I never happened to set foot," with which she handed the spoon back to Thad, who almost dropped it to the floor, such was his sudden sensation of intense relief. CHAPTER XIX HUGH REACHES HIS GOAL Thad Stevens looked as though any one could knock him down with a feather. The astonishing fact that the old lady who made a fad of collecting souvenir spoons, had failed to recognize the one which he had purloined from Owen's den "struck him all in a heap," as he afterwards expressed it. Why, that would seem to indicate Owen must be entirely innocent, so far as proof went. Hugh, on his part, was quicker to recover. Although he felt a spasm of sincere satisfaction pass through him at the result of his chum's test, at the same time he realized that there was no necessity for making "mountains out of molehills." Madame Pangborn had instantly surmised that there was more connected with that odd little silver spoon than she had as yet grasped. Indeed, having good eyesight, she could hardly have failed to notice the strange actions of Thad. "Tell me what it all means, please, Thad," she besought him; "for I am certain you must have some deeper motive in fetching that souvenir spoon to show me than appears on the surface. Don't you think I am entitled to your full confidence?" "Indeed you are," said Hugh, quickly, "and you shall hear the whole story. Both of us are right now tingling with satisfaction and delight because our worst fears have proved ungrounded." Then he went on to explain just how Thad had by accident become a temporary guest under the roof of the Rookery, after having helped old Mr. Dugdale to the house when he was seized with a sudden attack of sciatica in one of his lower limbs. It did not take Hugh, with an occasional sentence of explanation from his eager chum, who wanted to be set right in the eyes of the good madame, long to tell how Thad chanced to discover the spoon among many other things in Owen's "den," and what a host of fears its presence there had aroused in their breasts. Then he reached the point in his narrative where Thad conceived the bold idea of appropriating the spoon during Owen's absence, and letting the old lady see the same, knowing full well that if she recognized it as one of her missing souvenir mementoes, the case would look exceedingly dark for Owen. Madame Pangborn's face took on a radiant look after she had learned all. "I have never been able to believe that boy could be guilty of such an atrocious deed," she hastened to say, emphatically. "I flatter myself that I can read boys as well as any one, and in his eyes there lies only truth, and an ardent desire to accomplish great things that have long been burning in his soul. But, nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence was so strong that it has caused me some sleepless nights. Now I know Owen is innocent, I shall be satisfied. I would sooner lose all my spoons ten times over than find that he had yielded to a sudden and irresistible temptation." "But," said Thad, in sore perplexity, "the three spoons are gone, there's no doubt about that; and if Owen didn't take them who did?" "Please let the matter drop," expostulated the old lady, hastily. "I am satisfied to know the boy is innocent. I shall immediately put the rest of my spoons away, so that they may not tempt any one again." "But it wouldn't be right to give the hunt up so easily as that, you know, lady," complained Thad. "We've started in to find the thief, and our motto is never to turn back once we've put our hands to the plough. Hugh, don't you say the same?" "I certainly do," affirmed the other boy. "And while about it, perhaps I ought to tell Mrs. Pangborn how I at one time even began to imagine the thief was a thing of green and yellow feathers, and a hooked bill, otherwise known as Pretty Polly." At that, the old lady seemed highly interested. "Oh! such a thought never occurred to me, Hugh!" she hastily exclaimed. "Could it be possible, do you think?" and she glanced apprehensively toward the corner of the library, where the handsome and intelligent parrot sat on her perch, chained by the leg, and with her yellow-crowned head turned on one side as though she might be listening to all that was being said. "It is a bare possibility," Hugh went on to say. "A whole lot would depend on whether Polly chanced to get free during those particular days when the spoons disappeared. As to whether a bird like that would carry away such things, and hide them, there's lots of accounts of such things happening. I'll tell you of a few instances I've read about, and every one was vouched for as absolutely true in the bargain." So for some little time he amused and interested the old lady with accounts of strange things various species of pet birds, from rooks and ravens, all the way to talking parrots, had been guilty, in the way of stealing bright articles of jewelry, and trinkets that seemed to have caught their fancy, hiding them away in some cranny or nook, where the whole collection was afterwards found. "I may have read something along those lines myself at some time or other, Hugh," she told him, as he concluded, "but it slipped my mind. Whether Polly is guilty of petty larceny or not, after this, I shall be more careful than ever about keeping her fast to her perch by that long chain. There is no telling what a wise old bird of her nature might not attempt, given freedom. I sometimes think she has a little devil in her, when she says something wonderful, and looks so droll. But you have given me a very happy half hour, for which I thank you both." Thad kept glancing toward Hugh as though he was puzzled as to what further action his chum meant to take in the case. For accustomed to reading the expression on Hugh's face, he seemed to realize that the other had some "card up his sleeve" which he meant to play. "Hadn't we better be going, Hugh?" he now asked. "Right away," came the reply, "for it's getting near six o'clock, and Mrs. Pangborn will be having her tea soon." "I do have it a little earlier on Sunday, because I allow Sarah to go home," admitted the old lady. "She is a great hand to attend church, you know, and I believe sings in the choir like a lark. I often hear her practicing down in the kitchen while cooking dinner. But I'd be delighted if you boys could stay and take a bite with me." "Thank you, ma'am," said Hugh, "another time we'd be only too glad to accept your invitation; but I must be home tonight. What time do you suppose Sarah would be at her house? I want to see her about her little shaver Brutus, and find out if his ducking did him any harm, and thought I'd walk around later in the evening." "You are apt to find Sarah at home up to a quarter of eight. After that she will be in her place in the colored church," he was told. Then the boys took their leave. On the way home, Thad expressed some curiosity concerning the visit Hugh proposed making to Sarah's home. "Do you really think that boy might come down with pneumonia, or something like that on account of being in the water, Hugh?" he asked, at which the other smiled mysteriously and replied: "Oh! the water is still pretty chilly, you know, Thad; and the child was so terribly frightened that he might feel the result of his immersion, even if we did make a fire, and dry his clothes well. Besides, I've dropped my pocket knife, and I've a little idea it was while we looked through that playhouse of Brutus'. But suppose you stop asking questions, and agree to accompany me when I make my little call on Sarah this evening?" "Oh! all right, Hugh, I'll go with you," complained Thad, "but I know as well as anything you've got some queer notion back of it all, which you don't mean to share with me. But remember that Madame Pangborn told you she would trust Sarah with her purse or her life, she has such confidence in the woman." "I haven't forgotten," said Hugh, quietly. "I know what I'm doing. You show up around seven or a quarter after, and we'll take a little walk. Perhaps we might pick up a few facts worth while before we come back; stranger things have happened than that, Thad." "You are the limit," laughed the other, as he swung aside and headed for his own house, doubtless to ponder over the mysterious words of Hugh many times while eating his supper on that Sunday evening. It was just dark as he started across lots toward Hugh's home; for there was a short-cut which they frequently made use of--trust boys for cutting off corners whenever it is possible, even if they have to vault fences in order to reduce distances. All the way out to the colored settlement, Hugh kept up an unusually lively flow of talk. He knew Thad was fairly itching to ask questions, and apparently Hugh did not mean to let him have a chance. So they finally entered among the humble cottages and cabins where Scranton's colored population lived. Children were running about the streets shouting in play, even as the first peal of the cracked bell in the little church near by began to sound. Sarah was at home. She seemed surprised to see the two white boys. "How's little Brutus, Sarah?" asked Hugh. "Oh! he's all hunky-dory, suh, 'deed an' he is," she replied with a smile. "I done jest gib him his supper, and chucked de chile in his bed. An' I ain't put a hand on him neither. Jes' as yuh sez he done hab a lesson; but I tells him if he ebber goes to dat ere mill-pond agin I lays fo' him, and makes him smart like fun." "I'm sorry to trouble you, Sarah, but I've dropped my knife somewhere, and remembered having taken it out of my pocket when you were showing us Brutus' playhouse. Would you mind getting a lamp, and going back there just to take a look around. I value that knife a lot, and would hate to lose it. We won't keep you from church more than a few minutes at most." "Sure I will, suh. I'd do a thousand times as much fo' de white boys as sabed my baby fo' me dis berry day." She quickly secured a lamp, and led the way back in the yard. Thad was beginning to show signs of nervousness. He realized that Hugh must be playing some sort of a game, and yet strange to say he was unable to fathom it. Arriving at the old cabin used partly as a wash-house, and with the rear devoted to Brutus' "playthings," they entered. Sarah held the lamp while Hugh started to scan the floor earnestly, moving around as he looked. All at once he stooped and picked something up. "Well, I was right in believing I dropped my knife in here, for you see, I've found it again. Why, what's this?" He bent over again, and from a receptacle in a queer old fragment of a desk that had a number of pigeon-holes in it, Hugh plucked something and held it before the eyes of the others. Then he made another movement, and _three_ shining objects lay there in his hand. Thad gasped and stared. He was looking on the missing souvenir spoons! As for the amazed Sarah, it was a blessing that she did not let the lamp fall from her nerveless hand as she burst forth with: "Fo' de lands sake, if dem ain't some oh de old missis' spoons; dat good-fo'-nothin' brack imp must a' snuck one ebbery time I takes him to visit de lady. Oh! he kotch it fo' dis, you better belieb me!" CHAPTER XX LOOKING FORWARD--CONCLUSION There could be no doubt about the genuine nature of the horror and indignation, as well as shame, that struggled for the mastery in the mind of the astonished colored woman. To learn that her little boy had abused her confidence whenever she took him visiting her good mistress was a shocking revelation. She also looked furiously angry, and it was evident that the said Brutus would receive due punishment on account of his propensity for purloining things that belonged to others, just to add to his "collection." The thing that struck Hugh as bordering on the comical was that even a small colored boy might have the same mania for gathering "trophies" of his visits that possessed Madame Pangborn. He felt that the good lady would herself be amused at the coincidence, and be ready to forgive little Brutus. He proceeded to show Sarah that it would be entirely unnecessary to let any one know what had happened. There would be no exposure, and she need not be "disgraced" in the eyes of her neighbors. Hugh would simply return the spoons to their owner, who certainly would never hold it against Sarah. But after that, should Brutus be invited to the old lady's house, his actions would be carefully watched lest his acquisitive propensities again get the better of his honesty. Thad was highly delighted with the result of their "raid" on Brutus' playhouse. On the way to Madame Pangborn's, he boldly accused his chum of having set up a little game. "Now I wouldn't be at all surprised, Hugh," he went on to say, "if you dropped your knife in that cabin on purpose when we were looking around this afternoon; own up and tell me if that isn't true." "Yes, I did," admitted the other, laughingly. "Now that the thing has turned out even better than I dared hope, I'm willing to confess that a sudden suspicion gripped me about that time. When I saw what an astonishing assortment of old junk that boy had collected, I knew he had a mania for picking up things. And the idea struck me that since he sometimes was allowed to stay for an afternoon with his mother at Madame Pangborn's house, what if the temptation came to him to take one of those pretty spoons to add to his assortment? Why, the more I thought of the idea the stronger it hit me. On the impulse of the moment I dropped my knife, so as to have a good excuse for getting out there again, and prowling around a bit. I didn't want to mention a thing even to you until I had proved whether there was any truth in my new suspicion. And it turned out splendidly." "Oh! I'm so glad, for Owen's sake particularly!" declared Thad. "Now I must manage to get this spoon back in his den without his ever suspecting I took it; but that ought to be easy. I hope he never knows he was under suspicion, because he's very proud, and it would hurt him terribly." "What makes me think a near-miracle has been performed," added Hugh, soberly, "is the way all this came about. Only for our taking that walk we wouldn't have been near Hobson's mill-pond at just the minute little Brutus was struggling in the water, and so been able to pull him out. That in turn took us to his home; and his mother had to dip in by wanting us to see how her precious pickaninny played with his toys back in the old cabin. It's wonderful, that's all I can say." "But, Hugh, you deserve all the credit," affirmed Thad. "In the first place, you took this heavy task on your shoulders, and started to find out who was guilty of robbing your good old friend, Madame Pangborn. It's been an uphill fight from the start, but here we've reached the finish in a blaze of glory. But won't the old lady be astonished when we show her the spoons, and tell her just how they were found." She certainly was, and made them go into the most particular details concerning the matter. Just as wise Hugh had believed would be the case, she did not blame Sarah in the least; nor did she declare the little chap would surely grow up to be a disgrace to his mother. Her kindly heart knew the failings of small boys better than to condemn a child for a weakness. She did say she would have a good talk with Sarah, and advise her as to how she should try to train Brutus so that this very trait might serve to his credit instead of being always a weakness. "And as for Owen," she concluded, "I am more than ever satisfied that his is a sterling character. I want to see more of that boy; and I'm determined to make the acquaintance of his grandfather. I feel absolutely certain that the old gentleman has been misunderstood by thoughtless people in Scranton; and from little hints Owen has dropped, I fully believe it will turn out that Mr. Dugdale is a man of some consequence, perhaps even renown, in his own country; though just why he left it, and has been living in retirement here these two years, is a matter that concerns only himself. But you boys have acquitted yourselves handsomely in this affair, and brought me much happiness. Come and see me often; you will always find my latch-string out to Hugh Morgan and Thad Stevens." So they went home with hearts that beat high in the exuberance of their joy. The puzzling enigma had been fully solved, and just as they would have wished it to come out. Now Hugh could put all other matters aside and devote his spare time to his work as field captain of the newly organized Scranton High Baseball Team. Only a few days remained before their first grand game would be played with the Belleville nine, and well they knew that they must acquit themselves handsomely on the diamond if they hoped to bring a victory home with them, and to cause Scranton, so long drowsing in a Rip Van Winkle sleep, to awaken and whoop for joy. Other problems would possibly present themselves to Hugh Morgan for solution from time to time, as he pursued his onward way; but it can be set down as certain that a lad of his sagacity and determination was bound to attain his goal, once he started out. And with that ambitious programme of outdoor sports ahead of them, it can be safely assumed there would be glorious doings in and around the town of Scranton, starting on the following Saturday, when, packing their kits, and donning their new uniforms, the high-school team set out to invade the lair of the tiger in neighboring Belleville. Just what they accomplished in the good old summer time will be found narrated between the covers of the next volume in this series of books, now on sale under the suggestive title of "The Chums of Scranton High in the Three-Town League; or, Out for a Baseball Pennant." 
20472	----	Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School OR The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshmen Girls By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. Author of Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School, Etc. PHILADELPHIA HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY Copyright, 1910 [Illustration: A Troop of Black-Robed Figures Were Stealthily Approaching.] CONTENTS I. The Accident of Friendships II. The Sponsor of the Freshman Class III. Mrs. Gray Engages a Secretary IV. The Black Monks of Asia V. Anne Has a Secret VI. The Sophomore Ball VII. All Hallowe'en VIII. Miss Leece IX. Thanksgiving Day X. Grace Keeps Her Secret XI. Mrs. Gray's Adopted Daughters XII. Miriam Plans a Revenge XIII. Christmas Holidays XIV. A Midnight Alarm XV. Tom Gray XVI. The Marionette Show XVII. After the Ball XVIII. A Winter Picnic XIX. Wolves! XX. The Gray Brothers XXI. The Lost Letter XXII. Danger Ahead XXIII. In the Thick of the Night XXIV. The Freshman Prize LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS A Troop of Black-Robed Figures Were Stealthily Approaching. "Miss Pierson, Do You Recognize This Figure?" "Give That Back! It Is Not Yours." Tom Gray Escapes from the Wolves Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School CHAPTER I THE ACCIDENT OF FRIENDSHIPS "Who is the new girl in the class?" asked Miriam Nesbit, flashing her black eyes from one schoolmate to another, as the girls assembled in the locker room of the Oakdale High School. "Her name is Pierson; that is all I know about her," replied Nora O'Malley, gazing at her pretty Irish face in the looking glass with secret satisfaction. "She's very quiet and shy and looks as if she would weep aloud when her turn comes to recite, but I'm sure she's all right," she added good naturedly. For Nora had a charming, sunny nature, and always saw the best if there was any best to see. "She is very bright," broke in Grace Harlowe decisively. "She went through her Latin lesson without a mistake, which is certainly more than I could do." "Well, I don't like her," pouted Miriam. "I never trust those quiet little things. And, besides, she is the worst-dressed girl in----" "Hush!" interrupted Jessica Bright, touching a finger to her lips. "Here she is." A little, brown figure entered the room just as Miriam finished speaking. But Jessica was too late with her warning. The young girl had, without doubt, heard the cruel speech and her face flushed painfully as she pinned on a shabby old hat, slipped her arms into a thin black jacket and stepped out again without looking at the crowd of schoolmates who watched her silently. "Miriam, I should think you'd learn to be more careful," exclaimed hot-tempered Nora, her soft heart touched by the appealing little stranger. "Well, what difference does it make?" replied Miriam. "If Miss Pierson doesn't know already that she's the shabbiest girl in school, it's high time she found it out. I have a suspicion her mother takes in washing or something, and I mean to find it out right now. We can't invite a girl like that to our class parties and entertainments. She would disgrace us." "Miriam," said Grace quietly, "I believe we are all privileged to invite whom we please to our homes. I intend to give a class tea next Saturday, and I mean to follow Miss Pierson right now and ask her to help me receive." The two girls looked into each other's faces for a moment without speaking. Grace was quiet and contained, Miriam flushed and furiously angry. They had been rival leaders always at the Grammar School, but the rivalry had never come to open battle until now. Miriam was the first to drop her eyes. She did not reply, but from that moment she was the sworn enemy of Grace Harlowe and her two friends, Nora and Jessica. "Well, we had better hurry," said Jessica, trying to calm the troubled scene. "Nobody knows exactly where Miss Pierson lives and she will be out of sight before we can catch her." The three girls ran lightly out of the basement of the fine old building that was the pride of Oakdale. It was large and imposing, built of smooth, gray stone, with four huge columns supporting the front portico. A hundred yards away stood the companion building, the Boys' High School, exactly like the first in every respect except that a wing had been added for a gymnasium which the girls had the privilege of using on certain days. A wide campus surrounded the two buildings, shaded by elm and oak trees. Certainly no other town in the state could boast of twin high schools as fine as these; and especially did the situation appeal to the people of Oakdale, for the ten level acres surrounding the two buildings gave ample space for the various athletic fields, and the doings of the high schools formed the very life of the place. But we must return to our three girls who were hurrying down the shady street, followed in a more leisurely and dignified fashion by Miriam and her friends. The shabby figure of the little stranger had just turned the corner as the girls left the High School grounds. "Come on," cried Grace breathlessly, leading the way. Having once made up her mind, she always pursued her point with a fine obstinacy regardless of opinion. When they had come to the cross street they saw their quarry again, now making her way slowly toward the street next the river. This was the shabbiest street in Oakdale, though no one knew exactly why, since the river bank might have been the chosen site for all the handsomest buildings; but towns are as incorrigible as people, sometimes, and insist on growing one way when they should grow another, without the slightest regard for future appearances. And so, when little Miss Pierson stopped in front of one of the smallest and meanest cottages on River Street, the girls knew she must, indeed, be very poor. The house, small and forlorn, presented a sad countenance streaked with tear stains from a leaky gutter. An uneven pavement led to the front door, which bore a painted sign: "Plain Sewing." They paused irresolutely at the gate, and were taking counsel together when Miriam Nesbit passed with her friends. She pointed at the door and laughed. "Really, that girl's conduct is contemptible!" exclaimed Grace, giving the wooden gate a vigorous push. "I simply won't tolerate her rudeness. She is an unmitigated snob!" Grace knocked on the door rather sharply to emphasize her feelings. It was opened almost immediately by Miss Pierson herself, still in her hat and coat; and in her surprise and embarrassment she almost shut the door in their faces. But Jessica's gentle smile reassured her, and Grace, who was a born leader, took her hand kindly and plunged at once into the subject. "You left school so quickly this afternoon, Miss Pierson, that I didn't have a chance to see you. I have something very particular I want to ask you to-day." "Won't you come in?" said the other, opening the door into the parlor, which had an air of refinement about it in spite of its utter poorness. "Anne!" called a querulous voice down the passage. "Yes, mother, I'm coming," answered the girl, hurrying out of the room with a frightened look in her eyes. In a few moments she was back again. "Please excuse me for leaving you," she said. "My mother is an invalid and needs my sister or me with her constantly." "Her name is Anne, then," thought Grace. "I shall call her so at once and break the ice." "Anne," she said aloud, "I think you know my friends, don't you--Jessica Bright and Nora O'Malley? And I am Grace Harlowe." "Oh, yes," replied Anne, brightening at the friendly advances of the others. "I remember your names from the roll call." "Of course," replied Grace. "But I think we should all be more to each other than roll-call acquaintances, we freshmen. I am very ambitious for our class. I want it to be the best that ever graduated from Oakdale High School, and for that reason, I think all the girls in it should try to be friends and work together to advance the cause. I'm going to start the ball rolling by giving a tea to our class next Saturday afternoon. Will you come and receive with Jessica and Nora and me?" Anne clasped her hands delightedly for a moment. Then her eyes filled with tears and her lips trembled so that the girls were afraid she might be going to cry. Tender-hearted Jessica turned her face away for fear of showing too much sympathy. "I'm sorry," said Anne at last, rather unsteadily, "but I am afraid I can't accept your delightful invitation. I----" "I beg your pardon," said a voice at the door, "I didn't mean to intrude on your visitors, Anne, but I couldn't help overhearing Miss Harlowe's invitation." A small woman, much older than Anne, but very like her in face and figure, appeared at the door. "This is my sister," said Anne, taking the other's hand affectionately. "Anne imagines she can't go, but she certainly can," went on the older Miss Pierson, calmly, not in the least embarrassed by the strange young girls. "Of course, she must go. I can arrange it easily." "But, Mary----" protested Anne. "Never mind, little sister," interrupted Mary, "it will be all right. Miss Harlowe, what time must she be there?" "At four o'clock," answered Grace, rising to go, "and I am delighted that she can come. Remember, Anne, I'm counting on you to pour the lemonade. The other girls are going to help with the sandwiches and ice cream. By the way," she added, as they went down the steps, "be sure and come to the basketball meeting at the gym this afternoon." And so it was arranged that Anne Pierson, the shabbiest and poorest girl in Oakdale High School, was to help receive at one of the prettiest and most charming houses in town. Miriam Nesbit's rudeness was to bring about a friendship between Anne Pierson and her three schoolmates that lasted a lifetime. After the half-past two o'clock dinner, which was the universal custom in Oakdale, the chums met again at the gymnasium in the Boys' High School. Wednesdays and Saturdays were nicknamed "ladies' days" by the High School boys, for on these afternoons the girls were permitted free use of the gymnasium. The meeting to-day was not for gymnastic exercises, however, but an important subject was to be discussed--the Freshman Basketball Team. Also the captain of the team was to be elected. Other club meetings were in full force when the girls arrived, and the great room vibrated with the hum of voices. The three freshmen, who knew better than to interrupt sophomores and juniors at their pow-wows, made their way quietly across the hall to the appointed place of rendezvous. Of course, the entire Freshman Class did not assemble to discuss this subject. Many members were not interested in basketball, except to look on. Girls who were overstudious, and not physically strong, could not at any rate play on the team, and therefore they seldom attended such meetings. Jessica Bright was one of these, nevertheless, she followed her two friends, who had always been foremost in athletics at the Central Grammar School. The election of a captain was the first business of the meeting. That over, the captain, after due and serious consultation with a friendly cabinet, chose the players and their substitutes. Undoubtedly Grace Harlowe had the coolest head in the class, and was the most to be relied upon at critical moments; yet Miriam Nesbit exerted a strange influence over her followers, who were almost her slaves. She was the richest of all the girls and wore the costliest clothes. The parties she gave, from time to time, in her mother's large and handsome home were the talk of the place. She was also the cleverest girl in the class, and had taken undisputed first place since she was a child. She was not a close student, but seemed to absorb her lessons in half the time that it took her friends to master them. Popular she certainly was, or rather she was feared by her schoolmates. Her masterful, overpowering spirit seemed to sweep everything before it. Grace Harlowe was quite as powerful in her way, but she had a noble, unselfish disposition and was much beloved by her friends. She stood well in her studies, but had never taken first place. Perhaps this was because she had interested herself so much in outdoor sports that she had not given enough time to study. Both girls were handsome--Miriam tall, dark and oriental-looking, with flashing eyes and an imperious curve to her lips; Grace was also tall, with wavy, chestnut hair, fine gray eyes, regular features, a full, generous chin and cheeks glowing with health. Miriam Nesbit had already done a good deal of lobbying when the three girls arrived on the scene. She wished to be elected captain of the team at any cost; but Grace's adherents were holding off, quietly waiting for her arrival. "Well, here you are at last!" said Marian Barber, who had been preparing the ballots for the coming election. Marian was the busy girl of the class, and always made herself useful. "Is everyone here?" demanded Nora, scanning the crowd of freshmen with a view to ascertaining what her chum's chances were. "All that intend coming," replied Miriam. "The softies stayed away, as usual." "Suppose we wait five minutes," said Grace, looking at her watch, "and then, if no one comes, we will cast the votes." "No, no," exclaimed Miriam impatiently. "I have an engagement and can't spare any more time. I vote that we have the election at once, without waiting another moment." "Very well," assented Grace. "I only suggested waiting because Anne Pierson promised to come, and, of course, every girl in the class has a right to vote at the class elections." "Anne Pierson?" cried Miriam, turning crimson with suppressed rage. "Yes," answered Grace calmly; "but, if everybody is agreeable, suppose we go ahead." "Agreed!" cried the others and the ballots were cast. There was not much parliamentary practice in these class elections. Each girl wrote the name of her choice on a slip of paper and dropped it in a hat. Four of the girls then counted the votes, and the one receiving the most slips was declared elected. The slips were dropped into the hat, amid the silence of the company. Some of the sophomores and juniors, perched on parallel bars, watched the scene with superior amusement, but no notice was taken of their half-whispered jeers. The four girls then retired to count the votes. "It's a tie," announced Marian Barber, returning presently; "a tie between Grace and Miriam. I wish some of the others would come and settle the matter." "Here's some one," cried Nora. "Here's Anne Pierson. Let her cast the decisive vote." Miriam's eyes blazed, but she held her peace. There was nothing to do but submit with an uneasy grace. But who could doubt what the outcome would be? However, she felt somewhat relieved when Grace said: "I think we should cast the votes over again, and, according to the rules we made last year, Miriam and I should not vote, since the election rests between us." The votes were cast again, Anne timidly dropping her slip in the hat with the others, and, as might have been expected, Grace was elected captain of the Freshman Basketball Team of the Oakdale High School. CHAPTER II THE SPONSOR OF THE FRESHMAN CLASS "Grace," asked Mrs. Harlowe, the day of the famous freshman tea, "have you asked some of the girls to help this afternoon? Bridget can attend to the sandwiches, but some one ought to pour the lemonade and generally look after the wants of the others." Grace was arranging a bowl of China asters on the piano in her mother's charming drawing room. The shining mahogany chairs and tables reflected the glow of the wood fire, for the day was chilly, and bright chintz curtains at the windows gave a cheerful note of color to the scene. "Oh, yes, mother," replied Grace. "Nora and Jessica, of course, and Anne Pierson." "And who is Anne Pierson?" "I don't know who she is," answered Grace. "I never knew her until she entered the High School. But she is terribly poor. Her mother is an invalid and her sister takes in plain sewing. I really asked her at first because Miriam Nesbit was rude to her one day. But I'm beginning to like her so much, now, that I'm glad I did it. She's as quiet as a little mouse, but she is fast taking first place in class. I believe she will outstrip Miriam before the end of the year. Don't ask me who she is, though. I haven't the least idea, but she's all right, I can promise you that. I'm sorry for her because she is poor. They live in a little broken-down cottage on River Street." Mrs. Harlowe looked dubious. Grace was always bringing home stray people and animals, and the mother was accustomed to her daughter's whims. The young girl was familiar to all the ragamuffins of the town slum, and when she sometimes found one gazing wistfully through the fence palings of her mother's old-fashioned garden, she promptly led him around to the kitchen, gave him a plate of food on the back steps, picked him a small bouquet and sent him off half-dazed with her gracious and impetuous kindness. "Well, my dear, I shall be prepared for anything," exclaimed Mrs. Harlowe; "but remember that feeding people on the back steps and asking them into the parlor to meet your friends and acquaintances are two different matters altogether." "Don't be afraid, mother," replied Grace. "You will like Anne as well as I do, once you get to know her. You must be careful not to frighten her at first. She is the most timid little soul I ever met." Just then the front gate clicked and two girls strolled up the red-brick walk, their light organdie dresses peeping out from the folds of their long capes. "Here come Nora and Jessica," cried Grace excitedly, running to the door to meet her friends. Mrs. Harlowe smiled. In spite of Grace's sixteen years she was still her little girl. There was another click at the gate and Mrs. Harlowe saw through the parlor window a little, dark figure, pathetically plain in its shabby coat and hat. "Poor little soul," thought the good woman. "How I wish I could put her into one of Grace's muslins, but, of course, I couldn't think of offering to do such a thing." "Mother," said Grace some minutes later, when the girls had laid aside their wraps and descended into the drawing room, "this is Anne Pierson, our new friend." Anne Pierson, small and shrinking, was dressed in a queer, old-fashioned black silk that had evidently been taken up and made short for the occasion. Mrs. Harlowe's heart was touched to the quick and she bent and kissed the young girl gently. "How do you do, my dear?" she said kindly. "I am always glad to meet Grace's friends, and you are most welcome." Anne was too frightened almost to speak. This was the first party she had ever attended, and the beautiful room, the girls in their light, pretty dresses, the bowls of flowers and the cheery firelight nearly stupefied her. Mrs. Harlowe disappeared into the little conservatory off the dining room, returning in a moment with two big red roses which she pinned to Anne's dress. "These red roses have been waiting for you all morning," she said, "and they're just in their prime now." More guests began to arrive, and soon the room was full of young girls talking gayly together in groups or walking about, their arms around each other's waists after the manner of fifteen and sixteen. Grace had seated Anne at the dining room table behind a large cut glass bowl which almost hid her small figure. Grace knew from experience that this would be the most popular spot in the room, and she cautioned many of her friends to be kind to the timid little stranger. She knew also that giving Anne something to keep her occupied would relieve her embarrassment. Anne conscientiously filled and refilled the glasses, and in the intervals answered the questions put to her; but never asked any herself. Miriam Nesbit came in late with her two most intimate friends. She wore a resplendent dress of old rose crepe and a big black hat. Anne forgot her resentment when she caught sight of the vision and was lost in admiration. But she was brought sharply to her senses by a rude, sneering laugh from the ill-bred girl, who was staring insolently at the old black silk gown. Anne flushed and hung her head. "I am glad Mrs. Harlowe gave me the flowers," she thought. "They hide it a little, I think." Meantime there was the bustle of a new and important arrival. Grace and her mother ushered in a charming little old lady and seated her in the place of honor, a big leather chair between the windows. She wore a gray silk dress and a lavender bonnet daintily trimmed in lace and white ostrich tips. "Girls," said Grace, as a hush fell over the room, "there is no need for me to introduce any of you to Mrs. Gray, who is the sponsor for the freshman class." There was a buzz of laughter and conversation again, and through the double doors Anne caught sight of the little old lady, talking gayly to her subjects, seated, like a diminutive queen, on a large throne. "Why is she the sponsor of the class?" Anne asked of Jessica, who was hovering near by. "Oh, have you never heard?" returned Jessica. "Mrs. Gray's daughter died during her freshman year at High School, long ago, and ever since then, Mrs. Gray has offered a prize of twenty-five dollars for the girl who makes the highest average in her examinations at the end of the freshman year. She was made sponsor of the freshman class about ten years ago, so each year, soon after school opens, some one of the freshmen gives a tea and invites her to meet the new girls. You must come in and be introduced, too, as soon as you are through here." "A prize of twenty-five dollars," repeated Anne. "How I wish I might win it!" "It's even more than that," said Jessica. "For a perfect examination she offers one hundred dollars. But, needless to say, no one has ever won the hundred. It is considered impossible to pass a perfect examination in every subject." "One hundred dollars!" exclaimed Anne. "Oh, if I only could!" "Well, you may win the twenty-five dollars, anyway, Anne," said Jessica. "I suppose the one hundred dollar prize is beyond the reach of human beings." "And now, young ladies," Mrs. Gray was saying, smiling at the group of girls who surrounded her, as she examined them through her lorgnette, "most of you I have known since you were little tots, and your fathers and mothers before you; but I don't know which of you excels in her studies. Is it you, Grace, my dear?" Grace shook her head vigorously. "No, indeed, Mrs. Gray," she replied. "I could never be accused of overstudy. I suppose I'm too fond of basketball." "It won't hurt you, my dear," said the old lady, tapping the girl indulgently with her lorgnette; "the open air is much better than that of the schoolroom, and so long as you keep up an average, I daresay you won't disappoint your mother. But none of you have told me yet who leads the freshman class in her studies." "Miriam Nesbit," said several voices in unison. "Ah!" said Mrs. Gray, looking intently at Miriam. "So you are the gold medal girl, Miriam? Dear me, what a young lady you are growing to be! But you must not study too hard. Don't overdo it." Mrs. Gray had gone through this same conversation every year since any of the girls could remember, and never failed to caution the head girl not to overstudy. "There's no fear of that, Mrs. Gray," replied Miriam boastfully. "My lessons give me very little trouble." "Mrs. Gray," broke in Nora O'Malley mischievously, "Miriam Nesbit has a close second in the class. The first girl who has ever been known to come up to her." Miriam flushed, half-angry and half-pleased at the adroit compliment. "And who may that be, my dear?" queried Mrs. Gray, searching about the room with her nearsighted blue eyes. "It's Anne Pierson" replied Nora. "Pierson, Pierson?" repeated the little old lady. "Why have I not met her? I do not seem to remember the name in Oakdale. But where is this wonderful young woman who is outstripping our brilliant Miriam? I feel a great curiosity to see her." "Anne Pierson, Anne Pierson!" called several voices, while Grace began to search through the rooms and hall. At the first mention of her name Anne had darted from her seat behind the lemonade bowl, and rushed to the nearest shelter, which was the conservatory. Grace found her, at last, in the conservatory crouched behind a palm. "Come here, you foolish child!" exclaimed Grace. "You are wanted at once. Why did you run and hide? Mrs. Gray--the great Mrs. Gray--wishes to meet you. Think of that!" Anne clasped the girl's strong hand with her two small ones. "Oh, Grace," she whispered, "won't you excuse me? I--I----" "You what? Silly, come right along!" Grace fairly dragged the trembling little figure into the drawing room, where a silence had fallen over the group of young girls who watched the scene. "Tut, tut, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray gently. "You mustn't be afraid of me. I'm the most harmless old woman in the world." Then she tried to get a glimpse of Anne's downcast, crimson face. "I wanted particularly to meet you, child," went on Mrs. Gray, "because I hear you are a formidable rival of the best pupil in the freshman class. That is a great boast for your friends to make for you, my dear. Miriam Nesbit is a famously smart girl, I'm told. But I wanted to meet you, too, because you bear the name I love best in the world." Here the old lady's voice became very soft, and the girls suddenly remembered that the young daughter had been called Anne. Was there not a memorial window, in the chapel of the High School, of an angel carrying a lily and underneath an inscription familiar to them all: "In Memory of Anne Gray, died in her freshman year, aged sixteen"? The girls moved off quietly, conversing in low voices, leaving Anne alone with her new friend. "You are a very little girl to be so clever," said Mrs. Gray, patting one of Anne's small wrists as she looked into the dark eyes. "Where do you live, dear?" "On River Street," replied Anne undergoing the scrutiny calmly, now she found herself alone. "River Street?" repeated Mrs. Gray, trying to recall whom she had ever known living in that strange quarter of the town. "Have you been long in Oakdale?" she went on. "A few years, ma'am," replied Anne. "And what is your father's business, my child?" continued the old lady remorselessly. Anne blushed and hung her head, and for a moment there was no reply to the question. Presently she drew a sharp breath as if it hurt her to make the confession. "My father does not live here," was what she said. "My mother is an invalid. My sister supports us with sewing. As soon as I finish in the High School, I shall teach." Mrs. Gray put an arm around the girl's waist and drew her down beside her. "I'm a stupid old woman, child. You must forgive me. Old people forget their manners sometimes. Will you come and see me very soon? Perhaps to-morrow after church you will take luncheon with me? I want to know you better." She drew a card from the beaded reticule that hung at her side. "Remember, at half-past twelve," she said, giving the girl's hand an extra squeeze as she rose to go. After Mrs. Gray had taken her departure a free and easy atmosphere was restored and the girls began talking and laughing without the restriction of an older person's presence. Mrs. Harlowe shortly after this also left them to themselves. "Let's do some stunts," proposed Grace. "Nora, will you give us your imitations?" "Certainly," replied Nora, "if Miriam will promise to sing, and Jessica will do her Greek dance, and Georgie will play for us." "All right!" came a chorus of voices. "We've done it oft before, but we'll do it o'er again if the company so wishes," said Georgie Pine, one of the brightest and gayest girls in the class. The others seated themselves in a semicircle, while each girl gave her little performance, and, at the conclusion, was applauded enthusiastically. Nora had a real talent for mimicry; she convulsed her audience with imitations of some of the High School teachers. When it came Miriam's turn she sat down at the piano with a queer look on her face. "I believe she means mischief," thought Grace to herself, as she watched the girl curiously. Miriam ran a brilliant scale up the piano, for music was another of her many accomplishments. Then she paused and turned to the others. "I won't sing," she said, "unless Miss Pierson promises to recite us something first, Poe's 'Raven,' for instance." Grace flushed angrily and was about to interfere when, to her surprise, Anne herself replied: "I shall be glad to if that is the poem you like best. I always preferred 'Annabel Lee.'" Miriam was too amazed to answer. She could never form an idea of what it cost Anne in self-control to acquiesce; but the young girl had gained a new strength that day. So many people had been kind to her, and what is more, interested in her welfare. She rose quietly and walked to the middle of the semicircle. Grace and her chums were in an agony of fear lest poor Anne should break down, and so distress them all except the unkind Miriam. However, they need not have troubled themselves. Anne fixed her eyes on the far wall of the dining room and commenced to recite "The Raven" in a clear, musical voice that deepened as she repeated the stanzas. The girls forgot the shabby little figure in its ill-fitting black silk and saw only Anne's small, white face and glowing eyes. Not Miss Tebbs, herself, teacher of English and elocution at the High School, could have improved upon the performance. "It was perfectly done," said Grace afterwards, telling the story to her mother. "It was almost uncanny and quite creepy toward the last." When the performance was over the girls crowded around little Anne with eager congratulations; but, strange to say, everyone forgot that Miriam had given her promise to sing. What the crestfallen Miriam kept wondering was: "Wherever did she learn to do it?" CHAPTER III MRS. GRAY ENGAGES A SECRETARY Grace and her two friends, Jessica and Nora, were also invited to Mrs. Gray's luncheon the next day, after church. Grace had often taken meals in the beautiful house on Chapel Hill, but the other girls had never been privileged to do more than sit in the large, shady parlors while their mothers paid an afternoon call. It was with some excitement, therefore, that the three girls met in front of the Catholic Church, of which Nora was a member, and strolled up the broad street together. As they passed the little Episcopal Chapel, which had given the hill its name, Anne Pierson joined them. She looked grave and excited, and there was a feverish glow in her eyes. "Anne, my child," exclaimed Grace, who always seemed much older than the others, "how late do you study at night? I believe you are working too hard. You look tired out." "I'm not tired," replied Anne. "I don't mind studying. Only so much has happened in the last few days! And now we're going to luncheon with Mrs. Gray. I've seen her house. It's very beautiful from the outside, more beautiful than the Nesbits', I think, because it is older and there is such a pretty garden at the side." "Anne," said Jessica, "we're counting on you to win the prize. There is no reason why a rich girl like Miriam Nesbit should get it. She doesn't need the money, in the first place; and, in the second, she's already had enough glory to turn her head. Being beaten won't hurt her at all." "I would rather win it," answered Anne, with passionate fervor, "than almost anything in the world. And think of the big prize of $100! If I could win that----" Words failed to express her enthusiasm and she paused and clasped her hands. "Oh, well, we won't expect that of you," replied Grace, "Nobody could be expected to pass a perfect examination. That's an impossible achievement." "_I_ shall try, anyway," said Anne in a low voice. Just then they were joined by a young man of about eighteen, who lifted his hat politely to them. "May I walk with you?" he asked of Grace. "You seem to be going my way this morning." "Certainly, David, we are going your way. We are lunching with your next door neighbor, Mrs. Gray. But you must let me introduce you to Miss Pierson. Anne, this is Mr. Nesbit, Miriam's brother." Anne flushed at the mention of Miriam's name and bowed distantly to the newcomer, who was a junior at the High School and quite grown-up to the young freshmen. David Nesbit, like his sister, was tall, dark and handsome; but unlike her, he was quiet and unassuming. He, too, stood at the head of his classes, but he was not athletic, as Miriam was, and spent most of his time in the school laboratory, experimenting, or working at home on engines and machinery of his own contriving. However, there was nothing snobbish in David's attitude. He greeted Anne as cordially as he had the others. "We never see you now, David," continued Grace. "You are always so busy with your inventions and contrivances. What is the latest? A flying machine?" "You guessed right the very first time," replied David. "It is just that." "Really?" laughed the girls, incredulously, while Anne's eyes grew large with interest. "Shall you fly around Oakdale in it?" asked Jessica. "Oh, we are not building big ones yet," answered David. "These are little fellows. Models, you know. The big ones may come later. Six of the junior and senior fellows have been working on them all summer. We started it in the manual training course. After we had learned to hammer things out of silver, and do wood carving and a few other little useful accomplishments, I suggested a flying machine to Professor Blitz and he fell to it like a ripe peach. It was too late to do anything last spring except talk, however. But we are almost ready now, after our labors this summer." "Ready for what?" demanded Grace. "If you are not going to fly yourselves." "For our exhibition. Why don't you come and see it at the gym. next Friday night?" "We can't. We aren't invited," answered Nora, tossing back her saucy little curls. "I'll invite you," said David. "This will admit four young ladies to the High School gym.," he continued, taking out a card and writing on it, "At 7.30 Thursday evening." "Then everybody isn't invited?" demanded Jessica. "No, not everybody," replied David. "Just a chosen few. And you must be sure to come, too, Miss Pierson," he added, turning to Anne, who, all this time, had been silently listening to the conversation. "I should love to," she answered, giving him a grateful glance. "I'll leave you here," said David, turning in at a graveled driveway that led to the Nesbit house, a very large and ornate building standing far back from the street in the midst of a well-kept lawn. "I wish Miriam would take a few lessons in manners from her brother," murmured Grace, when they were out of hearing distance. "He is certainly one of the nicest boys in High School," said Jessica. "If he only played football!" said Grace, with a sigh. "And danced," added Nora. "I don't know how to dance, nor did I ever see a game of football," said Anne. "Meaning that Mr. David suits you, Miss Anne," said Grace teasingly. "It was nice of him to ask me, too," was all Anne said in reply. "How do you do, my dears?" said Mrs. Gray, a few moments later, when John, the aged butler, ushered the girls into the long, old-fashioned parlor. "You are most kind to come and cheer up a lonely old woman. I shall expect you to be very gay and tell me all the gossip of the Oakdale High School, the four of you." "Luncheon is served, ma'am," announced John, whereat the sprightly old lady led the way to the dining room. Over the delicious broiled chicken and other good things they discussed the affairs of the school, the new teacher in mathematics, Miss Leece, who was so unpopular; the girls' principal, Miss Thompson, beloved by all the pupils; the merits of the Freshman Basketball Team and a dozen other schoolgirl topics that seemed to delight the ears of Mrs. Gray. "The truth is," she said, "I believe this freshman class is going to be one of the finest Oakdale High School has ever turned out. I have a feeling that I shall be very proud of my new girls, and at Christmas time I mean to do something I have never done before, if all goes well." "Oh, do tell us what it is, Mrs. Gray," cried the girls in great excitement. "I mean to celebrate with the largest Christmas party that's been given in Oakdale for many a long year. Grace, you shall manage it for me, and all of you shall help me decorate the tree and the house. We'll invite the freshmen boys and have a real dance with Ohlson's band for the music." "Oh, oh!" cried the girls ecstatically, even quiet Anne joining in the chorus. "By the way," went on Mrs. Gray, "do you know any girl who would like to come up and read to me twice a week, and write my notes for me? I'm getting to be an old woman. My eyesight is growing dim. Is there any girl who would like to earn a little pocket money? But she must have a sweet, soft voice, like Anne's here." "Anne would be the very girl herself, Mrs. Gray," suggested Grace. "She reads and recites beautifully." "You are not sure it would trespass on your time too much, Anne?" observed the wily old lady. "I don't want to impose on you." Anne's face fairly radiated with happiness. Could those girls possibly guess how much it meant to her to earn a little money! Five dollars was to her an enormous sum, and perhaps she might earn as much as that in time. "Might I do it?" she exclaimed, beside herself with joy. Grace turned her face away a moment. She felt almost ashamed of her own comfortable prosperity. And how like Mrs. Gray it was to do a kind thing in that way, as if Anne would be conferring a favor by accepting the position. "Indeed, you might, my dear. And I feel myself lucky to get the brightest girl in her class, and maybe in Oakdale High School, to come and entertain me twice a week." CHAPTER IV THE BLACK MONKS OF ASIA "Who wants to go nutting?" demanded Grace Harlowe in the basement cloakroom a few afternoons later. "We do," came a chorus of voices. "I don't," answered one. "Don't you like nutting parties, Miriam?" asked Grace. "She's too old," put in a sophomore. "This is a young people's party, I presume?" "Well, it's not a sophomore party, at any rate," retorted Nora. "Ma-ma, ma-ma," cried a number of other sophomores, imitating the cries of a baby. The freshmen were nettled by the superior attitude of the older class, but they knew better than to say anything more just then. "Never mind, girls," said Grace in a low voice, after the sophomores had strolled away, "we'll be sophomores ourselves next year. Now, all who want to join the party, meet Nora and Jessica and me at the old Omnibus House at three-thirty. And, above all, don't give the meeting place away." "Not in a thousand years," said Marian Barber. It was evident that Miriam Nesbit had hoped to break up the party by declining to go herself. But she was not quite strong enough in the class to divide it utterly, and she went off in a huff, with the secret wish to take revenge on somebody. As she started up Chapel Hill to her home she was joined by one of the sophomore girls, who lived across the street. "Your plebes are getting away from you, Miriam," exclaimed the older girl in a bantering tone. "You haven't got them well in hand yet. Nutting parties should be left behind for the Grammar School pupils." "They certainly should," replied Miriam in a disgusted tone. "It's Grace Harlowe who gets up all these foolish children's games. She's nothing but a tomboy, anyhow." "She's the captain of the basketball team, isn't she?" asked the other dryly. "Yes," admitted Miriam reluctantly, "but she never would have been if she hadn't brought along all her friends to vote for her." "Whew-w-w!" whistled the sophomore. "You don't mean to say it wasn't a fair election?" "Oh, fair enough," said Miriam, "except that I didn't bother to bring any of my special friends, and she did. I don't call that exactly fair." "Oh, well," consoled the other, "you have a few things coming to you anyway, Miriam. You're at the head of your class, as usual, I suppose?" Miriam nodded her head without answering. She was thinking of little Anne Pierson and what a close race they were running together. Even studying harder than she had ever had to do before, Miriam found it difficult to keep up with Anne. "Where are they going?" asked the other girl suddenly, after they had walked along a few minutes in silence. "Where are who going?" asked Miriam. "Why, the nutting party, of course." Here was Miriam's chance for revenge. The sophomores were a famously mischievous class, and this girl was one of its ringleaders. Back in Grammar School days they had played many pranks on their school fellows, and even in their freshman year they had dared to turn off all lights, one night at a dance of older schoolmates. "If I tell, you won't give me away, will you?" asked Miriam. "I promise," said the older girl. "Very well, then. They meet at three-thirty at the Omnibus House on the River road." "Good," said the sophomore. "Don't you want to come along and see the fun?" "Don't count on me," answered Miriam, turning in at her gate, with mixed feelings of shame and triumph. The Omnibus House, which had been chosen by Grace as the class meeting place, was an old stone building standing in the middle of an orchard. It was now in ruins, but tradition set it down as a former inn and stage coach station built before the days of railroads, and finally burned by the Indians. There was a curious hieroglyphic sign cut in a stone slab in the front wall which one of the High School professors interested in archæology had deciphered as follows: "Peace and Justice Reign Over Mount Asia Tavern." Here the crowd of High School "plebes," as the sophomores scornfully dubbed them, met in conclave, partly to gather nuts in the woods near by, partly to discuss class matters, but chiefly to enjoy the crisp autumn weather. The woods were still gorgeous in russets and reds, in spite of the recent heavy frosts, and there was a smell of burning leaves and dry bracken in the air. The girls skipped about like young ponies. "If this is childish," cried Grace, "then I'd like to be a child always, for I shall play in the woods when the notion strikes me, even if I'm a grandmother." There was a smothered snicker at this from the inside of the old stone house, but the girls were too intent on their enjoyment to notice it. "Young ladies," exclaimed Nora O'Malley, trailing her cape after her to make her skirts look longer, and twisting her mouth down to give her face a severe expression, "you are not in your usual form to-day. I must ask for better preparation hereafter." There was a peal of joyous laughter from the other girls. "Miss Leece to a dot," cried Jessica. "Miss Bright," went on Nora, "you will please pay attention to the lesson. If you do not, young woman, I shall have to punish you in the old-fashioned way." "You will, will you?" cried Jessica, rushing gayly upon her friend. "Come on and try it then!" The other girls followed, and there was a tussle to pull Nora down from the stone upon which she had clambered to protect herself. Shrieks, struggles and wild laughter followed, while Nora fought desperately to hold her position. So absorbed were they in friendly battle that they had not noticed a troop of black-robed figures leaving the ruined Omnibus House and stealthily approaching. Nora was the first to see the ominous circle. She stopped short, and pointed with unmistakable terror at the masked and hooded persons, who were watching them silently. There was a moment of frozen horror when the girls turned around. This was a lonely spot, too remote from any dwelling to call for help. Besides, the freshmen were outnumbered by these weird figures, who appeared not unlike monks in their somber cowls, although their faces were absolutely hidden by black masks. The girls clustered together around the rock like a group of frightened chickens. Jessica had turned pale. She was not very robust and often overtaxed her strength to keep up with her two devoted friends. The tallest of the masked figures then spoke in a queer, deep voice. "Young women, are you not aware that this is a sacred spot, devoted for generations past to the Black Monks of Asia, whose home this building was before it became a roadhouse for stage coaches? Never invade this spot again with your hilarity. And now we will permit you to go, marching out single file, without looking back. But first, through your leader you must give your word never to mention this meeting to anyone. If you refuse this promise we shall punish you as only the Black Monks of Asia know how to punish persons who have offended the order. The leader will please step forward." There was a moment's whispered conversation among the freshmen. Then Grace, urged by her friends, said: "We promise." "Now march out, single file, as agreed," resumed the Black Monk of Asia, his voice trembling a little with suppressed emotion of some sort. The girls started to move out of the enclosure single file, Grace leading the procession, when a gust of wind blew the robe of the leading monk apart, disclosing a navy blue serge walking-skirt. Grace's quick eye caught sight of the skirt at once, and breaking from the line, she charged straight into the group of black monks, crying: "Sophomores! Sophomores!" The other girls ran after her, screaming at the tops of their voices; and there might have been almost a free fight between the two classes had not the Black Monks of Asia scattered in every direction, running at utmost speed. "Come on back, girls," cried Grace in a disgusted tone. She had chased a monk half-way across the orchard; then stopped to wonder what she would do if she caught the tall, black-robed individual who had indecorously caught up her skirts and was flying well ahead over the rough ground. One by one the plebes returned to their meeting place. "Well, that was a sell!" uttered Nora disgustedly. "How shall we ever manage to get even with those mean sophomores!" "If we don't," exclaimed Grace, "we shall never hear the last of it in Oakdale." "But who gave us away?" demanded Jessica. "Did anyone drop a hint to the sophomores of our secret meeting place?" "I didn't," said one girl after another. "Perhaps they followed us," suggested Marian Barber. "No one followed me," asserted Grace. "I was careful to look behind and see." "Nor me." "Nor me," exclaimed several of her classmates. "No," said Nora. "Somebody must have overheard and given the secret away." "Not Mi----" but Grace stopped before she had finished the name. The girls looked at each other. Could Miriam Nesbit have been so false to her class? No one replied, but each made a secret resolution to ferret out Miriam's suspected treachery if it were the last act of her life. "Let's start home, now," said Grace. "It's too late to go nutting anyhow, and these foolish sophomores have spoiled the afternoon, for me at least. If we don't cook up something to pay them back, the name of freshman will be disgraced forever more." However, the afternoon adventures were not at an end. As the group of girls started toward the road, some distance away, trying not to look crestfallen, a gruff voice from the far side of the Omnibus House called: "Hold up there!" The girls took no notice, thinking it was more upper-class tricks. Five rough-looking men emerged from a grove of alders which grew about the building. The young girls were really frightened this time. No sophomore could disguise herself like this. These were undoubtedly genuine ruffians of the worst type, hungry, blear-eyed and ragged. "What shall we do?" whispered Jessica, clinging to Grace desperately. "Everybody run," answered her friend, trying to be calm as the five men advanced on them. But when they broke away to run toward the distant road they found their retreat cut off by the tramps, who were active enough as soon as the girls showed signs of flight. Back of them lay the dense woods into which the sophomores must have plunged and departed for town by another road. Seeing that escape was impossible, since, if some got away, others would be caught--and no girl was willing to desert her friends--the frightened plebes paused again and clustered about their leader. "What do you want?" asked Grace of one of the men. "First your money, then your jewelry," answered the tramp, insolently leering at her. "But suppose we haven't any money or jewelry," replied Grace. "So much the worse for you, then," answered the tramp in a threatening tone. "He can have this gold bracelet," exclaimed Jessica, slipping the band from her arm. But Grace was not listening. Her attention was absorbed by a group of people passing in a straggling line on the road. Lifting up her voice she gave the High School yell, which had been familiar to every High School boy and girl for the last twenty years: "Hi-hi-hi; hi-hi-hi; Oakdale, Oakdale, HIGH SCHOOL!" As she expected, the call was answered immediately, and some of the loiterers along the highway vaulted the fence at one bound. "Help!" cried all the girls in chorus. "Help! Help!" "It's some of the High School boys!" exclaimed Nora, in a relieved voice as the rescuers came bounding through the orchard. The tramps looked irresolute for a moment, but when they saw that the newcomers were five boys they held their ground. "What do you want?" said the tallest boy, with a flaming head of red hair, as he confronted one of the tramps. "Thank heaven it's Reddy Brooks, pitcher on the sophomore baseball team!" whispered Grace, unable to conceal her joy. "Is that any of your business, young man?" demanded the tramp, showing his teeth like an angry dog. "It's my business to protect these young ladies," answered Reddy Brooks, "and I'll do it if I have to shed somebody's blood in the attempt." "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed the big tramp, clapping his hands to his sides and almost dancing a jig in his amusement. In the meantime Reddy had cast his eyes about for some kind of a weapon. There was not a stick nor stone in sight. The only thing he could find was a pile of winter apples that had evidently been collected by the owner of the orchard to be barreled next day. Reddy made a rush for the pile, to the amazement of his fellow-students, who imagined for a moment that he was running away. They soon found out his purpose, however, when the apples came whizzing through the air with well-aimed precision. The first one hit the biggest tramp squarely on the chin and almost stunned him. Each boy then chose his man and the five ruffians were soon running across the orchard to the wood, the boys after them, their pockets bulging with apples. Laughing and yelling like wild Indians, they pelted their victims until the men disappeared in the forest. The girls, who had forgotten their fright in the excitement of the chase, were laughing, too, and urging on the attacks exactly as they would have done at one of the college football games. Perhaps they had had a narrow escape, but it was great fun, now, especially when Reddy Brooks threw one of his famous curved balls and hit a tramp plump on the back of the head. "Oh," cried Nora, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, "I never had such a good time in all my life! Wasn't it great?" "Wasn't it though?" grinned Reddy, as the boys returned from the field of victory. "Lots more fun than throwing balls at dummies at the county fair, wasn't it, fellows?" "You girls ought to be careful how you walk out here alone at this time of the year," said Jimmie Burke. "There are a great many tramps around now, going south in bunches to spend the winter in Palm Beach, no doubt." "We'll never do it again," answered Grace. "Never again!" exclaimed Nora, raising her right hand to heaven. "I suppose Farmer Smithson will wonder what became of his apples," observed Reddy. "Oh, well, he has so many acres of orchards, I don't suppose he'll miss this one little pile." And the crowd started gayly off to town. But the girls of the freshman class had not forgotten--or forgiven--the Black Monks of Asia. All along the walk Grace was turning over and over in her mind some scheme of revenge. Nothing seemed feasible, however. The sophomores were so well up in tricks that it would be difficult to deceive them. "Suppose," Grace proposed suddenly, aloud, "we ask David Nesbit's advice to-morrow night, when we go to the flying machine exhibition." After that she dismissed the subject from her mind for the time being. CHAPTER V ANNE HAS A SECRET On the night of the flying machine exhibition, the four chums, for Anne had now been formally adopted by Grace and her friends, arrived somewhat early at the great arched doorway leading into the gymnasium. They were all somewhat excited over this new experience. There had been many balloon ascensions at the State Fair, and once a dirigible airship had sailed over the town of Oakdale. But to see a real flying machine with all its grace and elegance and lightness was like stepping onto another planet where progress had advanced much faster than it had on this. At least, so thought Anne as she followed her friends into the building. There was a sound of puffing and churning, during which David arrived in a cloud of smoke on his motor cycle. "I mean to learn to ride one of those queer machines," exclaimed Grace from the doorway, never dreaming what an important part that very machine was one day to play in the history of Oakdale. "All right, you're welcome to," replied David, jumping off as he stopped the motor. "Come over to the campus to-morrow afternoon, and I'll give you your first lesson." "Is that really an invitation?" asked Grace. "For I shall accept it, if it is." "It certainly is," answered the young man, "and I shall expect you to make a very excellent prize pupil, not like Reddy Brooks, who tumbled off and smashed his nose because he suddenly forgot how to manage the brakes." A few other people gathered in the roomy gymnasium to see the exhibition, but the girls could see that it was a very exclusive company they had been invited to join. There were, in fact, no other girls, except Miriam Nesbit, who came late with her mother, a handsome, quiet woman to whom her son David bore a marked resemblance. Grace and her friends spoke to Mrs. Nesbit cordially, while Miriam bowed coldly and confined all her attentions to Miss Leece, the unpopular teacher of mathematics. Miriam ignored Anne entirely. "And now, ladies, if you will all be seated, the show will begin," announced David, leading them to the spectators' benches ranged against the wall. "Don't expect anything wonderful of mine," he added. "It's only in the first stages so far. I'm afraid she'll break down, but she's a great little machine, just the same. Isn't she, mother?" "She is wonderful, I think, David," replied Mrs. Nesbit, who was a very shy, quiet woman, almost entirely wrapped up in her only son. Miriam had always been too much for her, and she had long since given up attempting to rule or direct her brilliant, willful daughter. "Mrs. Nesbit," said Grace, "this is Anne Pierson, one of the brightest girls in the freshman class." "How do you do?" said Mrs. Nesbit cordially, giving the girl her hand. "You are a newcomer, are you not? I haven't heard Miriam speak of you." "She is a newcomer, mother, but I hear she's giving your daughter Miriam a stiff pull for first place," said David teasingly. "I wish you'd keep quiet, David," exclaimed his sister angrily. "You always talk too much." "Miriam!" remonstrated her mother. "Miss Nesbit," said Miss Leece in a disagreeable, harsh voice, "will have no trouble, I think, in holding her own." The teacher gave Anne such a glare from her pale blue eyes that the poor child shrank behind Grace in embarrassment. "Dear, dear," murmured Mrs. Nesbit helplessly. She disliked exceedingly the scenes to which her daughter often subjected the family. David only laughed good-naturedly. "The exhibition is about to begin," he said, and disappeared into the room where the ships were to be put through their performances. In a few moments six young airship builders appeared, each carrying in his arms the result of his summer's labors. There was vigorous applause from everybody except Miriam, who was too angry with her brother to enjoy the spectacle. The aeroplanes were all copies of well-known models, except David's, which was of an entirely new and original design of his own invention. It looked something like a flying fish, the girls thought, with its slender, oblong body, gauzy fins at the sides and a funny little forked tail at the stern. The models were too light for machinery, so rubber bands, secured cris-cross in the bows, when suddenly released with a snap gave the little ships the impetus they needed to fly the length of the gymnasium. Only four of the six, however, were destined to fly that evening. They soared straight down the big room, as easily and gracefully as great white birds, and dropped gently when they hit the curtain at the other end, their builders running after them as eagerly as boys sailing kites. One of the models fluttered and settled down before it reached the other side, and David's machine, which had commanded most attention because it was different, started out bravely enough, its little propeller making a busy humming as it skimmed along. But it had gone hardly ten yards before it collapsed and ignominiously crashed to the floor. "I'm glad of it," said Miriam above the din, for everyone had gathered about the young man to offer sympathy and congratulations at the same time. "It's very, very clever, my boy," said Professor Blitz, "and you'll succeed yet, if you keep at it." "She wouldn't go far, David," said Grace, stroking the little model, as if it had been a pet dog, "but she's the prettiest of all, just the same." "Did it hurt it when it fell?" Anne asked him. "I think it broke one of its little fins," laughed David. "It hurt me much more than itself, because it wouldn't be good and fly all the way." "Anne," called Grace, "here is some one looking for you. It's a boy with a note." Anne looked frightened as she opened a soiled looking envelope the boy handed her. "Is anything the matter?" asked Jessica, seeing the expression of fear on her face. "No--yes----," answered poor little Anne, undecidedly. "I must go home, or rather I mustn't go the way I came. Don't you think I could leave at a side entrance? I don't want to see the person who is waiting for me in front." "Of course, child," spoke up Grace. "We'll see you home ourselves. Won't we, girls!" "Wait until I lock up my motor cycle and I'll go along," called David. "We'll all protect Miss Anne." "Tell him," said Anne to the boy, putting the note back in the envelope and giving it to him, "that what he asks is impossible." "Couldn't you squeeze us into the carriage, mother?" asked David, returning presently with his hat. "I have invited Miss Leece to drive home with us, mother," interrupted Miriam, giving her brother a blighting glance. "There is room for only one more person. Perhaps Jessica will take it." "You are very kind," said Jessica coldly, "but I prefer to walk with the girls." "_You'd_ better walk, too, cross-patch, and learn a few manners from your friends," was David's parting advice to his sister. "Children, children!" exclaimed Mrs. Nesbit, "don't, I beg of you, quarrel in public." Presently the five young people had slipped out of a side door of the gymnasium and started down a back street in the direction of Anne's house. They had not gone far, however, before they became aware that they were being followed. Grace was the first to call the attention of Nora and Jessica to a long, slim figure stealing after them in the shadows. "Here he comes," whispered Jessica. "What in the world do you suppose he wants with our poor little Anne?" "I believe he's going to stop us," returned Grace. "He is coming nearer and nearer." "Anne, I command you to wait!" called a voice from behind them. They all stopped suddenly and Anne jumped as though she had received a shock. A tall, theatrical-looking individual had come up to them. He wore a shabby frock coat and a black slouch hat, which he raised with an elaborate flourish when he saw the young girls. "Pardon me, ladies," he said, "but I wish to speak with my daughter." Anne controlled herself with an effort. "I cannot see you now, father," she said. "It is quite late and I must get back." "You shall not only speak to me but you shall come with me," exclaimed the man, with a sudden flare of anger. "I will not submit to disobedience again. Come at once!" "Father, I cannot go with you," cried Anne, clinging to her friends. "I would rather be with mother and Mary. They need me more than you do and I want to go to school and study to be a teacher." The man was now beside himself with theatrical rage. "Miserable child!" he cried, waving his arms wildly. "I shall take you if I must by force." Breaking through the group, he seized the hand of his daughter and dragged her after him. "Oh, save me!" cried the poor girl, struggling to release herself. "I can't stand this! If she doesn't want to go with him, she shan't, father or no father," growled David, dashing after the pair. "Stop, sir!" he cried, seizing Anne's other hand. "I must ask you to release this young lady at once." "Insolent boy!" cried the other, giving each word an oratorical flourish, "are you not aware that this young lady, as you call her, is merely a child, and that she happens to be my daughter? I cannot see that you have a right to interfere in a family matter." "But I have no proof that Miss Pierson is your daughter," retorted David. "It is enough that she doesn't want to go with you. I undertook to see her safely to her own home, this evening, and I mean to do it. After that you may settle your difficulties as you please." "Miserable upstart!" cried the man, now so thoroughly angry that he let go Anne's hand, "I have a good mind to give you what you deserve. As for you, undutiful, wretched girl," he added, his voice rising to an emotional tremolo, "you shall be well punished for this!" "Don't wait," whispered Anne. "If we run, we can get away, now, while he is so angry." At that they all took to their heels, David following after them, much relieved to have given Anne's father the slip without further disagreeable argument. No one spoke until they had reached the Pierson cottage and had seen Anne safely to the front door. "I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed at last, trying not to cry. "I wouldn't for anything have had it happen, and just when you were all beginning to like me a little. Will you forgive me?" "Forgive you, Anne!" cried Grace. "It wasn't your fault. We are only awfully sorry for you." "We will just forget all about it, and never speak of it to anyone," promised Jessica, taking the girl's hand kindly. "But I want you to understand that I was right in not going," protested Anne. "Some day I will explain." "Of course you were right," said David, "and I hope you will never be persuaded to go." "Thank you, all, a thousand times!" came gratefully from Anne; "and good night." Then she disappeared into the cottage. "Well, this was a night's adventure," observed Grace, as they started homeward. "I am afraid Anne's father is a night's adventurer," muttered David. "He looks mightily like one of those strolling actors who go barnstorming through country towns." "Poor Anne! Do you suppose he wants her to barnstorm?" asked Nora. "I haven't a doubt of it," replied the young man. "I think you girls had better adopt that poor child and look after her." "We have already," answered Grace. "Didn't Miriam tell you about it?" "Miriam? No; she never tells me anything. Besides, what has she to do with it?" The girls were silent. "By the way," continued Grace, "speaking of barnstorming, we want to ask your advice, David. The sophomores played a mean trick on us the other day at the old Omnibus House." "I heard something about the Black Monks of Asia," answered David, laughing. "Can't your inventive brain devise a scheme of revenge?" went on Grace. "If we don't get even with them soon, the story will be all over town." "Well," replied David, "I can tell you a secret I happened to have overheard when one of the sophomores was calling on Miriam. I was an eavesdropper entirely by accident, but what I heard might help some. The sophomores are going to give an initiation mask ball a week from Saturday night. Only the class and a few outsiders, among them Miriam, are to be present. Everybody is to be in fancy dress, and disguised out of all recognition. Can't you work up a scheme with that to go upon, girls?" "We certainly can," cried Nora. "It's the chance of a lifetime." "Just wait and see!" exclaimed Grace. "By the way, David, you didn't happen to overhear the password, did you?" asked Jessica. "I did," he replied. "Nothing escaped me, for I was caught in a trap. You know I don't care for that large, husky young damsel who leads the sophomores, and if I had made my presence behind the screen known, I should have had to speak to her. So I just sat still and said nothing. The password is 'Asia.'" "They are trying to rub it in, I suppose," cried Grace. "But I think they won't be so ready to use that word after their old ball is over." "If you want any help," offered David as he left Grace at her front door, "you know where to come for it, don't you?" "You're a true brick, David!" said Grace. "Good night." CHAPTER VI THE SOPHOMORE BALL There was an undercurrent of excitement in the air on the day of the sophomore ball. The sophomores themselves were full of secrets, whispering around in groups, their faces grave with self-important expressions. This was to be their annual Initiation Ball, and many new members, after receiving initiation into the various sophomore societies, were to be invited to the gymnasium, which had been turned over to the class for the evening. There was no end to the fun of these balls, according to feminine gossip, for no male was ever admitted and only three invitations were issued to girls of other classes. It was, in fact, to be nothing but fun and frolic, and every costume had been planned weeks ahead. One teacher was asked to be present to keep order in case of intrusion, for the gymnasium door, on that famous night, was always besieged by youths from the Boys' High School, who roared and jeered as each cloaked and masked figure rushed under the archway and disappeared. The freshmen, all through the day, were unusually quiet. They kept to themselves and had little to say. Miriam and her three particular friends were carefully avoided by their classmates. Miriam, herself, felt the snub at once. Had she, after all, made a mistake, and was she losing ground in the class? But her vanity was like a life buoy to her sinking hopes. She refused to see that the other girls regarded her with growing dislike. When school was over, that afternoon, six girls strolled down the High School walk arm in arm. They were Grace and her three chums and two other girls who were popular in the freshman class. Anne's small figure seemed almost dwarfed next to Grace, who towered half a foot above her. Ever since Anne's trying scene with her father, Grace had been doubly tender and kind to her, until the young girl seemed to expand under the happy influence. "Well, girlies, dear, we are the chosen six. I hope we shall be a credit to the class." "Don't talk so loudly, Nora. I feel as if we were surrounded by spies to-day. Everybody has been so mysterious and queer." "One thing is practically certain," whispered Grace: "I believe it was Miriam who told the sophomores about the Omnibus House. Why else did they invite her to their ball?" "We can never prove it, though," said one of the others, "unless we get her up a tree some day and make her admit it." "Remember, Anne," cautioned Grace, when they came to the cross street leading to the Pierson cottage, "eight o'clock sharp at my house! And don't bother about things. We shall have more than enough among us." At half-past eight that night the sound of a stringed orchestra floated out on the breeze as the door of the gymnasium swung back and forth to admit disguised sophomores, who each whispered the countersign to the doorkeeper, after running the gauntlet of the waiting crowd, and slipped in. The music was furnished by a troupe of women players especially engaged to play in this Adamless Eden. What would not the crowd of waiting boys have given for one glimpse of the ball room, where ballet girls, clowns and courtiers, Egyptian snake charmers, Mephistopholeses and Marguerites, priests and priestesses of the Orient, all whirled madly together? Every door had been locked and bolted and every downstairs window securely closed. Ventilation was obtained through the half-open windows opening on the upper gallery, which ran around the four sides of the gymnasium. The doors to this gallery had also been locked and the only way to reach it was by steps leading up from the gymnasium. Six masked and hooded figures swung down High School Street together, talking and laughing in low voices. The smallest of the six appeared to stumble over her feet, and once tumbled in the road. Her friends gayly helped her up, when it was disclosed that she wore a pair of boy's shoes much too large for her. "If we don't break our necks stumbling over these brogans," whispered the tallest girl, "we'll be lucky." As a matter of fact, each one of the six maskers was wearing a pair of men's shoes. "I stuffed my toes with cotton," laughed another, "but even now they are hard to manage." Just then a motor cycle shot past them, slowed down and stopped altogether. The rider rested it against a tree and came back. "I recognized you by your big feet," he said in a whisper. "Grace, here's the duplicate key to the laboratory. I had some trouble getting it, but no one knows, and you'll be safe enough. I'll let myself in with the other duplicate key and lock the door. They will be sure to try it at intervals. If you get into any trouble, early in the evening, make a dash for the steps and blow your horn loud. Now, that's all, I think. I'll be hidden in the laboratory until my turn comes. Good-bye and good luck!" In another instant he was off on his motor cycle. Six figures, well disguised in dominoes of as many hues, presently appeared on the ball room floor, just in time for the grand march. It was a pity no one, except the lone teacher, was permitted to look at the brilliant picture. But such was the tradition of the class. After the march, ten ballet girls in tarlatan skirts, their faces concealed by little black satin masks, gave a performance. Following this, a Spanish dancer, whom the six dominoes recognized at once as the treacherous Miriam Nesbit, gave an exhibition of her skill. "I'm going to have some fun with her," whispered the blue domino to the red one. "Just follow me and see." The last speaker joined the dancer as the music struck up a waltz. "That was a good day's work you did for our class, not long ago," she whispered as they danced off together. "What do you mean?" asked the Spanish dancer. "I mean the Black Monks of Asia. Now, do you understand?" "But I thought it was not to be told," exclaimed the dancer, flushing under her mask. "Only to the committee so that you might be rewarded with an invitation," whispered the domino, as she slipped away. "_She_ did confess it, and every freshman in the class shall know it to-morrow!" the emissary exclaimed privately to her friend, the red domino. "In spite of what her brother is doing for us to-night?" returned the red domino. "You are quite right, child. I never thought of that. Perhaps that is the very reason he is helping us get even to-night." "I think it is," added the other, quietly. "Girls, we must hurry up and begin," whispered another of the six dominoes. "They are all going to unmask at half-past ten." So the unrecognized intruders slipped away, stationing themselves about the room. Pretty soon a rumor began to spread among the dancers that there were young men present. No one knew exactly how it started, but it grew and spread with such persistency that it finally reached the ears of the chaperon. "Some of the girls saw their feet," said her informant, "and not only their feet but their trousers, too." The teacher rose and rapped sharply for order. "Young ladies," she called in a loud voice, "I am sorry to disturb the dancers, but we have every reason to believe there are some men in the room. Since it is not yet time for you to unmask, it will be simple to find out who does not belong here by having you file past me. I will lift each mask myself." The dancers accordingly arranged themselves in a long line and walked single file past the teacher. She saw only girl's faces, however, as she peeped under the masks, and the dance proceeded. The next disturbance came when the maskers had all taken their stand at one end of the room at the request of the six dominoes, who managed to whisper to each sophomore that there was presently to be a surprise. An expectant hush fell over the company as the six dominoes filed out of a side room and stood, for a moment, in full view of the sophomores. Then the six deliberately lifted their dominoes, disclosing trouser legs and men's shoes. Instantly the place was in pandemonium; yet before the sophomores could rush upon the intruders six long horns were blown in unison, and immediately the lights went out. In the darkness the six dominoes made for the stairs, rushed along the gallery, and were admitted to the laboratory by the duplicate key. But, just before the blue domino disappeared, she called out in a loud voice from the gallery: "The freshmen are avenged!" When the doors were safely closed the lights were turned on again, disclosing the sophomores blinking foolishly at each other after the sudden startling change from darkness to light. "They are in the laboratory!" cried one. "Let's cut off their escape!" The angry sophomores made a rush for the door. "Hurry girls!" urged David, who had just returned to the laboratory after manipulating the lights. "They'll catch us before we know it." But the young fugitives were too late. Just then there was the sound of many feet running up the stairs from the other door. "How about one of the gallery doors?" asked Grace. "They are all locked," answered David. "There only remain the skylight trap-door and the roof. Do you think you could manage it if I helped you?" "Of course; we could manage anything," protested the freshmen girls. It was an easy matter to climb up the ladder, and clamber through the trap-door on to the roof. "We're just in time," whispered David. "They have found the right key to the gallery door, and they'll be coming in both ways. Crawl carefully now, girls, for heaven's sake, and don't slip!" The seven young people began slowly to draw themselves along the gymnasium roof on their hands and knees. Fortunately, it was not a very sloping roof, and their only danger lay in their movements being heard from below. Meanwhile the gymnasium had emptied itself, and parties of enraged sophomores were engaged in searching the adjoining class rooms and passages. "Let's surround the building on the outside," cried one of the class leaders. "They can't escape, then, by any of the fire escapes, and we are sure to catch them!" In a few moments, David peeping over the edge of the roof, saw figures stationed at every possible exit, waiting patiently. "Lie low," he whispered, "and crawl on your stomachs, or you're surely caught." Soon after the seven had reached the end of the hundred feet of gymnasium, where their flight was stopped short by a blank wall where the gymnasium joined the High School building. "Here's a pretty pass," whispered David. "I forgot about this old school wall. The only thing to do, now, is to hide behind this chimney and wait for the row to quiet down." There they lay, as flat as possible, listening with bated breath to the sophomores below. Presently there was a sound of footsteps on the gymnasium roof and they heard Miriam's voice saying: "They must have escaped through the trap-door in the laboratory and come along here. Wait a minute, girls, and I'll see." "O Grace, we're caught!" groaned Jessica. "What shall we do?" "No we aren't yet," answered Grace. "Especially if she is coming alone, and that is what I am praying for." "I'll come with you, Miriam," called the voice of the sophomore leader. "Why don't you take the other side?" proposed Miriam. "And I'll go around and meet you." "Very well," came the answer. The freshmen clutched each other and waited. Miriam ran lightly along the roof, and came upon the seven prostrate figures so suddenly that she almost lost her balance. "Don't speak," said Grace, in a distinct whisper, "and don't give us away. If you do, you will regret it. Remember the blue domino who waltzed with you!" She hoped Miriam would understand what she meant and so save her from further explanation. In this Grace was right. Miriam was trapped at last. She deliberately turned and walked away without a word. "Come on, girls," they heard her call to the others, "let's waste no more time on them." When all was quiet the seven intriguers slipped down the fire escape and disappeared in the darkness--safely escaping discovery. CHAPTER VII ALL HALLOWE'EN "Anne," called a chorus of boys' and girls' voices, "come out and have some fun. Have you forgotten it's Hallowe'en?" The door of the Pierson cottage opened and Anne appeared on the threshhold. "I can't," she answered; "I must study to-night." "Oh, bother lessons!" exclaimed Grace Harlowe. "Skip them, for once, and join the crowd. We are going Hallowe'ening. Mother allowed it because David Nesbit and Reddy Brooks are along to look after us." Anne looked longingly at the little company. "I'll come," she sighed, "although it was my algebra I was working on. You know Miss Leece hates me, and, if I slip up, she'll be much harder than any of the other teachers." "Hang Miss Leece!" said David promptly. "Well, let's hang her, then," exclaimed Nora. "Let's dress her up and hang her on a limb of a tree." "What do you mean by 'hang' her?" asked Grace, while Anne went in to put on her hat and coat. "Don't you know?" replied Nora. "You stuff an old dress full of hay and paper, make a head out of any old thing, put a hat on it, and there you have her mighty fine." "That's an old stunt, Nora," observed David. "Let's have something more improved and up-to-date. Suppose, for instance, we use Marian's Jack-o'-lantern for the head. I'll put some little electric bulbs in the eye holes and attach them to a battery so that we can turn her eyes off and on. And we'll ride her on a broomstick in good style." "Only, nobody must know it's Miss Leece whose being effigied," urged Grace. "This must be merely for our own private satisfaction. Everybody promise not to tell." Everybody promised; so, with Anne safely in tow, they started for Jessica's house to make the figure. Here they were not likely to be interrupted. Jessica's mother was dead and her father spent most of his evenings in his library. Half a broomstick, with a small pumpkin attached to one end, formed the framework of Miss Leece's effigy. A cross beam gave a human touch to the shoulders and with the skeleton ready, the business of stuffing an old ulster and hanging it over the figure was simple. Tiny electric bulbs were placed in the eyes and a bonnet tied on the head with a green veil floating behind. Miss Leece, Nora insisted, always wore one growing out of her left ear. There was nothing left to do now, but to place the figure in a legless chair that had been nailed to two poles, and the procession was ready. "She's a very fine lady," cried Grace, running ahead to get the effect of the absurd lopsided figure whose eyes glared and went out alternately. "I wish the real Miss L. could see herself now. She would know exactly what she looks like when she glares at poor little Anne in class." "Yes, Anne," said David, "this shall be your party. We are going to give you satisfaction for your wrongs in the only way that lies in our power." "Oh, I don't really mind her," replied Anne, "only I'm afraid she'll catch me unprepared, some day, and then I _will_ get it in earnest." "It's a perfect outrage," exclaimed Grace. "Miss Leece is so cruel to little Anne, David, that it makes my blood boil. I sometimes think she is trying to make Anne lose the freshman prize." "The old Hessian!" cried David, who was on a sort of rampage that evening. "What shall I do to her, Anne? Give her an electric shock?" and he pressed the electric button rapidly up and down, which made the eyes glare hideously and go out several times in succession. In a town the size of Oakdale strolling parties of boys and girls, on Hallowe'en night, made a not unusual sight, so when our young people paraded boldly down the main street, singing and blowing horns, nothing was thought of it. What they were doing might be considered exceedingly out of place by a few straightlaced persons, but boys and girls will have their fun, even if it must sometimes be at the expense of other people. Certainly Miss Leece was the most unpopular teacher ever employed in the High School as far back as memory could reach. She was cruel, strict and sharp-tongued. Often her violent, unrestrained temper got the better of her in the class room; then she gave an exhibition that was not good for young girls to see. Anne, especially, was the victim of her rages--poor little Anne who never missed a lesson and studied twice as hard as the other girls. Miss Leece had but one weakness, apparently, and that was Miriam Nesbit. Twice had the faculty convened in secret session to consider Miss Leece's case, but it had been decided to keep her through the year at least, since she was engaged by contract and was moreover an excellent instructor in mathematics. So, it was no wonder that even this early in the school year, she was the object of dislike to the High School girls. But could our girls have foreseen what the evening's fun would bring forth, they would never have been so reckless in carrying the effigy about town. "Suppose we take her across the square," cried Reddy; "then over the bridge to the old graveyard and hang her on the limb of the apple tree just outside the wall?" Off they started, singing at the tops of their voices: Hang a mean teacher on a sour apple tree, Hang a mean teacher on a sour apple tree. When they reached the center of the public square, where a big electric light shed its rays, who should spring out of the shadows, from nowhere apparently, but Miss Leece herself? Nothing escaped her sharp ears and her cold blue eyes; neither words of the song nor the figure in detail, green veil and all; nor Anne Pierson, who happened to be standing quite near the effigy at the moment. And what was worse, and still more incriminating to the guilty merrymakers, the moment they caught sight of her they stopped singing. The eyes in the pumpkin suddenly lost their glare, and a silent procession wound its way hurriedly from the square. "Good heavens!" cried Grace. "Why did we stop the song? If we had only gone right ahead, it wouldn't have looked half as bad." "It was a mistake," admitted David, gravely, "especially as she seemed to have seen Anne first of all. Anne, if she walks into you to-morrow morning, you can just lay the blame on me, do you hear? I got up the whole party and I'm willing to stand for it." "No, no," cried Anne. "That wouldn't be fair, David. I couldn't think of doing that." "Well, you are not to get the blame, at any rate," said David, "if I have to go up and make a confession to the principal herself." "Let's go and hang her now, anyhow," cried Reddy. "We'll take no half-way measures with old Queen Bess." But somehow the spice of the adventure seemed to have gone out of it. "It really would be dangerous now," said Grace. "She would be certain to hear of it and make it worse for all of us." "Why not burn her," put in Nora, who was afraid of nothing and had often looked at the scolding teacher with such cold, laughing eyes, that even Miss Leece was disconcerted. "Good!" cried several of the others. "We will take her down below the bridge and burn her as a witch." No one objected to this, since the ashes of the effigy would tell no tales. Once more they started singing: "Merrily we roll along!" as they marched out of the village, crossed the bridge over the little river and finally paused on the bank below. "Plant the pole in deep," said David, "so she won't topple, and fix her up to suit yourselves, girls, while we get the fagots." The boys began to search about for dried sticks and twigs, while the girls were arranging the figure for her funeral pyre. Suddenly, there was a wild war whoop. A crowd of boys dashed out of a thicket near by, each one carrying a lighted Jack-o'-lantern on top of a pole, and surrounded the effigy of the teacher. "Help!" cried the girls, trying to defend the absurd thing from the attack, but they were too late. One of the boys seized the pole and rushed off in the darkness. Miss Leece, in effigy, had been kidnapped in an instant, before David and his friends had had time to realize what had happened. "Which way did they go?" he asked breathlessly. "Through the thicket," cried Grace. And the whole crowd dashed after the kidnappers. It was great fun for everybody except Anne, who was too tired to keep up the chase for long, and was soon lagging behind the others. David saw her and turned back. "You are too little for all this junketing, Anne," he said kindly. "Suppose I take you home? Shall I?" "I wish you would, David," answered the girl. "I'm just about ready to drop, I'm so tired." Taking her arm, he helped her over the ruts and rough places, until they finally emerged from the wood and started on the road to town. There were many other Hallowe'en parties out that night; singing and laughing was heard in every direction. "It's like a play," said Anne, "only everything is behind the scenes. Don't think I haven't enjoyed it, David, just because I got tired. I never played with boys and girls of my own age before. What fun it is!" "Isn't it?" replied the young man, "I love to get out, once in a while, and have a good time like this. I find I can work all the better after it's over." Presently the others caught up with them, breathless and laughing. "Miss Leece is stolen," cried Grace, "before ever she was hanged or burned. I do wonder what they'll do with her." "Oh, leave her in the woods," responded Reddy, "to scare the birds away." "Good night, Anne," continued Grace. "David will take you home. We go this way. Don't be frightened about to-morrow. I doubt if she says anything; and if she does, we are all implicated." The young people separated, still singing and laughing; never dreaming of the storm brewing from their evening's prank. "Anne," pursued David, as they strolled down River Street together, "when I make my flying machine will you be afraid to take a sail with me?" "Never," replied Anne, "but I wish it had been made in time to carry me away from Miss Leece to-morrow morning." And Anne's words had more meaning than either of them realized at the time. Imagine the surprise and horror of the Hallowe'en party when, next morning, they discovered the effigy of Miss Leece planted right in front of the Girls' High School! And the teacher herself was the first to see the impious outrage. CHAPTER VIII MISS LEECE Yes, there stood the hideous, grotesque effigy just where her abductors had left her the night before, her green veil floating in the breezes. As a figure of fun and an object of ridicule, she might not have created more than a ripple with the faculty. But it was evident that Miss Leece's function, even in effigy, was to make trouble. And trouble was certainly brewing that memorable morning. The figure itself might never have been recognized, but a placard which had been pinned on the front of the old ulster left no room for doubt. Across it had been inscribed in large printed letters: "THE MOST UNPOPULAR TEACHER IN SCHOOL." No one dared take the effigy away for fear of being implicated. Everybody had seen it, both men and women professors and the boys and girls of the two schools. But it was not until Miss Thompson, the principal of the Girls' High School, had arrived that the figure was removed. "How could those boys have been so mean!" exclaimed Grace to her three friends just before the gong sounded. "They might have known what would happen." There was an ominous quiet in the various class rooms all morning; but nothing was said or done to indicate just when the storm would burst. When the first class in algebra met, Anne trembled with fear, but Miss Leece, in a robin's egg-blue dress, which offset the angry hue of her complexion, was apparently too angry to trust herself to look in the direction of the young girl and the lesson progressed without incident. However, she was only biding her time. "Miss Pierson," she said, toward the end of the lesson, in a voice so rasping as to make the girls fairly shiver, "go to the blackboard and demonstrate this problem." Then she read aloud in the same disagreeable voice, the following difficult problem: "'Train A starts from Chicago going thirty miles an hour. An hour later Train B starts from Chicago going thirty-five miles an hour. How far from Chicago will they be when Train B passes Train A?'" The girls looked up surprised. The problem was well in advance of what they had been studying and Miss Leece was really asking Anne to recite something she had not yet learned. Anne hardly knew how to reply to the terrible woman who stood glowering at her as if she would like to crush her to bits. "I'm sorry," said the girl. "I cannot." "Miss Nesbit," said the teacher, "will you demonstrate this problem?" Miriam rose with a little smile of triumph on her face and went to the blackboard, where she worked out the problem. "Why, what on earth does the woman mean?" whispered Grace. "Are we expected to learn lessons we have never been taught and has that horrid Miriam been studying ahead?" "I think I must be dreaming," replied Anne, looking sorrowfully at Miss Leece. "Miss Pierson," thundered the teacher, "you are aware, I believe, that I permit no conversation in this class. Stupidity and inattention are not to be supported in any student, and I must ask you to leave the room." Anne rose in a dazed sort of way, looking very small and shabby as she left the room. But Miss Leece was not to come off so easily in the fight, and Anne had a splendid champion in Grace Harlowe, who could not endure injustice and was fearless where her rights or her friends' rights were concerned. She rose quietly and faced the angry teacher, who already regretted having gone so far. "If Miss Pierson is to be ordered from the room, Miss Leece, I shall follow her. I spoke to her first. I was naturally surprised that you gave out a problem so far in advance of our regular work. It is doubtful if any girl in the class could do it except Miriam, and she must have been prepared." "Miss Harlowe," said Miss Leece, stamping her foot, and again giving way to rage, "I must ask you to take your seat at once and never interfere again with the way I conduct this class." "You conduct this class with injustice and violence, Miss Leece," said Grace, turning very white, but holding herself in admirable control considering the conduct of the older woman. "I am in no humor to be answered back this morning, Miss Harlowe, and I would advise you to be careful," continued the enraged woman. "I have had enough to try me since last night and this morning. Miss Pierson must answer to the principal for those insults, and her insubordination just now has only made matters worse." "Miss Pierson has nothing to answer for which I have not, and I shall join her," replied Grace, and she left the room. Miss Leece was about to continue the lesson when Jessica, pale and trembling, rose and followed her friend. Nora was next to go and in another moment there was not a girl left in the algebra class except Miriam and her four particular friends. The gong sounded as the last pupil closed the door behind her, but there was little doubt that the first class in algebra had gone on a strike. The noon recess gong had sounded before the girls were able to meet and talk about the incident, and, during the time that intervened, Anne had received a summons in the form of a small note to meet the principal in her office at three that afternoon. She said nothing to her friends, however, and hid the envelope in her pocket. The girls in IV. algebra gathered around their friends to hear the story. They were indignant and expressed their readiness to join the strike out of sympathy in case there was any more trouble. "They have no right to put such a violent woman over us," said Grace, as she nibbled at a pickle and a cracker in the locker room. "I wish they would give me the opportunity. I should be more than willing to testify to her behavior before the entire faculty and the school board combined." Anne, herself, the center of the whole affair was very quiet. This remarkable young girl seemed to possess some secret force that she was able to draw upon when she most needed it. "Anne, you precious child," exclaimed the impetuous Nora, "you must not get scared. Whatever happens, the whole class means to stand by you. Don't we, girls?" "Yes," came from all sides. "I don't think anything in particular will happen," replied Anne. "I believe Miss Leece really wants to prevent my winning the prize. That's all." "She has certainly adopted a pet," cried Marian Barber. "What did Miriam Nesbit mean by studying ahead like that?" exclaimed another. "It was disloyal to the whole class." "It looks very much as if they had fixed it up between them," continued Grace. "I'm sorry about the effigy, but I won't stand that kind of favoritism. It's mean and underhanded." After school Anne lingered in the corridor until the other girls had gone. Then she made her way slowly to the office of the principal. "Come in," came the answer to her timid knock. Miss Thompson, the principal, was a fine woman, much beloved by the people of Oakdale where she had served as principal of the Girls' High School for many years. She had adjusted numerous difficulties in her time, but never such a knotty problem as the present one. It was incredible that Anne Pierson, who stood so well in her classes that she had already been mentioned by the faculty, should have engaged in such an escapade as Miss Leece had accused her of. "Sit down," she said kindly to the young girl, whose small, tired face appealed to her sympathies. "What is this trouble between you and Miss Leece, Miss Pierson?" she continued, plunging into the subject. "I do not know myself, Miss Thompson," answered Anne quietly. "But she accuses you of rather terrible things, Miss Pierson," went on the principal, picking up a slip of paper and reading aloud, "'inattention, insubordination, impertinence and a tendency to make trouble.' Have you any answer to make to these charges?" "No," replied Anne. "Have you nothing to say?" "Only that they are untrue." "Miss Pierson," continued the principal, opening a closet door, "do you recognize this figure." [Illustration: "Miss Pierson, Do You Recognize This Figure?"] There, hanging by its neck on a coat hook and still wearing its fantastic bonnet and green veil, was the famous effigy. Anne looked at the absurd thing for a moment in silence. Then her eyes met Miss Thompson's, and both teacher and pupil burst out laughing. The young girl never knew how far that laugh went to soften her present predicament. As a matter of fact, Miss Thompson had never liked the teacher in mathematics, while the small, shabby pupil appealed strongly to her sympathy. "Were you not the originator of this outrageous plot, Miss Pierson?" Anne was silent. She could hardly say she was the originator and still she had participated. "I will put the question in another form," said the principal. "If you were not the originator, who was?" Still Anne made no reply. "Miss Leece," continued the principal, "alleges that she distinctly saw you standing by the figure. She did not recognize the other faces. Do you think, Miss Pierson, that such an escapade as you engaged in last night was entirely respectful or worthy of a pupil of Oakdale High School?" "No," replied Anne at last. "Do you know that suspension or expulsion are the punishments for such behavior?" Anne clasped her hands nervously. She saw the freshman prize floating away, and her eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing. Instead of being angry, however, Miss Thompson was pleased with the girl's pluck and loyalty. But she was puzzled to know how to proceed. Her judgment and her sympathies revolted against punishing this prize pupil, and still it looked as if Miss Leece had everything on her side. A tap at the door interrupted her reflections, and Anne opened it, admitting Mrs. Gray escorted by David and Grace. "My dear Miss Thompson," said the old lady, "I know you will consider me an interfering old woman, but when I heard that my particular child, Anne Pierson, was in trouble, I came straight to you. I want to talk the whole matter over comfortably; since it's my own freshman class that's on the rampage, I feel as if I had a right to put in a word." "You are most welcome, Mrs. Gray," replied Miss Thompson, cordially. She was exceedingly fond of the lonely old lady who had been a benefactor to the school in so many ways. "But what's this you say about the freshman class? I have heard nothing about it." "Grace," said Mrs. Gray, "suppose you tell Miss Thompson what you have just finished telling me." Then Grace related the incident in the algebra class and the long succession of insults Anne had endured from the terrible Miss Leece. "Dear, dear," murmured Miss Thompson, "this looks like persecution and very strong favoritism on the part of Miss Leece. A thing we wish to keep out of the school as much as possible. But what about this!" and she opened the door of the closet where the pumpkin face of the effigy grinned at them grotesquely from the shadows. "I have something to say about that, Miss Thompson," declared David. "I am the author of this 'crime' and I intend to take the blame for it. Miss Pierson had so little to do with it that we had fairly to drag her out of her own house to make her join the crowd." "I think, Miss Thompson," put in Mrs. Gray, "that a teacher must have been exceedingly sharp and disagreeable to have inspired such nice children to this," and she pointed to the figure. "I believe you are right," admitted the principal after a moment's thought, "and I trust, under the circumstances, that the whole affair can be settled without the interference of the School Board. Suppose you leave Miss Leece to me. And young people," she added, "if you will promise to say nothing more about the subject, I think Miss Leece may be persuaded to let the matter drop." And so ended the Hallowe'en escapade. Miss Thompson paid a visit to Miss Leece that evening, at the teacher's rooms in Oakdale, and was closeted with her for more than an hour. No one ever knew what happened. Miss Thompson was a woman to keep her own counsel; but the affair never came up before the School Board and Miss Leece, after that, though somewhat stiff in her manner, had no more outbursts of rage for some time. Undoubtedly her display of favoritism in the algebra class had lost her the day. Miss Thompson was a woman of fine judgment and broad and just views. She was proud of the Oakdale High Schools and the splendid classes they turned out year after year. She realized perfectly what a disturbance a woman like Miss Leece could cause and she determined to check her at every point, especially when the most prominent and finest pupils of the two schools were implicated. Therefore the offenders went scot-free and Anne was once more safe to pursue the freshman prize. Miss Leece, however, was only biding her time. While Anne had won this battle she might lose the next. CHAPTER IX THANKSGIVING DAY "Oh, how I love Thanksgiving!" cried Grace. "Oh, how you love turkey, you mean," exclaimed her bosom friend, Nora O'Malley. "Yes," admitted Grace, "the turkey is a grand old bird, bless him, but football is what I really love, delightful, thrilling football. I wish I could play center on the home team. I know I could make a touchdown as well as the best of them." The crowd of young people were seated on straw in the bottom of a large road wagon that was slowly making its way from Grace's house out to the football grounds. It was decorated with the colors of the Oakdale High School, sea-blue and white, and the girls wore blue and white rosettes and carried long horns from which dangled ribbon streamers. Numbers of Oakdale people were hurrying down the road toward the field, and the crisp autumn air vibrated with the sounds of talk and laughter. In the distance could be heard the music of the town band, which always gave a concert before the Thanksgiving game. "And to think that little Anne has never in her life seen a football game!" exclaimed Jessica. Anne blushed. "Yes," she replied reluctantly, "I'll have to admit this is my very first game, but I understand the rules. Grace has explained them to me. I hope our boys will win." "If the Dunsmore boys are in good trim, I'm afraid they'll give us a stiff pull," observed David, "but the stiffer the pull the more interesting it is to watch, so long as they don't lick us." Just then the wagon drew up at the grounds and the boys and girls jumped out and made their way through the crowd to their seats. Everybody in Oakdale turned out for the annual Thanksgiving football game. The professors and their wives, the teachers from the Girls' High School and all the pupils were there in full force, besides the citizens of Oakdale and their families. There was really a very large assemblage in the semicircular ampitheater which was hung with bunting and flags in honor of the great occasion, and probably not one in the whole cheerful company but had enjoyed a good Thanksgiving dinner that afternoon, so good humor beamed from every face. "Don't you think this is a thrilling sight, Anne?" demanded Grace, for there was not a soul in Oakdale who was not vain of the High School football team, which had won for itself honors all over the state. "Wonderful!" exclaimed Anne, clasping her hands and waiting impatiently for the performance to commence. Just then the band struck up again, and under cover of the music David whispered to Jessica: "Do you see that man over there to the right on the back seat, with long, dark hair and a slouch hat?" Jessica found the individual presently, starting slightly when she saw his face. "I do believe it's Anne's father," she whispered. "It just is," said David, "and he's looking hard at Anne, too. I wonder if he means to make another scene." "Poor Anne!" sighed Jessica. "She seems to have more than her fair share of troubles." The two teams then filed out for warming-up practice; the excitement of the ensuing game drove all thought of the sinister looking Mr. Pierson out of their heads, for the time being. The first half ended in a brilliant touchdown for the High School boys, though the kick for goal failed. Immediately the place rang with the cheers of the spectators. Crowds of boys rushed up and down giving the High School yell and when the noise died down somewhat the girls started the High School song: "Here's three cheers for dear old Oakdale, God bless her, everyone!" Anne was thrilled. Never had she enjoyed herself so much. She stood upon the seat beside Grace and waved a blue and white banner as frantically as anybody else. "I don't think I quite understand what it's all about," she confided to David, who sat next to her, "but I am very happy all the same." David smiled down into the radiant face. What a new dress and hat can do for one small, insignificant little person is quite wonderful sometimes. And Anne, with the money she had earned from Mrs. Gray, had replenished her wardrobe. In her neat brown suit and broad-brimmed hat she was really pretty, in a queer, quiet sort of way, David thought. He wondered if the father, hidden by rows of people, in the back, would be able to see how prosperous and well his daughter was looking. But his attention was recalled to the football field, for the next half was going against the High School, and there was apprehension among the sons and daughters of Oakdale. "Dunsmore! Dunsmore!" cried a delegation from Dunsmore College. But Dunsmore was not to be the victor that Thanksgiving Day. It was ordained that, just as hope had almost expired, a slender, fleet-footed young junior of the High School team should seize the ball and fly like the wind across the line. Score 10 to 1--Oakdale's score! Immediately a terrific hubbub began. Surely the place had gone mad, Anne thought. The hundreds of spectators, including Grace and her party, had rushed from the ampitheater, clambered over the railing and dashed into the field of glory. Such yelling and roaring, such blowing of horns while the hero of the afternoon was carried about on the shoulders of his fellows, made her heart palpitate wildly. Her friends had forgotten all about her, evidently, or perhaps they thought she had followed. "Anne," said a voice in her ear, "don't make any disturbance. I want you to come with me." Anne turned around quickly and faced her father. "Come at once!" he said. "I want to get out of this howling mob as soon as possible. We can talk later." He took her hand, not ungently, and presently they found themselves on the other side of the fence surrounding the field. Anne had not meant to go, but she knew her father was quite capable of making a scene and she felt she couldn't endure it just then. Once outside, she thought she might escape. Never once, however, did he release her hand until he had her safe in one of the town hacks and they had started down the road. When Grace and her friends finally recovered from their wild joy and excitement there was no Anne to be found. "Perhaps she stayed in her seat," exclaimed Grace, but the place was quite empty. David and Jessica looked about them uneasily. "What chumps we were!" said the young man presently. "We never bothered to look after her, and now probably that old parent of hers has actually gone and kidnapped the poor child." They searched through the crowds everywhere, but Anne was nowhere about. At last David and Jessica confessed their suspicions to Grace. "Oh, oh!" cried Grace, "I feel as if we were personally responsible for her! What shall we do?" David thought a minute. "Is there a play at the Opera House to-night?" he asked presently. "I believe there is," replied Grace. "Why?" "Ten to one Anne's father is acting in it," said David, "and that is the reason he happens to be in Oakdale to-day." "That's a very brilliant idea if it happens to be true," said Jessica. "But don't you think we had better see Miss Mary Pierson before we do anything?" "No," exclaimed Grace decisively. She was in the habit of thinking quickly and her friends usually let her have her way; but it was generally the best way. "It would be a pity to alarm her unnecessarily if we can avoid it. Anne isn't expected home until late, anyway. She is invited as are all of you to eat supper at my house. Suppose we go right to town, while David makes some inquiries at the Opera House. Then, if Anne's father is really acting in town to-night, we shall know what to do." Accordingly, they tumbled into the road wagon, whipped up the horse and drove back to Oakdale as fast as they could go. On the way in, they saw a new bill posted on a wall, advertising a play entitled "Forsaken." It showed, in vivid colors, a young girl very ragged and tired looking, asleep on the steps of a large church. "Let's go to the show," cried Nora, who always managed to combine amusement with duty; "that is," she added, "if Anne's father is in it. Of course, Anne will probably be somewhere about, in that case, and we could spirit her away while he is acting." "That isn't a bad idea," answered David. "But I'd better find out a few things first. I'll come over to your house, Grace, and report," he called as he jumped out of the back of the cart. The girls waited impatiently for his return, feeling that every moment Anne might be speeding away in some outgoing train, and they were losing valuable time. Grace had thought of consulting her mother, her best and wisest counsellor at all times, but Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe had gone on a long drive to the home of Mrs. Harlowe's mother and would not return until late that night. In half an hour their patience was rewarded; the gate clicked and David ran breathlessly up the walk, joining them presently in the parlor. "It's true," he cried excitedly. "Anne is at the Spencer Arms, probably locked up in a room. Her father is acting to-night in 'Forsaken,' and the whole company leaves town on the 11.30 train. I suppose Anne must go to the theater, for there will be no time to go back to the hotel after the play. I got the whole thing out of the clerk." "Then we can all go to the theater," cried Nora triumphantly. "What good will that do Anne?" demanded practical Grace. "It may do her no good whatever," said David, "but it would be well not to lose sight of the father, even, if we must follow him to the train. And if Anne knows we are near, she will be able to get back her nerve." "Children," cried Grace suddenly, "I have a scheme. I won't put it into action unless it's absolutely necessary, but it's bound to work." "What is it?" demanded the others. "I won't tell," replied Grace mysteriously, "because I may not have to use it, and I'll warn you that it's rather dangerous. But it will save Anne, and we just mustn't get caught." CHAPTER X GRACE KEEPS HER SECRET The "best" Oakdale people did not often see the melodramas that appeared from time to time at the small opera house. Occasionally, if something really good came along, Oakdale society turned out in force and filled the boxes and the orchestra seats; but, generally speaking, the little theater was only half filled. And such was the case on this Thanksgiving night. Most of the audience was made up of farmers out holiday-making with their families, factory girls from the silk mills and a few storekeepers and clerks. "I am glad there are so few people here," observed Grace, looking around the scanty audience; "because, if we have to resort to my scheme, it will make it much easier and less dangerous." "What in the world is it?" pleaded Jessica. "Never mind," answered her friend. "I'm afraid you'll object, so I won't tell until the last minute." Just then a wheezy orchestra struck up a march and the High School party settled down in their seats, each with a secret feeling that it was rather good fun, in spite of the peculiar reason that had taken them there. "Here he is," said Nora, pointing to the name on the programme. "He takes the part of Amos Lord, owner of the woolen mills." At that moment the lights went down and the music stopped short. The curtain rolled up slowly disclosing the front of a church. It was night and lights gleamed through the stained glass windows. Snow was falling and from the church came the sound of organ music playing the wedding march. The picture was really very impressive, although the music was somewhat throaty and the flakes of snow were larger than life-size. But who was it half lying, half sitting on the church steps, shivering with cold? The girls had not been so often to the theater that they could afford to be disdainful over almost any passable play, and from the very moment the curtain went up their interest was aroused. Certainly, there was something extremely romantic and interesting about the lonely little figure on the church steps. "That's the heroine," whispered Jessica. "Her name is Evelyn Chase." Then people began to go into the church. It was a wedding evidently, although the groom was a tall, lean, middle-aged individual with gray hair. "It's Mr. Pierson himself," exclaimed Nora in a loud whisper. The bride-to-be was young and quite pretty. She was not dressed in white, but it was plain she was the bride because she carried a bouquet and hung on the arm of Anne's incorrigible parent. As they started up the steps, what should they stumble over but the half-frozen form of the young girl! Then, there was a great deal of acting, not badly done at all, thought David, who had had more experience in these matters than his friends. The bride refused to go on with the ceremony until the poor little thing was taken care of. The groom would brook no delay, for, oh, perfidy, he had recognized in the still figure his own child by a former wife deserted years before. Slowly the forsaken girl regained consciousness, lifted her head from the steps, threw back her shawl, and---- "Heavens and earth, it's Anne herself!" exclaimed Grace. It was Anne. They were so startled and amazed they nearly tumbled off their seats. "As I live, it is Anne, and acting beautifully!" whispered David. "Where did she learn how?" demanded Jessica. "Strange she never told it." But they were too interested to reply, for the action of the play was excellent and the interest held until the curtain rang down on the first act. "No wonder he wants to keep her with him," ejaculated David when the lights went up. "She is the star performer in the show." "She is wonderful," declared Grace. "To think that little, brown, quiet thing could be so talented! I always imagined acting was the hardest thing in the world to do, but it seems as though she had always been on the stage." "Are we still going to try to save her?" asked Nora. "Of course," replied David. "She doesn't want to act. Didn't you hear her say so that night? She wants to go to school." "But it seems a pity, somehow, when she is so talented." "She's just as talented in her studies," said Grace, "and I've often heard that stage life is very hard. No, no! I intend to do my best to get Anne away this very night, if it upsets the entire town of Oakdale." When the second act was over, and Anne had actually so moved her audience that one old farmer was audibly sobbing into a red cotton handkerchief, and the girls themselves were secretly wiping their eyes, Grace whispered to David: "I'm going to write a note, if you'll lend me a pencil and a slip of paper, and wrap it around the stem of this chrysanthemum. When Anne appears in the next act, you go up in the box, and if she's alone an instant pitch it to her. Then she will know what she's to do." "But what is she to do?" demanded the others. "I won't tell," persisted Grace. "You'll object, if I do." "All right," said David. "I'll obey you Mistress Grace, although I wish you would confide in me." But Grace was obdurate. She would tell no one. The last act disclosed an attic at the top of an old tenement, with dormer windows looking out on a wintry scene. Anne appeared, more ragged than ever, carrying a little basket of matches. It was evident that she was a match girl by trade, and that this was her wretched domicile. As she crept down the center of the stage, ill and wretched, for she was supposed to be about to die--David saw his opportunity. From behind the curtain of the box he tossed the chrysanthemum, which fell right at her feet. "If she only sees it," he thought. But apparently she didn't. Going wearily to an old cupboard, she took out a crust of bread. Then she drew the ragged curtains at the windows and lit a candle. Simultaneously the entire attic was illuminated, for stage candles have remarkable powers of diffusing light. "Why doesn't she pick up the flower?" exclaimed Grace. "If she doesn't the scheme won't work at all." "I believe she's going to die," whispered Nora in a broken voice. Just then the Irish comedian appeared, puffing and blowing from the long climb he had had to the top of the house. He had come to bring help to the dying girl, but he was funny in spite of the dreary tragedy, and Nora changed her tears to laughter and began to giggle violently, burying her face in her handkerchief in her effort to control her mirth. Her laughter was always contagious, and presently her two friends were giggling in chorus. "Do hush, Nora O'Malley!" whispered Jessica nervously. "You know that if you once get us started we'll never stop." A countryman, sitting back of Nora, touched her on the shoulder. "Be you laughing or crying, miss?" he asked. "It ain't a time for laughing nor yet for crying, since the young lady ain't dead yet and I don't believe she's goin' to die, either." "She just is," exclaimed Nora, wiping the tears from her eyes. "She'll die before she gets off that bed to-night, I'll wager anything." All this while, the chrysanthemum with the note twisted and pinned to its stem lay in the middle of the stage. In the meantime, Anne had fallen into a stupor from cold and hunger. The kind little comedian rushed about the stage, making a fire, putting on the tea kettle and stumbling over his own feet in an effort to be useful. "Now, all the others will enter in a minute," whispered Grace disgustedly, "and she'll never get it at all." Just then Anne turned on her pillow and opened her eyes. They looked straight at David, who was sitting in the front of the box. He pointed deliberately at the chrysanthemum. "She sees it," said Jessica, for Anne's eyes were now fixed on the flower. When the kind Irishman departed to spend his last cent on medicine and food for the dying girl, she rose, staggered across the stage, seized the chrysanthemum and rushed back again, just in time to be lying prone when her father entered, now a repentant and sorrowful sinner. "It's all right," whispered Grace in a relieved tone. "I feel sure that the plan will work to perfection." Anne _did_ die a stage death, and there was not a dry eye in the house when she forgave her father, bade farewell to the entire company, who had now gathered in the attic, and her soul passed out to soft music while the lights were turned very low. "Fire! Fire!" rang out a voice from the darkened house. Where did the voice come from? Nora and Jessica were so startled they could only clutch each other and wonder, while Grace whispered: "Don't move from your seats." "Grace, was that your voice?" whispered David, who had joined the girls during the death-bed scene. But Grace made no reply. She only put her finger to her lips as she held his arm with a detaining hand. There was a panic in the house. The audience rushed for the doors while the actors leaped over the footlights in their mad scramble to escape. Several women's voices took up the cry of fire and the place was in wild confusion. Evidently the man who managed the lights had been too frightened to turn them on again, for the theater still remained in semi-darkness. The four young people did not move while the audience was crowding out of the aisles. "We might as well be suffocated as crushed," observed David. "It's a much more comfortable death, and besides I can't smell any smoke." Grace smiled but was silent. "I'm here at last," announced Anne's well-known voice behind them. And there she was, still in her ragged stage dress, carrying her hat and coat on her arm. "Why, Anne Pierson!" cried Nora, "I thought you were dead and gone." Anne laughed. "Not dead," she said. "But I would certainly have been gone in another half hour. We needn't hurry," she continued. "I don't believe he would ever think of looking for me inside the theater, and, for the time being, this is the safest place." "Anne, why did you never tell us you were an actress!" demanded David. "I was afraid to," faltered the girl. "I was afraid you would all hate me if you knew the truth. Besides, I never acted but six months in all my life. We toured in this play a year ago, and I knew the part perfectly. It would have been cruel of me not to have played to-night. The girl who usually does it was sick and there was no one to take her part. When father told me that, I knew I should have to do it this once, but if the fire panic hadn't started I couldn't have gotten away from him very easily. He would have made a terrible scene. And even then, it might have been difficult. No stranger would have helped me run away from my own father, who is determined that I shall go on the stage. He thinks I have the making of an actress. But I don't like the stage life. It is hard and ugly. I want to study, and be with girls like you." A charming smile radiated her small, intelligent face. "Where do I come in?" asked David, looking at her. "I think you are the best friend I have in the world, David," declared Anne. "I can never forget your kindness." "And now, Mademoiselle Annette Piersonelli," asked David, secretly much pleased at the girl's earnestness, "can't you divest yourself of your ragged dress before we go?" "Yes, indeed," she replied. "I am fully clothed underneath." She slipped off the stage dress and put on her hat and coat. Meanwhile, not a soul was left in the theater except two of the ushers, who were sniffing around trying to find out where the fire scare had originated. "There comes father," whispered Anne. "Can't we hide behind the seats?" "Quick," cautioned David. "He's coming down the center aisle." The five young people crouched low while the actor stalked down the aisle. But it was plain he was not looking for his daughter in the theater, for he called out to one of the ushers moving about at a distance: "Have you seen anything of the young girl who was with the company? I lost her during the panic and I haven't been able to locate her since. I must be leaving town in a few minutes," he added, consulting his watch. "It's almost time for the train now." "The company all left with the audience," said the usher. "I guess she went along with 'em." "Now is our time," said Anne, when the actor had disappeared. "Suppose we go out the stage entrance and down that side street!" Whereupon she led the way back of the boxes and into the wings, followed by her friends, who looked curiously about them at the unusual sight. "What a queer place," said Grace, "and how smudgy the scenery looks! Are these little places dressing rooms, Anne?" "Yes," answered Anne. "You see, it's all horrid when you are close. And the life is worse--riding almost every day on smoky trains and spending each night in a different place. The people are so different, too. I would rather go to Oakdale High School," she exclaimed, "than be the greatest actress in the world." They were standing in one of the larger dressing rooms while Anne endeavored to wipe the powder and rouge from her face with a pocket handkerchief. A tall figure darkened the doorway, and in the glass Anne saw the reflection of her father's face. Without a word, she ran to the open window and jumped out on the fire escape. The others followed nimbly after her. Mr. Pierson turned and rushed down the passage to the side entrance. "Hurry, Anne!" called David. "He will meet you at the bottom if you don't." They climbed quickly down the ladder, almost treading on each other's fingers in their haste, and in another moment they were running down an alleyway. "Another narrow escape," cried Anne, when they were out of danger. "How shall I ever thank you, dear friends?" "You have already discharged the debt, Anne, by letting us see you act," answered Grace. "By the way, Grace," commanded David, "own up now. It was you, wasn't it, who started the fire panic?" "I told you I wouldn't tell," answered Grace, "and I never shall." "Anne, did she say anything about it in her note?" asked Nora. "No," said Anne mysteriously, "she never mentioned the word 'fire' at all." "I feel certain it was you who called 'fire,' Grace," said Jessica. "I'll never, never tell," cried Grace teasingly; "so you'll never, never know." She turned in at her own gate and to this day the mystery is still unsolved. CHAPTER XI MRS. GRAY'S ADOPTED DAUGHTERS After Mrs. Gray's luncheon party in honor of Grace and her three friends a tiny little idea had implanted itself in her mind. As the weeks rolled on, and Christmas holidays approached, it grew and spread into a real plan which occupied her thoughts a considerable part of every day. As a secretary Anne had turned out admirably. The only drawback was that Mrs. Gray could not see enough of her. The lonesome old lady almost lived on Anne's semi-weekly visits, but the girl was too busy to give any more of her time to reading aloud or driving with her benefactor. Finally Mrs. Gray took a bold step. She invited the four girls to meet at another Sunday luncheon, and announced her intentions from the head of the table. "My dear children," she said, "you are aware that I am a very old woman." "We are not aware of anything of the sort, Mrs. Gray," interrupted Grace. "Nevertheless I am," pursued Mrs. Gray. "A very old, lonesome person with few pleasures. I have decided, therefore, to do an exceedingly selfish thing, and give myself a real treat." "You deserve it if anyone in the world does, Mrs. Gray," put in Jessica. "You who are always giving other people treats." "Wait until you hear the plan, child, before you pass judgment," answered Mrs. Gray. "It's been too many years to count since I have had a really, jolly Christmas," she continued. "I have just sat here in this quiet old house, and let the holidays roll over me without even noticing them." "Now, Mrs. Gray," exclaimed Grace, "the poor people in Oakdale would not agree with you on that point. Only last Christmas I saw your carriage stopping in front of the Flower Mission, and it was simply bursting with presents." "Yes, yes, my dear. It is the easiest thing in the world to give presents and not so much pleasure after all. What I want is some actual fun, good Christmas cheer and plenty of young people. But I shall have to be selfish if I'm to get it all, because it will mean that I'm to rob mothers and fathers for a whole week of their children. Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe will have to learn to do without you, Grace, for seven days and nights. Your father, Jessica, must keep his own house. Nora, your brothers and sister must not expect to see you at all while you belong to me. As for my precious Anne, here, I should just like to steal her away altogether from her mother. In fact, my dears, I am going to adopt you for a whole week during the holidays and then--such larks!" And the charming old lady looked so gay and pretty that the girls all laughed joyously. "Do you mean that you really want us to make you a visit, Mrs. Gray?" "I do indeed. That is the exceedingly selfish wish I have been entertaining for the last six weeks. I not only want it, but I have arranged for it already. I have made secret calls, my dears, and mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters are all most agreeable. You are to come to me a week before Christmas and must settle yourselves exactly as if you were my own children. I mean to punish any homesick girl severely by giving her an overdose of chocolate drops. Families may be visited once a day, if necessary, though I shall frown down upon too frequent absences. But, young ladies, before we get any further, tell me what you think of the plan?" The girls were almost speechless with amazement and pleasure. To visit Mrs. Gray's beautiful home and live in a whirl of parties and funmaking such as would be sure to follow was more than any of them had ever dreamed of. "It's perfectly delightful, Mrs. Gray!" they cried almost in one breath. "And we shall give the Christmas party together, my four daughters and I, and we'll do exactly as we choose and invite whom we please." "Oh, oh!" exclaimed the four young girls. "Won't it be fun?" "It will for me," said the little old lady. "And I need to have a good time. I am getting old before my time for lack of amusement. And now, my lady-birds, who else shall we invite to the house party?" "Who else?" said Grace, somewhat crestfallen; for four intimate girl chums are invariably jealous of admitting other girls to the charmed circle. "Do you mean what other girls, Mrs. Gray?" asked Jessica. "No, no, child; I mean what other boys, of course. Do you think I want any more than my four nice freshmen to amuse me? But I don't think this party would be complete without four fine fellows to look after us. Who are the four nicest boys you know?" "David," exclaimed all four voices in unison. Mrs. Gray laughed. "There seems to be no difference of opinion on that score," she replied; "but is David the only boy in Oakdale?" "He's the nicest one," said Anne, who could never forget how kind David had been to her when his sister was her bitter enemy. "Reddy Brooks is nice, too," said Nora. "He threw apples at some tramps once, and saved us from being robbed." "Very good," said Mrs. Gray. "Reddy Brooks shall certainly be invited to the house party. I admire courage above all things." "Then there's 'Hippopotamus' Wingate," said Jessica. "Who?" demanded Mrs. Gray. "His name is really 'Theophilus', but the boys have always called him 'Hippopotamus,' and now the name sticks to him and everybody forgets he has any other." "Are you agreed on Hippopotamus, my adopted daughters?" demanded Mrs. Gray. It was voted by acclamation, that Hippopotamus was agreeable to the company. "And now, I have a fourth to propose," announced Mrs. Gray. "I think I should like to import my great-nephew, Tom Gray, from New York. He is a little older than these boys, perhaps. Nineteen is his age, I think, and I haven't seen him since he was a child; but he's obliged to be nice because he bears the name of one beloved by all who knew him." "Whose name, Mrs. Gray?" asked Nora. "That of my husband," said the old lady, softly. "The nicest Tom Gray this world has ever known." And she looked at a portrait over the sideboard of a very handsome young man dressed in the uniform of an Army officer. "He loved his country, my dears, and fought for it nobly. He was a soldier and a gentleman," went on the old lady proudly, "and I am sorry he left no son to follow in his footsteps. He was a great hunter and traveler, too. I used to tell him if he had not loved his family so dearly, he would certainly have been a gypsy. He liked camping and tramping, and used to wander off in Upton Woods for hours at a time. He knew the names of all the trees and birds and animals that exist, I believe. But he loved his home, too, and no woods had the power to draw him away from it for long. I used to tell him he had brought a piece of the forest and put it in our front yard, for he planted all those beautiful trees you now see growing on my lawn, which my old gardener, who has been with me since I was first married, cherishes as he would his own children." "And is young Tom Gray like him, Mrs. Gray?" interposed Grace. "I hope so, my dear," sighed the old lady. "If he has inherited the beautiful traits of his uncle, his wholesome tastes for the outdoors and nature, he can't help being a fine fellow. But I have not seen my nephew since he was a child. He has been living here and there all these years, sometimes in America and sometimes in England. His mother and father are both dead, and he has been brought up by his mother's unmarried sisters, who are half English themselves. But he must be a nice boy, even if he has only one drop of his uncle's blood in his veins." The girls sighed and said nothing. It was touching and beautiful to see the old lady's loyalty and devotion after all these years of loneliness; for her husband had been dead since she was a young woman. Still Mrs. Gray never brooded. She was always cheerful and happy in doing kindnesses for other people. "If ever I marry," sentimental Jessica was thinking, "I hope it will be somebody like Mrs. Gray's husband." "I should like to have a brother like Tom Gray," observed Grace aloud. "Well," said Mrs. Gray, "we shall have to wait and see what the new Tom Gray is like. He may be utterly unlike _my_ Tom Gray." And the old lady sighed. "We shall all have to get new party dresses," exclaimed Nora to change the subject. "I have been wanting one for an age and now I have a good excuse." "Oh, yes," cried Grace enthusiastically. "Now, at last, I shall be able to get the blue silk mother promised I could have if at any time there was an occasion worthy of it." "I'm going to ask papa to give me a lavender crepe for a Christmas present," said Jessica. "O Mrs. Gray," continued Nora, "we are going to have such fun Oakdale can't hold us." "I think we should have a surprise for Mrs. Gray," announced Grace. "She is doing so much for us. O girls! I have an idea." "What!" demanded the others breathlessly, including Mrs. Gray herself, who was as full of curiosity as a young girl. "No, no," cried Grace, "it wouldn't be a surprise if I gave it away. But it's going to require a lot of work and planning to carry it out." "Is it big or little?" asked the dainty old lady as eager as a child to find out the secret. "It's rather small," answered Grace. "Fine or superfine?" "Both," laughed Grace. "But you'll not know till Christmas night; so stifle your curiosity." "I suppose I must wait, but it's going to be very hard," replied Mrs. Gray plaintively. And so the party was arranged. Notes, written by Anne, were dispatched to the four boys; plans were discussed for the week's amusements, and the four girls finally started home in a state of great excitement to look over their wardrobes and furbish up their party dresses. Only Anne had looked somewhat dubious during the conversation. How could she spend a week in a beautiful house, with parties every night and company all the time, and nothing to wear but that hideous black silk? "Anne," called Mrs. Gray, as the young girl was about to close the front door and follow the others down the steps. "Wait a moment. I want to see you." She led Anne into the big drawing room. "Do you know that I am greatly in your debt, my child?" continued the old lady, as she drew Anne down beside her on the sofa. "I don't think I could ever possibly repay you for the good you have done me this autumn. But I am going to try, nevertheless, by making you a Christmas present before Christmas arrives. Now, when I was your age, I preferred clothes to other things. I think all young girls do; or, if they don't they are most unnatural. Therefore, child, I have decided to pay off some of my indebtedness to you by getting my dressmaker to make you some dresses, if it is agreeable to you. Why, what is this! My little girl crying?" The tears were streaming down Anne's cheeks. "You mustn't cry, my own child," sobbed Mrs. Gray. "For I always cry when I see other people doing it, and it's very bad for my old eyes, you know." "You are so good to me!" said Anne. "It makes me cry because I'm so happy." "Well, well!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, drying her eyes and beginning to laugh. "What a couple of sillies we are, to be sure. Now go, Anne, to my dressmaker, Mrs. Harvey, who has orders to make you four dresses, two for evening and two for afternoon. Mrs. Harvey has good taste and will help you select them. But perhaps you will like the ones she and I looked at the other day. One of them I am sure you will admire. I chose it specially because it will give color to your pale cheeks." "What is it, Mrs. Gray?" asked Anne eagerly. "It's pink crepe de Chine, my dear." And Anne held her breath to keep from crying again. CHAPTER XII MIRIAM PLANS A REVENGE For weeks Miriam Nesbit had felt a sullen resentment toward her brother, David, because he persisted in being friends with at least two of the girls in Oakdale High School whom she disliked most. When he announced, one morning at breakfast, that he had been included in Mrs. Gray's house party, his sister suddenly burst into tears of passionate rage. "Please don't cry, Miriam, old girl," said David, who was not of a quarrelsome disposition. "I'm awfully sorry if I hurt you, but, you know, Mrs. Gray was one of my earliest sweethearts." Which was perfectly true. When David was a little boy he used to crawl through the garden hedge and call on the charming old lady nearly every day. David had hoped that Miriam would laugh at this, but she stormed all the more, while poor Mrs. Nesbit looked wretched. "It isn't Mrs. Gray," sobbed Miriam. "But to think that my own brother would associate with Grace Harlowe, who is always working against me, and that common little Pierson girl whose sister takes in sewing!" "Miriam, Miriam!" exclaimed Mrs. Nesbit, "I am shocked to hear you say such things. Because the girl is poor she is not necessarily common. Your grandfather was a poor man, too. He started his career as a machinist. You would never have had the money and position you have now if he had not become an inventor. Is it possible you would try to keep some one else from rising in life, when your own family struggled with poverty years ago?" Miriam was silenced for a moment. She had seldom heard her mother speak so forcibly; but Mrs. Nesbit had seen, with growing misgivings, the innate snobbishness in her daughter's character, and for a long time she had been looking for an opportunity like the one that now presented itself. David had risen during Miriam's contemptuous speech, and had turned very white; which was always a signal that his slow wrath had been kindled at last; but since he was a child he had had such admirable control of his feelings that it had often been remarked by older people. Miriam, however, knew the sign and resorted again to tears to draw attention to her own sufferings. "You and mother have turned against me," she cried. "Mother, you have always loved David best, anyhow." "Nonsense!" replied David. "You are a willful, selfish girl, jealous because a poor girl is getting ahead of you in your classes and because you are not included in the house party. Do you think Mrs. Gray would ask you to join those four nice girls in her house after that Miss Leece business? If you had learned to be polite and agreeable you would never have gotten into this state now." Having delivered himself of his opinion, and spent his rage, David walked out of the room and quietly closed the door after him. "You see what you have done, Miriam," exclaimed Mrs. Nesbit. "You have made your brother angry. I have seldom seen him like that before, not since the stable man beat his dog. But don't cry, my child. It's all over now," and Mrs. Nesbit drew her daughter to her and stroked her hot forehead. "Why don't you give a house party, too?" she added after a moment's thought. "Would it give you any pleasure or help to heal your hurt feelings?" "O mother!" exclaimed Miriam, looking up quickly. "I believe I _will_ invite four girls and boys to spend Christmas week with me. Wouldn't it be fun?" And it was in this manner that a plan for an opposition house party sprang into existence; although the son of the house had joined the other side. All through her preparations Miriam carefully guarded the secret that she was bitterly hurt at having been left out of Mrs. Gray's party, and she meditated a revenge that was still only a half-formed idea. In the first place, she chose Julia Crosby as one of the guests of the Christmas house party; Julia Crosby the tall, mischievous sophomore who had originated the "Black Monks of Asia." Surely the two together could work out some scheme which would bring her enemies to her feet and humble little Mrs. Gray, who had dared to slight her. Meanwhile, the holidays were approaching. The crisp, cold air resounded with the jingle of sleigh bells, for snow had fallen the first week in December and all the sleighs in Oakdale were taken from their summer quarters. The four chums were full of secret preparations. Grace had devised a scheme of entertainment which, in the town of Oakdale, would be unique, but it required much work and practice to perfect it. In the meantime Nora O'Malley had decided to entertain her friends at a bobbing party to start the Christmas holidays. And it was at this party that Miriam seized her first opportunity to make trouble. "Anne, you are learned in many things, but not in outdoor fun," said Grace as the young people in mufflers and sweaters started to climb the long hill where the coasting was best. "Do you mean to say you have never been coasting, Anne?" demanded David. "I'm afraid I'll have to admit it," replied Anne. "To tell the truth, I never did have any fun, except reading, until I started in the High School and met all of you. You see, little city children are denied all these nice things unless they go to the parks, but it's no fun going alone." "Well, you won't be alone now," said Hippy Wingate. "There are four to a sled, and we'll put you in the middle to keep you from getting lost in the snow." "Look out, here comes some one!" called Grace, just as a small sled shot past them like a flash, with a laugh and a cheer from its occupants, Miriam and Reddy Brooks. "They ought not to have done that," exclaimed David. "We couldn't see them over the knob of the hill and they might have run us down." By this time they had reached the top of the hill, and Anne's heart bounded at the sight of the long, white track made by the sled which had just passed them and disappeared far below across a flat meadow now smooth and hard as a table top. "Don't be frightened, Anne," said David, who sat behind her on the sled. He pinioned her arms with his own and with a wild whoop the four young people skimmed down the hill. There was no time to be frightened, no time even to think, as they shot through the fine bracing air like a ball from a cannon. Before they knew it, they were landed at the bottom. "O Hippy," cried Grace, her cheeks glowing like winter berries, "I feel as if I were riding the comet. But look out for the others," for the remaining sleds followed in quick succession and the air resounded with the whoops of the boys and girls as they shot past. "Is there any sport in the world that can touch it?" she demanded of the world in general. Three or four more such rides, and Anne felt an exhilaration she had never before known. She was climbing the hill for a final trip before the party returned to Nora's for hot chocolate and sandwiches, when she heard some one cry out just behind her. She had lingered a little to watch the sleds pass, and had failed to notice a small sled with a single occupant come over the brow of the hill well out of the beaten path and make straight for her. It was Miriam Nesbit, riding flat on her stomach and going like the wind. "Jump to the left, Anne," cried Grace's voice, "or you'll be hurt!" Anne looked up and saw the sled. It all happened in a flash, and how David managed to get there first she never knew; but the next instant the two were rolling over and over in the snow with Miriam on top of them and a broken sled skidding on its back down the hillside. "It was Miss Pierson's fault," exclaimed Miriam as she pulled herself out of the snow, and the others came running to the scene of the accident. "Why didn't she get out of the way? Inexperienced people ought not to come to bobbing parties. They always get hurt." David was binding up a cut in his wrist, which was sprinkling the snow with blood. He was too angry to trust himself to answer his sister before the others just then. They had pulled Anne out of a snowdrift and she was leaning limply against Jessica, trying to collect her senses. It seemed to her that she had been walking well out of the sled track, out of everybody's way; but it didn't make any difference since nobody was killed. "All I can say now, Miriam," said Grace, "is that you are entirely mistaken. If you hadn't hit Anne you'd have knocked me over. I was walking just ahead of her and nobody can say I am inexperienced." "Grace Harlowe, do you think I did it on purpose?" demanded Miriam furiously. "I haven't insinuated anything, Miriam," replied Grace. "I simply wanted to disabuse your mind of a mistake. That was all." And she turned away from the angry girl. All this time the other young people had said nothing. It was really an embarrassing situation, considering that David had not said a word either for or against his sister. "I think we had better not coast any more to-night," said Nora, after a pause. "David has hurt his hand and Anne is so shaken that it would be well to give her something hot to drink. Come on, everybody." "David, are you much hurt?" asked Grace uneasily. "Nothing but a little cut," he said shortly, so shortly that Grace flushed. Perhaps he was angry with her for having spoken out to Miriam. "I hope you aren't hurt much, David," said Miriam. David made no reply. "David," she repeated in a louder voice. But her brother had started down the hill, his hands in his pockets. Nobody took much notice of Miriam as the young people followed after him. Reddy Brooks was secretly congratulating himself that he hadn't been riding behind her on the sled as she had wished, insisting that she wanted to do the guiding herself. It was curious, he thought, and might have resulted in a serious accident, at least to Anne if David hadn't pulled her away. If Miriam had only thought to throw herself to the right when she saw Anne in the way. Girls had no heads, anyway, that is, most girls. Grace, he decided, was almost equal to a man for coolness and good judgment. But there were few girls who could touch Grace Harlowe; and he did a series of cartwheels in the snow to emphasize his feelings, to the relief of everybody present, for the silence was becoming uncomfortable. "Nora," said Anne when they had reached town, "if you'll excuse me I think I'll go home. I'm a little tired." "I'll take you home, Anne," said David, who had heard her remark. "I don't feel much like partifying either after this jolt. Come along, little girl," and he tucked Anne's arm in his and marched her off without another word. "All my party is leaving before the party," cried Nora in despair. "No, not all," replied Hippy Wingate. "There are still a few of us left, and I promise to drink any extra chocolate you may happen to have." "Don't give the animals sweets, Nora," exclaimed Reddy. "Especially the hippopotamus. He has a delicate stomach. You see, his keeper used to feed him chocolate drops three times a day." Hippy grinned good-naturedly. He was a round roly-poly boy, famous for his appetite. "Get away from here, Red Curls," he cried, hitting Reddy in the back with a snowball. "Oh, you coward," cried Reddy, talking in a high falsetto voice, "to hit a man when his back is turned. I'll slap you for that," and he landed a snowball on Hippy's chest. Hippy crouched behind the girls. "I was a fool to throw at a pitcher," he cried; "he'll be sending me one of his curves in a minute." "Hiding behind the ladies, hey?" returned Reddy, beginning to pitch snowballs at the girls. "Let's wash his face," cried Nora to the other boys and girls coming up just then. They chased Reddy all the way to Nora's house and rolled him in the snow until he cried "enough." Once inside Nora's cozy home, the coasters were soon doing ample justice to the good things to eat, which Nora's sister had prepared for them. Although all three of Anne's chums regretted deeply the unpleasant affair on the hill it was not mentioned again during the evening. Still, each girl felt in her heart that poor little Anne had, in Miriam Nesbit, a dangerous enemy. CHAPTER XIII CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS "Here's the tack-hammer, Hippy, and don't fall off the ladder, please," cautioned Grace, as she assisted Hippy Wingate to tack up an evergreen garland in Mrs. Gray's drawing room. Not in twenty years had the old house taken on such holiday attire. Great bunches of holly and cedar filled the vases and bowls and decorated the chandeliers. Fires blazed on every hearth and the warm glow from many candles and shaded lamps brightened the fine old rooms. "My dear young people," exclaimed Mrs. Gray, coming in just then, "how happy you make me feel! I do wish you were all really my children and could forever stay just the ages you are now." "This house would be like the palace of everlasting youth, then, wouldn't it, Mrs. Gray?" suggested Anne. "Until some meddlesome little Pandora came along, opened the box and let all the troubles out," interposed David, who was still feeling very bitter toward his sister Miriam, and glad to leave home for a time until his anger had cooled. "Ah, well, we have no Pandoras here," answered Mrs. Gray, smiling on the young guests. "You are all girls and boys after my own heart, and I trust we shall have a beautiful time together. But here comes that nephew of mine, Tom Gray. I wonder if he's grown out of all recollection." While she was speaking one of the town hacks had driven up to the steps, and there was a violent ring at the bell. "Mr. Thomas Gray," announced the old butler at the door and Tom Gray, who had been the subject of endless speculation and conjecture, entered the room. "If he turns out to be disagreeable or stupid or anything," the girls had been whispering, "it would be such a pity because everybody else is so nice." Neither had the boys felt inclined to be prepossessed in Tom Gray's favor. He was a stranger, from New York, older than themselves and in college. "I wish he wasn't going to butt in with his city manners," Reddy Brooks was thinking regretfully. "He is sure to have a swelled head and try to boss the crowd." They had pictured him as a sort of dandy, with needle-toed patent leather shoes and a coat cut in at the waist and padded over the shoulders. Even David had voiced a few thoughts on the subject of Tom Gray. "I'll bet he's an English dude," he said. For Mrs. Gray's nephew had spent most of his life in England. "He'll probably carry a cane and wear a monocle." They were not surprised, therefore, when a young man entered the room who bore out somewhat the picture they had conjured. He was tall and slender, very dapper and rather ladylike in his bearing. His alert, dark eyes were set too close together, and his face had a narrow, sinister look that made them all feel uncomfortable. He spoke with a decided English accent, in a light, flippant voice which sent a quiver of dislike up and down David's spine, and made Reddy Brooks give his right arm a vigorous twirl as if he would have liked to pitch something at the young man's head. Mrs. Gray was the most surprised person in the room. It must be remembered that she had not seen her nephew since he was a child, and she had hoped for better things than this. However, always the most courteous and loyal of souls, she now made the best of the situation and greeted the newcomer cordially, though she did not bestow upon him the motherly kiss she had been saving. Tom Gray bowed low over his aunt's hand. "You are so much changed, Tom; I should hardly have known you," exclaimed the old lady, trying to conceal her disappointment and dismay. "England has weaned you away from your own country. You look as if you had just stepped out of Piccadilly." "And so I have, aunt," replied the young man, using a very broad "a." "I have been in this country only a few months. England is the only place in the world for me, you know. I can't bear America." Hippy Wingate gave himself an angry shake, which made all the ornaments on the mantelpiece rattle ominously. "You must let me introduce you to my young friends, Tom," said Mrs. Gray, changing the subject quickly. The introductions having been accomplished, she took his arm and led the way back to dinner. "Do you think we can stand him for a week?" whispered David to Grace, as they followed down the hall. "We'll have to," replied Grace, "or hurt Mrs. Gray's feelings. But isn't he the limit?" "Asinine dandy!" hissed Hippy. "I knew he'd be a Miss Nancy," exclaimed Reddy. The girls did not express their disappointment, but as the meal progressed the conversation was strained and stupid. "How did you leave your cousins in England, Tom?" asked Mrs. Gray, trying to keep the ball rolling and inwardly wishing she had never asked her nephew down. "Quite well, thank you, aunt," replied Thomas Gray. "I expect to leave this beastly country and join them very soon." "Indeed?" answered Mrs. Gray, flushing and with difficulty keeping back the tears of disappointment. To think a nephew of hers could have turned out like this! "Do you play football?" demanded Hippy abruptly. "Really, I don't care for the game," answered Thomas. "It's awfully rough, don't you know." "Perhaps you prefer baseball?" suggested Grace. "No," continued the young man, "I can't say I do. The truth is, I don't like outdoor games at all." "What do you like, then?" demanded Nora, giving him a glance of ineffable scorn. "I like afternoon tea," he answered, "and bridge." Reddy almost groaned aloud, but he remembered his manners and choked his outburst of disgust. "It is a pity," said Tom's aunt, turning her nearsighted blue eyes on him in amazement and displeasure. "Our Oakdale boys are all athletes. Even David here, the scholar and inventor, I'll venture to say, knows football and baseball as well as his friends." "I'm not much of an inventor, Mrs. Gray," protested David. "You know my airship tumbled down before it got half way across the gym. But I shall never lose hope." "Ah, airships?" exclaimed Thomas Gray, and deliberately taking a monocle from his pocket, he stuck it in his eye and stared at David, who choked and sputtered in his glass of water, while Hippy dropped a fork that fell on his plate with a great clatter. Mrs. Gray raised her lorgnette and looked at her nephew. "Thomas," she said sternly, "don't wear that thing here. It's not the custom in this town or in this country, for that matter. If you are nearsighted, buy yourself a pair of spectacles." "Certainly, aunt, certainly; it shall be as you wish," replied Thomas, without a tinge of embarrassment. "I am so unused to America, you know." Then Nora relieved the painful situation by laughing. She was taken with the giggles and she laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. The others laughed, too, even Mrs. Gray, who felt that she might give way to hysterics at any moment. After dinner Thomas Gray detained his aunt in another room, while the girls and boys returned to the parlor. The two were closeted together for some time, and when they finally appeared, Mrs. Gray looked strangely flushed and nervous. But there was a smile on her nephew's thin lips and a dangerous flicker in his crafty eyes. "I'll stake my last cent he's been getting money out of his poor little aunty," said David to Grace. "He's just the kind to do it." "Poor Mrs. Gray!" exclaimed Grace. "I am so sorry for her. You can't think how she's been planning this party for months. Why did she ever ask down that wretch of a nephew? David, do try and make friends with him. Maybe there's something good in him after all, and it will help things along if Mrs. Gray feels that we want to like him." "All right," promised David. "It goes against my grain to talk with a Miss Nancy dandy like that. It gives me a feeling in my chest like indigestion and bronchitis combined--but I'll make the effort." So he went over and joined the Anglo-American, and began to talk with him in an easy, friendly sort of way. "Won't you come over by the fire," he said. "I think we are going to play some games the girls have planned." "Thanks, no," said the other, stifling a yawn. "I think I'll retire. I've had a long journey and I'm awfully knocked out. By the way, old chap," he continued, coming closer to David and whispering in his ear, which made that sensitive young man draw back with a quiver of dislike, "you couldn't favor me with a few dollars, could you? I left my check book in my portmanteau, which is still on the way and I find I haven't a cent. I'll return it to-morrow." David regarded him with amazement. Here was a man whom he had met only an hour before, already trying to borrow money from him. Schoolboys are not likely to have money about them, but David did happen to have five dollars in his pocket. "Certainly," was all he said, as he handed over the money. The transaction had only taken a moment and when David drew out the five dollar bill, he was careful not to let anyone see him do it. However, Mrs. Gray, who had been out of the room, returned at the very moment the money was changing hands. In a flash she saw what her nephew had done. Without stopping to think she made straight for the two young men. "Tom Gray," she said, speaking too low for anyone except her nephew and David to hear, "how dare you ask me for money and then borrow from one of my guests? You are a disgrace to your father, and to the name of Gray! I am ashamed of you and I command you to give that money back to David instantly." Tom Gray was as angry as his aunt. His face went from red to white, and he looked as if he would like to break a vase or tear something to pieces. "'Eavens, awnt, don't make a scene. I wouldn't a' awsked 'im, h'if I 'adn't needed more money. I'll pay him to-morrow." Mrs. Gray and David were too surprised to speak. It was plain that, when Tom Gray was angry, he dropped his h's. David looked at him curiously, then he drew the old lady's arm through his. "Don't bother, Mrs. Gray," he said. "It was only a small loan, and I was glad to be of service. I believe Mr. Gray wants to go to bed now. He just said he was very tired. Shall I take him up?" "If you will," replied Mrs. Gray, quieting down. "His room is next yours, David. Will you show him the way?" "Young people," she said, going across to the boys and girls, who had gathered around the fire and were laughing and talking in low voices, "would you mind if we all went up early to-night? I feel a little out of sorts--bewildered--I don't know what. Children change so as they grow up," she added, sighing. The poor old lady's eyes filled with tears. She slipped her arm around Anne's waist. "You will never change, my dear boys and girls. You will all grow into fine men and women, I feel certain, and be devoted citizens of this splendid country of ours, which has always been good enough for our mothers and fathers, and ought to be quite good enough for us." "Three cheers for America!" cried Hippy Wingate, giving his plump figure a twist like a whirling dervish. Mrs. Gray laughed. "Yes, indeed, my dears, America is a splendid country and every American should be proud to say so." "And Oakdale is one of the nicest places in America," piped up Anne. "Hurrah for Oakdale!" cried Hippy again. "And Oakdale High School!" added Anne. "And hurrah for the sponsor of the freshman class!" exclaimed Grace. Whereupon they formed a circle, with Mrs. Gray in the middle, and danced about her laughing and singing: "Hurrah for Mrs. Gray!" The pretty, little old lady beamed happily upon her adopted family, as she called them. "My darling children!" she cried. "Kiss me good night, every one of you, and we'll all go up to our beds." CHAPTER XIV A MIDNIGHT ALARM The dry, cold air of the outdoors, and the warm fires inside the old house, certainly had the effect of making a very sleepy crowd of boys and girls who were not sorry, after all, to turn in early. Grace and Anne occupied a room together so large that it could easily have been turned into two apartments and each have been the size of ordinary bedrooms. "I'm glad our beds are close together, anyway," said Grace. "The rest of the furniture in this room seems to be miles apart." Mrs. Gray's room was just in front; Nora and Jessica were in a smaller one back of theirs, and across the hall were the boys' rooms. "Isn't it a wonderful old house?" replied Anne. "I never slept in such a big room in all my life. And how kind Mrs. Gray is! There is nothing she hasn't remembered." Each girl had found on her bed a pretty dressing gown of silk and wool and beside it a pair of bedroom slippers. There was a bowl of fruit on a table, and just before they dropped off to sleep a maid brought in a tray of glasses with a pitcher of hot milk. "Mrs. Gray says this will warm you up before you go to bed," explained the maid. "Dear, sweet Mrs. Gray," continued Anne, as she curled up on a rug before the fire to sip the warm drink, "she has planned so many things for this party. I am so sorry she has been disappointed." "He's not a bit like her, Anne," replied her friend, not caring to mention names. "I do wish she had never asked him." "My only hope," said Anne, "is that we will all seem so young and childish to him that he will get bored and leave." "Well, just strictly between us and as man to man, as David is always saying, don't you think he is horrid? He has no manners at all, and it's hard to believe he's a product of the Gray family." "He has such shifty eyes," said Anne, "and I had a feeling that his dislike for America was all put on to shock us. I feel so warm and sleepy," she continued drowsily when the lights were put out and they had snuggled down in the soft, comfortable beds. "I heard him drop an 'h' once," whispered Grace, in a sleepy voice. But there was no reply. Anne was already dreaming of her four beautiful new dresses. It might have been midnight, perhaps a little later when Grace awoke with a start. Not a sound disturbed the peace of the old house except the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the occasional crackling of dying embers in the fireplace. Yes; there was one sound and it aroused her. A loose board creaked in the floor, or was it a door which opened and closed softly? Perhaps it was nothing after all. And she closed her eyes and drew the eiderdown quilt close about her shoulders. No; there it was again. A distinct footfall. She raised herself on her elbow and peered into the shadows. Far over at the other side of the chamber--it seemed an infinite distance just then--stood a figure. Grace looked at it calmly. She had never been a coward and she was not frightened now, only she wondered who could be invading their room at this hour. Perhaps Mrs. Gray; perhaps one of the servants. No, it was neither; of course it couldn't be because it was the figure of a man. She saw him now plainly enough hovering over the dressing table. A small, cold hand slipped into hers. Anne was awake too. She had seen the figure and lay quite still watching it. Grace silently returned the pressure; then the two lay watching the man's stealthy motions for a moment, while Grace's mind was busy devising a plan by which the robber might be caught. Oakdale was a quiet, prosperous place, and burglars were unusual. Occasionally the hands in the silk mills made a disturbance, and there had been a few highway robberies, but an actual house-breaker seldom troubled the law-abiding town. The two girls, as they lay watching him from under the covers, guessed that this man was a real burglar. He wore a black soft hat and carried a small electric lantern, while, with a practised hand, he picked the lock of a small drawer in the dressing table where the girls had put their purses. Once he turned the light toward the beds. Instantly the girls' eyelids dropped and they lay as still as mice. Having satisfied himself that all was well, the prowler went on with his work, finally tiptoeing into the front room where Mrs. Gray was sleeping. Evidently he had made a circuit of the three bedrooms on that side of the house. As he slipped out Grace leaped from the bed. Now was the time for action. Putting on her dressing gown and slippers she dashed to the door leading into the hall, only to come upon the burglar again who had probably been frightened in his last venture and had retired to the hall for safety. Fortunately he was standing with his back to her while he closed the door, and feeling that she was safe for the moment, she crouched in the shadow of the doorway. The thief evidently thought he also was safe, for he seized a large, heavy-looking valise from the floor and made straight for the steps without looking to right or left. Now a door across the hall opened and another figure appeared. Grace trembled for a moment, fearing it might be another thief. She had always heard they traveled in pairs. But it was David, wrapped in a long gray dressing gown, looking for all the world like a monk. He glanced up and down the hall for a moment, then tapped on the door of the next room and without waiting for an answer walked in. In an instant he was out again and had started swiftly down the stairs, Grace following him. She had intended to speak to him, but it had all taken place so quickly there was no time. David made straight for the dining room, opening the heavy door. The room was brightly lighted. In a flash, Grace saw on the table a pile of the beautiful Gray silver, brought over from England by past generations of Grays. Grace never knew what instinct prompted her to enter the dining room by the butler's pantry at the very end of the long hall. As she pushed the swinging door, she heard David say: "You low blackguard, what do you mean by stealing your aunt's silver?" Grace started at the mention of the word "aunt." It was, then, the wretched Tom Gray who was robbing his own relative! "Get out!" returned the other coldly, "and attend to your own business. You are only a kid." "Give up those things you have stolen, or I'll pound you to a jelly!" cried David, making a rush at the burglar, who dodged nimbly. Then Grace had an inspiration, which assuredly saved David from very disagreeable consequences. Real burglars, like rattlesnakes, are not likely to be dangerous except when they are disturbed. It is then that they become dangerous characters. Grace slipped back into the pantry, swiftly opened one of the linen drawers and drew forth what turned out later to be a breakfast cloth, which was lucky because it was small and easy to manage. When, in the next instant, she had pushed the door open, what she saw made her blood run cold. Tom Gray had whipped out a small pistol and pointed it straight at David's head. "Get out of here, quick!" he said just as Grace opened the table cloth with a jerk and flung it over his head. A pistol shot rang out, but David had dodged in time and the bullet was buried in the mahogany wainscot back of him. The astonished burglar dropped the weapon, and began to struggle violently to release himself. Instantly David pinioned his arms from the back. But the fellow might even then have struggled free, if Reddy Brooks and Hippy Wingate had not burst into the room, followed by Anne, who had roused them after Grace had gone. The three boys swiftly overpowered Tom Gray and tied him to a chair with cord Grace had found in the pantry. But now, what was to be done? Undoubtedly the noise would awaken Mrs. Gray and she would have to be told that her nephew was a burglar about to make off with the family silver. Perhaps the loss of the silver would hurt less than family disgrace. In the midst of their council Mrs. Gray herself appeared. "What in the world is the matter?" she demanded. No one replied for a moment. It was a very uncomfortable situation for the young guests of the house party. If only the burglar had not been a member of the Gray family! Then Tom Gray himself spoke. "I must say this is a nice 'ospitable way to treat a guest and a relation. 'Ere I am taken by a lot of silly children for a burglar. I, your own nephew, awnt, who 'ad come down stairs on the h'innocent h'errand of finding some h'ice water." Mrs. Gray looked from one to another of the silent group. Her eyes took in the silver piled on the table, the pistol on the floor and the burglar's tools and lantern. "You are a burglar," she said, "a wretched, common thief. I knew it as soon as you entered my house last night. I could not then explain the feeling of repugnance I had, but I know now what it meant. I shall not offer hospitality to a coward, for all thieves are cowards. Boys, take what he has stolen from his pockets." Reddy and Hippy searched the bulging pockets of the thief's coat and waistcoat, and brought forth a quantity of jewelry, watches and purses. "Now, David," continued Mrs. Gray, firmly, "be kind enough to give me that pistol." David obeyed her, wondering if she meant to shoot her own nephew. Mrs. Gray pointed the pistol at the thief with as steady a hand as if she had been shooting at targets all her life. "Untie the cords," she commanded. They cut the cords with a carving knife. "Now, go!" said the old lady, still pointing the pistol at his head. "Leave my house quickly. I shall not punish you, because a thief is always punished sooner or later." Tom Gray looked immensely relieved, Grace thought, in spite of his crestfallen, hangdog air. They followed him down the hall, Mrs. Gray in the lead, until he slammed the front door after him and disappeared in the night. Then, turning with her old, sweet manner, she continued: "My dear children, I want to thank you for helping me rid my house of this man. I know I can depend on all of you never to mention it to anyone. It would have been a great blow to me if I had not been so angry; but now let us all go to our beds and forget this horrid episode. To-morrow we shall be as happy as ever. I am determined it shall not interfere with our good time." CHAPTER XV TOM GRAY The company which met around the breakfast table, next morning, was entirely restored to its old gayety. There was not one member of the house party, including Mrs. Gray herself, who did not feel unbounded relief that the place was so well rid of Tom Gray. David was glad there had been no arrest, and that the mistress of the house had with so much dignity and spirit turned out the culprit. It would have been a bad business, testifying in court against Mrs. Gray's nephew when he had been visiting in her house. "Mrs. Gray," suggested Grace, "if you haven't made any plans this morning for us, I think we had better spend an hour or so rehearsing our surprise." "Very well, my dear, you may spend as much time as you like at it; but if I peep over the transom, or listen through a crack in the door, you mustn't scold. I don't know that I can wait much longer to find out what it is." "No, no! You're not to come near the third story," protested Grace. "We shall nail down the transom and stuff the keyhole with soap if you do." "I never could stand suspense," exclaimed the old lady, shaking her head until her lace breakfast cap, with its little bows of lavender ribbon, quivered all over. "I fear I shall be tempted to break into the room before Christmas night and unearth the whole business. But tell me this much. Who is in the surprise?" "All of us," declared Nora. "But now we'll have to get somebody to take the place of----" She paused and blushed scarlet. "Mr. Thomas Gray," announced the old butler at the door, with a peculiar expression on his countenance. There was a dead silence. Mrs. Gray sat as if turned to stone, while David half rose from his seat and Hippy seized a bread and butter knife to plunge into the heart of his enemy, if necessary. "Aunt Rose," cried a voice outside, "aren't you glad to see me?" A broad-shouldered, well-built young man walked into the room and kissed the old lady right in the mouth, before she could say a word. He had a sunburned, wholesome face, kindly gray eyes, light-brown hair, and wore a heavy suit of rough, blue cloth. He carried no cane; neither were his shoes pointed at the toes, and there wasn't a tinge of English in his accent except that his enunciation was unusually good. Mrs. Gray rose from her chair and examined the young man long and carefully. "The very image of your uncle," she cried at last, and gave him a good hug. "The very image, my dear Tom. Your old aunty has been a most egregious fool. Why didn't you come last night?" "Didn't you get my telegram? I sent it in good time. I was delayed and had to take the night train up. I am awfully sorry if it inconvenienced you." "You haven't inconvenienced me, my boy, except for a slight loss of sleep, and a fright and a narrow of escape from losing the family silver, which David and Grace, here, prevented." Then Mrs. Gray sat down and burst out laughing. The others joined in and for a few minutes the breakfast table was in an uproar. The real Tom Gray, who was the image of his uncle's portrait over the sideboard, looked from one to another of the strange faces and then began to laugh too, since it seemed to be the proper thing to do. He had one of those delightful, hearty laughs that ring out in a whole roomful of voices. When Mrs. Gray heard it she stopped short, patting her nephew on the cheek; for he was sitting beside her now in a place hastily arranged by the butler. "Exactly your uncle's laugh. It's good to hear it again. You're a Gray, every inch of you; and, thank God, you're a fine fellow! If you had come down here with an English accent and no 'h's' and a monocle, I should have shut the door in your face. I should, indeed." "Who, me?" demanded her nephew, forgetting his grammar in his surprise at such a state of affairs. "Not me, dear aunt. America's good enough for me. I've had lots of good times with my English cousins, but America's my home and country." "Hurrah!" cried Hippy, dashing around the table and seizing the young man's hand. "We're glad to know you. We're proud and happy to make your acquaintance." There was such an uproar of fun and laughter at this that Tom Gray began at last to see that something had really happened, and that his sudden and unheralded appearance had brought immense relief to the assembled company. "Don't you think it's time somebody put me on?" he asked finally when the noise had quieted down a little. "Tom," replied his aunt, "did you tell anyone you were coming to Oakdale for Christmas to visit me!" "Why, yes," answered Tom after a moment's thought. "I believe I did. In fact I know I did. I was staying for a week in New York, with an English friend, Arthur Butler. I told him all about it. It was on his account that I stayed over one night. I sent the telegram by his servant, Richards." "Ah, ha!" cried Mrs. Gray. "And pray tell us what that wretch of a servant looked like." Tom laughed. "Richards is quite an unusual fellow, a good servant I believe, but rather effeminate and a kind of a dandy----" "That's the man!" "He's the one!" "The very fellow!" Half a dozen voices interrupted at once. Then Mrs. Gray explained the rather serious adventure of the night before. She ended by saying: "I never, in my heart of hearts, really believed he was you, Tom, dear." "The scoundrel!" exclaimed the young man. "Can't we set the police on him?" "The police in Oakdale are slow, Tom," replied his aunt. "Slow from lack of occupation. Robbers do not flock here in great numbers." "At least, I'll telegraph to Arthur Butler," said Tom, "and warn him. They may catch him from that end." The telegram was accordingly sent. Likewise the police were notified, but Richards, who turned out to be a well-known English crook, made good his escape and was heard from no more. It did not take our young people long to make the acquaintance of the real Tom Gray, nor to decide he was a fine fellow and one they could admit to their circle without regret. "He's like a breath of fresh air," thought Grace, and indeed it was disclosed later that he intended to study forestry because he loved the country and the open air, and spent all his vacations camping out and taking long walking trips. But there was nothing of the gypsy in him. He was full of energy and ambition and infused such a wholesome vigor into whatever he did that the young people felt a new enthusiasm in his presence. "I propose to celebrate the return of the real Tom Gray," announced Mrs. Gray, "by sending my boys and girls off on a sleighing party this afternoon. The big old sleigh holds exactly eight. Reddy, you may drive, since the roads are so familiar to you. You must all be back at six o'clock, for, remember, to-night we decorate the Christmas tree and every girl freshman in Oakdale High School must have a present on it." Just after lunch, therefore, after a hard morning's work over Mrs. Gray's "surprise," the young people bundled into the big side-seated sleigh, and tucked the buffalo robes tightly around them. The horses snorted in the crisp, dry air; there was a jingle of merry sleigh bells as off they started down the street toward the open country. Jingle bells, jingle bells, Jingle all the way. Oh, what fun 'tis to ride In a one-horse open sleigh. they sang as they bowled over the well-beaten track; and Tom Gray breathed a sigh of pure delight. "Isn't this great!" he exclaimed. "Wouldn't you rather do this than write an essay or study Latin prose composition?" "Next to riding in an airship and skating, it's the finest thing I know of," answered David. "Have you ever ridden in an airship?" demanded Tom. "No, but I intend to," replied the other; for David had never for a moment relinquished his pet scheme, but worked on his experiments whenever he had a spare moment; little dreaming that one day he was to become the talk of the town. As the sleigh passed the Nesbit house, Miriam and some of her friends were just entering her front gate. She saw the party and a shadow of black jealousy darkened her face. "Why don't we do the same thing?" she exclaimed aloud, and in another twenty minutes she had bundled her own guests into the Nesbit sleigh, while she herself took the reins and guided the pair of spirited black horses. "Miriam, I do wish you would let one of the boys drive," said her mother, who had come to the door to see her off. "I prefer to do the driving, mother," replied the spoiled girl, and with a crack of the whip, the second sleighful was off after the first. It was not long before the Nesbit sleigh had met and passed the other, which was not going at a very great rate of speed. Mrs. Gray's carriage horses were much older and more staid than Miriam's pair of young blacks. "Who is the girl in front?" asked Tom, as the sleigh flashed past. "My sister," answered David shortly. "She must be a pretty good driver," observed Tom. David made no reply. He knew perfectly well that Miriam was not strong enough to hold in the black team, once the horses got the upper hand; but he hoped one of the boys would take the reins if they showed any symptoms of running away. The early twilight was just falling when the Gray house party came to a narrow, rickety old bridge spanning the bed of a creek. Here they stopped the horses for a time, while Grace and Hippy gathered some branches of evergreen growing on the edge of a wood, just over the bridge. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of bells ringing so violently that it seemed as if all Bedlam had broken loose. Around a curve and down the road in front of them loomed Miriam's blacks, making straight for the other group. They were going like the wind, and the empty sleigh, lying on its side, was clattering behind them. "Jump, girls!" cried Tom, while with the other boys he started to cross the bridge to intercept the horses. If Grace had paused to reflect she might never have attempted accomplishing the daring deed that suggested itself to her. Quickly snatching off her scarlet cape, she dashed into the middle of the road, waving it before her. Perhaps the horses also thought Bedlam had been let loose. At sight of the terrifying apparition, they slackened up, snorted and reared backward. "She is a brave girl," thought Tom Gray, as he leaped at the nearest rearing, plunging animal, while David seized the other. Far down the road came the sound of a faint halloo. "I'll pick up the others. I suppose they are in a drift," said Reddy, as he drove off and in a few minutes returned carrying Miriam and her party. Miriam herself looked white and frightened, although she pretended to treat the affair lightly. "A rabbit scared the horses," was all she said. "I'll let one of the boys drive us home." "Indeed, I shan't go back in that sleigh," cried Julia Crosby. "Perhaps you'll accept a ride in the freshman sleigh, Miss Crosby," suggested Nora; and the other girl, somewhat ashamed, was obliged to place herself at the mercy of her enemies. "All of you girls get into Mrs. Gray's sleigh," commanded David, "and Tom and I will drive the other sleigh back." No one ever cared to disobey David when he spoke in this tone. Even his wilful sister took her seat between Grace and Anne without a word and never spoke during the entire drive back, except to say good night at her own front gate. But Grace could not refrain from one sharp little thrust. "You seem to be unlucky with sleighs and sleds both, Miriam," she said. CHAPTER XVI THE MARIONETTE SHOW Do you remember your first party dress? How it gave a glimpse of the throat and neck, and seemed to sweep the ground all around, although it merely reached your shoe tops? Did you feel a thrill of pleasure when the last hook and eye was fastened and you surveyed yourself in the longest mirror in the house? So it was with Anne in her pink crepe de Chine. Or was it really Anne, this little vision in rose color with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes? She stood spellbound before the glass on that memorable Christmas night, and no one disturbed her for awhile. Mrs. Gray and the girls had stolen out so as not to embarrass the young girl who, for the first time, saw herself in a beautiful new silk dress exactly the color of pink rose petals, which hung in soft folds to the tips of her small pink satin slippers. "Give her a chance, girls," whispered Mrs. Gray. "We mustn't be too enthusiastic about the difference. It might hurt her tender little feelings. But she _does_ look sweet, doesn't she?" "As pretty as a picture, Mrs. Gray," answered Grace, kissing the old lady's peach blossom cheek. "But they are coming. I hear them on the walk. We must get behind the scenes and see that everything is all ready." The big drawing room of the Gray house was soon full of young people watching the folding doors leading into the library with expectant faces. In the hall a string orchestra was discoursing soft music and the place was filled with the hum of conversation and low laughter. Mrs. Gray, seated on the front row, in the place of honor, occasionally looked about her and smiled happily. "Why didn't I do this long ago?" she said to herself. "But then, were there ever before such nice girls as my four adopted daughters?" Miriam sat near, with the other members of her house party. It had been a source of much discussion whether or not to admit Julia Crosby to the freshman party. But, since she was Miriam's guest, what else was there to do? "We shall be only heaping coals of fire on her head at any rate," hinted Jessica, "and that certainly ought to make her feel worse than if she had been left out." After everyone was comfortably seated three loud raps were heard from behind the folding doors. Some one began to play "The Funeral March of a Marionette" on the piano, and the doors slid slowly back. There was a murmur of surprise and wonder. Two curtains had been stretched across the door opening above and below and two hung down at each side, leaving an oblong space in the middle in which stood a little doll theater nearly a yard and a half long and a yard high. A row of footlights across the miniature stage presently blossomed into light, and the freshman girls smiled as they recognized some of those same little bulbs that had served to illuminate the pumpkin face of Miss Leece's effigy. The music ceased and the curtains rolled back. There sat Cinderella by the kitchen fire, very stiff and straight, but weeping audibly with her little fists in her eyes. She was ten inches high and, on careful examination, it could be seen that two threads attached to her arms, and another to the back of her neck, made it possible for her to move about and use her hands in a remarkably life-like manner. Wild applause from the audience. Well there might be, for the scene was perfect, from the old brick fireplace with an iron pot steaming on the coals to the rows of shining pans and blue dishes on a shelf at the side, all of which came from a toy shop, along with a little kitchen bench and chairs. The cruel sisters swept in, dressed for the ball. When they spoke there were convulsive titters among the guests for the voices of the cruel step-sisters were those of Nora and Hippy. Anne read the lines of Cinderella so plaintively that Mrs. Gray shed a secret tear or two when Cinderella was left alone in the gloomy old kitchen. When the fairy godmother appeared, in a peaked red hat and a long red cape, it was Jessica who spoke the lines in a sweet, musical voice. How Cinderella rolled out the pumpkin and displayed six white mice in a trap, and how, after a brief interval of total darkness, could be seen through the open door a coach of gold in which sat Cinderella in a silken gown, need not be related here. It all took place without a single slip and the dolls went through their parts with such funny life-like motions that the boys and girls forgot they were not watching real actors. It was the scene of the ballroom, however, which was the real triumph of the evening. "How did those clever children ever do it?" exclaimed Mrs. Gray, aloud, when the curtain rolled back and disclosed the ballroom of the palace, with a drop curtain at the back showing a vista of marble columns and pillars. A gilt chandelier was suspended in the middle, from which stretched garlands of real smilax. There were rows of little gilt chairs against the walls filled with dolls in stiff satins and brocades. And one large throne chair with a red velvet cushion in it, on which sat the prince, who spoke with the voice of David Nesbit, and entertained his guests in royal state. After the exciting arrival of Cinderella, Nora played a minuet on the mandolin, the tinkling music of which seemed best suited to the doll drama, and the prince and Cinderella executed a dance of such intricate steps and low bows that the audience was convulsed with laughter. There were even suppressed titters from behind the scenes. This dance, which had been devised by Tom Gray and Grace, necessitated two extra threads to manipulate the feet. It was most difficult and had required long and tedious practice, but the results were quite worth all the time and trouble. Mrs. Gray laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks and made a personal appeal for an encore, which was given; but there was a mishap this time; Cinderella's threads became entangled and she came near to breaking her china nose. Audiences are invariably most pitiless when they are most pleased, and have no mercy on exhausted actors. At the cry of "Speech! Speech!" the Prince stepped forward and made a low bow. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we thank you for your approval and if strength and breath permitted us, and the lady had not injured her nose, we would gladly dance again for you." Then came the last scene. The step-sisters made desperate efforts to wear the slipper; Cinderella finally retired triumphantly on the prince's arm, and the curtains closed only to open again a few moments later upon a scene which bore a strong resemblance to Oakdale High School. The fairy godmother occupied the center of the stage while the entire company of dolls were lined up on either side. Cinderella and the prince, each held the end of an open scroll, which bore a printed inscription that could be seen by the audience. It read: "A MERRY CHRISTMAS TO THE FAIRY GODMOTHER OF THE FRESHMAN CLASS." A scene of wild enthusiasm followed. The young people gave three cheers for Mrs. Gray and ended with the High School yell. The actors came out and were cheered each in turn. Grace, Tom Gray and Reddy had worked the marionettes, it seemed, standing on the back of the table where the theater was placed, while the others, sitting on low stools at the sides where they could see and not be seen, read their lines which had been composed by Anne. "It wasn't so hard as you might think," said Grace, explaining the marionettes to a group of friends. "Dressing the dolls was easy; we glued on most of their clothes, and we made the step-sisters ugly by giving them putty noses. Hippy painted the scenery and David supplied the electric lights. The threads that moved the arms and bodies were tied to little cross sticks something like a gallows, so that they could be held from above without being seen." But the marionette show was only the beginning of the party. There was to be feasting and dancing, and, lastly, a big Christmas tree loaded with presents. The floors were cleared. The notes of a waltz rang out, and away whirled the happy boys and girls. Anne and David, who did not dance, retired to a sofa in the library to look on. "Are you happy, Anne, in your beautiful pink dress?" asked David, regarding her with open admiration. "How can I help being happy?" she replied. "This is the first pretty dress that I have ever had and I never went to a party before, either." "I never enjoyed a party before," said David, "but I'm enjoying this one. I hope, for Mrs. Gray's sake, it goes off without a hitch." Just then Tom Gray waltzed by with Grace. They stopped when they saw their friends, and came back. "Our efforts are certainly crowned with success," exclaimed Grace. "It's the most beautiful ball ever given in Oakdale. Everyone says so. By the way," she added, "get your partners and fall in line for the grand march to supper." "I already have mine, all right," declared Tom Gray. "And I think I have mine," observed David. "She's wearing a pink dress and is just about as tall as a marionette." Anne laughed and stood on tiptoe to make herself look taller. Suddenly she caught the eye of Miriam Nesbit, who was lingering in the doorway, watching the scene with an expression that the circumstances and holiday surroundings hardly seemed to justify. "I wonder if the party will go off without a hitch," thought Anne, as they joined the grand march into the dining room. When the beautiful, illuminated tree had been disburdened of all its presents and the guests were well advanced on their supper, Mrs. Gray approached Anne, carrying an oblong box, neatly done up in white tissue paper tied with red ribbons. Pinned to the ribbon with a piece of holly was a Christmas card on which was printed in fancy lettering "A Christmas Thought." "Why, what is this, Mrs. Gray?" demanded Anne, rather excited, while many of the boys and girls gathered around her and some stood on chairs in order to see what the mysterious box contained. "I know no more than you, dear," replied the old lady. "A man left it at the door a moment ago, and one of the servants gave it to me. Why don't you open it and see?" Anne hesitated. Something told her not to open the box, but how could she help it with dozens of her friends waiting eagerly to see what was in it? "Hurry up, Anne, aren't you curious to see what it is?" some one called. "It looks like flowers," said another. "Or candy," observed a third. And still Anne's fingers lingered on the bow of red ribbon. Was there anyone in the world who could be sending her a box that night? Certainly not her mother nor her sister, nor any of her friends who had exchanged presents in the morning. Mrs. Gray evidently had not sent it and there was no one else in her small list of friends who would have taken the trouble. "Anne, you funny child, don't you see we are all waiting impatiently?" said Grace at last. Anne slipped off the ribbons and opened the package. In the box was some object, carefully done up in more tissue paper. "It looks like a mummy," exclaimed Hippy. Untying the wrappers, Anne held up to the curious view of the others a large doll. At first she hardly comprehended what it was and held it out at arms' length looking at it wonderingly. It was dressed as a man in a black suit with a long Prince Albert coat, very crudely made on close inspection, but still cut and fitted to give the right effect. The face had been cleverly changed with paint and putty, and pinned on the head was a black felt hat, constructed out of the crown of an old one evidently, in which had been sewn some lank black hair. A card was tied around the doll's neck, and some one looking over Anne's shoulder read aloud the following inscription written upon it: "Why have imitation actors when you can get real ones?" Anne gave a gasp. Who could have played this cruel trick upon her? She knew her four friends had never spoken of the happenings of Thanksgiving night, but such secrets would leak out in spite of everything, and there may have been others in the audience who had recognized her. Moreover, her father himself would not have hesitated to tell who she was, so that it was not difficult to understand how the story had spread. But who would have the heart to hold her father up to ridicule in this way, and to cause her such secret pain and unhappiness? While her thoughts were busy, David had seized the doll and wrapped it up again. He was very angry, but it was wiser to keep silent. "What was it, dear?" demanded Mrs. Gray, who had not been able to hear the message written on the card. "Just a silly trick on Anne, Mrs. Gray," replied David, for Anne was too near to tears to trust the sound of her own voice. "Something about actors, wasn't it?" asked Julia Crosby, who was hovering near, and before she could be stopped, she had snatched the doll from Anne's lap. The covers fluttered to the floor and the others pressed eagerly around to get a glimpse of it. David leaped to his feet so vigorously that he upset a chair. "Give that back!" he commanded. "It is not yours." [Illustration: "Give That Back! It Is Not Yours."] "I will not," answered Julia Crosby. "Neither is it yours." "I say you will," cried David, furiously, losing his temper completely. "Get it if you can!" challenged the girl, darting through the crowd with David at her heels. Suddenly there was a crash, a startled cry and the great fir tree with all its ornaments and lighted candles fell to the floor. CHAPTER XVII AFTER THE BALL Yes, here was the hitch that Anne had secretly dreaded and which the other girls had anxiously hoped to avoid. She had not dreamed what it would be, but she had felt it coming all evening, ever since she had seen Miriam hovering near the library door. And, in a way, Miriam was connected with the disaster. Had not Miriam's guest and chum exceeded all bounds of politeness by prying into other people's affairs? No doubt, as she fled from David, her dress had caught in one of the branches of the tree and so pulled it over. All this darted through Anne's head as she stood leaning against the wall while the room was fast filling with smoke and the pungent odor of burning pine. Suddenly, some one at her elbow deliberately called "Fire! Fire!" These were the same ominous words she had heard Thanksgiving night, only they seemed now more alarming, more threatening. Who could be so foolish, so ill-advised as to scream those agitating words in a roomful of girls and boys already keyed up to a high pitch of excitement? Anne turned quickly and confronted Miriam. "Don't do that!" exclaimed Anne. "You will only make matters worse." Miriam looked at her scornfully, although it was evident she had not noticed her before. "Be quiet, spy," she hissed, "and don't make trouble." "I suspect you of making a great deal," returned Anne, calmly. She was not afraid of this passionate, spoiled girl, and only the fact that Miriam was the sister of David, her devoted friend, kept Anne from saying more. In another moment, the entire Christmas tree was in a bright blaze. Anne had climbed up to a chair, and thence to the table that the crowd had pushed against her as it ran. Anne was about to leap to the floor when Grace and Tom Gray dashed in with an armful apiece of wet blankets. With the help of the others they spread the blankets over the burning tree and the blaze was extinguished almost as soon as it was born. "No harm has been done," said Tom. "The canvas covering saved the floor and fortunately all the furniture has been taken out anyhow. It's all right, Aunt Rose. Nobody hurt; nothing damaged. I never heard of a more accommodating fire in my life." "Open the windows now and let out the smoke," ordered Mrs. Gray, "and, if you have all finished eating, I think you had better come into the drawing room while the servants clear out this debris. Tom, please tell the musicians to play a waltz. I do not want my guests to carry away any unpleasant impressions of this house." The music struck up and the dance began again. "Well," said Grace, "no one need feel badly about the fire, because a Christmas tree generally has to be burned, anyway, and nothing of value but the ornaments was destroyed. So everything is all right." "It was all my fault," exclaimed David, in a contrite voice. "Mrs. Gray, you will have to forgive me before I can enjoy a clear conscience again. If it hadn't been for that lumbering sophomore, Julia Crosby, I should never have lost my temper the way I did." "My dear David," cried Mrs. Gray, patting him affectionately on the arm, "you couldn't do anything I would disapprove of. If you wanted to rescue Anne's doll I am sure you had some excellent reason for it." Mrs. Gray had not heard the history of Anne's father, for Grace and her friends had kept the secret well, and Anne, herself, had never cared to tell the story. She was a quiet, reserved girl who talked little of her own affairs. "He _did_ have a good reason, Mrs. Gray," put in Grace, "and it was enough to make him lose his temper. Julia Crosby is everlastingly playing practical jokes and getting people into trouble. However, I don't suppose she upset the tree on purpose," she added, thoughtfully. "Well, well," exclaimed Mrs. Gray, "let us forget all about it and wind up the party with a Virginia reel. Tom and Grace must lead it off, and Anne, you and David watch the others so that when it comes your turn you will be able to dance it yourselves." So it was that Mrs. Gray's freshman Christmas ball ended as gayly as it had started, with a romping, joyous Virginia reel. There was not a soul, except the little old lady herself, who did not join the two long lines stretching from one end of the rooms to the other and when it came Anne's turn, she was not afraid to bow and curtsey as the others had done, for she had quickly mastered the various figures of the dance. Moreover, was she not wearing a beautiful dress of pink crepe de Chine? After all a pretty dress does make a great difference. Anne felt she could never have danced so well in the old black silk. When the reel was over the boys and girls joined hands and formed an immense circle about their charming hostess, whirling madly around her as they cried: "Three cheers for Mrs. Gray!" The old lady was very happy. She waved her small, wrinkled hands at them and called out over the din: "Three cheers for my dear freshmen boys and girls!" At length, when the hands of the clock pointed to two, and the last of the dancers had departed, Mrs. Gray sank into a chair exhausted. "I am tired," she said, "but I never in my life had such a good time!" Was there ever a girl in the world who did not want to exchange confidences with her best friends after a party? Grace and Anne, therefore, were not surprised when two figures in dressing gowns and slippers stole into their room, crouching on the rug before the fire. "We've all sorts of things to say," exclaimed Nora, "else we wouldn't think of keeping you up so late. In the first place, wasn't it perfectly delightful?" "Grand!" sighed the others. "Everything except that one accident, and the thing that caused it," answered Grace. "By the way, Anne, where is the doll?" asked Jessica. Anne produced it from its box. "Here it is," she said sadly. "But it was a cruel joke. Can you imagine who could have done it?" "I have several suspicions," answered Grace, "but I make no accusations without grounds." The four girls examined the doll carefully. "My poor father!" exclaimed Anne, her eyes filling with tears. "I'll tell you what, girls," cried Nora suddenly, "there's more to this than just Anne's secret. How did anyone know we were going to have a marionette show? Didn't we keep it dark?" "Yes," they answered. "Perhaps it got out through the servants," suggested Jessica. "It certainly is rather an underhanded business," cried Grace, "for whoever did this not only must have bribed one of Mrs. Gray's servants, but also must have some way or other raked up Anne's secret. It was evidently some one who had a grudge against you, poor dear," she added, patting Anne on the cheek. "Girls!" exclaimed Jessica, who all this time had been looking the doll over carefully, "where have you seen this material before?" She pointed at the fancy red waistcoat the doll was wearing. "It has a familiar look," answered Nora. "It looks to me very much like a red velveteen suit I saw somewhere once upon a time," observed Grace. "You did see it, Grace. But it was--how long ago? Two or more years, wasn't it?" "I know," cried Nora. "Miriam Nesbit's!" "Sh-h-h!" warned Grace. "Remember David. He's just across the hall." "And he must never know," added Anne, "not if she sent me a dozen dolls." "But I haven't finished," continued Jessica. "I feel exactly like a detective on the scent. This doll is wearing something else that is familiar to us all. Anne, you have seen it, I am sure." They scanned the doll eagerly. The shabby black suit was made of some indescribable material that might have come from anywhere. The red velveteen waistcoat they had already identified. Then came a little white cotton dickey, with a high standing collar and then---- "The tie!" cried Nora. "The green tie! Is that it, Jessica?" "You are right," answered Jessica. "Have you never seen that green silk before?" Grace was in a brown study. Anne could not recall it and Nora was groping in the dark. "I'll tell you this much," said Jessica, who loved a mystery; "It just matches a certain veil----" "Miss Leece!" exclaimed Grace. "It's a piece of the trimming on an old dress she sometimes wears." "Exactly," said Jessica. "Who, having once seen it could ever forget it?" And so Miss Leece and Miriam had combined forces against poor little Anne! CHAPTER XVIII A WINTER PICNIC "Aunt Rose," exclaimed Tom Gray, several mornings after the Christmas dance, "I have a scheme; but, before I ask your permission to carry it out, I want you to grant it." "Why do you ask it at all, then, Tom, dear?" answered his aunt. "Because we want your seal and sanction upon the undertaking," replied Tom, giving the old lady an affectionate squeeze. "Is it granted, little Lady Gray?" he asked. "I am merely groping about in the dark, my boy, but I trust to your good sense not to ask me anything too outrageous. Tell me what it is quickly, so that I may know exactly how deeply I am implicated." "Well," said Tom, "here's the scheme in a nutshell. I want to give a picnic." Mrs. Gray groaned. "A picnic, boy? Whoever heard of a picnic in mid-winter. What mad notion is this?" "But you have given your consent, aunty, and no honorable woman can go back on her word." "So I have, child, but explain to me quickly what a winter picnic is so that I may know the worst at once." "A winter picnic is a glorious tramp in the woods, with a big camp-fire at noon, for food, warmth and rest, and then a tramp back again." "And can I trust to you to take good care of my four girls? Anne and Jessica are not giants for strength. You must not walk them too far, or let them get chilled; and, if you find they are growing tired, you must bring them straight back." "On my word of honor, as a gentleman and a Gray, I promise," said Tom, solemnly. "And you will all be in before dark?" continued Mrs. Gray. "We promise," continued the young people. "Wear your stoutest shoes and warmest clothing," she went on. "We promise," they cried. "And we want a lot of lunch, aunt," said Tom coaxingly, "and some nice raw bacon for cooking and eating purposes." "You shall have everything you want," said Mrs. Gray, "but who will carry the lunch?" "We will distribute it on the backs of our four pack mules," replied Grace. "But Hippy must carry the coffee-pot. He's not to be trusted with food." "Now, wouldn't it be a remarkable sight to see a pack mule eating off his own back!" observed Hippy. "There are several animals that can turn their heads all the way around, I believe, but not the human animal." "We had better start as soon as possible," broke in Tom. "Hurry up, girls, and get ready, while the servants fix the lunch." In half an hour eight young people, well muffled and mittened, started off toward the open country. It was a clear, cold day and the snow-covered fields and meadows sparkled in the sunshine. "If I were a gypsy by birth, as well as by inclination," declared Tom, as they trudged gayly along, "I should take to the road in the early spring, and never see a roof again until cold weather." "But being a member of a respectable family and about to enter college, you have to sleep in a bed under cover?" added David. "It's partly that," said Tom, "and partly the cold weather that is responsible for my good behavior two thirds of the year. If I lived in a warm climate all the year around, every respectable notion I had would melt away in a week and I'd take to the open forever." "I have never been in the woods in the winter time," said Anne. "Are they very beautiful?" "One of the finest sights in the world," cried Tom enthusiastically, his wholesome face glowing from his exercise. Just then they climbed an old stone wall and entered a forest known as "Upton Wood," which covered an area of ten miles or more in length and several miles across. "It is beautiful," said Anne as she gazed up and down the wooded aisles carpeted in white. "It is like a great cathedral. I could almost kneel and pray at one of these snow covered stumps. They are like altars." "The fault I find with the woods in winter," observed Grace, "is that there is nothing to do in them, no birds and beasts to make things lively, no flowers to pick, no brooks to wade in. Just an everlasting stillness." "I admit there's not much social life," replied Tom. "The inhabitants either go to sleep or fly south, most of them. But don't forget the rabbits and squirrels and----" "And an occasional bear," interrupted Reddy. "They have been seen in these parts." "Worse than bears," said Hippy. "Wolves!" "Goodness!" ejaculated Tom. "You are doing pretty well. I didn't know this country was so wild. But that's going some." "Oh, well, as to that," said David, "nobody has ever really seen anything worse than wildcats, and we have to take old Jean's word for it about the wolves. He claimed to have seen wolves in these woods three years ago. As a matter of fact they chased him out, and he was obliged to turn civilized for three months." "Who is old Jean?" asked Tom, much interested. "He is a French-Canadian hunter who has lived somewhere in this forest for years. He comes into town occasionally, looking like Daniel Boone, dressed in skins with a squirrel cap, and carrying a bunch of rabbits that he sells to the butchers." "He's a great sight," said Grace. "I saw him on his snowshoes one day. He was coming down Upton Hill, where we coasted, you know, Anne, and he sped along the fields faster than David's motor cycle." They had been walking for some time over the hard-packed snow and were now well into the forest, which hemmed them in on every side and seemed to stretch out in all directions into infinite space. "Reddy, are you perfectly sure we won't get lost in this place?" demanded Jessica at last. They had been walking along silently intent on their own thoughts. Perhaps it was the grandeur of the great snow-laden trees that oppressed them; perhaps the vast loneliness of the place, where nothing was stirring, not even a rabbit. "We're all right," returned Reddy. "My compass tells me. We go due north till we want to start home and then we can either turn around and go back due south or turn west and go home by the road." "I have neither compass nor watch," said Hippy, "but nature's timepiece tells me that it's lunch time. This cold air gives me an appetite." "Gives you one?" cried David. "You old anaconda, you were born with an appetite. You started eating boiled dumplings when you were two years old." "Who told you so?" demanded Hippy. "Never mind," said David. "It's an old story in Oakdale." "Let's feed the poor soul," interposed Grace. "It would be wanton cruelty to keep him waiting any longer." "He'll have to make the fire, then," said Reddy. "Make him pay for his dumplings if he wants 'em so early." "All right, Carrots," cried Hippy. "I'll gather fagots and make a fire, just to keep you from talking so much." "I'll help you, Hippy," said Nora. "I'm not ashamed to admit that I am very hungry too. It's the people who are never able to eat at the table, and then go off and feed up in the pantry, who always manage to shirk their work." The others all laughed. "Let's make a fair division of labor," put in Grace, "so as to prevent future talk." While some of them gathered sticks and dried branches, the others began clearing away the snow in an open space, where the fire could be built. Anne and Jessica unpacked the luncheon and poured some coffee from a glass jar into a tin pot to be heated, while Tom peeled several long switches and impaled pieces of bacon on the ends to be cooked over the fire, which was soon blazing comfortably. "How do you like this, girls?" he asked presently, when the broiling bacon began to give out an appetizing smell and the hot coffee added its fragrance to the air. "How's this for a winter picnic?" "I like it better than a summer picnic," interposed Hippy. "The food is better and there are no gnats." "Gnats are very fond of fat people," said Reddy. "They drink down their blood like--circus lemonade." "Get busy and give me some coffee, Red-head," said Hippy, who sat on a stump and ate energetically, while the others were broiling their slices of bacon. "Here, Hippy," said Nora, pouring out a steaming cupful, "if it wasn't interesting to watch you store it away, perhaps I wouldn't wait on you hand and foot like this." "This is the best way in the world to cook bacon," said Tom, holding his wand over the fire with several pieces of bacon stuck on the forked ends. "A very good method, if your stick doesn't burn up," replied Anne. "There! Mine fell into the fire. I knew it would." Meantime, Jessica and Grace were frying the rest of the slices in a pan. "That's good enough, but this is better and quicker," said Grace. "There's no reason for dispensing with all the comforts of a home just because you choose to be a woodsman, Tom." They never forget how they enjoyed that luncheon, devouring everything to the ultimate crumb and the final drop of hot coffee. Although it was bitterly cold, they did not feel the chill. The brisk walk, the warm fire and their hearty meal had quickened their blood, and even Anne, the smallest and most delicate of them all, felt something of Tom's enthusiasm for the deep woods. At last it was time to start again. The boys were trampling down the fire while the girls began stowing the cups and coffee-pot into a basket. The woods seemed suddenly to have grown very quiet. "How still it is," whispered Anne. "I feel as if everything in the world had stopped. There is not a breath stirring." "Perhaps it has," answered Grace. "But we mustn't stop, even if everything else has, now that the fire is out, or we'll freeze to death." She was just about to call the others briskly, for the air was beginning to nip her cheeks, when something in the faces of the four boys made her pause. They were standing together near the remains of the fire, and seemed to be listening intently. Not a sound, not even the crackling of a branch disturbed the stillness for a moment and then, from what appeared to be a great distance, came a long, howling wail, so forlorn, so weird, it might have been the cry of a spirit. "What is it?" whispered the other girls, creeping about Grace. "I think we'd better be hurrying along, now, girls," said David in a natural voice. "It's getting late." "You can't deceive us, David," replied Grace calmly. "We know it's wolves." CHAPTER XIX WOLVES! Wolves! The name was terrifying enough. But their cry, that long-drawn-out, hungry call, gave the picnickers a chill of apprehension. "We must take the nearest way out of the wood, Reddy," exclaimed Tom. "They are still several miles off, and, if we hurry, we may reach the open before they do." All started on a run, David helping Anne to keep up with the others while Reddy looked after Jessica. Nora and Grace were well enough trained in outdoor exercise to run without any assistance from the boys. Indeed, Grace Harlowe could out-run most boys of her own age. "Go straight to your left," called Reddy, consulting his compass as he hurried Jessica over the snow. Again they heard the angry howl of the wolves, and the last time it seemed much nearer. "It's a terrible business, this running after a heavy meal," muttered Hippy, gasping for breath as he stumbled along in the track of his friends. "I'll make a nice meal for 'em if they catch me," he added, "and it looks as if I'd be the first to go." "Reddy, are you sure you're right?" called Tom. "The woods don't seem to be thinning out as they are likely to do toward the edge." "Keep going," called Reddy, confident of the direction. "You see, we had gone pretty far in, but I believe the open country is about a mile this way." A mile? Good heavens! Jessica and Anne were already stumbling from exhaustion, while Hippy was quite winded. Another five minutes of this and at least three of the party would be food for wolves, unless something could be done. So thought David, who, breathless and light headed, was now almost carrying Anne. "Hurrah!" cried Grace, who had been running ahead of the others. "Here's Jean's hut!" There, sure enough, right in front of them, was a little house built of logs and mud. Had it been put in that particular spot years ago just to save their eight lives now? Anne wondered vaguely as she blindly stumbled on. As Grace lifted the wooden latch of the door, she looked over her shoulder. Not three hundred yards away loped five gaunt, gray animals. Their tongues hung limply from the sides of their mouths and their eyes glowered with a fierce hunger. "Hurry!" she cried, in an agony of fear. "Oh, hurry!" Tom and David were carrying Anne now, while Jessica was half staggering, assisted by Nora and Reddy. Hippy, the perspiration pouring from his face, brought up the rear, and they had scarcely pulled him in and barred the door before the wolves had reached the hut and were leaping against the walls howling and snarling. Nobody spoke for some time. Those who were not too tired were busy thinking. What was to be done? Eight young people, on a bitter cold winter afternoon, shut up in a hut in the middle of a forest while five half-starved wolves besieged the door. Presently Tom Gray began to look about him. There was a fireplace in the hut, which, by great good luck, contained the remains of a large backlog. More fuel was stacked in the corner, chiefly brushwood and sticks. He made a fire at once and the others gathered around the blaze, for they felt the penetrating chill now, after their rapid and exhausting flight through the forest. "Here's a rifle," exclaimed Grace, who was also exploring, while Tom kindled the fire. "Good!" cried Tom. "Let's see it. It may be our salvation." He seized the gun and examined the barrel, but, alas, there was only one shot left in it. They searched the hut for more cartridges, but not one could they find. In the meantime the wolves, which might have been taken for large collie dogs at a little distance, were trotting around the house, leaping against the door and windows and occasionally giving a blood-curdling howl. "Suppose you feed me to them?" groaned Hippy. "You could get almost to Oakdale before they finished me." The suggestion seemed to break the apprehensive silence that had settled down upon them, and they burst out laughing, one and all; even Anne, who was lying on a bearskin in front of the fire. "I suppose the beasts were driven down from the hills by hunger, and when they smelled the fat bacon frying, the woods couldn't hold them," observed David. "I have always heard that a hungry wolf could smell something to eat on another planet." "Well, what are we going to do?" demanded Nora. "If we leave this charming abode of Jean's, we shall be eaten alive, and if we stay in it we shall starve." "You won't starve for a while yet, child. You have only just eaten. You remind me of the story of the people who were locked up in a vault in a cemetery. They divided the candle into notches and decided to eat a notch apiece every day. They had just finished the last notch, and were expecting to die at any moment of starvation, when somebody unlocked the door, and how long do you suppose they had been shut up!" "Several days, I suppose," answered Nora, "since they appeared to have eaten several notches." "Not at all," replied David. "Only three hours." "I'd rather be in a vault, with the dead, than out here," observed Hippy. "Are we such poor company as all that, Fatty!" laughed Reddy. "I've made a great find," announced Tom Gray in the midst of their chatter. He was standing on a bench examining something on a shelf suspended from the ceiling. "What?" demanded the others in great excitement. "A pair of snowshoes," he answered. There was a disappointed silence. "Well, don't all speak at once," said Tom at last. "Don't you agree with me that it's a great find?" "We are sorry we can't enthuse," answered David, "but we fail to see how snow shoes can help us out of our present predicament." "Nobody here knows how to use them," continued Reddy, "and even if he did, he couldn't out-run a pack of wolves." "I know how to use them," exclaimed Tom. "I learned it in Canada a few winters ago, but I will admit I couldn't beat the wolves in a race. However, the shoes may come in handy yet." Just then one of the wolves threw his body against the door and the small cabin shook with the force of the blow. "By Jove!" exclaimed David, "I thought they had us then. Another blow like that and the old latch might give way." They looked about them for something to place against the door, but there was not a stick of furniture in the room. Even the bed, in one corner, was made of pine boughs and skins. "I wonder how there happens to be only five wolves," said Anne. "I thought they went about in large packs." "They are probably mama and papa and the whole family," replied Hippy. "The smallest, friskiest ones, I think, are young ladies, by the way they switched along behind the others and hung back kind of shy-like." "Now, Hippy Wingate, don't tell us such a romance as that," warned Grace, "when you were so winded you could hardly look in front of you, much less behind you." At that moment there was another crash against the door while two gray paws and the tip of a pointed muzzle could be seen on one of the window sills. "It's almost three o'clock," said Tom Gray, looking at his watch. "I think we'll have to do something, or we shall be penned here all night. Now, what shall it be? Suppose we have a friendly council and consider." "All right," said David; "the meeting is open for suggestions. What do you advise, Anne?" Anne smiled thoughtfully. "I have no advice to offer," she said, "unless you shoot one of the wolves and let the others eat him up. Perhaps that would take the edge off their appetites." "No, that would only serve as an appetizer," answered David. "After they had eaten one member of the family they would be still hungrier for another." "And yet that isn't a half bad idea," said Tom, "and for two reasons. Did you notice a path which began at the hut and which was evidently Jean's trail? I saw it from the corner of my eye as I ran." No, the others had not noticed anything of the sort. But who would stop to think of trails with a pack of hungry wolves at his heels? Tom's training in the woods had taught him to take in such details, and consequently he had noticed it particularly. Moreover, the trail led straight to the left, presumably toward the west. "Now, this is what I propose to do," he continued, taking down the snowshoes and looking over their straps and fastenings carefully. "Reddy, who, I hear, is a good shot, must climb up at one of the windows and shoot the first wolf he sees. Eating the dead wolf would probably occupy the attention of his brothers for some ten minutes or so--perhaps longer. While they are busy I shall make off on the snowshoes. With that much of a start, and with plenty of tasty human beings close at hand, I doubt if they even follow me. If they do, why I'll just shin up a tree. But I believe I can beat them. I'm pretty good on snowshoes." "Tom Gray, you shan't do it!" cried Grace. "It may mean sure death. How do you know the wolves won't seize you the moment you open the door? Besides, you don't know the way. Suppose you should get lost?" "No, no," insisted Tom. "None of these things will happen. I know positively that a hungry wolf will stop chasing a human being and eat up a dead wolf, or a shoe, or a rug, or anything that happens to be thrown to him. I never was surer of anything in my life than that I can get away from here before the beasts know it." There was a storm of protestation from the others, but Tom Gray finally overruled every objection and they reluctantly consented to let him go. It was arranged that Reddy should stand on a bench by one of the small windows and attract the attention of the wolves by throwing out a rabbit skin that was nailed to one of the walls. While the beasts were tearing this to pieces he was to shoot one of them. Furthermore, the instant the live wolves had finished devouring the dead one, Reddy was to pitch out another skin, of which there were many about the hut, of foxes, rabbits and other small animals, which the trapper had collected. This, they agreed, would probably keep the wolves occupied for awhile, until Tom had got a good start down the trail. Tom slipped his feet in the snowshoes and stood by the door waiting. While the wolves howled and fought over the rabbit skin, bang went the rifle. "I got him!" cried Reddy. In an instant Tom Gray had flung open the door and was off down the trail. As he had expected, the live wolves were hungrily eating the dead one and had not apparently even noticed his departure. The boys and girls in the hut sat breathlessly waiting, while Reddy watched the famished animals gorge themselves with the blood and fresh meat of their comrade. Reddy had rolled up a fox skin into a small bundle, and was prepared to pitch it out to them the moment they had finished. Just as they had lapped the last drop of blood, he cast out the skin. They sniffed at it a moment, gave a long, disapproving howl, that sent the cold chills down the spines of the prisoners, and then made off down the trail after Tom Gray. Reddy gave a loud exclamation and jumped down from the bench. "_They have followed Tom!_" he cried, in a high state of excitement. There was a long pause. "We'll have to go, then," said David finally. "Girls, you are safe as long as you stay inside the hut, and some of us at least will be able to bring help before long." With that, all three of the boys, for Hippy was no coward, in spite of his size and appetite, rushed out of the hut and disappeared in the wood. The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen when Grace fastened the latch and returned to the fire where her three friends sat silent, afraid to speak for fear of giving way to tears. CHAPTER XX THE GRAY BROTHERS The four girls never knew how long they waited that afternoon in the hunter's cabin. It might have been only minutes, but the minutes seemed to drag themselves into hours. The uncertain fate of the boys, the tragedy that surely awaited perhaps all of them made the situation almost unbearable. Grace piled the fireplace high with the remaining wood, but the blaze could not keep away the chill that crept over them as the sun sank behind the trees. They shivered and drew nearer together for comfort. Should they ever see their four brave friends again? And David? Anne could endure it no longer. She rose and began to move about the hut. There lay her coat and hat. Almost without knowing what she did she put them on, pulled on her mittens and tied a broad, knitted muffler around her ears. "Girls," she said suddenly. She had gone about her preparations so quietly the other three had not even turned to see what she was doing. "I'm going. I don't want any of you to go with me, but I would rather die than stay here all night without knowing what has happened to David and the others." "Wait a moment," cried Grace, "and I'll go, too. It would be unbearable not to know--and if we meet the wolves, why, then, as Tom said, we can climb a tree. Poor Tom!" she added sadly. "I wonder where he is now." Nora and Jessica rose hastily. "Do you think I'd stay?" cried Nora. "Not in a thousand years!" "Anything is better than this," exclaimed Jessica, as she drew on her wraps and prepared to follow her friends into the woods. Grace opened the door, peering out into the gathering darkness. "There is not a living thing in sight," she said. "We'd better hurry, girls; it will soon be dark." Then the four young girls started down the trail and were soon out of sight. When Tom Gray left old Jean's hut, with nothing between him and the ravenous wolves, except the angle of a wall, he took a long, gliding step, his body swinging gracefully with the motion, and was off like the wind, under a broad avenue of trees. But he had not gone far before one of the straps loosened and his foot slipped. He fell headlong, but was up instantly. It took a few moments to tighten the strap, and it must have been then that the wolves caught the scent, and after hurriedly finishing the meal in hand, galloped off for another without taking the slightest notice of the fox skin that Reddy had tossed to them. Tom made a fresh start, feeling more confident on his feet than he had at first, and he was well under way when he heard the howl of the wolves behind him. Gathering all his energies together he managed to keep ahead of them until the woods became less dense, and he saw through the interlacing branches the open meadows and fields. "They are too hungry to leave off now," he said to himself as he hurriedly searched the valley below for the nearest farmhouse. In front of him was a very high, steep hill, that same hill, in fact, where Nora's coasting party had taken place. Glancing behind him, he caught a glimpse of the gray brothers trotting through the forest. "I'll take the hill," he thought. "It's quickest and there must be some kind of a refuge below." With long, swift glides he reached the knob which had hidden Miriam's sled from view as she bore down on Anne the night of the coasting party. The wolves were right behind him now, and unless something turned up he hardly dared think what would happen. But Tom Gray had always possessed an indomitable belief that things would turn out all right. It seemed absurd to him that he was to be food for wolves when he had still a long and delightful life before him. Certainly he would not give up without a struggle. Perhaps it was this fine confidence that his destiny was not yet completed that gave him the strength which now promised to save him. As he fled down the hill he saw below an old oak tree whose first branches had been lopped off. Exerting every atom of strength in him, just as he reached the bottom Tom gave a leap. He caught the lowest limb with one hand, pulled himself up and calmly took his seat in the crotch of the tree. He was just in time. The wolves were at his heels, snarling and snapping like angry dogs. The boy regarded them from his safe perch and burst out laughing. [Illustration: Tom Gray Escapes from the Wolves.] "So I fooled you, did I, you gray rascals?" he said aloud. "You think you'll keep me here all night, do you, old hounds? Well, we'll see who wins out in the long run." Meanwhile, the wolves ran about howling disconsolately while Tom sat in the branches of the tree, rubbing his hands and arms to keep warm. He had removed the snowshoes and was just contemplating climbing to the top of the tree to keep his blood circulating, when three figures appeared on the brow of the hill. "As I live, it's the boys," he said to himself. "Go back!" he yelled, waving a red silk muffler. "Climb a tree quickly!" They had seen and heard him, and making for the nearest tree, each shinned up as fast as he could. "Here's a howdy-do," said Tom to himself. "Four boys treed by wolves and night coming on." Yet he swung his legs and whistled thoughtfully, while the others shouted to him, but he could not hear what they said, for the wind was blowing away from him. In the meantime the wolves did not all desert him and he could only wait patiently, with the others, for something to turn up. What did turn up was a good deal of a shock to all of them. Grace, Jessica, Nora and Anne suddenly emerged from the forest, standing out in bold relief on the brow of the hill. The three boys at the top of the hill all jumped to the ground at once. "Run for the trees," cried David, for the wolves had caught the new scent and had started toward them on a dead run. "Crack, crack," went a rifle. Instantly the first wolf staggered and fell backward. How was it that the boys had not noticed before that the girls were not alone? Another shot and a second wolf ran almost into their midst, gave a leap and fell dead. One more dropped; and the sole surviving wolf beat a frenzied retreat. "We found old Jean!" cried Grace. "Wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world? And now nobody is killed and we are all safe and I'm so happy!" She gave the old hunter's arm a squeeze. Old Jean, enveloped in skins from top to toe, smiled good-naturedly. "It was the Bon Dieu, mademoiselle, who have preserve you. Do not t'ank ole Jean. It was the Bon Dieu who put it in ole Jean's haid to set rabbit trap to-night." He would accept neither money nor thanks for shooting the wolves. "I will skin them. It is sufficient." It was not long before eight very tired and very happy young people were seated around Mrs. Gray's dinner table. Grace was a little choky and homesick for her mother, now that all the danger was over, but the week of the house party was almost up, so she concealed her impatience to be home again. The softly shaded candles shed a warm glow over their faces, and the logs crackled on the brass andirons. They looked into each others' eyes and smiled sleepily. Had it all been a dream, their winter picnic, or was old Jean at that very moment really nailing wolf skins to his wall? CHAPTER XXI THE LOST LETTER Spring was well advanced, full of soft airs and the sweet scents of orchards in full bloom. Through the open windows of the schoolroom Grace could hear the pleasant sounds of the out of doors. The tinkle of a cow bell in a distant meadow and the songs of the birds brought to her the nearness of the glorious summer time. She chewed the end of her pencil impatiently, endeavoring to withdraw her attention from the things she liked so much better than Latin grammar and algebra. Examinations were coming, those bugbears of the young freshman, and then vacation. A vision of picnics crossed her mind, of long days spent out of doors, with luncheon under the trees and tramps through the woods. Yet, before all these joys, must come the inevitable final test, the race for the freshman prize. Although, after all, only two would really enter the race, Miriam and Anne. Nobody else would think of competing with these two brilliant students. How tired Anne looked! She had done nothing but study of late. No party had been alluring enough to beguile her from her books. She had even discontinued her work with Mrs. Gray, and early and late toiled at her studies. "She will tire herself out," Grace thought, and made a resolution to take Anne with her on a visit to her grandmother's in the country just as soon as the High School doors were closed for the summer. Miriam was not studying so hard. But then she never did anything hard. She simply seemed to absorb, without taking the trouble to plod. She had been very defiant of late, Grace thought, and more insolent than ever before. She and Miss Leece were "thicker" than was good for Miriam, considering that teacher's peculiar disposition to flatter and spoil her. However, that was none of Grace's business, and certainly Miss Leece had been careful since the sound rating Miss Thompson had given her. Just then the gong broke in upon Grace's reflections. With a sigh of relief she closed her book and strolled with her friends down to their usual meeting place in the locker room. There was but one topic of conversation now, the freshman prize. "Anne," predicted Nora, "you just can't help winning it! I don't believe it's in you to make a mistake. Miss Leece always gives you the hardest problems, too, but she can't stump little Anne." Anne smiled wearily. It was well examinations were to begin in two days. In her secret soul she felt she could not hold out much longer. Moreover, Anne was worried about family affairs. She had received a letter, that morning, which had troubled her so much that she had been on the point, a dozen times, of bursting into tears. However, if she won the prize--not the small one, but the _big_ one--the difficulty would be surmounted. Another worry had crept into her mind. She had lost the letter. A little, wayward breeze had seized it suddenly from her limp fingers and blown it away. She knew the letter was lurking somewhere in a corner of the schoolroom, and she had hoped to find it when the class was dismissed. But the missing paper was nowhere in sight when she had searched for it during recess. Perhaps it had blown out the window, in which case it would be brushed up by the janitress and never thought of again. Not for worlds would Anne have had anyone read that letter. It was during the afternoon session, in the middle of one of the schoolroom recitations, that she caught sight of her letter again. But after the class was dismissed and she had made haste to the corner of the room, where she thought she had seen it under a desk, it was not there. Disappointed and uneasy Anne put on her hat and started home. All afternoon she worried about it. Perhaps it was because she was so tired that she was especially sensitive about the letter being found by some one else. If that some one else should read the contents, she felt it would mean nothing lees than disgrace. "You look exhausted, child," said Anne's sister Mary, who was weary herself, having worked hard all day on a pile of spring sewing Mrs. Gray had ordered. "Why don't you take a walk and not try to do any studying this afternoon?" "I think I will, sister," replied Anne; and, pinning on her hat, she left her small cottage and started toward High School Street. Turning mechanically into the broad avenue shaded by elm trees, she strolled along, half-dreaming and half-waking. She was so weary she felt she might lie down and sleep for twenty years, and like Rip Van Winkle awaken old and gray. It was foolish of her to be so uneasy about that letter. Was it a premonition that compelled her to return to the schoolroom and search again for it? Perhaps the old janitress might have found it. The young girl quickened her pace. She must hurry if she wanted to catch the old woman before the latter closed up for the night. Anne had not thought of looking behind. Her mind, so trained to concentration, was now bent only upon one object. But would it have swerved her from her present purpose, even if she had noticed Miss Leece following her? The High School was still open, although Anne could not find the janitress. Perhaps the old woman was asleep somewhere. On several occasions she had been found sleeping soundly when she should have been brushing out schoolrooms and mopping floors. Anne was determined, however, to give one good, thorough search for her letter and she accordingly mounted to the floor where the freshmen class room was situated and entered the large, empty recitation room. She looked long and carefully under the desks and benches, even going through the scrap baskets, but there was no sign of the letter. Then she went into some of the other class rooms, but her search was unrewarded. "What's the use?" she asked herself at last. "It's sure to have been destroyed. I think I'll just have to give it up, and try to rest a little before to-morrow, or I'll never be fit to try for that prize." As she started down the broad staircase she heard the rasping voice of Miss Leece mingling with the principal's cool, well-modulated tones. Anne paused a moment, watching the two figures below. Miss Leece looked up and caught her eye, but Miss Thompson was engaged in unlocking the door, and did not see the little figure lingering on the steps. Just as the door opened, another door slammed violently, and the next moment Anne heard footsteps running along a small passage that crossed the corridor. Leaning far over the rail she caught a glimpse of a figure. It was--no, Anne could not be certain of the identity. But it looked like--well, never mind whom. Anne meant to keep the secret, for it was evident that the person had been bent on mischief, else why slam a door and run at the approach of Miss Thompson! And now Anne heard the door open again and Miss Thompson's voice calling: "Who is there?" But there was no answer. Deep down in Anne's heart there crept a vague suspicion. CHAPTER XXII DANGER AHEAD MY DEAR GRACE: Will you come and see me at my office after school to-day? I have something very important to discuss. Sincerely yours, EMMA THOMPSON. Grace read the letter over twice. What in the world could Miss Thompson want to discuss with her? Perhaps she had not been doing well enough in her classes. But Grace rejected the idea. She always kept up to the average, and it was only those who fell below who ever received warnings from the principal. Perhaps it was--well, never mind, she would wait and see. As soon as school was over she hurried to the principal's office and tapped on the door. "Well, Grace, my dear," said Miss Thompson, as the young girl entered, "did my note frighten you?" "No, indeed," replied Grace; "I had a clear conscience and I don't expect to fail in exams to-morrow, although I am not so studious as Anne Pierson or Miriam." "Of course you don't expect to fail, my dear," said the principal, kindly, for, of all the girls in the school, Grace was her favorite. "I didn't bring you here to scold you. But I have something very serious to talk about. While I have threshed out the matter with myself, I believe I might do better by talking things over with one of my safest and sanest freshman." "Why, what has happened, Miss Thompson?" asked Grace curiously. "First, let me ask you a few questions," answered the principal. "Tell me something about the competition for the freshman prize. Which girl do you think has the best chance of winning it?" "I know whom I want to win," replied Grace innocently. "Anne, of course, and I believe she will, too. While Miriam is more showy in her recitations, Anne is much more thorough, and she studies a great deal harder. The fact is, I am afraid she is making herself ill with studying. But she is determined to win not the little prize, but the big one, which is more than even Anne can do, I believe. Whoever heard of having every examination paper perfect?" "It has not been done so far," admitted Miss Thompson, "but why is Anne so bent on winning the prize? Is it all for glory, do you think?" "Anne is very poor, you know, Miss Thompson," said Grace simply. "So she is," replied the principal, "and the child needs the money." Miss Thompson paused a moment, looking thoughtfully out over the smooth green lawn. "Grace," she resumed, finally, "I have something very serious to tell you. Two days ago I made a discovery that may change the fate of the freshman prize this year considerably. You know I keep the examination questions here in my desk. That is, the originals. A copy is now at the printers. So, you see, I have only one set of originals. I had occasion to come back to my office quite late the day of the discovery, and, as I let myself in at that door," she pointed to the door leading into the corridor, "what I thought was a gust of wind slammed the door leading into the next room which I usually keep shut and bolted on this side. My desk was open and the freshman examination papers undoubtedly had been tampered with. I could tell because they are usually the last in the pile and they were all on top and quite disarranged. Whoever had been here, had heard my key in the lock, and without waiting to close the desk had fled by the other door. I feel deeply grieved over this matter. I should never think of suspecting any of my fine girls of such trickery; and, yet, who else could it have been except one of the freshmen?" "Oh, Miss Thompson, this is dreadful," exclaimed Grace, distressed and shocked over the story. "I don't believe there's a girl in the class who would have done it. There must be some mistake." "That is why I sent for you, Grace," said the principal. "I want your advice. Now Anne----" "_Anne?_" interrupted Grace horrified. "You don't suppose, for a minute, Anne would be dishonest? Never! I won't stay and listen any longer," and she rushed to the door. Miss Thompson followed, placing a detaining hand on her arm. "You are right, Grace, to be loyal to your friend," said the principal, always just and kind under the most trying circumstances; "but Anne, I must tell you, is under suspicion." "Why?" demanded Grace, almost sobbing in her anger and unhappiness. "The afternoon of the discovery Anne was here long after school hours. She was seen by two people wandering about the building." "Who were the people?" demanded Grace incredulously. "The janitress, who saw her from the window of another room, and--Miss Leece." "I thought so," exclaimed Grace, with a note of triumph in her voice. "It is Miss Leece, is it, who is trumping up all this business? I tell you, I don't believe a word of it, Miss Thompson. Anne would no more do such a thing than I would, and I am going to fight to save her if it takes my last breath. Do you know how hard she has worked to win this prize? Simply all the time. I believe, if she knew what you suspected, it would kill her. I believe it's some tale Miss Leece has made up. And besides, why shouldn't she have come back to the building? Perhaps she forgot a book or something. I'd just like to know what Miss Leece was doing here at that time of day." "She came here to meet me on business," answered Miss Thompson. "That is why she knows something of the unfortunate affair. She was with me when I found my desk had been broken open and the papers disturbed. She also heard the other door slam and it was then she told me of having seen Anne wandering about the building for which, as you say, there might have been a dozen reasons; I believe, as firmly as you do, that the child is incapable of cheating, and I intend to leave no stone unturned to get at the truth. But there is still another fact against Anne that is very black." The speaker took from a drawer a slip of folded paper. "This was found in the building," she continued, "and since it was an open letter, without address and under the circumstances, so important, it was read and the contents reported to me. I have since read it myself and I now ask you to read it." DEAR ANNE: I must have one hundred dollars at once, or go somewhere for a long time. I foolishly signed a friend's name to a slip of paper. I didn't know he would be so hard, but he threatens to prosecute unless I pay up before the end of next week. I know you have rich friends. I have been hearing of your successes. Perhaps the old lady, Mrs. G., will oblige you. I trust to your good sense to see that the hundred must be forthcoming, or it will mean disgrace for us all. Your father, J. P. Grace limply held the letter in one hand. "Oh, poor, poor Anne!" she groaned, wiping away the tears that had welled up into her eyes and were running down her cheeks. "I feel just as you do, my child," went on Miss Thompson. "I am deeply, bitterly sorry for this unfortunate child. But you will agree with me that she has had a very strong motive for winning the prize." Grace nodded mutely. "By the way," she asked presently, when she had calmed herself, "who was it that found the letter?" "Miss Leece again," replied Miss Thompson, hesitatingly. "There, you see," exclaimed Grace excitedly, "that woman is determined to ruin Anne before the close of school. I tell you, I won't believe Anne is guilty. It has taken just this much to make me certain that she is entirely innocent. Is there no clue whatever to the person who copied the papers?" "Yes," answered Miss Thompson, "there is. This had been shoved back in the desk under the papers. It does not belong to me, and it could not have gotten into my desk by any other means. I suppose, in her hurry to copy the freshmen sheets, whoever she was, laid it down and forgot it." Miss Thompson produced a crumpled pocket handkerchief. Grace took it and held it to the light. There were no marks or initials upon it whatever; it was simply a cambric handkerchief with a narrow hemstitched border, a handkerchief such as anyone might use. It was neither large nor small, neither of thin nor thick material. "There's nothing on it," said Grace. "I suppose the stores sell hundreds of these." "That's very true," answered the principal, "but I hoped you would be familiar enough with your friends' handkerchiefs to recognize this one." "No," replied Grace, "I haven't the least idea whose it is. Wait a moment," she added quickly, smelling the handkerchief; "there is a perfume on it of some sort. Did you notice that?" "I did," replied Miss Thompson. "It was one of the first things I did notice. I am very sensitive to perfumes; perhaps because I dislike them on clothing. But I waited for you to find it out for yourself. In fact, my dear, this will be the only means of trapping the person. Now, what perfume is it, and who in the class uses it? I am not familiar with perfumes, but I thought perhaps you were. And now, I will tell you that this is the reason I sent for you. The reason I showed you this letter, which has only been seen by one other person besides myself--Miss Leece, of course. I do not wish to tell anyone else about this matter. I do not care to put the subject before the School Board for discussion. I do not believe, any more than you, that Anne is guilty and I have taken you into my confidence because I believe you are the one person in the world who can help me in this predicament. Miss Leece, of course, intends to do everything in her power to bring the child 'to justice.' But, until I give her permission, she will hardly dare to speak of it. So far, we three are the only people who know what has happened. In the meantime, I shall turn over this handkerchief to you. Keep it carefully and be very guarded about what you do and say. You are a young girl," she continued, taking Grace's hand and gazing full into her honest eyes, "but I have a great respect for your judgment and discretion, and that is the reason I am asking for your help in this very delicate matter. You may rest assured that I shall do nothing whatever; at least, not until after examinations. I have an idea that we may get a clue through them. We must save Anne, whose life would be utterly ruined by such a false accusation as this. And I feel convinced that it is false." "Well, I can tell you one thing, Miss Thompson," returned Grace as she opened the door, "and that is Anne Pierson never used any perfume in her life. She hasn't any to use." Miss Thompson nodded and smiled. "I was sure of that," she called. Grace had little time to lose. The examinations, which took place the next day and the day after, would undoubtedly bring matters to a crisis. She took the handkerchief from her pocket and sniffed at it. Neither was she familiar with perfumes, and this odor was new to her. Suddenly an idea occurred to her and she made straight for the nearest drugstore. "Mr. Gleason," she demanded of the clerk in charge, "could you tell me what perfume this is?" The druggist sniffed thoughtfully at the handkerchief for some seconds. "It's sandalwood," he said at last. "We received some in stock a week ago." CHAPTER XXIII IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT How examinations loom up on the fatal day, like monstrous obstacles that must be overcome! How the hours slip past, with nothing to break the stillness save the scratching of pens on foolscap paper, while each student draws upon the supply of knowledge stored up during the winter months! A fly buzzes on the window pane; a teacher rises, tiptoes slowly about the room and sits down again. She can do nothing, now, but keep watch on the pairs of drooping shoulders and the tired, flushed faces. Anne was so absorbed in her work that she was oblivious to everything about her. Her pen moved with precision over her paper and her copy was neat and clear. It was the second day of the examinations and she felt that her fate would soon be decided; but she was too tired now to worry. She worked on quietly and steadily. She had almost finished, and, as she answered one question after another, she was more and more buoyed up by the conviction that she would win the prize. Miriam had finished her work. Her impatient nature would not permit her to do anything slowly. As she gave a last flourishing stroke with her pen, she leaned back, looking about her. She smiled contemptuously as her eyes rested on Anne. "What a shabby, slow little creature she is!" Miriam murmured. "It would be a disgrace for a girl like me to be beaten by her. I'll never endure it in the world." It was not long before the girls had all finished and turned in their papers to the teacher in charge. "Oh, glorious happy day!" cried Nora, as she sped joyously down the corridor. "Examinations are over, and now for a good time!" A dozen or more of the freshman class had been invited to Miriam's to a tea to celebrate the close of school. Anne, of course, was not invited; but Grace and her friends had received invitations and promptly accepted them. Grace had taken Nora and Jessica into her confidence to some extent. She needed their help, but she had not mentioned the letter from Anne's father. The three girls met early by appointment, at the Harlowe house, to discuss matters before going to Miriam Nesbit's. "Here's a list of the people in Oakdale," said Nora, "who have bought sandalwood perfume. I have been to four drug stores and all the dry goods stores." Grace took the list and read: "'Mrs. I. Rosenfield, Miss Alice Gwendolyn Jones, Mr. Percival Butz, etc.' Good heavens!" she cried, "there's not a single person on this list who has anything to do with Oakdale High School. Mr. Percival Butz," she laughed. "The idea of a man buying perfume. Really, girls," she added in despair, "we've been wasting our time. I can't see that any of us has made the least headway. I have called on almost every freshman in the class and inquired what her favorite perfume is, and I know some of them thought I was silly. Anyway, not one of them claimed to use sandalwood." "The stupidest girls would be the ones who would be most likely to want to copy the papers," observed Jessica, "but those girls are much too nice to believe such horrid things about. I went to see Ellen Wiggins and Sallie Moore yesterday afternoon. Neither of them use perfume. Sallie Moore told me she had an orris root sachet that had almost lost its scent. Which reminds me," she continued, "why couldn't this handkerchief have been scented by some other means than just perfume. Perhaps it was put into a mouchoir case with sandalwood powder." "Why, of course," exclaimed Grace. "Jessica, I never thought of asking who had been buying sachet powders. You have a great head." "Must I go back and ask all those storekeepers for more lists?" demanded Nora. "No, child," replied Grace. "Just give us time to think first." "It's time to go to Miriam's anyhow," observed Jessica. "Perhaps some sort of inspiration will come on the way," and the three girls set out for the tea party. As they paused to admire the beautiful flower beds on the Nesbit lawn Jessica said: "Have you inquired Miriam's favorite perfume?" "Oh, yes," answered Grace. "She said she liked them all and had no favorites." "Why are all these strange young women breaking into my premises?" demanded a voice behind them. "David Nesbit," cried Grace, "where have you been all this time? You never seem to find the time to come near your old friends any more." "I have been busy, girls," replied David. "Never busier in my life. But I believe I've struck it at last. It will not be long, now, before I turn into a bird." "Oh, _do_ show it to us!" cried Grace. "Where is the model?" "In my workroom," he replied. "If you are very good, and will promise to say nothing to the others, I'll give you a peep this afternoon. When I signal to you from the music room, by sounding three bass notes on the piano, start upstairs and I'll meet you on the landing. You may ask why this mystery? But I know girls, and if all those chattering freshmen are allowed to come into my room they are sure to knock over some of the models, or break something, and I couldn't stand it." The three girls entered the large and imposing drawing room where Miriam, in a beautiful pink mulle, trimmed with filmy lace insertions, received them with unusual cordiality; and presently they all repaired to the dining room where ice cream and strawberries were served with little cakes with pink icing. It was, as a matter of fact, a pink tea, and Miriam's cheeks were as pink as her decorations. She looked particularly excited and happy. Each of the three chums had just swallowed her last and largest strawberry, saved as a final relish, when three low notes sounded softly on the piano in the adjoining room. In the hum of conversation nobody had noticed David's signal except Grace and her friends, who strolled into the music room where he was waiting. "Come along," he said, leading the way up the back stairs, "and please consider this as a special mark of attention from the great inventor who has never yet made anything go. Where's Anne?" "I suppose she is resting," answered Grace. "She had just about reached the end of her strength to-day." "But she'll win the prize, I hope," continued David. "We are all sure of it," answered Grace, in emphatic tones. David opened the door into his own private quarters, which consisted of a large workroom with a laboratory attached, where he had once worked on chemical experiments until he had become interested in flying machines. "Here they are," he exclaimed, walking over to a large table in the workroom. "I have three models, you see, and each one works a little better than the other. This last one, I believe, will do the business." He pointed to a graceful little aeroplane made of bamboo sticks and rice paper. "Isn't it sweet?" exclaimed the girls in unison. "And it has a name, too," continued David unabashed. "I've called her 'Anne,' because, while she's such a small, unpretentious-looking little craft, she can soar to such heights. There is not room here to show you how good she is, but we'll have another gymnasium seance some day soon, Anne must come and see her namesake." "There!" cried Grace in a tone of annoyance. "I have jagged a big place in my dress, David Nesbit, on a nail in your table. Why do you have such things about to destroy people's clothes?" "But nobody who wears dresses ever comes in here," protested David, "except mother and the maid, and they know better than to come near this table. Can't I do something? Glue it together or mend it with a piece of sticking plaster?" "No, indeed," answered the girl. "Just get me a needle and thread, please. I don't want to go downstairs with such a hideous rent in my dress." "Why, of course," assented David. "Why didn't I think of it sooner? Mother will fix you up," and he opened the door into the hall and called "mother!" Mrs. Nesbit came hurrying in. She never waited to be called twice by her son, who was the apple of her eye. "My dear Grace," she exclaimed when she saw the tear, "this is too bad. Come right into my room and I'll mend it for you." So it happened that Grace was presently seated in an armchair in Mrs. Nesbit's bedroom, while the good-natured woman whipped together the jagged edges of the rent. "What a beautiful box you have, Mrs. Nesbit," said Grace, pointing to a large carved box on the dressing table. "Do you like it?" replied the other. "I'm fond of it, probably because I was so happy when I bought it years ago while traveling abroad with my husband. It smells as sweet as it did when it was new," she added, placing the box in Grace's lap. Nora and Jessica, who had been hovering about the room, now came over to see the sweet-scented box. How strangely familiar was that pungent perfume which floated up to them. Where had they smelled it before? "It is made of carved sandalwood," continued Mrs. Nesbit, opening the lid, "and I have always kept my handkerchiefs in it, you see----" "Mother!" called David's voice from the hall, and Mrs. Nesbit left the room for a moment. "Sandalwood!" gasped Grace. Yes, it was the same perfume that now faintly scented the famous handkerchief. There was a pile of handkerchiefs in the box. Grace lifted the top one and sniffed at it. She examined the border carefully and the texture. "It looks like stealing," she whispered, "but I must have this handkerchief. I'll return it afterwards," and she slipped the handkerchief into her belt. Nora and Jessica had exchanged significant glances, while Nora's lips had formed the words, "exactly like the other one." In the meantime Miss Thompson had been closeted with Anne Pierson for half an hour in the principal's office. By special request she had arranged to have Anne's examination papers looked over immediately and sent to her. The papers were therefore the first to receive attention from each teacher, and were then turned over to Miss Thompson, who hurried with them into her office and locked the door behind her. "It would be a pity if they were too perfect," she said to herself. "That would tell very much against Anne, I fear." But, as her eyes ran over them, she shook her head dubiously. They were marvels of neatness and not one cross or written comment marred their perfection. At the foot of each sheet the word "perfect" had been written. Some of the teachers had even added notes stating that no errors of any sort had been found, while one professor had paid Anne the very high compliment of stating that the perfection of her examination papers had not been a surprise. Never in that teacher's experience had he taught a more brilliant pupil. Miss Thompson looked with interest at the algebra papers. If this had not come up, she thought, Miss Leece would certainly have managed to find a flaw somewhere, even if she had had to invent one. But under the circumstances, it was more to that wily woman's purpose to give Anne her due. For Miss Leece knew that a perfect examination paper would tell more against the young girl than for her. It was after this that Miss Thompson had her talk with Anne, a very kindly, interested talk, in which the young girl's prospects, her work and health had all come under consideration. And then in the gentlest possible way Miss Thompson had produced the letter. "Is this yours, Anne?" she asked. Anne started violently. "O Miss Thompson," she cried, making a great effort to keep back her tears, "where did you find it? I spent one entire afternoon here looking for it. It was the very day you and Miss Leece were here." "Oh, you saw us then," replied the principal. "And where were you?" "I was outside on the steps," replied Anne. "Didn't Miss Leece mention it? She looked up and saw me just as you unlocked the door. Then the other door slammed and some one hurried down the passage. I saw her, too, but----" "But what, Anne?" asked the principal slowly. "But I am not sure who it was." "Have you an idea?" "I could only guess from the outline of her figure," replied Anne. "And it wouldn't be fair to tell her name unless I had seen her plainly. It might have been some one else." Anne had a suspicion that something had happened, and that Miss Thompson had brought her here to find out what she knew. But she never dreamed that she herself was under suspicion. One thing had struck Miss Thompson very forcibly. Miss Leece had known all along that Anne was on the staircase at the very moment the other person was slamming the door in their faces. And yet Miss Leece was determined to condemn Anne to the faculty that very night. She had said so in as many words, in defiance of the principal's arguments against such a course. "Well, good night, my child," she said at last, giving Anne a motherly kiss. "You have done a good winter's work and I am proud of you." Anne hurried away, clutching the letter in her hand. She wondered if Miss Thompson had read it, and somehow she didn't mind so much after all. The principal seemed to her the very embodiment of all that was good and kind. Miss Thompson was destined to have several callers that afternoon. In a few moments Grace hurried in, breathless and excited. "Look at that, Miss Thompson," cried the girl, thrusting a handkerchief into her hand. "Look at it and smell it." "Well," replied the principal, "I've seen it before and smelled it before, too. Only you've had it washed and ironed, haven't you!" Grace took a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket. "Here's the real one," she cried triumphantly. The two handkerchiefs were certainly identical in shape and material and both were perfumed with sandalwood. "Where did you get this one?" demanded the principal. "From Mrs. Nesbit's sandalwood handkerchief box," whispered Grace slowly. "You think it was then----?" "Yes," replied Grace. "I'm certain of it. It's as plain as daylight. She borrowed her mother's handkerchief." "Dear, dear!" exclaimed the principal. "How very foolish! How very unnecessary! And all because she couldn't endure to be beaten! Do you know," she continued presently, "that Miss Leece intends to denounce Anne before the faculty to-night? My authority can't stop her, and I don't believe the similarity of these two handkerchiefs will either." "Miss Thompson," exclaimed Grace, "I tell you I know perfectly well that woman is going to try to ruin Anne for the sake of Miriam. I have known it for months. Why, at Mrs. Gray's Christmas party she did a thing that is too outrageous to believe," and here Grace opened a bundle she had brought with her and produced the marionette of James Pierson. Miss Thompson was shocked at the recital of the story. She, too, recognized the green silk tie, although she had no recollection of Miriam's red velveteen suit, a piece of which formed the waistcoat. But there was something about that green silk which stuck in the memory. Probably because it was so ugly, having a semi-invisible yellow line running through it. "Yes," she said, "I remember it very well. It was the trimming on a blouse Miss Leece wore last autumn. I do not believe anyone could forget such a hideous piece of material." Miss Thompson paused a moment and considered. "My dear," she continued presently, "I believe this is all I shall need to confront Miss Leece with. Your bringing it to me at this moment shows most excellent judgment. It may prevent a painful scandal in the school, as well as saving Anne from disgrace. As for the two handkerchiefs, the evidence is too slight to make any open accusations; but at any rate you may leave both with me. I may need them in my interview with Miss Leece. I may as well tell you I am anticipating a pretty stiff battle with her. I don't believe I should have won with only the handkerchiefs." "Oh, I hope we can save Anne, Miss Thompson," cried Grace. "I earnestly hope so, too," replied the principal. "It would be too heart breaking to have the child go down under this false accusation; and aside from that, such scandals are bad for the school and I would rather deal with them privately than have them made public. But run along now, dear. You have done nobly and deserve a prize yourself." A knock was heard, and as Grace departed through one door Miss Leece opened the other. "If Miss Thompson only wins this battle!" the young girl exclaimed to herself. "I want to believe she will, but I know that terrible Miss Leece will make a tremendous fight." She joined her friends, who were waiting for her outside. "Girls," she cried, "pray for Anne to-night!" Nora, good little Catholic that she was, went straight to her church and burned two candles before the altar of the Holy Virgin, while she offered up a humble petition for Anne's deliverance; while Grace and Jessica, in their own bedrooms, that night prayed reverently and earnestly that Anne might be saved from her enemies. Thus were Anne's three devoted friends working and praying for her while she slept the sleep of exhaustion. CHAPTER XXIV THE FRESHMAN PRIZE Graduation night in Oakdale High School was one of the great social events of the year. The floor and galleries of Assembly Hall were invariably packed with an enthusiastic audience; for the two schools united at the ceremony of graduation and the senior class formed a mixed company on the stage. Most of the pupils attended commencement and the freshman class of the Girls' High School was always there in full to witness the triumph of one of its members, who was called forth from the audience to receive the usual freshman prize of twenty-five dollars. The identity of the winner was always kept a secret until the great night, when she was summoned from the audience to the stage and presented with the money before the entire assembly. The readers can imagine, therefore, the uncertainty and trepidation that fluttered in the hearts of our four girls as they sat together in the center of the great hall. Anne had passed through a dozen stages of emotions, both hopeful and otherwise, and had finally steeled herself to give up all thought of winning either of the prizes. Miriam, confident and handsome, sat near them. She wore a beautiful white dress trimmed with lace, and her thick, black plaits were twisted around her head like a coronet. "She's all dressed up to step up on the stage and get her twenty-five," whispered Nora to Jessica. "Perhaps she already knows she's going to get it," answered Jessica doubtfully. "Perhaps Miss Leece has told her." "If Miss Leece knew it, she would certainly have told her," answered Grace, leaning over so that Anne could not hear her; "but I feel sure Miss Thompson has managed it somehow, although I kept hoping all day she would send me a note or something. It may be she hated to tell me the bad news." Hippy Wingate and Reddy Brooks came down the aisle in immaculate attire. David followed behind, pale and silent. Did David suspect anything about his sister? Grace wondered. Certainly he had directly or indirectly been the means of balking every one of Miriam's schemes for injuring Anne. Perhaps Miriam had told him she was to win the prize, and he was thinking of Anne's disappointment. All three boys paused when they saw their friends of the Christmas house party. Hippy leaned over to say: "Hello, girls! Can you guess what has brought us here to-night, all dressed up in our best?" "Not unless it was to show off your clothes," replied Nora. "To see Miss Anne Pierson win the freshman prize. Simply that, and nothing more." "But I don't expect to win it, Hippy," protested Anne. "If you don't, you aren't the girl we took you for, then," replied Hippy. "I heard from a young person in your class that you hadn't made a mistake in six months." "But just as many people think Miriam will win," said Anne. "Look at all the people congratulating her already." Surely enough Miriam's friends had rallied around her at the final test, and numbers of girls and boys and grown people, too, were already prophesying victory. Just then the audience composed itself, for the exercises were about to begin. Soft music was heard and the graduates filed out and took their seats. Immediately they were seated, Mrs. Gray, in a beautiful lavender silk gown and a white lace bonnet trimmed with violets, swept down the aisle, bowing and smiling right and left. "Girls!" cried Grace delightedly, looking over her shoulder, "guess who is with our precious little Mrs. Gray?" "Tom Gray!" cried the others in unison, just as Tom Gray himself appeared opposite them and waved his hat, regardless of the many eyes fastened upon him, for Mrs. Gray was an important personage not only at these annual assemblages, but in Oakdale itself, of which she had always been a most generous and loyal citizen. Mrs. Gray nodded cordially when she saw the girls, but shook her head over Anne's pale, drawn little face. As the ceremonies proceeded after the opening prayer, Anne felt herself drifting further and further away. She was a little boat on a troubled, restless sea, with the noise of the waves in her head, and only occasionally did she hear some one's voice reading a graduating essay or making a speech--she couldn't tell which. She remembered there was a piano solo, very loud and crashing, it seemed to her, and there was a tremendous humming sound. The sea was growing very rough, she thought. A storm was brewing somewhere. Then the wind died down again, there was a complete and utter silence and she seemed to be entirely alone. "I have great pleasure in announcing," she dimly heard a voice say, "that the annual freshman prize, so generously donated always by Mrs. Gray, is awarded this year to one of the most brilliant and remarkable pupils who has ever studied in Oakdale High School. My language, in this instance, may appear to be rather extravagant, but the pupil, who has been under the eye of the faculty for many months because of her most excellent standing, has achieved a unique success in the history of the school. I may say that she has turned in a set of examination papers absolutely perfect in every detail, and it is with real delight I announce that she has won not only the usual smaller prize of twenty-five dollars, but the premium always offered at the same time, but never before won by any pupil of this school, of one hundred dollars, for a flawless examination. I would, therefore, ask Miss Anne Pierson to come to the platform, that I may have the honor of delivering both prizes to her." Such a shout as arose after this remarkable speech had never before been heard at a high school graduation. The freshman class was fairly mad with joy, while Hippy and Reddy yelled themselves hoarse. "Anne!" cried Grace. "Wake up, Anne! Are you asleep, child? Go up to the platform. Miss Thompson is waiting for you." Tears of joy and relief were rolling down Grace's cheeks as she urged Anne to rise from her seat. Anne stood up, half dazed, still wondering what it was all about, and made her way through a sea of faces to the platform. "Hurrah!" roared the pupils of the High School in one voice. "Hi-hi-hi! Hi-hi-hi! Oakdale, Oakdale, HIGH SCHOOL!" This was an honor usually accorded only to football and baseball heroes. When Anne reached the platform she appeared so small and plain, in her simple white muslin frock, that people looked at her wonderingly. It was not everyone in Oakdale who was familiar with the little, dark-haired girl. "My dear," said Miss Thompson, very handsome and imposing in a gray silk dress, "I am happy to be the one to hand you these two prizes. You have worked hard and richly deserve them both. I am sure everyone in this house to-night is glad that your winter's unceasing labors are crowned with success, and I now recommend you to take a good rest, for such prizes are only earned by earnest and hard application, and hard work carries with it, sometimes, its own penalty." (She placed special emphasis on these last words.) "You have indeed earned the right to a happy vacation." Two bouquets were handed over the footlights at this point, one a beautiful bunch of pink roses and the other of lilies of the valley. Mrs. Gray had sent the roses Grace felt sure. It was her custom always to send such a bouquet to the one who carried off the prize. But who had sent the lilies of the valley? "Very likely David," Grace said to herself, watching the boy's face as Anne took the flowers from the usher. Had he known then that his sister had lost the prize, or was his faith in Anne so great? But something had happened. Suddenly the waves, which for the last half hour had been roaring and tossing about Anne, seemed to submerge her completely. She felt a horrid sensation of sickness for a moment; and then down, down she sank to the bottom of nothing, carrying her flowers and prizes with her. "She's fainted!" cried some one. "The poor, little, tired girl has fainted!" A tall young graduate picked up the small, limp figure and carried her off the stage as easily as if she had been a child. The closing exercises were then resumed, the benediction pronounced and the audience filed out somewhat silently. Grace and her friends hurried around behind the scenes, where they found Mrs. Gray in the act of placing a smelling-salts bottle to Anne's nostrils, while Tom Gray and David Nesbit were cooling her temples with lumps of ice. "She is conscious at last!" exclaimed the old lady, as Anne opened her eyes. "It was entirely too much excitement for this delicate, worn-out child. Tom, order the carriage. I mean to take her straight to my own house and nurse her myself. I am the only person in this town who has time to give her all the care and attention she needs. I feel like such a lazy, good-for-nothing old woman when I see all these bright young people winning prizes and doing so many clever things." "How you do go on, Mrs. Gray," said David. "You know very well you are the brightest, youngest and prettiest girl in Oakdale." Anne sat up at this moment, and looked into the faces of her best friends leaning over her anxiously. "I thought the boat capsized just as I was about to win the race," she said faintly. "The little boat did capsize, dear," answered Mrs. Gray gently, "but not until after you had won the race. And now, if you are well enough to let this strong nephew of mine carry you, we are going to take you right home. Are all my Christmas children here?" she continued, looking about her. Hippy and Reddy had joined the group just then. "Yes, here you are. Tom and I can't take you all up in the carriage, but I want you to follow us, if your parents and guardians have no objections. I have arranged a little supper to celebrate Anne's victory. I am sorry she can't come to her own party, but she may hear all about it afterwards and the rest of you shall make merry for her." Not long after, six young people strolled up Chapel Hill in the moonlight, talking gayly of the happy days they had spent together with Mrs. Gray; for Richards, the burglar, seemed now a sort of joke to them, and even the terrible recollection of the wolves was softened by time, and they could only laugh at poor Hippy's plight when his breath gave out and his legs refused their office. "Oh, well," exclaimed Hippy, pretending to be much offended, "it is a very good idea to remember only the funny things and forget the dangerous ones, when all's said and done. But if I'd have had a stroke of apoplexy just as that young lady wolf began to lick my heels, you wouldn't have been so merry over the recollection." "Well," retorted Nora, "we would have been just about going into half mourning, by now, and that's always a cheerful thought." "Grace," whispered Jessica, taking advantage of the talk of the others not to be overheard, "did you notice Miriam when Miss Thompson began her speech?" "No," answered Grace, "I was too intent upon Anne to look at Miriam. Why?" "Well," continued Jessica, "you remember that Miss Thompson mentioned no names until almost the very end of the speech!" "Yes," answered the other; "I remember it particularly, because I kept wishing she would hurry and get to the point." "Exactly," went on Jessica, "and Miriam thought she had won the prize." "How do you know, Jessica! How could you tell?" "Oh, in a hundred different ways. I could tell by the smile on her face that she took every compliment to herself. Lots of people were watching her, too, and I couldn't help feeling a little sorry for her, because she is one of those people who just can't stand losing. When Miss Thompson reached the place where she was about to ask Anne to step up and get the prize, Miriam half rose in her seat. Mrs. Nesbit pulled her back in the nick of time. I honestly believe she would have reached the stage before Anne did, if her mother hadn't stopped her. Hippy told me they left before the benediction. I suppose Miriam was not equal to the mortification." "I thought perhaps Miss Thompson would have mentioned her name as coming second in the contest," said Grace. "She usually does, you know. But there were good reasons, and plenty, why she shouldn't this time, I suppose. And to think, Jessica, that Miriam need never have done that dreadful thing. She would probably have passed second in the class anyway, and copying the papers didn't help her one little bit." Mrs. Gray reported Anne to be much better. She had taken some nourishing broth and gone to bed, and she was at that moment sleeping soundly. So there was no cause for anything but good cheer at the supper party. And here let us leave them around Mrs. Gray's hospitable table. For, is it not better to say farewell rejoicing so that no shadows may darken the memory we shall carry with us during the long months of separation? Before Oakdale High School welcomes her children back again, David will sail abroad with his mother and sister; Grace and Anne will set off for the country to visit Grace's grandmother; the others and their families will scatter to various summer resorts, while Mrs. Gray will seek a cool spot in the mountains. However, in the next volume, which will be entitled, "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School; Or, the Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics," we shall again meet the four girls and their friends. This book, the record of the girl chums in athletics, tells of the exciting rivalries of the sophomore and junior basketball teams, culminating in a final hard-fought battle. Again Grace Harlowe distinguishes herself by her bravery and good judgment, and again Miriam Nesbit will do her best to thwart her at every point. And we may learn what Anne Pierson did with the prize money. THE END. * * * * * HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY'S CATALOGUE OF The Best and Least Expensive Books for Real Boys and Girls Really good and new stories for boys and girls are not plentiful. Many stories, too, are so highly improbable as to bring a grin of derision to the young reader's face before he has gone far. The name of ALTEMUS is a distinctive brand on the cover of a book, always ensuring the buyer of having a book that is up-to-date and fine throughout. No buyer of an ALTEMUS book is ever disappointed. Many are the claims made as to the inexpensiveness of books. Go into any bookstore and ask for an Altemus book. Compare the price charged you for Altemus books with the price demanded for other juvenile books. You will at once discover that a given outlay of money will buy more of the ALTEMUS books than of those published by other houses. Every dealer in books carries the ALTEMUS books. Sold by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price Henry Altemus Company 1326-1336 Vine Street, Philadelphia The Motor Boat Club Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. No boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Or, The Secret of Smugglers' Island. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or, The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE; Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog. THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB ON THE GREAT LAKES; Or, The Flying Dutchman of the Big Fresh Water. The Range and Grange Hustlers By FRANK GEE PATCHIN Have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life on great ranches in the West? Any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE RANCH; Or, The Boy Shepherds of the Great Divide. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS' GREATEST ROUND-UP; Or, Pitting Their Wits Against a Packers' Combine. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE PLAINS; Or, Following the Steam Plows Across the Prairie. THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS AT CHICAGO; Or, The Conspiracy of the Wheat Pit. Submarine Boys Series By VICTOR G. DURHAM THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving Torpedo Boat. THE SUBMARINE BOYS' TRIAL TRIP; Or, "Making Good" as Young Experts. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep. THE SUBMARINE BOYS' LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The Young Kings of the Deep. THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam. THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SMUGGLERS; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds. The Square Dollar Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK THE SQUARE DOLLAR BOYS WAKE UP; Or, Fighting the Trolley Franchise Steal. THE SQUARE DOLLAR BOYS SMASH THE RING; Or, In the Lists Against the Crooked Land Deal. The College Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S THIRD YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S FOURTH YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. GRACE HARLOWE'S RETURN TO OVERTON CAMPUS. Dave Darrin Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK DAVE DARRIN AT VERA CRUZ; Or, Fighting With the U. S. Navy in Mexico. Pony Rider Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These tales may be aptly described the best books for boys and girls. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; Or, The Secret of the Lost Claim. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled Riddle of the Plains. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; Or, The Mystery of the Old Custer Trail. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The Secret of Ruby Mountain. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding a Key to the Desert Maze. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN NEW MEXICO; Or, The End of the Silver Trail. THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, The Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch. The Boys of Steel Series By JAMES R. MEARS Each book presents vivid picture of this great industry. Each story is full of adventure and fascination. THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES; Or, Starting at the Bottom of the Shaft. THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN; Or, Heading the Diamond Drill Shift THE IRON BOYS ON THE ORE BOATS; Or, Roughing It on the Great Lakes. THE IRON BOYS IN THE STEEL MILLS; Or, Beginning Anew in the Cinder Pits. The Madge Morton Books By AMY D. V. CHALMERS MADGE MORTON--CAPTAIN OF THE MERRY MAID. MADGE MORTON'S SECRET. MADGE MORTON'S TRUST. MADGE MORTON'S VICTORY. West Point Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The principal characters in these narratives are manly, young Americans whose doings will inspire all boy readers. DICK PRESCOTT'S FIRST YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Two Chums in the Cadet Gray. DICK PRESCOTT'S SECOND YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Finding the Glory of the Soldier's Life. DICK PRESCOTT'S THIRD YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Standing Firm for Flag and Honor. DICK PRESCOTT'S FOURTH YEAR AT WEST POINT; Or, Ready to Drop the Gray for Shoulder Straps. Annapolis Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The Spirit of the new Navy is delightfully and truthfully depicted in these volumes. DAVE DARRIN'S FIRST YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Plebe Midshipmen at the U. S. Naval Academy. DAVE DARRIN'S SECOND YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Two Midshipmen as Naval Academy "Youngsters." DAVE DARRIN'S THIRD YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Leaders of the Second Class Midshipmen. DAVE DARRIN'S FOURTH YEAR AT ANNAPOLIS; Or, Headed for Graduation and the Big Cruise. The Young Engineers Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The heroes of these stories are known to readers of the High School Boys Series. In this new series Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of Dick & Co. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO; Or, At Railroad Building in Earnest. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; Or, Laying Tracks on the "Man-Killer" Quicksand. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA; Or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick. THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers. Boys of the Army Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK These books breathe the life and spirit of the United States Army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS; Or, Two Recruits in the United States Army. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ON FIELD DUTY; Or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS SERGEANTS; Or, Handling Their First Real Commands. UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE PHILIPPINES; Or, Following the Flag Against the Moros. Battleship Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These stories throb with the life of young Americans on to-day's huge drab Dreadnaughts. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS AT SEA; Or, Two Apprentices in Uncle Sam's Navy. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS FIRST STEP UPWARD; Or, Winning Their Grades as Petty Officers. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN FOREIGN SERVICE; Or, Earning New Ratings in European Seas. THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE TROPICS; Or, Upholding the American Flag in a Honduras Revolution. The Meadow-Brook Girls Series By JANET ALDRIDGE Real live stories pulsing with the vibrant atmosphere of outdoor life. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS IN THE HILLS. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS BY THE SEA. THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ON THE TENNIS COURTS. High School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. By H. IRVING HANCOCK This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar school boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. High School Boys' Vacation Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." The Circus Boys Series By EDGAR B. P. DARLINGTON Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. The High School Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. These breezy stories of the American High School Girl take the reader fairly by storm. GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Merry Doings of the Oakdale Freshman Girls. GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics. GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, Fast Friends in the Sororities. GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL; Or, The Parting of the Ways. The Automobile Girls Series By LAURA DENT CRANE No girl's library--no family book-case can be considered at all complete unless it contains these sparkling twentieth-century books. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT NEWPORT; Or, Watching the Summer Parade. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES; Or, The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS ALONG THE HUDSON; Or, Fighting Fire in Sleepy Hollow. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT CHICAGO; Or, Winning Out Against Heavy Odds. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT PALM BEACH; Or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies. THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS AT WASHINGTON; Or, Checkmating the Plots of Foreign Spies. 
15344	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 15344-h.htm or 15344-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/3/4/15344/15344-h/15344-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/5/3/4/15344/15344-h.zip) GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL or The Record of the Girl Chums in Work and Athletics by JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. Author of Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School, etc. Illustrated Philadelphia Henry Altemus Company 1911 [Illustration: "The Sophomores Will Not Submit to Such Impositions." _Frontispiece--High School Girls No. 2._] CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A DECLARATION OF WAR II. THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR III. A GENEROUS APPEAL IV. AN UNFORTUNATE AVIATOR V. ON THE EVE OF BATTLE VI. THE DEEPEST POSSIBLE DISGRACE VII. GATHERING CLOUDS VIII. THE PRICE OF FRIENDSHIP IX. AN UNSUCCESSFUL INTERVIEW X. THE SOPHOMORE BALL XI. A LION AT LAST XII. THE WAYS OF SCHOOLGIRLS XIII. A SKATING PARTY XIV. A BRAVE RESCUE XV. A BELATED REPENTANCE XVI. AN OUNCE OF LOYALTY XVII. BURYING THE HATCHET XVIII. AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR XIX. THE GREAT GAME XX. A PIECE OF NEWS XXI. ANNE AND GRACE COMPARE NOTES XXII. A RESCUE AND A REFORM XXIII. GRACE MEETS A DISTINGUISHED CHARACTER XXIV. COMMENCEMENT CHAPTER I A DECLARATION OF WAR "Anne, you will never learn to do a side vault that way. Let me show you," exclaimed Grace Harlowe. The gymnasium was full of High School girls, and a very busy and interesting picture they made, running, leaping, vaulting, passing the medicine ball and practising on the rings. In one corner a class was in progress, the physical culture instructor calling out her orders like an officer on parade. The four girl chums had grown somewhat taller than when last seen. A rich summer-vacation tan had browned their faces and Nora O'Malley's tip-tilted Irish nose was dotted with freckles. All four were dressed in gymnasium suits of dark blue and across the front of each blouse in letters of sky-blue were the initials "O.H.S.S." which stood for "Oakdale High School Sophomore." They were rather proud of these initials, perhaps because the lettering was still too recent to have lost its novelty. "Never mind," replied Anne Pierson; "I don't believe I shall ever learn, it, but, thank goodness, vaulting isn't entirely necessary to human happiness." "Thank goodness it isn't," observed Jessica, who never really enjoyed gymnasium work. "It is to mine," protested Grace, glowing with exercise and enthusiasm. "If I couldn't do every one of these stunts I should certainly lie awake at night grieving over it." She gave a joyous laugh as she vaulted over the wooden horse as easily and gracefully as an acrobat. "I'd much rather dance," replied Anne. "Ever since Mrs. Gray's Christmas party I've wanted to learn." "Why Anne," replied Grace, "I had forgotten that you don't dance. I'll give you a lesson at once. But you must first learn to waltz, then all other dancing will be easy." "Just watch me while I show you the step," Grace continued. "Now, you try it while I count for you." "One, two, three. One, two, three. That's right. Just keep on practising, until you are sure of yourself; then if Jessica will play for us, I'll waltz with you." "With pleasure," said Jessica, "Anne must learn to waltz. Her education in dancing mustn't be neglected another minute." Anne patiently practised the step while Jessica played a very slow waltz on the piano and Grace counted for Anne. Then the two girls danced together, and under Grace's guidance Anne found waltzing wasn't half as hard as she had imagined it would be. By this time the gymnasium was almost empty. The class in physical culture had been dismissed, and the girls belonging to it had withdrawn to the locker rooms to dress and go home. The four girl chums were practically alone. "I do wish the rest of the basketball team would put in an appearance," said Grace, as she and Anne stopped to rest. "We need every minute we can get for practice. The opening game is so very near, and it's really difficult to get the gymnasium now, for the juniors seem to consider it their especial possession. One would think they had leased it for the season." "They are awfully mean, I think," said Nora O'Malley. "They weren't at all nice to us last year when we were freshmen and they were sophomores. Even the dignity of being juniors doesn't seem to improve them any. They are just as hateful as ever." "Most of the juniors are really nice girls, but it is due to Julia Crosby that they behave so badly," said Jessica Bright thoughtfully, "She leads them, into all kinds of mischief. She is a born trouble-maker." "She is one of the rudest girls I have ever known," remarked Nora with emphasis. "How Miriam Nesbit can tolerate her is more than I can see." "Well," said Grace, "it is hardly a case of toleration. Miriam seems really fond of her." "Hush!" said Anne, who had been silently listening to the conversation. "Here comes the rest of the team, and Miriam is with them." Readers of the preceding volume of this series, "GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL," need no introduction to Grace Harlowe and her girl chums. In that volume was narrated the race for the freshman prize, so generously offered each year by Mrs. Gray, sponsor of the freshman class, and the efforts of Miriam Nesbit aided by the disagreeable teacher of algebra, Miss Leece, to ruin the career of Anne Pierson, the brightest pupil of Oakdale High School. Through the loyalty and cleverness of Grace and her friends, the plot was brought to light and Anne was vindicated. Many and varied were the experiences which fell to the lot of the High School girls. The encounter with an impostor, masquerading as Mrs. Gray's nephew, Tom Gray, the escape from wolves in Upton Woods, and Mrs. Gray's Christmas ball proved exciting additions to the routine of school work. The contest between Grace and Miriam Nesbit for the basketball captaincy, resulting in Grace's subsequent election, was also one of the interesting features of the freshman year. The beginning of the sophomore year found Miriam Nesbit in a most unpleasant frame of mind toward Grace and her friends. The loss of the basketball captaincy had been a severe blow to Miriam's pride, and she could not forgive Grace her popularity. As she walked across the gymnasium followed by the other members of the team, her face wore a sullen expression which deepened as her eyes rested upon Grace, and she nodded very stiffly to the young captain. Grace, fully aware of the coldness of Miriam's salutation, returned it as courteously as though Miriam had been one of her particular friends. Long before this Grace had made up her mind to treat Miriam as though nothing disagreeable had ever happened. There was no use in holding a grudge. "If Miriam once realizes that we are willing to overlook some things which happened last year," Grace had confided to Anne, "perhaps her better self will come to the surface. I am sure she has a better self, only she has never given it a chance to develop." Anne did not feel quite so positive as to the existence of Miriam's better self, but agreed with Grace because she adored her. The entire team having assembled, Grace lost no time in assigning the players to their various positions. "Miriam will you play one of the forwards?" she asked. "Who is going to play center?" queried Miriam ignoring Grace's question. "Why the girls have asked me to play," replied Grace. "If I cannot play center," announced Miriam shrugging her shoulders, "I shall play nothing." A sudden silence fell upon the group of girls, who, amazed at Miriam's rudeness, awaited Grace's answer. Stifling her desire to retort sharply, Grace said? "Why Miriam, I didn't know you felt that way about it. Certainly you may play center if you wish to. I am sure I don't wish to seem selfish." This was too much for Nora O'Malley, who deeply resented Miriam's attitude toward Grace. "We want our captain for center," she said. "Don't we, girls?" "Yes," chorused the girls. It was a humiliating moment for proud Miriam. Grace realized this and felt equally embarrassed at their outspoken preference. Then Miriam said with a contemptuous laugh, "Really, Miss Harlowe, I congratulate you upon your loyal support. It is a good thing to have friends at court. However, it is immaterial to me what position I play, for I am not particularly enthusiastic over basketball. The juniors are sure to win at any rate." A flush mounted to Grace's cheeks at Miriam's insulting words. Controlling her anger, she said quietly: "Very well, I will play center." Then she rapidly named the other players. This last formality having been disposed of, the team lined up for practice. Soon the game was at its height. Miriam in the excitement of the play, forgot her recently avowed indifference toward basketball and went to work with all the skill and activity she possessed. The basketball team, during its infancy in the freshman class had given splendid promise of future fame. Grace felt proud of her players as she stopped for a moment to watch their agile movements and spirited work. Surely, the juniors would have to look out for their laurels this year. Her blood quickened at thought, of the coming contests which were to take place during the course of the winter between the two class teams. There were to be three games that season, and the sophomores had made up their minds to win all of them. What if the junior team were a famous one, and had won victory after victory the year before over all other class teams? The sophomores resolved to be famous, too. In fact, all of Grace's hopes were centered on the coming season. Napoleon himself could not have been more eager for victory. "We must just make up our minds to work, girls," she exhorted her friends. "I would rather beat those juniors than take a trip to Europe." Nor was she alone in her desire. The other girls were just as eager to overthrow the victorious juniors. It was evident, so strong was the feeling in the class, that something more than a sense of sport had stirred them to this degree of rivalry. The former freshman class had many scores against the present juniors. As sophomores, the winter before, they had never missed an opportunity to annoy and irritate the freshmen in a hundred disagreeable ways. "The Black Monks of Asia" still rankled in their memories. Moreover, was not Julia Crosby, the junior captain? She was the same mischievous sophomore who had created so much havoc at the Christmas ball. She was always playing unkind practical jokes on other people. It is true, she was an intimate and close friend of Miriam Nesbit, but they all were aware that Miriam was a law unto herself, and none of them had ever attempted to explain certain doings of hers in connection with Julia Crosby and her friends during the freshman year. Grace's mind was busy with these thoughts when the door of the gymnasium opened noisily. There was a whoop followed by cries and calls and in rushed the junior players, most of them dressed in gymnasium suits. Julia Crosby, at their head, had come with so much force, that she now slid halfway across the room, landing right in the midst of the sophomores. "I beg your pardon," said Grace, who had been almost knocked down by the encounter, "I suppose you did not notice us. But you see, now, that we are in the midst of practising. The gym. is ours for the afternoon." Julia Crosby looked at her insolently and laughed. How irritating that laugh had always been to the rival class of younger girls. It had a dozen different shades of meaning in it--a nasty, condescending contemptuous laugh, Grace thought, and such qualities had no right to be put in a laugh at all, since laughing is meant to show pleasure and nothing else. But Julia Crosby always laughed at the wrong time; especially when there was nothing at which to laugh. "Who said the gym. was yours for the afternoon?" she asked. "Miss Thompson said so," answered Grace. "I asked her, this morning, and she gave us permission, as she did to you last Monday, when the boys were all out at the football grounds." "Have you a written permission?" asked Julia Crosby, laughing again, so disagreeably that hot-headed Nora was obliged to turn away to keep from saying something unworthy of herself. "No," answered Grace, endeavoring to be calm under these trying circumstances, but her voice trembling nevertheless with anger. "No, I have no written permission and you had none last Monday. You know as well as I do that the boys principal is willing to lend us the gym. as often as we like during football season, when it is not much in use; and that Miss Thompson tries to divide the time as evenly as possible among the girls." "I don't know anything about that, Miss Harlowe," said Julia Crosby. "But I do know that you and your team will have to give up the gymnasium at once, because our team is in a hurry to begin practising." Then a great chattering arose. Every sophomore there except Miriam Nesbit raised a protesting voice. Grace held up her hand for silence, then summoning all her dignity she turned to Julia Crosby. "Miss Crosby," she said, "you have evidently made a mistake. We have had permission to use the gymnasium this afternoon, which I feel sure you have not had. It was neither polite nor kind to break in upon us as you did, and the least you can do is to go away quietly without interrupting us further." "Really, Miss Harlowe," said Julia Crosby, and again her tantalizing laugh rang out, "you are entirely too hasty in your supposition. As it happens, I have the best right in the world to bring my team to the gym. this afternoon. So, little folks," looking from one sophomore to another in a way that was fairly maddening, "run away and play somewhere else." "Miss Crosby," cried Grace, now thoroughly angry, "I insist on knowing from whom you received permission. It was not granted by Miss Thompson." "Oh, I did not stop at Miss Thompson's. I went to a higher authority. Mr. Cole, the boys' principal, gave me a written permission. Here it is. Do you care to read it?" and Julia thrust the offending paper before Grace's eyes. This was the last straw. Grace dashed the paper to the floor, and turned with flashing eyes to her tormentor. "Miss Crosby," she said, "if Professor Cole had known that Miss Thompson had given me permission to use the gymnasium, he would never have given you this paper. You obtained it by a trick, which is your usual method of gaining your ends. But I want you to understand that the sophomore class will not tamely submit to such impositions. We evened our score with you as freshmen, and we shall do it again this year as sophomores. Furthermore, we mean to win every basketball game of the series, for we should consider being beaten by the juniors the deepest possible disgrace. I regret that we have agreed to play against an unworthy foe." With her head held high, Grace walked from the gymnasium, followed by the other members of her team, who were too indignant to notice that Miriam had remained behind. CHAPTER II THE WAY OF THE TRANSGRESSOR Once outside the gymnasium, Grace's dignity forsook her, and she felt a wild desire to kick and scream like a small child. The contemptible conduct of the junior team filled her with just rage. With a great effort at self-control she turned to the other girls, who were holding an indignation meeting in the corridor. "Girls," she said, "I know just how you feel about this, and if we had been boys there would have been a hand-to-hand conflict in the gymnasium to-day." "I wish we hadn't given in," said Nora, almost sobbing with anger. "There was really nothing else to do," said Anne. "It is better to retire with dignity than to indulge in a free-for-all fight." "Yes," responded Grace, "it is. But when that insufferable Julia Crosby poked Professor Cole's permit under my nose, I felt like taking her by the shoulders and shaking her. What those juniors need is a good, sound thrashing. That being utterly out of the question, the only thing to do is to whitewash them at basketball." "Three cheers for the valiant sophomores!" cried Nora, "On to victory! Down with juniors!" The cheers were given with a will, and by common consent the crowd of girls moved on down the corridor that led to the locker room. The sophomore locker room was the particular rendezvous of that class in general. Here matters of state were discussed, class gossip retailed, and class friendships cemented. It was in reality a sort of clubroom, and dear to the heart of every girl in the class. To the girls in their present state of mind it seemed the only place to go. They seated themselves on the benches and Grace took the floor. "Attention, fellow citizens and basketball artists," she called. "Do you solemnly promise to exert yourselves to the utmost to repay the juniors for this afternoon's work?" "We do," was the answer. "And will you pledge your sacred honor to whip the juniors, no matter what happens!" "We will," responded the girls. "Anne!" called Grace. "You and Jessica are not players, but you can pledge your loyalty to the team anyhow. I want you to be in this, too. Hold up your right hands." "We will be loyal," said both girls, holding up their right hands, laughing meanwhile at Grace's serious expression. "Now," said Grace, "I feel better. As long as we can't get the actual practice this afternoon let's lay out a course of action at any rate, and arrange our secret signals." "Done," cried the girls, and soon they were deep in the mysteries of secret plays and signs. Grace explained the game to Anne, who did not incline towards athletics, and had had little previous opportunity to enjoy them. Anne, eager to learn for Grace's sake, became interested on her own account, and soon mastered the main points of the game. "Here is a list of the secret signals, Anne," said Grace. "Study it carefully and learn it by heart, then you will understand every move our team makes during the coming games. I expect you to become an enthusiastic fan." Anne thanked her, and put the paper in her purse, little dreaming how much unhappiness that same paper was to cause her. The business of the afternoon having been disposed of, the girls donned street clothing and left the building, schoolgirl fashion, in groups of twos and threes. On the way out they encountered several of the victorious juniors, who managed to make their presence felt. "Oh," said Nora O'Malley, "those girls ought to be suppressed." "Never mind," put in Anne. "You know 'the way of the transgressor is hard.' Perhaps those juniors will get what they deserve yet." "Not much danger of it. They're too tricky," said Jessica contemptuously. Anne's prophecy was to be fulfilled, however, in a most unexpected manner. There had been one unnoticed spectator of the recent quarrel between the two classes. This was the teacher of physical culture, Miss Kane, who had returned to the gymnasium for a moment, arriving just in time to witness the whole scene. She, too, had had trouble at various times with the junior class, particularly Julia Crosby, who invariably tried her patience severely. She had been heard to pronounce them the most unruly class she had ever attempted to instruct. Therefore her sympathies were with the retreating sophomores, and with set lips and righteous indignation in her eye, she resolved to lay the matter before Miss Thompson, at the earliest opportunity. Miss Thompson listened the next day with considerable surprise to Miss Kane's account of the affair. No one knew the mischievous tendencies of the juniors better than did the principal. Ordinary mischief she could forgive, but this was overstepping all bounds. She had given the sophomore class permission to use the gymnasium for the afternoon, and no other class had the least right to take the matter over her head. She knew that Professor Cole was entirely innocent of the deception practised upon him, so she resolved to say nothing to him, but deal with the junior team as she deemed best. One thing was certain, they should receive their just deserts. Miss Thompson's face, usually calm and serene, wore an expression of great sternness as she faced the assembled classes in the study-hall the following morning. The girls looked apprehensively at each other, wondering what was about to happen. When their beloved principal looked like that, there was trouble brewing for some one. Miss Thompson, though a strict disciplinarian, was seldom angry. She was both patient and reasonable in her dealings with the pupils under her supervision, and had their utmost confidence and respect. To incur her displeasure one must commit a serious offense. Each girl searched her mind for possible delinquencies There was absolute silence in the great room. Then the principal spoke: "I must ask the undivided attention of every girl in this room, as what I am about to say relates in a measure to all of you. "There are four classes, representing four divisions of high school work, assembled here this morning. Each one must be passed through before the desired goal--graduation--is reached. "The standard of each class from freshmen to seniors, should be honor. I have been very proud of my girls because I believed that they would be able to live up to that standard. However it seems that some of them have yet to learn the meaning of the word." Miss Thompson paused. Nora cast a significant look toward Jessica, who sat directly opposite her, while Julia Crosby fidgeted nervously in her seat, and felt suddenly ill at ease. "Good-natured rivalry between classes," continued Miss Thompson, "has always been encouraged, but ill-natured trickery is to be deplored. A matter has come to my ears which makes it necessary for me to put down with an iron hand anything resembling such an evil. "You are all aware that I have been very willing to grant the use of the gymnasium to the various teams for basketball practice, and have tried to divide up the time as evenly as possible. Two days ago I gave the members of the sophomore team permission to use the gymnasium for practice. No other team had any right whatever to disturb them, yet I understand that another team did commit that breach of class etiquette, drove the rightful possessors from the room and occupied it for the remainder of the afternoon. The report brought to me says that the young women of the sophomore team conducted themselves with dignity during a most trying situation." Miss Thompson turned suddenly toward the junior section. "The members of the junior basketball team will please rise," she said sternly. There was a subdued murmur throughout the section, then one after another, with the exception of Julia Crosby, the girls rose. "Miss Crosby," said the principal in a tone that brooked no delay, "rise at once! I expect instant obedience from every pupil in this school." Julia sulkily rose to her feet. "Miss Crosby," continued Miss Thompson, "are you not the captain of the junior team?" "Yes," answered Julia defiantly. "Did you go to Professor Cole for permission to use the gymnasium last Thursday?" "Yes." "Why did you not come to me?" Julia hung her head and made no reply. "I will tell you the reason, Miss Crosby," said the principal. "You already knew that permission had been granted the sophomore team, did you not?" "Yes," said Julia very faintly. "Very well. You are guilty of two serious misdemeanors. You purposely misrepresented matters to Professor Cole and deliberately put aside my authority; not to mention the unwomanly way in which you behaved toward the sophomore team. Every girl who aided and abetted you in this is equally guilty. Therefore you will all learn and recite to me an extra page in history every day for two weeks. The use of the gymnasium will be prohibited you for the same length of time, and if such a thing ever again occurs, the culprits will be suspended without delay. You may be seated." The dazed juniors sank limply into their seats. The tables had been turned upon them with a vengeance. A page of history a day was bad enough, but the loss of the gymnasium privilege was worse. The opening game was only two weeks off, and they needed practice. Julia Crosby put her head down on her desk and wept tears of rage and mortification. The rest of the girls looked ready to cry, too. The first bell for classes sounded and the girls picked up their books. At the second bell they filed out through the corridor to their various recitation rooms. As Grace, who had stopped to look for a lost pencil, hurried toward the geometry classroom, she passed Julia Crosby, who was moping along, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. Julia cast an angry glance at Grace, and hissed, "tale-bearer." Grace, inwardly smarting at the unjust accusation walked on without answering. "What did I tell you about the way of the transgressor?" said Anne to Grace, as they walked home from school that day. "It certainly is hard enough this time," said Grace. "But," she added, as she thought of Julia Crosby's recent accusation, "the way of the righteous isn't always easy." CHAPTER III A GENEROUS APPEAL The juniors themselves hardly felt the weight of their punishment more than did Grace Harlowe. Her heart was set on winning every basketball game of the series. But she wished to win fairly and honestly. Now, that the juniors had been forbidden the use of the gymnasium, the sophomores might practise there to their heart's content. But was that fair? To be sure the juniors had deserved their punishment, but what kind of basketball could they play after having had no practice for two weeks? Besides, Julia Crosby blamed her for telling what had occurred in the gymnasium. She had gone to Julia, earnestly avowing innocence, but Julia had only laughed at her and refused to listen. All this passed rapidly through Grace's mind as she walked toward the High School several mornings later. Something must be done, but what she hardly knew. The game could be postponed, but Grace felt that the other girls would not care to postpone it. They were heartily glad that the junior team had come to grief, and showed no sympathy for them. "There's just one thing to be done," sighed Grace to herself. "And that's to go to Miss Thompson and ask her to restore the juniors their privilege. I hate to do it, she was so angry with them. But I'll do what I can, anyway. Here goes." Miss Thompson was in her office when Grace entered rather timidly, seating herself on the oak settee until the principal should find time to talk to talk with her. "Well, Grace, what can I do for you?" said Miss Thompson, looking up smilingly at the young girl. "You look as though you carried the cares of the world upon your shoulders this morning." "Not quite all of them, but I have a few especial ones that are bothering me," replied Grace. Then after a moment's hesitation she said, "Miss Thompson, won't you, please, restore the juniors their gymnasium privilege?" Miss Thompson regarded Grace searchingly. "What a peculiar request to make, Grace. Don't you consider the juniors' punishment a just one?" "Yes," said Grace earnestly, "I do. But this is the whole trouble. The first basketball game between the juniors and the sophomores is scheduled to take place in less than two weeks. If the juniors do not practise they will play badly, and we shall beat them. We hope to win, at any rate, but we want to feel that they have had the same chances that we have had. If they do fail, they will say that it was because they had no opportunity for practice. That will take all the sweetness out of the victory for us." "I think I see," said Miss Thompson, smiling a little. "It is a case of the innocent suffering with the guilty, isn't it? Personally, I hardly feel like restoring these bad children to favor, as they sadly needed a lesson; but since you take the matter so seriously to heart; I suppose I must say 'yes.'" "Thank you so much, dear Miss Thompson," said Grace with shining eyes, "and now I want to ask one more favor. Julia Crosby believes that I reported her to you that day. Of course you know that I did not. Will you please tell her so? Her accusation has made me very unhappy." Miss Thompson looked a trifle stern. "Yes, Grace," she said, "I will attend to that, too." Grace turned to go, but Miss Thompson said. "Wait a moment, Grace, I will send for Miss Crosby." Julia Crosby heard the summons with dismay. She wondered what Miss Thompson could have to say to her. The principal's reprimand had been so severe that even mischievous Julia felt obliged to go softly. Another performance like the last might cut short her High School career. So she let the sophomores severely alone. She was, therefore, surprised on entering the office to meet Grace Harlowe face to face. "Miss Crosby," said Miss Thompson coldly, "Miss Harlowe has just asked me to restore the junior team their gymnasium privilege. Had any other girl asked this favor I should have refused her. But Miss Harlowe, in spite of the shabby way in which she has been treated, is generous enough to overlook the past, and begs that you be given another chance. It is only for her sake that I grant it. "Also, Miss Crosby, I received no information from Miss Harlowe or any of her team regarding your recent rude conduct in the gymnasium. The report came from an entirely different source. You may go; but first you may apologize to Miss Harlowe, and thank her for what she has done." With a very poor grace, Julia mumbled a few words of apology and thanks and hurried from the room. The principal looked after her and shook her head, then turning to Grace, she asked, "Well, Grace, are you satisfied?" Grace thanked her again, and with a light heart sped towards the study hall. Once more she could look forward to the coming game with pleasant anticipations. Julia Crosby had already informed the junior players of the rise in their fallen fortunes. When school was over they gathered about their leader to hear the story. Now, Julia, if possible felt more bitter toward Grace than formerly. It galled her to be compelled to accept anything from Grace's hands, and she did not intend to let any more of the truth be known than she could help. This was too good an opportunity to gain popularity to let slip through her fingers So she put on a mysterious expression and said: "Now, see here, girls, I got you into all that trouble, and I made up my mind to get you out again. Just go ahead and practise for all your worth, and don't worry about how it all happened." "Well," said Alice Waite, "it was awfully brave of you to go to Miss Thompson, even if you are too modest to tell of it. Wasn't it, girls?" "Yes," chorused the team. "Three cheers for our brave captain." Julia, fairly dazzled at her own popularity, smiled a smile of intense satisfaction. She had produced exactly the impression that she wished. "What on earth are those juniors making such a fuss about?" inquired Nora O'Malley, as the four chums strolled across the campus toward the gate. The junior team, headed by Julia, was coming down the walk talking at the top of their voices. "Nothing of any importance, you may be sure," said Jessica Bright. "'Shallow brooks babble loudest,' you know." "They seem to be 'babbling' over Julia Crosby just now," said Anne, who had been curiously watching the jubilant juniors. "No doubt she has just unfolded some new scheme," said Nora sarcastically, "that will be practised on the sophomores at the first opportunity." "Doesn't it seem strange," said Grace, who had hitherto offered no comments, "that we must always be at sixes and sevens with the juniors? Such a spirit never existed between classes before. I wonder how it will all end?" "Don't worry your dear head over those girls, Grace," said Anne, patting Grace's hand. "They aren't worth it." "Oh, look girls!" exclaimed Nora suddenly. "There is David Nesbit, and he is coming this way. I haven't seen him for an age." "Good afternoon, girls," said David, lifting his cap. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you." "Why, David," said Grace, "you are quite a stranger. Where have you been keeping yourself?" Anne also looked her pleasure at seeing her old friend. "I have been very, very busy with some important business of my own," said David in a mock-pompous tone. Then he announced: "I am going to give a party and I am going to invite all of you. Will you come?" "We will!" cried Nora. "Dressed in our costliest raiment, at that." "Never mind about the fine clothes," said David, laughing. "This is to be a plain, every-day affair." "Who else is invited, David?" asked Jessica. "Only one other girl beside yourselves has had the honor of receiving an invitation." "Miriam?" queried Grace, unable to conceal a shade of disappointment in her tone. "No, no; not Miriam," answered Miriam's brother. Grace looked relieved. If Miriam joined the party, something unpleasant was sure to happen. Miriam treasured a spite against Anne for winning the freshman prize, and never treated her with civility when they chanced to meet. Grace knew, too, that Miriam's attitude toward her was equally hostile. She wondered if David knew all these things about his sister. Whatever he did know of Miriam and her deep-laid plans and schemes, he divulged to no one. None of the girls had ever heard him say a word against his sister; although they felt that he deeply disapproved of her jealousy and false pride. "You haven't guessed her name yet," smiled David. "She is one of my best friends, girls. She has been my sweetheart ever since I was a young man of five. She's one of the prettiest girls in Oakdale, she's sixty years young, and her name is----" "Dear Mrs. Gray, of course!" exclaimed Grace delightedly. "And has she accepted your invitation?" asked Anne. "She has," replied David, "and will come in her coach and four, or rather her carriage and two. You ordinary mortals will be obliged to walk, I fear." "But why does she use her 'coach and four,' When she lives in the palace just next door?" rhymed Nora. "Very good, my child," commented David. "However, what I was about to say was this: My party is not to be in a house. It is an open-air party. We are to meet at the Omnibus House, to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock. Two very distinguished gentlemen have also been invited--Mr. Reddy Brooks and Mr. Hippy Wingate." A shout of laughter went up from the girls "Distinguished, indeed," cried Nora. "It will be a delightful party I am sure." "Shall we bring food for Hippy!" "No," laughed David. "Let him eat the apples he finds on the ground. If we feed him on every festive occasion he will soon be too fat to walk, and we shall have to roll him about on casters." "What a terrible fate," said Anne smiling. "Well, girls? do you promise to attend?" "Yes? indeed!" cried the four girls. "Be sure not to surprise us with a disappointment." "The main thing is not to disappoint you with the surprise," were his parting words. "If all boys were as nice as David the world would be a better place!" exclaimed Grace. "I suppose you can guess what the object of this party is." "Never mind, don't mention it," said Jessica in a low tone. "Here come some other girls, and if they knew what we know, there would be a multitude instead of a select, private party at the Omnibus House to-morrow." CHAPTER IV AN UNFORTUNATE AVIATOR It was an unusual entertainment that David had provided for his little circle of intimate friends in the old orchard surrounding the Omnibus House. There was a look of intense excitement in his eyes, as he stood awaiting his guests, the following afternoon. Mrs. Gray had already arrived, and, leaving her carriage to wait for her near the entrance, now stood by David and helped him receive. "It's good to see all my children together again," she exclaimed, giving Anne a gentle hug; for ever since her Christmas house party she had acquired a sort of proprietary feeling toward these young people. "I only wish Tom Gray were to be with us to-day. I should like him to have a share in the surprise; for you may be sure there is to be a surprise. David would never have asked us to this lonely place for nothing." "David is a good old reliable, Mrs. Gray," cried Hippy. "Certainly if I had imagined for a moment that he would disappoint us, I never should have dragged my slight frame all this distance." "Good, loyal old Hippy," replied David. "The surprise is ready, but even if it had not been, there is no exercise so beneficial to stout people as walking." "Well, bring it on, bring it on," exclaimed Reddy. "We are waiting patiently." "Curb your impatience, Sorrel Top," said David. "Just follow me, and see what I have to show you." They helped little Mrs. Gray, who was nimble in spite of her years, through a broken gap in the wall of the Omnibus House. The old ruin was more picturesque than, ever in its cloak of five-leafed ivy which the autumn had touched with red and gold. A lean-to had been built against the back wall of the building, fitted with a stout door on the inside and a pair of doors on the outside. "I rented this plot of land from the farmer who owns the orchard," explained David, taking a key from his pocket and opening the door in the stone wall. "This was about the best place I could think of for experiments, partly because it's such a lonesome place, and partly because there is a clear open space of several hundred yards back here without a tree or bush on it." It was dark inside until he had opened the double doors in the opposite wall, when the slanting light showed them an aëroplane; not a little gymnasium model this time, but a full-fledged flying machine, a trim and graceful object, even at close view. "David," cried Anne joyously, "you don't mean to say you've gone and done it at last?" "I have," answered David gravely; "and I've made two trips with pretty good success each time." Then everyone talked at once. David was the hero of the hour. "David, my dear boy," cried Mrs. Gray. "To think that I should live to see you an aviator!" "I'm a long way from being one, yet, Mrs. Gray," answered David. "My bird doesn't always care to fly. There are times when she'd rather stay in her nest with her wings folded. Of course, I haven't nearly perfected her yet, so I don't want it mentioned in town until I get things in shape. But I couldn't wait until then to show it to you, my dear friends, because you were all interested in it last year." "Well, well, come on and fly," cried Hippy. "My heart is palpitating so with excitement that I am afraid it will beat once too often if something doesn't happen." "I was waiting for my helper," answered David, "but he appears to be late. You boys will do as well." "Who is your helper, David?" asked Anne. "You could never guess," he replied smiling, "so I'll have to tell you. It's old Jean, the hunter." "Why, the dear old thing!" cried Grace. "To think of him leaving his uncivilized state to do anything so utterly civilized and modern as to help with a flying machine." "And he does it well, too," went on David. "He is not only thoroughly interested but he keeps guard out here in case any one should try to break in. There are his cot and things in the corner. He sleeps in the open unless it rains. Then he sleeps inside." As the old hunter did not put in an appearance David decided to wait no longer. "Why can't we all help?" asked Grace. "What must we do? Please tell us." "All right," answered David, "just give it a shove into the open space, and you'll see how she gradually rises for a flight." After making a careful examination of all the parts of the aëroplane, and starting the engine, David took his seat in the machine. Then the two boys, assisted by Grace and Nora, pushed it swiftly out into the broad open space back of the ruin. Suddenly the machine began to rise. Slowly, at first, then seeming to gather strength and confidence like a young bird that has learned to fly at last, it soared over the apple trees. David, white, but very calm, quietly worked the levers that operated the little engine. When he had risen about a hundred feet, he began to dip and soar around the orchard in circles. He appeared to have forgotten his friends, watching anxiously below. He did not notice that little Mrs. Gray's knees had suddenly refused to support her, nor that she had sat flat on the ground in a state of utter bewilderment at the sight of his sudden flight. David looked far across at the beautiful rolling meadows, and fields dotted with farmhouses and cottages. How he loved the fertile valley, with its little river winding in and out between green banks! It was all so beautiful, but it was time to descend. He must not give his pet too much liberty, or he might rue his indiscretion. He headed his machine for the open space back of the Omnibus House, and began the descent. Then, something snapped, and he fell. He remembered as he fell the look of horror on the up-raised faces of his friends, and then everything became a blank. It all happened in a flash, much too quickly to do anything but stand and wait until the aëroplane had crashed to the ground, but it seemed much longer, and Anne remembered later that she had felt a curious impulse to run away and hide. If David were to meet his death through this new toy, she could not endure to stay and see it happen. But David was far from dead. He was only stunned and dizzy from the swift descent. He had not been high enough from the ground when the accident occurred to sustain serious injuries. They lifted him from the machine and laid him upon the grass, while Reddy ran to the brook and brought back his cap filled with water. Mrs. Gray produced her smelling salts which she always carried with her. "Not for my own use, my dears," she always said, "but for the benefit of other people." Reddy loosened David's collar and dashed the water into his face; while Hippy chafed the unconscious boy's wrists. Presently David opened his eyes, looking vaguely about. He had a confused idea that something had happened to him, but just what it was he could not think. He looked up into the anxious faces of his friends who stood around him. Then he remembered. "I'm not hurt," he said in a rather weak voice. Then he sat up and smiled feebly at the company. "I just had the wind knocked out of me. I am sure no bones are broken. How about my pet bird? Has she smashed her little ribs?" "No, old fellow," exclaimed Hippy in a reassuring tone, for Hippy had never been able to endure the sight of suffering or disappointment. "Her wings are a good deal battered, that's all. But are you all right, old man?" he added, feeling David's arms and legs, and even putting an ear over his heart. "It's still beating, you foolish, old fat-head," said David, patting his friend affectionately on the back. In the meantime Anne had helped Mrs. Gray to her feet. "I declare, I feel as though I had dropped from the clouds myself," said the old lady, wiping her eyes. "I am so stunned and bewildered. David, my dear boy, if you had been seriously hurt I should never have forgiven myself for allowing you to fly off like that. What would your poor mother say if she knew what had happened?" "It won't be necessary to break the news to her, Mrs. Gray," said David. "I shall be as good as new inside of a few minutes. It's my poor little bird here who has received the injuries. Look at her poor battered wings! I think I know just what caused my sudden descent though, and I'll take care it doesn't happen again." David then began a minute examination of his damaged pet, and soon located the trouble. His friends listened, deeply interested, as he explained the principles of aviation, and showed them how he had carried out his own ideas in constructing his aëroplane. Grace, who had a taste for mechanics, asked all sorts of questions, until Hippy asked her if she intended building an aëroplane of her own. "I may," replied Grace, laughing. "You know that girls have as much chance at the big things of the world to-day, as boys." "Well, if you do, let me know," responded Hippy, "and I'll write an epic poem about you that will make the world sit up and take notice." "Then I am assured of fame beforehand," laughed Grace. "Look!" said Nora suddenly. "Who are those people coming across the orchard? Doesn't that look like Julia Crosby and some of her crowd?" "Yes," exclaimed Grace, "it is, and Miriam is with them." "Then help me get my aëroplane into the shed quickly," exclaimed David. "You know that the Crosby girl is not a favorite with me." Then he added half to himself, "I don't see why Miriam insists on going around with her so much." The boys lost no time in getting the aëroplane into the house, David slammed the doors, and triumphantly turned the key in the lock just as Miriam and her party came up. With a quick glance Miriam's eyes took in the situation. She bowed courteously to Mrs. Gray, whom she dared not slight; included Grace, Nora and Jessica in a cool little nod, and stared straight past Anne. Then turning to her brother she said, "David, show Miss Crosby and her friends your aëroplane, they wish to see it." A look of grim determination settled about David's mouth. Looking his sister squarely in the face, he said, "I am sorry to seem disobliging but I cannot show your friends my aëroplane and I am surprised to find that they know I have one." Miriam reddened at this, but said insolently, "If you can invite other people to see it, you can show it to us." There was an uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Gray looked surprised and annoyed. The peaceful old lady, disliked scenes of any kind. Grace and her chums, knowing that Miriam was only making herself ridiculous, felt embarrassed for her. Then Julia Crosby laughed in her tantalizing irritating way. That settled the matter as far as David was concerned. "You are right," he said, "I could show my flying machine to you and your friends if I cared to do so. However, I don't care to. Knowing that I wished my experiment to be kept a secret, you came here with the one idea of being disagreeable, and you have succeeded. I am sorry to be so rude to my own sister, but occasionally the brutal truth is a good thing for you to hear, Miriam." Miriam was speechless with anger, but before she could frame a reply, Mrs. Gray said soothingly "Children, children don't quarrel. David, it is getting late. We had better go. I suppose it is of no use to ask any of you athletic young folks to ride back to town." With a little bow to Miriam and her discomfited party, Mrs. Gray turned toward where her carriage awaited her, followed by David and his friends. After bidding her good-bye, the young people took the road to town. For David's sake all mention of the recent unpleasantness was tacitly avoided, though it was uppermost in each one's mind. "I have one thing to be thankful for," said Grace to Anne, as she turned in at her own gate, "and that is that Miriam Nesbit isn't my sister." As for Miriam, her feelings can be better imagined than described. She sulked and pouted the whole way home, vowing to get even with David for daring to cross her. Julia Crosby grew rather tired of Miriam's tirade, and left her with the parting advice that she had better forget it. When Miriam reached home she immediately asked if David had come in. Receiving an affirmative reply, she went from room to room looking for him, and finally found him in the library. He was busy with a book on aviation. She snatched the book from him, threw it across the room and expressed her opinion of himself and his friends in very plain terms. Without a word David picked up his book and walked out of the library, leaving her in full possession of the field. CHAPTER V ON THE EVE OF BATTLE But little time remained before the first basketball game of the series between the sophomores and juniors. Both teams had been untiring in their practice. There had been no further altercations between them as to the use of the gymnasium, for the juniors, fearing the wrath of Miss Thompson, were more circumspect in their behavior, and let the sophomore team strictly alone. "They are liable to break out at any time, you can trust them just as far as you can see them and no farther, and that's the truth," cried Nora O'Malley. The sophomore players were standing in the corridor outside the gymnasium awaiting the pleasure of the juniors, whose practice time was up. "They are supposed to be out of here at four o'clock," continued Nora, "and it's fifteen minutes past four now. They are loitering on purpose They don't dare to do mean things openly since Miss Thompson lectured them so, but they make up for it by being aggravating." "Never mind, Nora," said Grace, smiling at Nora's outburst. "We'll whip them off the face of the earth next Saturday." "Well, I hope so," said Nora, "I am sure we are better players." "What outrageous conceit," said Jessica, and the four girls laughed merrily. "By the way, Grace," said Anne, "I want to ask you something about that list you gave me. I don't quite understand what one of those signals means." "Trot it out," said Grace. "I'll have time to tell you about it before the practice actually begins." Anne took out her purse and began searching for the list. It was not to be found. "Why, how strange," she said. "I was looking at it this morning on the way to school. I wonder if I have lost it. That would be dreadful." She turned her purse upside down, shaking it energetically, but no list fell out. "Oh, never mind," said Grace, seeing Anne's distress. "It's of no consequence. No one will ever find it anyway. Suppose it were found, who would know what it meant?" "Yes, but one would know," persisted Anne, "because I wrote 'Sophomore basketball signals' on the outside of it. Oh, dear, I don't see how I could have been so careless." "Poor little Anne," said Jessica, "she is always worried over something or other." "Now see here, Anne," said Grace, "just because you lost a letter last term and had trouble over it, don't begin to mourn over those old signals. No one will ever see them, and perhaps you haven't lost them. Maybe you'll find them at home." "Perhaps I shall," said Anne brightening. "Now smile Anne," said Nora, "and forget your troubles. There is no use in crossing bridges before you come to them." This homely old saying seemed to console Anne, and soon she was eagerly watching the work of the team, her brief anxiety forgotten. That night she searched her room, and the next day gave her desk in school a thorough overhauling, but the list of signals remained missing. The sophomore players with their substitute team met that afternoon in the gymnasium. It was their last opportunity for practice. Saturday they would rise to victory or go down in ignominious defeat. The latter seemed to them impossible. They had practised faithfully, and Grace had been so earnest in her efforts to perfect their playing that they were completely under her control and moved like clockwork. There was no weak spot in the team. Every point had been diligently worked over and mastered. They had played several games with the freshmen and had won every time, so Grace was fairly confident of their success. "Oh, girls," she cried, wringing her hands in her earnestness, "don't make any mistakes. Keep your heads, all of you. I am convinced we are better players than the juniors, even if they did get the pennant last year. For one thing I don't think they work together as well as we do, and that's really the main thing. Miriam, you missed practice yesterday. You are going to stay to-day, aren't you?" Miriam nodded without replying. She was busy with her own thoughts. She wished she could hit upon some way to humiliate Grace Harlowe. But what could she do? That was the question. The members of the team adored their gray-eyed, independent young captain, therefore she would have to be very careful. She had been steadily losing ground with her class on account of her constant association with the juniors, and the slightest misstep on her part would jeopardize her place on the team. She had a genuine love for the game, and since she couldn't play on the junior team, she concluded it would be just as well not to lose her place with the sophomores. In her heart she cared nothing for her class. She had tried to be their leader, and Grace had supplanted her, but now Grace should pay for it. All this passed through Miriam's mind as she covertly watched Grace, who was reassuring Anne for the fiftieth time, not to worry over the lost signals. "Don't tell any one about it," she whispered to Anne. "You may find them yet." Anne shook her head sorrowfully. She felt in some way that those signals were bound to make trouble for her. "By the way, girls," said Grace, addressing the team, "has any one any objection to Anne and Jessica staying to see the practice game? They have seen all our work and are now anxious to see the practice game. They know all the points, but they want to see how the new signal code works." "Of course not," answered the girls. "We won't turn Oakdale's star pupil out of the gym. Anne shall be our mascot. As for Jessica, she is a matter of course." "I object," said Miriam. "I object seriously." "Object?" repeated Grace, turning in amazement to Miriam. "Why?" "You know that it is against all basketball rules to allow any one in the gymnasium during practice except the regular team and the subs. If we follow our rules then we shall be certain that nothing we do reaches the ears of the juniors. We have always made an exception of Jessica, but I don't think we should allow any one else here." "And do you think that Anne Pierson would carry information?" exclaimed Grace sharply. "Really, Miriam, you are provoking enough to try the patience of a saint. Just as if Anne, who is the soul of honor, would do such a thing." An indignant murmur arose from the girls. They were all prepared to like little Anne, although they did not know her very well. "How can you say such things, Miriam?" cried Nora. "I didn't say she would," said Miriam rather alarmed at the storm she had raised. "But I do think it is better to be careful. However, have it your own way. But if we lose the game----" She paused. Her judgment told her she had said enough. If anything did happen, the blame would fall on Grace's shoulders. Anne, deeply hurt, tried to leave the gymnasium but the girls caught her, and brought her back again. She shed a few tears, but soon forgot her grief in the interest of the game. "Girls," said Grace, as she and Nora and Jessica walked down the street that night after leaving Anne at her corner, "we must look out for Anne. It is evident from the way Miriam acted to-day that she will never lose an opportunity to hurt Anne's feelings. I thought perhaps time would soften her wrath, but it looks as though she still nursed her old grudge." How true Grace's words were to prove she could not at that time foresee. "Well," said Nora, "Anne is one of the nicest girls in Oakdale, and if Miriam knows when she's well off she'll mind her own business." The day before the game, as Grace was leaving school, she heard David's familiar whistle and turned to see the young man hurrying toward her, a look of subdued excitement upon his face. "I've been looking all over for you, Grace," he said, as he lifted his cap to her. "I have something to tell you. This afternoon after school, Reddy, Hippy and I went out to the old Omnibus House. I wanted to show the fellows some things about my machine. While we were out there who should appear but Julia Crosby and some more of her crowd. They were having a regular pow-wow and were in high glee over something. We kept still because we knew if they saw us they'd descend upon us in a body. They stayed a long time and Julia Crosby made a speech. I couldn't hear what she said, but it seemed to be about the proper thing, for her satellites applauded about every two minutes. Then they got their heads together and all talked at once. While they were so busy we skipped out without being noticed. I thought I'd better tell you, for I have an idea they are putting up some scheme to queer you in the game to-morrow; so look out for them." "Thank you, David," answered Grace. "You are always looking after our interests. I wonder what those juniors are planning. They are obliged to play a fair game, for they know perfectly well what will happen if they don't. Miss Thompson will be there to-morrow, and they know she has her eye on them." "Put not your trust in juniors," cautioned David. "They may elude even her watchful eye." "You are coming to see us play to-morrow, aren't you, David?" asked Grace. "I'll be there before the doors are open, with Reddy and Hippy at my heels," responded David. "Good-bye, Grace. Look out for squalls to-morrow." CHAPTER VI THE DEEPEST POSSIBLE DISGRACE A feeling of depression swept over Grace Harlowe as she looked out the window the next morning. The rain was falling heavily and the skies were sullen and gray. "What a miserable day for the game," was her first thought. "I do hope the rain won't keep people away. This weather is enough to discourage any one." All morning she watched anxiously for the clouds to lift, going from window to door until her mother told her to stop fretting about the weather and save her strength for the coming game. The game was set for two o'clock, but at one, Grace put on her raincoat and set out for the High School. She knew she was early, but she felt that she couldn't stay in the house a minute longer. One by one the sophomore team and its substitutes assembled, but the rain had dampened their spirits and the enthusiasm of the past few days had left them. Grace looked worried, as she noticed how listless her players seemed. She wished it had been one of those cold, crisp days that set the blood tingling and make the heart beat high with hope. Still Grace felt confident that her team would rise to the occasion when the game was called. They were two well-trained, too certain of their powers to ever think of failing. The bad weather had evidently not depressed the spirits of their opponents. The juniors stood about laughing and talking. Julia Crosby moved from one girl to the other whispering slyly. "Wretch!" thought Grace. "How disagreeable she is. She was born too late. She should have lived in the middle ages, when plotting was the fashion. She is anything but a credit to her class and dear old Oakdale High School." Grace's rather vehement reflections were cut short by the approach of Miss Thompson, who stopped to say a word of cheer to the girls before taking her seat in the gallery. "Well, Grace," she said, "this is a rather bad day outside, but still there will be a few loyal souls to cheer you on to victory. May the best man win. You must put forth every energy if you expect to conquer the juniors, however. They have held the championship a long time." "They will not hold it after to-day if we can help it," answered Grace. "We feel fairly sure that we can whip them." "That is the right spirit," said Miss Thompson. "Confidence is first cousin to success, you know." "Was there ever a teacher quite like Miss Thompson?" asked Nora as the principal left them to take her seat in the gallery. "She is a dear," said Marian Barber, "and she's on our side, too." "There's the referee now!" exclaimed Grace. "Now, girls, make up your minds to play as you never played before. Remember it's for the honor of the sophomores." By this time the gallery was half filled with an audience largely composed of High School boys and girls. A few outsiders were present. Mrs. Harlowe had come to see her daughter's team win the game, she said; for she knew that Grace's heart was set on victory. The referee, time-keeper and scorer chosen from the senior class took their places. The whistle blew and the teams lined up. There was a round of loud applause from the fans of both teams. The players presented a fine appearance. The earnest, "do or die" expression on every face made the spectators feel that the coming game would be well worth seeing. The rival captains faced each other, ready to jump for the ball the instant it left the referee's hands. There was a moment of expectant silence; then the referee put the ball in play, the whistle blew and the game began. Both captains sprang for the ball, but alas for the sophomores, Julia Crosby caught it and threw it to the junior right forward. It looked for a minute as though the juniors would score without effort, but Nora O'Malley, who was left guard, succeeded so effectually in annoying her opponent that when the bewildered goal-thrower did succeed in throwing the ball, it fell wide of the basket. It had barely touched the floor before there was a rush for it, and the fun waxed fast and furious. During the first five minutes neither side scored; then the tide turned in favor of the juniors and they netted the ball. Grace Harlowe set her teeth, resolving to play harder than ever. The juniors should not score again if she could help it. Nora had the ball and was dribbling it for dear life. Grace signaled her team, who responded instantly; but, to their consternation, the juniors seemed to understand the signal as fully as did their own team, and quickly blocking their play, scored again. There was a howl of delight from the junior fans in the gallery. The sudden triumph of the enemy seemed to daze the sophomores. They looked at their captain in amazement, then sprang once more to their work. But the trend the game was taking had affected them, and in their desperate efforts to score they made mistakes. Miriam Nesbit ran with the ball and a foul was called, which resulted in the juniors scoring a point. Nora O'Malley, in her excitement, caught the forward she was guarding by the arm, and again a foul was called; this time, however, the juniors made nothing from it. But the precious time was flying and only four minutes of the first half remained. Again Grace signaled for another secret play, and again the juniors rose to the occasion and thwarted her. It was maddening. The score stood 7 to 0 in favor of the juniors. Miriam Nesbit had the ball now, and was trying to throw it. She stood near the junior basket. Eluding her guard, who was dancing about in front of her, she made a wild throw. Whether by accident or design it was hard to tell, but the ball landed squarely in the junior basket. A whoop went up from the gallery. The whistle blew and the first half was over. The score stood 9 to 0 in favor of the enemy. The last two points had been presented to the juniors. Up in the gallery discussion ran rife. The admirers of the juniors were loud in their praise of the superior ability of the team. The junior class, who were sitting in a body at one end of the gallery, grew especially noisy, and were laughing derisively at the downfall of the sophomores. Miss Thompson was puzzled. "I cannot imagine what ails my sophomores," she said to the teacher next to her. "I understood that they were such fine players. Yet they don't seem to be able to hold their own. It looks as though their defeat were inevitable, unless they do some remarkable playing during the next half." Mrs. Harlowe, too, was disappointed. She wondered why Grace had boasted so much of her team. "After all, they are little more than children," she thought. "Those juniors seem older to me." As for Grace and her team--they were sitting in a room just off the gymnasium gloomily discussing the situation. Tears of mortification stood in Nora's eyes, while Grace was putting forth every effort to appear calm. She knew that if she showed the least sign of faltering all would be lost. Her players must feel that she still had faith in their ability to win. "We are not beaten yet, girls," she said, "and I believe we shall make up in the last half what we lost in the first. Work fast, but keep your wits about you. Don't give the referee any chance to call a foul, we can't spare a minute from now on. When I give the signal for a certain play, be on the alert, and please, please don't any of you present those juniors with any more points. I'm not blaming you, Miriam, for I know that last throw of yours was an accident, but I could have cried when that ball went into the basket." Miriam's face flushed; then realizing that all eyes were turned toward her, she said sarcastically: "Really, Miss Harlowe, it's so kind of you to look at it in that light. However, anyone with common sense would have known without being told that I never intended that ball for the juniors." "I am not so sure of that," muttered Nora, who, seeing the hurt look that crept into Grace's eyes at Miriam's words, immediately rose in behalf of her captain. Miriam whirled on Nora. "What did you say?" asked Miriam angrily. Before Nora could answer the whistle blew. Intermission was over and the second half was on. The teams changed baskets and stood in readiness for work. Once more Grace and Julia Crosby faced each other. There was a malicious gleam in Julia's eye and a look of determination in Grace's. With a spring, Grace caught the ball as it descended and threw it to Nora, who, eluding her guard, tossed it to Miriam. With unerring aim Miriam sent the ball into the basket and the sophomores scored for the first time. Their friends in the gallery applauded vigorously and began to take heart, but their joy was short-lived, for as the play proceeded the sophomores steadily lost what little ground they had gained. Try as they might, they could make no headway. Grace called for play after play, only to find that in some inexplicable way the enemy seemed to know just what she meant, and acted accordingly. The game neared its close and the sophomores fought with the desperation of the doomed. They knew that they could not win save by a miracle, but they resolved to die hard. The ball was in Miriam's hands and she made a feint at throwing it to Nora, but whirled and threw it to Grace, who, divining her intention, ran forward to receive it. There was a rush on the part of the juniors. Julia Crosby, crossing in front of Grace, managed slyly to thrust one foot forward. Grace tripped and fell to the floor, twisting one leg under her. The ball rolled on, and was caught by the enemy, who threw it to goal just as the whistle sounded for the last time. The juniors had won. The score stood 17 to 2 in their favor. The scorer attempted to announce it, but her voice was lost in the noisy yells of the junior class in the gallery. The fact that Grace Harlowe still sat on the gymnasium floor passed for a moment unnoticed. In the final grand rush for the ball, the other players failed to see that their valiant captain still occupied the spot where she fell. Tumbles were not infrequent, and Grace was well able to take care of herself. Anne Pierson alone saw Julia Crosby's foot slide out, and, scenting treachery, hastily left her seat in the gallery. She ran as fast as she could to where Grace sat, reaching her a few seconds after the whistle blew. "Good little Anne," called Grace. "You have come to my rescue even though the others have deserted me. Perhaps you can help me up. I tried it, but my ankle hurts every time I try to stand." Her face was very white, and Anne saw that she was in great pain. By this time Grace's team, realizing she was not with them, began looking about, and rushed over to her in a body. David, Reddy and Hippy appeared on the scene, as did Mrs. Harlowe, accompanied by Miss Thompson. Excitement reigned. The boys lifted Grace to her feet; but she cried with pain and would have fallen had they not held her. "She has sprained her ankle!" exclaimed Miss Thompson. "How did it happen, Grace? I did not see you fall." "I don't know, Miss Thompson," said Grace faintly. "It all happened so quickly I didn't have time to think about it." "It certainly is a shame," cried Anne. "And I know----" Just then Grace gave Anne a warning glance and shook her head slightly. Anne closed her lips and was silent. "What were you saying, Anne?" asked Miss Thompson. But Anne had received her orders. "I am so sorry that Grace has been hurt," she said lamely. A carriage was ordered and Grace was taken home, Anne and Mrs. Harlowe accompanying her. Mrs. Harlowe sent for their physician, who bandaged the swollen ankle, and told Grace that the sprain was not serious. She refused, however, to go to bed, but lay on the wide lounge in the sitting room. "Just keep quiet for a few days, and you'll be all right," said Dr. Gale. "You girls are as bad as boys about getting hard knocks. It looks as though basketball were about as barbarous as football." "It is a dear old game, and I love it in spite of hard knocks," said Grace emphatically. "I like your spirit, Grace," laughed Dr. Gale. "Now, remember to treat that ankle well if you want to appear again in the basketball arena." "Grace," said Anne, after the doctor had gone. "You know how it happened, don't you?" "Yes," answered Grace, after a little hesitation. "I do." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Anne. "I don't know," said Grace. "I am not sure it was intentional." "Grace," said Anne with decision, "it was intentional. I watched her every minute of the game, for I didn't trust her, and I saw her do it. I was so angry that when Miss Thompson asked how it happened I felt that I must tell, then and there. It was you who prevented me. I think such a trick should be exposed." "What a vengeful little Anne," said Grace. "You are usually the last one to tell anything." She took Anne's hand in hers. "It's just this way, Anne," she continued. "If I were to tell what Julia Crosby did, Miss Thompson might forbid basketball. That would be dreadful. Besides, the juniors would hardly believe me, and would say it was a case of sour grapes, on account of the sophomores losing the game. So you see I should gain nothing and perhaps lose a great deal. I believe that people that do mean things are usually repaid in their own coin. Julia didn't really intend to hurt me. Her idea was to prevent me from getting the ball. Of course it was dishonorable and she knew it. It is strictly forbidden in basketball, and if her own team knew positively that she was guilty, it would go hard with her. There is honor even among thieves, you know." There was a brief silence. Grace lay back among the cushions, looking very white and tired. Her ankle pained her severely, but the defeat of her beloved team was a deeper hurt to her proud spirit. Anne sat apparently wrapped in thought. She nervously clasped and unclasped her small hands. "Grace," she said, "don't you think it was queer the way the juniors seemed to understand our signals. They knew every one of them. I believe that they found that list and it is all my fault. I had no business to lose it. I felt when I couldn't find it that it would fall into the wrong hands and cause trouble. I don't care for myself but if the girls find it out they will blame you for giving it to me. You know what Miriam said the other day. Now she will have a chance to be disagreeable to you about it." Anne was almost in tears. "Anne, dear," said Grace soothingly, "don't worry about it. I am not afraid to tell the girls about that list, and I shall certainly do so. They will understand that it was an accident, and overlook it. Besides, we are not sure that the juniors found it. I will admit that everything points that way. You know David warned us that they had some mischief on hand. If they did find it, the only honorable thing to do was to return it. They are far more at fault than we are, and the girls will agree with me, I know." But Anne was not so confident. "Miriam will try to make trouble about it, I know she will. And I am to blame for the whole thing," she said. Grace was about to reply when Mrs. Harlowe appeared in the door with a tray of tempting food. Anne rose and began donning her wraps. "Won't you stay, Anne, and have supper with my invalid girl?" said Mrs. Harlowe. "Please do, Anne," coaxed Grace. "I hate eating alone, and having you here takes my mind off my pain." Anne stayed, and the two girls had a merry time over their meal. Grace, knowing Anne's distress over the lost signals, refused to talk of the subject. Jessica and Nora, David, Hippy and Reddy dropped in, one after the other, to inquire for Grace. "There is nothing like accidents to bring one's friends together," declared Grace, as the young people gathered around her. "I told you to look out for squalls, Grace," said David. "But you didn't weather the gale very well." "Those juniors must have been eavesdropping when you made your signal code. They understood every play you made. By George, I wonder if that were the meaning of that pow-wow the other day. Some one must have put Julia Crosby wise, and that's why she called a meeting at the Omnibus House. It's an out-of-the-way place, and she thought there was no danger of being disturbed. "Who could have been mean enough to betray us?" cried Nora. "I am sure none of the team did, unless----" Nora stopped short. She had been on the point of using Miriam's name, but remembered just in time that Miriam's brother was present. "If we knew the girl who did it, we'd certainly cut her acquaintance," said Reddy Brooks. "Never again should she bask in the light of our society," said Hippy dramatically. "None of our friends would do such a thing," said David soberly. Then, turning to Anne, "What's your opinion on the subject, Queen Anne?" But Anne could find no answer. She simply shook her head. Grace, knowing Anne's feelings over the affair, came to the rescue. "Anne's opinion and mine are the same. We feel sure that they knew our signals, but we believe they accidentally hit upon the knowledge. There is no use in crying over spilt milk. We shall have to change all our signals and take care that it doesn't happen again. And now let's talk of something more agreeable, for basketball is a sore subject with me in more than one sense." The talk drifted into other channels much to Anne's relief. "I have an idea!" exclaimed Hippy. "Impossible," said Reddy. "No one would ever accuse you of such a thing." "Be silent, fellow," commanded Hippy. "I will not brook such idle babbling." He strutted up and down the room, his chest inflated and one hand over his heart, presenting such a ridiculous figure that he raised a general laugh. "Speak on, fat one. I promise not to make any more remarks," said Reddy. "I propose," said Hippy, pausing in his march, "that we give an impromptu vaudeville show for the benefit of Miss Grace Harlowe, once an active member of this happy band, but now laid on the shelf--couch, I mean--for repairs." "Done," was the unanimous reply. "Now," continued Hippy, "get cozy, and the show will begin. Miss Nora O'Malley will open the show by singing 'Peggy Brady,' as only an Irish colleen of her pretensions can." Nora rose, looked toward Jessica, who went at once to the piano to accompany her, and sang the song demanded with a fascinating brogue that always brought forth the applause of her friends. She responded to an encore. Then Anne's turn came, and she recited "Lasca." Hippy next favored the company with a comic song, which caused them to shout with laughter. Jessica did her Greek dance for which she was famous. The performance ended with an up-to-date version of "Antony and Cleopatra," enacted by David, Reddy and Hippy, with dialogue and stage business of which Shakespeare never dreamed. It was a product of Hippy's fertile brain, and the boys had been rehearsing it with great glee, in view of appearing in it, on some fitting occasion, before the girls. David, gracefully draped in the piano cover, represented Egypt's queen, and languished upon Marc Antony's shoulder in the most approved manner. Reddy, as the Roman conqueror left nothing to be desired. The star actor of the piece, however, was Hippy, who played the deadly asp. He writhed and wriggled in a manner that would have filled a respectable serpent with envy, and in the closing scene bit the unfortunate Cleopatra so venomously that she howled for mercy, and instead of dying gracefully, arose and engaged in battle with his snakeship. Grace forgot her sprained ankle and laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. "You funny, funny boys," she gasped, "how did you ever think of anything so ridiculous!" "Hippy perpetrated the outrage," said David "and we agreed to help him produce it. We have been practising it for two weeks, only we don't generally end up with a scuffle. I hope you will pardon us, Grace, but the desire to shake that husky Egyptian reptile was irresistible." "There is nothing to pardon," replied Grace, "and we have only thanks to offer for the fun you have given us." "It was indeed a notable performance," agreed Nora. "Girls and boys," said Anne, "it is almost ten o'clock and Grace ought to be in bed. I move that we adjourn." "Second the motion," said David. "We have been very selfish in keeping poor Grace up when she is ill." "Poor Grace is glad you came, and isn't a bit tired," replied Grace, looking fondly at her friends. "You must all come to see me as often as you can while I am laid up. I shall be pretty lonely for a few days." The young folks departed, singing "Good Night, Ladies" as they trooped down the walk. "What a pleasure it is to have such dear, good friends," thought Grace as she lay back on her couch after they had gone. "They are well worth all the loyalty I can give them." She went to sleep that night unconscious of how soon her loyalty to one of them would be put to the test. CHAPTER VII GATHERING CLOUDS "A sprained ankle is not so serious," declared Grace from her nest among the sofa cushions. It was the Monday after the game. Her various sympathetic classmates were seated about the Harlowe's comfortable living room. A wood fire crackled cheerfully in the big, open fireplace, while a large plate of chocolate fudge circulated from one lap to another. "Jessica, will you pour the chocolate?" continued Grace to her friend, who rose at once to comply with her request. "Anne, will you help serve, please?" Anne accordingly drew about the room a little table on wheels, containing on its several shelves plates containing sandwiches, cookies and cakes. "Trust to the Harlowe's to have lots of good things to eat," exclaimed Marian Barber. "It must be fun to be laid up, Grace, if you can give a party every afternoon." "I must entertain my friends when they are kind enough to come and see me," answered Grace. "But some people think sandwiches poor provender unless they are the fancy kind, with olives and nuts in them. Miriam, for instance would never serve such plain fare to her company as cream cheese sandwiches." "Here comes Miriam up the walk now," cried Jessica. "She looks as though she had something on her mind." Presently the door opened and Miriam was ushered in. Grace wondered a little at her call, considering the unfriendly spirit Miriam had recently exhibited toward her. She greeted Miriam cordially. The laws of hospitality were sacred in the Harlowe family, and not for worlds would Grace have shown anything but the kindest feeling toward a guest under her own roof. Miriam accepted the chair and the cup of chocolate tendered her, ignoring the plate of cakes offered by Anne. She looked about her like a marksman taking aim before he fires. There was a danger signal in either eye. "She is out for slaughter," thought Nora. "Well, Miriam, what's the news?" said Marian Barber good-naturedly. "You have a mysterious, newsy look in your eye. Is it good, bad or indifferent?" "How did you guess that I had news?" inquired Miriam. Then without waiting for an answer she went on. "I certainly have, and very unpleasant news, at that." "Out with it," said Nora, "and don't keep us in suspense." "Well," said Miriam, "I suppose you all noticed how the juniors outwitted us at every point last Saturday? We put up a hard fight, too. The reason of it was that they knew every one of our signals." "How dreadful!" "How did they get their information?" "Who told you so?" were the exclamations that rose from the assembled girls. Grace had raised herself to a sitting position and was steadily regarding Miriam, who, well aware of that keen, searching gaze, deliberately continued: "What makes the matter so much worse is the fact that we were betrayed by a member of our own class." "Oh, Miriam, you don't mean that?" said Jessica. "I am sorry to say that it is true," replied Miriam, "and I am going to put the matter before the class." "Tell us who it is, Miriam," cried the girls. "We'll fix her!" "Miriam," said Grace in a tone of quiet command that made every girl look toward her, "you are to mention no names while in my house." Miriam's face flamed. Before she could reply, however, Grace went on. "Girls you must realize the position in which Miriam's remarks place me. She is sure that she knows who betrayed our signals, and is willing to name the person. Suppose she names some girl present. Think of the feelings of that girl, my guest, yet not safe from accusation while here. I should prove a poor sort of hostess if I allowed the honor of any of my friends to suffer while in my house. "The place to discuss these things is in school. There every girl stands on an equal footing and can refute any charges made against her. I wish to say that I have a communication to make which may put a different face on the whole matter. I know something of the story of those signals. When I go back to school I shall call a meeting of the basketball team and its subs. and tell them what I know about it; but not until then. Furthermore it is not strictly a class matter, as it pertains to the basketball players alone. Therefore any one outside the team has no right to interfere. Please don't think me disagreeable. It is because I am trying to avoid unpleasant consequences that I am firm about having no names mentioned here." [Illustration: "You Need Mention No Names While in My House."] There was an absolute silence in the room. The girls had a deep regard for Grace on account of her frank, open nature and love of fair play; but Miriam had her own particular friends who had respect for her on account of her being a Nesbit. She had a faculty of obtaining her own way, too, that seemed, to them, little short of marvellous, and she spent more money than any other girl in Oakdale High School. It was therefore difficult to choose between the two factions. Nora broke the embarrassing pause. "Grace is right as usual," she said, "and none of you girls should feel offended. What's the use of wasting the whole afternoon quarrelling over an old basketball game? Do talk about something pleasant. The sophomore ball for instance. Do you girls realize that we ought to be making some plans for it? It's the annual class dance, and should be welcomed, with enthusiasm. We've all been so crazy over basketball that we've neglected to think about our class responsibilities. We ought to try to make it a greater success than any other dance ever given by a sophomore class. We must call a meeting very soon, not to fight over basketball, but to make arrangements for our dance." Nora's reminder of the coming ball was a stroke of diplomacy on her part. What school girl does not grow enthusiastic over a class dance? A buzz of conversation immediately arose as to gowns, decorations, refreshments and the thousand and one things all important to a festivity of that kind. Miriam seeing that it was useless to try to raise any further disturbance, cut her call short, taking with her several girls who were her staunch upholders. Those who remained did not seem sorry at her departure, and Grace drew a breath of relief as the door closed upon the wilful girl. She had at least saved Anne from a cruel attack, but how much longer she could do so was a question. Miriam would undoubtedly bring up the subject at the first class meeting, and Grace was not so sure, now, that the girls would be willing to overlook the loss of the signals when she told them of it. "I shall be loyal to Anne, no matter what it costs me," she decided. "She has done nothing wrong, and Miriam will find that she cannot trample upon either of us with impunity. As for Jessica and Nora, I know they will agree with me." Under cover of conversation, Grace whispered to Jessica that she wished her to remain after the others had gone, and to ask Nora and Anne to do the same. When the last of the callers had said good-bye, and the four chums had the room to themselves, Grace told Nora and Jessica about Anne's mishap, and how utterly innocent of blame she was. "Do you mean to tell me that Miriam meant Anne when she said she could name the girl?" demanded Nora. "She did, indeed," replied Anne, "and if it had not been for Grace she would have made things very unpleasant for me." "Humph," ejaculated the fiery Nora, "then all I have to say is that I don't see how a nice boy like David ever happened to have a horrid hateful, scheming sister like Miriam. Stand up for Anne? Well I rather think so! Let Miriam dare to say anything like that to me." "Or me," said Jessica. "I knew you girls would feel the same as I do," said Grace. "Anne has some true friends, thank goodness. You see Miriam is basing all her suppositions on the fact that Anne was allowed to come to practice. She doesn't know anything about the loss of the signals. You remember she objected to Anne seeing the practice game. Now she will try to show that she was right in doing so." "Let her try it," said Jessica, "She'll be sorry." "I am not so sure of that," said Anne quietly. "You know that Miriam has plenty of influence with certain girls, while I am only a stranger about whom no one cares except yourselves and the boys and Mrs. Gray. "You are the brightest girl in school just the same," said Nora, "and that counts for a whole lot. Miss Thompson likes you, too, and our crowd is not to be despised." "You are the dearest people in the world," responded Anne gratefully. "Please don't think that I am unappreciative. You have done far too much for me, and I don't want you to get into trouble on my account. As long as you girls care for me, I don't mind what the others think." "Don't say that Anne," said Jessica. "You don't know how mean some of those girls can be. Don't you remember the junior that was cut by her class last year? Of course, she did something for which she deserved to be cut, but the girls made her life miserable. The story went through every class, and she got the cold shoulder all around. She's not here this year. Her father sent her away to school, she was so unhappy. You remember her, don't you?" turning to Grace and Nora. Both girls nodded. The story of the unfortunate junior loomed up before them. Every girl in High School knew it. "We can only hope that history will not repeat itself," said Grace thoughtfully. "Of course, I don't mean that there is any similarity between the two cases. That girl last year was untruthful and extremely dishonorable. It is perfectly ridiculous to think of placing the blame for those signals upon Anne. If the girls are silly enough to listen to Miriam's insinuations, then they must choose between Miriam and me. Anne is my dear friend, and I shall stick to her until the end." CHAPTER VIII THE PRICE OF FRIENDSHIP It was a week before Dr. Gale pronounced Grace fit to return to school. When she did make her appearance, she was hailed with delight by her schoolmates and made much of. Miss Thompson greeted her warmly. She was very fond of Grace, and had expressed great concern over the young girl's accident. It was unusual for a girl to receive so serious an injury during a game, as all rough play was strictly forbidden. The principal had kept the members of both teams after school and questioned them closely. No one had seen Grace fall, nor realized that she was hurt until she had been discovered sitting on the gymnasium floor. Miss Thompson had a vague suspicion of foul play on the part of the juniors, but was unable to find out anything. "Athletics for girls have always been encouraged in this school," she had said. "Rough play is disgraceful. If I found that any member of any High School basketball organization, either directly or indirectly, caused the injury of an opponent, I should forbid basketball for the rest of the season at least, and perhaps absolutely. Tripping, striking and kicking are barred out of the boys' games and will certainly not be tolerated in those of the girls." As Grace was returning to the study hall from geometry recitation that morning, she encountered Julia Crosby. Julia glanced at her with an expression half fearful, half cunning, as though she wondered if Grace knew the truth about her fall. Grace returned the look with one of such quiet contempt and scorn that Julia dropped her eyes and hurried along the corridor. "How could she have been so contemptible?" thought Grace. "I wonder if she'll tell," thought Julia. "She evidently knows I was responsible for her tumble. My, what a look she gave me. I wonder if that snippy little Anne Pierson knows about it, too. Very likely she does, for Grace Harlowe tells her all her business. If they do say anything I'll take good care no one believes it." She was so absorbed in her own ruminations that she crashed into the dignified president of the senior class with considerable force, much to the glee of Nora, who happened to be near enough to catch the icy expression on the senior's face as Julia mumbled an apology. At recess Grace notified the members of the basketball team and their substitutes that she had called a meeting to take place that afternoon at three o'clock in the sophomore locker room. "Only the basketball people are requested to be present," she concluded, "so don't bring any of the rest of the class." At three o'clock precisely the last member had arrived. Every girl took particular pains to be there, for most of them had been at the Harlowe's on the day that Grace had silenced Miriam. The meeting promised to be one of interest, for had not Grace Harlowe said that she would tell them something about the betrayed signals? "Girls," Grace began, "you all know that although it is against the rules to allow any outsider to witness our practice, we have always made an exception in favor of Jessica. You all have perfect confidence in Jessica, I am sure. Since practice began this fall we have allowed Anne to come to it, too. You remember I asked permission for her to see the practice game, because I knew her to be absolutely trustworthy." Here Nora nodded emphatically, Miriam tossed her head and smiled mockingly, while the rest of the girls looked a trifle mystified. "Anne," continued Grace, "did not understand many of our plays, so I wrote out a list of signals for her, to study and learn by heart, telling her to destroy them as soon as she was sure she knew them. Unfortunately, she lost them, and at once told me about it. She felt very unhappy over it; but I told her not to worry, because I never supposed their loss would make any difference. "When the game was well under way and the juniors began to block our plays, it flashed across me that in some way they had found that list. Anne, who has a mania for labeling everything, had written 'Sophomore basketball signals' across the paper; so, of course, any one who found it would know exactly what the list meant. "We were warned that the juniors held a meeting at the Omnibus House a day or so before the game, and that they meant mischief. I never thought, however, they would be quite so dishonorable. "I would have told you this before the game, but was afraid it would confuse and worry you. I am sure that you will agree with me, and absolve Anne from all blame." "I don't agree with you at all," flashed Miriam, "and I am glad to have a chance to speak my mind. I told you before the game that I objected to Miss Pierson watching our practice, that it was against the rules, but no attention was paid to what I said. If you had taken my advice the result would have been far different. I have no doubt Grace believes that Miss Pierson lost the list, but I am not so easily deceived. I believe she deliberately handed it over to the juniors, and every loyal member of the team should cut her acquaintance." "Miriam Nesbit," cried Nora. "You haven't the least right to accuse Anne Pierson of any such thing. She is too honorable to think of it, and she has no love for the junior class either. She isn't even friendly with them. If any one is to be accused of treachery, I should say that there are members of the team far more friendly with the juniors than poor little Anne." This was a direct slap at Miriam, who winced a little at Nora's words. "Well," said Marian Barber quickly, "it stands to reason that no member of the team would be foolish enough to help the enemy. I don't know anything about Miss Pierson, but I do know that I overheard Julia Crosby telling some girl in her class that the sophomores could thank one of their own class for their defeat." "When did you hear her say that?" queried Miriam sharply. "Yesterday morning. I was walking behind her, and she was so busy talking she didn't notice me." "You girls can draw your own conclusions," said Miriam triumphantly. "That simply proves what I have said." "That simply proves nothing at all," exclaimed Grace Harlowe, who had been too angry to trust herself to speak. "You are making a very serious charge against Anne without one bit of ground on which to base your suspicions. You have always disliked her because she won the freshman prize, and you know nothing whatever against her." "No," said Miriam scornfully, "nor anything to her credit either. Who is she, anyway? The daughter of a strolling third-rate actor, who goes barnstorming about the country, and she has been on the stage, too. She has a very good opinion of herself since Mrs. Gray and certain Oakdale girls took her up, but I wouldn't trust her as far as I could see her. Why should girls of good Oakdale families be forced to associate with such people? I suppose she wanted to be on good terms with the juniors, too, and took that method of gaining her point." "That is pure nonsense," exclaimed Nora. "Don't you think so, girls?" But the other girls made no reply. They were thinking hard. Suspicion seemed to point in Anne's direction. What a pity Grace had been so rash about taking Anne up if her father were a common actor. Miriam was right about not caring to associate with Anne. After all, they knew very little about her. Grace Harlowe was always picking queer people and trying to help them. "I think we ought to be very careful about taking outsiders into our confidence," firmly said Eva Allen, one of the team. "I didn't know Miss Pierson had ever been an actress." There was a note of horror in her voice as she pronounced the last word. "I have always heard that they were very unreliable people," said another miss of sixteen. Grace was in despair. She felt that she had lost. By dragging up Anne's unfortunate family history, Miriam had produced a bad impression that she was powerless to efface. "Girls," she said, "you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You know perfectly well that Anne is innocent. If you wish to be my friend you must be Anne's also. Please say that you believe her." "Count on me," said Nora. But the other sophomores had nothing to say. Grace looked about her appealingly, only to meet cold looks and averted faces. Miriam was smiling openly. "The meeting is adjourned," said Grace shortly, and without another word she went to her locker and began taking out her wraps. Nora followed her, but the majority of the girls walked over to the other end of the room and began to talk in low tones with Miriam. Grace realized that her team had deserted her for Miriam. It was almost unbelievable. She set her lips and winked hard to keep back the tears which rose to her eyes. Then, followed by her one faithful friend, she walked out of the locker room, leaving her fickle classmates with their chosen leader. CHAPTER IX AN UNSUCCESSFUL INTERVIEW There were two subjects of interest under discussion in the sophomore class. One was the coming ball, the other the story of the lost signals, which had gone the round of the class. The general opinion seemed to be that Anne had betrayed the team, and with the unthinking cruelty of youth, the girls had resolved to teach her a lesson. Miriam's accusation had been repeated from one girl to another, with unconscious additions, until Anne loomed up in the light of a traitor, and was treated accordingly. Grace had told Anne the next day the details of the meeting, and in some measure prepared her for what would undoubtedly follow. Anne had laughed a little at the account of Miriam's remarks regarding her father, and the girls' evident disapproval of the theatrical profession. "How silly they are," she said to Grace, who felt secretly relieved to know that Anne was not mortally hurt over Miriam's attack. "They don't know anything about professional people. Of course, there are plenty of worthless actors, but some of them are really very fine men and women. Miriam may abuse my family all she chooses, but I do feel unhappy to think that those girls believe me dishonorable and under-handed." "They wouldn't if they had any sense," responded Grace hotly, "I never believed that those girls could be so snobbish. I always thought them above such petty meanness. Don't pay any attention to them, Anne. They aren't worth it. I am going to interview Julia Crosby and make her acknowledge that she wasn't referring to you the other day. There is something queer about it all. I believe that there is some kind of secret understanding between Miriam and Julia; that this is a deliberate plot on their part to injure you and humiliate me, and I shall find out the truth before I am through." "But what has Julia Crosby against me?" queried Anne, "I hardly know her." "She hasn't forgotten the way David defended you at Mrs. Gray's Christmas ball last year," answered Grace, "Besides, you're a sophomore. Isn't that a good enough reason?" "I suppose it is," said Anne wearily. Grace kept her word and hailed Julia Crosby on the following afternoon as she was leaving the High School. It seemed a favorable opportunity for Julia was alone. "Miss Crosby," said Grace coldly. "I should like to speak to you about a very important matter." "There's nothing to hinder you, Miss Harlowe," replied Julia brusquely. "I'm here. Are you sure that it really is important?" She stopped and eyed Grace insolently. "I am very sure that it is important, Miss Crosby," said Grace. "Not long ago a certain sophomore overheard you telling a member of your class that we sophomores could thank a girl in our class for our basketball defeat. A certain girl had already been unjustly accused of betraying our signals. When your remark was repeated to the team, they immediately decided that you meant her. Since then her classmates have taken the matter up and are determined to cut her acquaintance." "Well what has all this childish prattle to do with me?" demanded Julia rudely. "It has this to do with you, that you can set the matter right by saying it was not Anne. You know perfectly well she had nothing to do with it. I don't know how you got those signals, but I do know that Anne never gave them to you." "Did I say that she did?" asked Julia. "No," said Grace, "neither did you say that she didn't." "Very true," replied Julia in a disagreeable tone, "and I don't intend to say so either. She may or she may not have given them to me. I'll never tell. She's a snippy, conceited, little prig, and a little punishment for her sins will do her good." "You are a cruel, heartless girl," cried Grace angrily. "Knowing Anne to be innocent, you refuse to clear her name of the suspicion resting upon it. Let me tell you one thing. I know who tripped me the day of the game, and so does Anne. If you don't clear Anne instantly, I shall go straight to Miss Thompson with it." Grace's threat went home. Julia stood in actual dread of the principal. It looked as though the tables had been turned at last. If Grace went to Miss Thompson what a commotion there would be! In a moment, however, Julia recovered herself. What was it Miss Thompson had said about rough play? Ah, Julia remembered now, and with the recollection of the principal's words came the means of worsting Grace Harlowe in her efforts to vindicate Anne. "You may go to Miss Thompson if you think it wise," she said with a malicious smile, "but I wouldn't advise it--that is, unless you have gotten over caring for basketball." "What do you mean?" asked Grace. Then like a flash she understood. If she should tell Miss Thompson the truth, the principal would believe her. Julia would receive her just deserts but, oh, bitter thought, there would be no more basketball that season. Grace felt that she had no right to sacrifice the pleasure of so many others, even for Anne's sake. It would only increase the feeling against both Anne and herself, and after all, Julia might still hold out in her insinuations against Anne. "How can you be so contemptible?" she said to her smiling enemy. "You never win anything honestly. I see it is useless for me to appeal to you for something which you cannot give, and that is fair play!" With a slight bow, Grace walked quickly away, leaving Julia a little astonished at her sudden departure and not at all pleased at Grace's frankly expressed opinion. Grace lost no time in relating to Anne her fruitless interview with the junior captain. "I am so humiliated to think I failed. I expected that threatening to tell Miss Thompson would bring her to her senses, but she is too cunning for me," sighed Grace. The two girls were walking home from school. "Shall you tell Nora and Jessica?" asked Anne. "No," said Grace. "Let us keep the sprained ankle part of the story a secret. They are loyal to you, at any rate, and Nora would be so angry. I am afraid I couldn't keep her from going straight to Miss Thompson and making a general mess of things. I am so sorry, Anne, dear, but I guess we shall have to weather the gale together. It will die out after a while, just as all those things do. Hush! Don't say anything now. Here come Nora and Jessica." "What do you think!" cried Nora. "Edna Wright is giving a party next Saturday, and she isn't going to invite either you or Anne." "How shocking!" said Grace. "We shall both die of grief at having been slighted." She spoke lightly, and no one but Anne guessed how much the news hurt her. "We are not going," declared Nora, "and we told her so." "What did she say?" asked Grace. "We didn't give her time to answer," said Nora, "but rushed off to find you. The whole thing is perfectly ridiculous! The idea of a lot of silly little school girls thinking they own the earth. It's all Miriam's fault. She has tried to be leader of her class ever since it was organized but mark what I say, she'll never accomplish it. Pride will get a fall, one of these days, and I hope I'll be around when it happens." "Never mind, Nora," said Grace soothingly. "Anne and I don't care. We'll give a party at the same time, to our own crowd. I'll tell you what we'll do. We will have a surprise party for Mrs. Gray. I'll write to Tom Gray and ask him to come down for next Saturday. That will be a double surprise to dear Mrs. Gray." "Fine!" cried Jessica. "We'll have Hippy and Reddy and David. Then our circle will be complete. The other crowd will be furious. Those boys are all popular, and I know that Edna intends to invite them." "Let's tell them at once, then," said Nora, "before the other girls get a chance." The boys were promptly invited. Grace sent a note to Tom Gray, who found it possible to get away for the week end. Reddy, Hippy and David received invitations to the other party, but politely declined. Miriam endeavored to point out to her brother the folly of his conduct, but David simply stared at her and said nothing. He knew to what lengths her jealousy had carried her during the freshman year, and although Nora had entirely omitted his sister's name from the conversation when telling him of the recent trouble that had arisen, still David felt that Miriam was at the bottom of it. Failing to elicit any response from her brother, she flew into a rage and did not speak to him for a week, while David went serenely on his way, and let her get over it as best she might. The surprise party proved a success. Mrs. Gray's delight at seeing her "Christmas children" and having her beloved nephew with her was worth seeing. The young people did all the "stunts" they knew for her entertainment, and the boys repeated their Shakespearian performance for the old lady, who laughed until she could laugh no more. It was their turn to be surprised, however, when the old butler suddenly appeared and announced that supper was served. Mrs. Gray had held a word of conversation with him directly after their arrival, which resulted in an array of good things calculated to tempt the appetite of any healthy boy or girl. After supper they had an old-fashioned "sing," with Jessica at the piano, ending with "Home, Sweet Home" and the inevitable "Good Night, Ladies." "I'm sure we had a better time than the other crowd," said Nora as they all walked down the street. "Of course," said Grace, but a little feeling of sadness swept over her as she realized for the first time in her short life she had been slighted by any of her school friends. CHAPTER X THE SOPHOMORE BALL It was the night of the sophomore ball. For a week past the class had been making preparations. The gymnasium had been transformed into a veritable bower of beauty. Every palm in Oakdale that could be begged, borrowed or rented was used for the occasion. Drawing rooms had been robbed of their prettiest sofa cushions and hangings, to make attractive cosy corners in the big room. The walls were decorated with evergreens and class banners, while the class colors, red and gold, were everywhere in evidence. The sophomores had been recklessly extravagant in the matter of cut flowers, and bowls of red roses and carnations ornamented the various tables, loaned by fond mothers for the gratification of sophomore vanity. The girls had worked hard to outdo previous sophomore affairs, and when all was finished the various teachers who were invited to view the general effect were unanimous in their admiration. Once a year each of the four High School classes gave some sort of entertainment. Readers of "GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR" will remember the masquerade ball given by the sophomores, now juniors, and the active part taken by Grace and her chums in that festivity. The present sophomores had decided to make their ball a larger affair than usual, and had sent out invitations to favored members of the other classes. An equal number of boys had been invited from the boys' High School, and the party promised to be one of the social events of Oakdale. Mrs. Gray and a number of other prominent women of Oakdale, were to act as patronesses. Mrs. Harlowe, usually a favorite chaperon with Grace's crowd, had been ignored for the first time, and Grace was cut to the quick over it. As for Grace herself, she had not been appointed to a single committee. Prominent heretofore in every school enterprise, it was galling to the high-spirited girl to be deliberately left out of the preparations. Nora had been asked to help receive and Jessica had been appointed to the refreshment committee, but on finding that Grace was being snubbed, both had coldly declined to serve in either capacity. The four chums held more than one anxious discussion as to the advisability of even attending the ball. "I think we ought to go, just to show those girls that we are impervious to their petty insults," declared Grace. "We have as much right there as any one else, and I am sure the boys we know will dance with us whether the rest of the girls like it or not. Besides, Mrs. Gray will be there, and she will expect to see us. She doesn't know anything about this trouble, and I don't want her to know. It would only grieve her. She is so fond of Anne. By all means we must go to the ball. Wear your prettiest gowns and act as though nothing had happened." That night, the four young girls, in their party finery, sat waiting in the Harlowe's drawing room for their escorts--David, Hippy and Reddy. Anne wore the pink crepe de chine which had done duty at Mrs. Gray's house party the previous winter. Grace wore an exquisite gown of pale blue silk made in a simple, girlish fashion that set her off to perfection. Nora was gowned in lavender and wore a corsage bouquet of violets that had mysteriously arrived that afternoon, and that everyone present suspected Hippy of sending. Jessica's gown was of white organdie, trimmed with tiny butterfly medallions and valenciennes lace. In spite of the possibility that she and Anne might be the subject of unpleasant comment, Grace made up her mind to enjoy herself. She was fond of dancing, and knew that she would have plenty of invitations to do so. David would look after Anne, who was not yet proficient enough in dancing to venture to try it in public. "If only Miriam and Julia Crosby behave themselves!" she thought, "for, of course, Julia will be there. Miriam will see that she gets an invitation." Grace thrilled with pride as she entered the gymnasium. How beautifully it had been decorated and how well everything looked. She was so sorry that the girls had seen fit to leave her out of it all. Then she remembered her resolution to forget all differences and just have a good time. Miriam, gowned in apricot messaline trimmed with silver, was in the receiving line with half a dozen other sophomores. Grace and her party would be obliged to exchange civilities with the enemy. She wondered what Miriam would do. David solved this problem for her by taking charge of the situation. Walking straight up to Miriam, he said a few words to her in a low tone. She flushed slightly, looked a trifle defiant then greeted the girls coldly, but with civility. The other sophomores followed her example, but Grace breathed a sigh of relief as they walked over to where Mrs. Gray, in a wonderful black satin gown, sat among the patronesses. "My dear children, I am so glad to see all of you!" exclaimed the sprightly old lady. "How fine all my girls look. You are like a bouquet of flowers. Grace is a bluebell, Anne is a dear little clove pink, Nora is a whole bunch of violets and Jessica looks like a white narcissus." "Where do we come in?" asked David, smiling at Mrs. Gray's pretty comparison. "Allow me to answer that question," said Hippy. "You are like the tall and graceful burdock. Reddy resembles the common, but much-admired sheep sorrel, while I am like that tender little flower, the forget-me-not. Having once seen me, is it possible to forget me!" He struck an attitude and looked languishingly at Nora. "I'll forget you forever if you look at me like that," threatened Nora. "Never again," said Hippy hastily. "Bear witness, all of you, that my expression has changed." Just then the first notes of the waltz "Amoreuse" rang out, and the gymnasium floor was soon filled with High School boys and girls dressed in their best party attire. The dances followed each other in rapid succession until supper was announced. This was served at small tables by the town caterer. Mrs. Gray and her adopted children occupied two tables near together and had a merry time. Many curious glances were cast in their direction by the other members of the sophomore class. Some of the girls wondered whether it was a good thing to cut Anne Pierson's acquaintance. She was certainly a friend of Mrs. Gray, and Mrs. Gray was one of the most influential women in Oakdale. Frances Fuller, a worldly-minded sophomore, dared to intimate as much to Miriam Nesbit, who replied loftily: "If Mrs. Gray knew as much about Miss Pierson as we do, she would probably not care for her any longer." "It's a pity some one doesn't tell her," said Julia Crosby, ever ready for mischief. "Oh, some one will have the courage yet," answered Miriam, "and when she does, that will end everything as far as Miss Pierson is concerned. Mrs. Gray can't endure anything dishonorable." Just then a young man claimed Miriam for the two-step about to begin, and Julia wandered off, leaving Frances to digest what had been said. The more the latter thought about it, the more she felt that Mrs. Gray ought to be warned against Anne. She decided that she had the courage; that it was her duty to do so. Without hesitating, she blundered over to where Mrs. Gray sat for the moment. "Mrs. Gray," Frances began, "I want to tell you something which I think you ought to know." "And what is that, my dear?" asked the old lady courteously, trying vainly to remember the girl's face. "Why, about Miss Pierson's true character," replied the girl. "Miss Pierson's true character?" repeated Mrs. Gray. "I don't understand what you mean." "That she is dishonorable and treacherous. She betrayed the sophomore basketball signals to the juniors, and then denied it, when her class had positive proof against her. Besides, her father is a disreputable actor, and she was an actress before she came here. We thought if you knew the truth you wouldn't uphold any such person." Frances paused. She thought she had made an impression upon her listener. Mrs. Gray sat silent. She was too deeply incensed to trust herself to speak. Frances looked complacent. She evidently hoped to be commended for her plain speaking. Then Mrs. Gray found her voice. "Young woman," she said, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself. What can you hope to gain by saying unkind things about a nice, gentle, little girl who is in every respect worthy of all the love and regard that can be given her? I do not know what you can be thinking of to speak so slightingly of one of your classmates, and I am sorry to be obliged to remind you that it is the height of ill breeding to abuse a person to his or her friends." With these words, Mrs. Gray turned her back squarely upon the dazed girl, who slowly arose, and without looking at Mrs. Gray, walked dejectedly across the room. But Miriam Nesbit lost one supporter from that minute on. "Hateful things," said the mortified Frances, looking towards Julia and Miriam. "I believe they are more to blame than Miss Pierson ever thought of being." When Grace paused at Mrs. Gray's side after the two-step, she saw plainly that the old lady was much agitated. "Grace," she said quickly, "what is all this nonsense about Anne?" "O Mrs. Gray," cried Grace. "Who could have been so unkind as to tell you? We didn't want you to know. It is all so foolish." "But I want to know," said the old lady positively. "Anne is so very dear to me, and I can't allow these hare-brained girls to make damaging statements about her. Tell me at once, Grace." Grace reluctantly gave a brief account of her recent disagreement with her class and the unpleasantness to which Anne had been subjected. "What does ail Miriam Nesbit? She used to be such a nice child!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray. "Really, Grace, I feel that I ought to go straight to Miss Thompson with this." Grace's heart sank. That was just what she did not want Mrs. Gray to do. "Dear Mrs. Gray," she said, patting the old lady's hand, "it is better for us to fight it out by ourselves. If Miss Thompson knew all that had happened, she would forbid basketball for the rest of the season. She is awfully opposed to anything of that kind, and would champion Anne's cause to the end, but Anne would rather let matters stand the way they are, than lose us our basketball privilege. You see, the juniors have won the first game, and if basketball were stopped now we would have no chance to make up our lost ground. I firmly believe that all will come right in the end, and I think the girls will get tired of their grudge and gradually drop it. Of course it hurts to be snubbed, but I guess we can stand it. We have some friends who are loyal, at any rate." "I suppose you are right, my dear," responded the old lady. "It is better for old folks to keep their fingers out of young folk's pies. But what did that pert miss mean about Anne's father being an actor? I had an idea he was dead." So Grace told Mrs. Gray the story of Anne's father, beginning from where he had intercepted Anne on her way from the aëroplane exhibition during her freshman year, up to the time of the arrival of his letter begging for money. "Anne used her freshman prize money last year to help him out of trouble. He forged a friend's name for one hundred dollars, and would have had to go to prison had she not made good the money he took, I always wanted you to know about it, Mrs. Gray, but Anne felt so badly over it, she begged me never to tell any one." "Your story explains a great many things I never before understood," said Mrs. Gray. "That doll that was sent to the Christmas party last year, for instance. But how did Miriam find out about it?" "We don't know," said Grace. "Her doings are dark and mysterious. Find out she did; and she has told the story with considerable effect among the girls." "It is too bad," mused Mrs. Gray. "I should like to right matters were it possible, but as long as you don't wish it, my dear, I suppose I must let you fight it out by yourselves. But one thing I am sure of, Anne shall never want for a friend as long as I live. Now run along and have a good time. I've kept you here when you might have been dancing." "I have loved being with you," said Grace. "I shall not tell Anne about what was said," she added in a lower tone. "That is right, Grace," responded Mrs. Gray. "No need of hurting the child's feelings." During the balance of the evening nothing occurred to discomfit either Grace or Anne. To be sure there was a marked coolness exhibited by most of their classmates, but David took charge of Anne and saw to it that nothing disturbed her. Grace, who was a general favorite with the High School boys of Oakdale, could have filled her programme three times over. She was the embodiment of life and danced with such apparent unconcern that the mind of more than one sophomore was divided as to whether to cleave to Miriam or renew their former allegiance to Grace. It was well after one o'clock when the "Home, Sweet Home" waltz sounded. The floor was well filled with dancers, for the majority of the guests had remained until the end of the ball. As the last strains of the music died away the sophomores sent their class yell echoing through the gymnasium. It was answered by the various yells of the other classes, given with true High School fervor. Each class trying to outdo the other in the making of noise. Sleepy chaperons began gathering up their charges. The sophomore ball was a thing of the past. "These late hours and indigestible suppers are bound to break down my delicate constitution yet," Hippy confided to Nora. "In that case I shall make it a point to see that you don't receive any more invitations to our parties," Nora answered cruelly. "Then you can stay at home and build up that precious health of yours." "Don't mention it," replied Hippy hastily. "I would rather become an emaciated wreck than deprive myself of your society." "It was simply glorious," said Anne to Grace as they stood waiting for their carriage, "and was there ever such a nice boy as David!" Grace pressed Anne's hand by way of answer. She knew that David had understood the situation and had taken care to steer Anne clear of shoals, and Grace determined that no matter what Miriam might say or do in future, for David's sake it should be overlooked. CHAPTER XI A LION AT LAST It was a week before the last borrowed decoration reposed in its original place, and fully that long before the echoes of the sophomore ball died out. It was pronounced the most successful class function given in Oakdale for a number of years, and the sophomores felt justly proud of themselves. Miriam Nesbit took particular pains to point out that the success of the affair was in no way due to Grace Harlowe, and many of the girls who had hitherto believed that Grace was a necessary factor in High School fun, decided that they had perhaps overrated her ability. Grace was fully cognizant of their change of heart, and spent more than one unhappy hour over it, but outwardly she carried herself as though unaware of the many little ill-natured stabs directed toward her. Anne, who was completely ignored, took it philosophically, her only regret being the fact that Grace had been dragged into difficulties on her account. Thanksgiving had come and gone. The High School boys had played their usual game of football with a neighboring school and whipped them to a standstill, David had played on the team and covered himself with glory by making a sensational touchdown. The girl chums had worn his colors and shrieked themselves hoarse with joy over the prowess of their friend. Miriam, secretly proud of her brother, resolved to make a like record for herself during the next basketball game, which was to take place during the following week. She believed that it was the last touch needed to make her the avowed leader of her class. She even dreamed that the basketball captaincy might one day be hers. To be sure Grace had Nora on her side, and Nora was one of the regular players, but the other two players were Miriam's faithful allies. That made three against two, and the second team had practically declared in her favor. Grace would have to do differently if she expected to keep the captaincy. Meanwhile Grace was finding the captaincy of a team divided against itself anything but satisfactory. The girls, with the exception of Nora, obeyed her orders indifferently and as though under protest. It was almost impossible to get every member to come to practice. Some one of them invariably stayed away. On one occasion she spoke rather sharply to the team about it, but her earnest words were received with sullen resentment. "What is the use of working ourselves to death simply to have our game handed over to the enemy?" one girl had muttered. Grace colored at this thrust, but closed her lips tightly and made no reply. But the attitude of her team worked upon her mind, and she lost confidence in herself. She realized that a new and injurious influence was at work, and she was powerless to stem the tide of dissension that had arisen. The practice game was played on the afternoon before the contest, and not even Jessica was there to witness it, although she had formerly been taken as a matter of course. When invited to attend practice she had scornfully refused it. "No, thank you," she said. "If anything should go wrong to-morrow I'd be accused of treachery. No one's reputation is safe in this class." At which remark several sophomores had the grace to blush. The day dawned bright and clear. Grace arrived at the gymnasium long before the others. She was worried and anxious over the behavior of her team. She was half afraid that some one of them would absent herself, in which case one of the substitutes would have to be called, and Grace doubted whether they could be relied upon. Two months before, she had been certain that there were no players like those of the sophomore organization. Now she had no confidence in them or herself. She had a faint hope that when the game opened, her players would forget their grievances and work for the honor of the sophomores. She would do her best at all events, and Nora could be depended upon, too. All this passed rapidly through Grace's mind as she waited for the team to appear. The spectators were arriving in numbers. The gallery was almost full, and it still lacked fifteen minutes of the time before the game would be called. The proverbial little bird had been extremely busy, and all sorts of rumors regarding the two teams were afloat. The juniors were, as usual, seated in a body and making a great deal of unnecessary noise. The members of the sophomore class were scattered here and there. Anne and Jessica sat with three or four of the girls who had refused to pay any attention to the talk about Anne. A dozen or more of Miriam's flock sat together watching for the appearance of their favorite. Occasionally they glanced over toward Anne, whispered to each other, and then giggled in a way that made Anne wince and Jessica feel like ordering them out of the gallery. Grace and Nora stood talking together at one end of the gymnasium. Grace kept an anxious eye on the clock. It was five minutes of two and Miriam had not arrived. "Would she dare to stay away?" Grace wondered. At two minutes of two there was a burst of applause from the section of the gallery where Miriam's admirers were seated. Grace glanced quickly around to see what had caused it, and beheld Miriam serenely approaching, a satisfied smile on her face. She had waited until the last minute in the hope of making a sensation, and had not been disappointed. Then the game began. Julia Crosby and Grace Harlowe once more faced each other on the field of action. This time Grace won the toss and sent the ball whizzing to the goal thrower, who tried for goal and caged the ball without effort. This aroused the sophomores, and Grace could have danced for joy as she saw that they were really going to work in earnest. The juniors were on the alert, too. If they won to-day that meant the season's championship. If they won the third game, that meant a complete whitewash for the sophomores. So the juniors hotly contested every inch of the ground, and the sophomores found that they had their hands full. The first half of the game closed with the score 8 to 6 in favor of the juniors. During the intermission of twenty minutes between halves, the sophomores retired to the little room off the gymnasium to rest. The outlook was indeed gloomy. It was doubtful whether they could make up their loss during the last half. Marian Barber, Eva Allen and Miriam whispered together in one corner. Grace sat with her chin in her hand, deep in thought, while Nora stood staring out the window trying to keep back the tears. Two or three of the substitutes strolled in and joined Miriam's group. The whispering grew to be a subdued murmur. The girls were evidently talking about Grace, hence their lowered voices. Their long-suffering captain looked at them once or twice, made a move as if to join them, then sat down again. Nora's blood was up at the girls' rudeness. She marched over to the group and was about to deliver her opinion of them in scathing terms, when the whistle sounded. There was a general scramble for places. Then the ball was put in play and the second half began. The sophomores managed to tie the score during the early part of the last half, and from that on held their own. They fought strenuously to keep the juniors from scoring. When the juniors did score, the plucky sophomores managed to do the same soon after. There were two more minutes of the game, and the score stood 10 to 10. It looked as though it might end in a tie. One of the juniors had the ball. With unerring aim she threw it to goal. It never reached there, for Miriam Nesbit made a dash, sprang straight into the air and caught the ball before it reached its destination. Quick as a flash she threw it to Nora, who threw it to Marian Barber. The latter being near the basket threw it to goal without any trouble. Before the juniors could get anywhere near the ball the whistle blew and the game closed. Score 12 to 10. The sophomores had won. The noise in the gallery was deafening. Miriam's sensational playing had taken every one by storm. A crowd of sophomores rushed down to the gymnasium and began dancing around her singing their class song. Her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes blazed with triumph. She was a lion at last, and now the rest would follow. She felt sure that she would be asked to take the place of Grace as captain. She had shown them what she could do. Grace had done nothing but cause trouble. The team would be better off without her. Anne and Jessica were waiting in the corridor for Grace and Nora. The two players rapidly changed their clothes and soon the chums were walking down the quiet street. "Well," said Jessica, "Miriam has done it at last." "She has, indeed," responded Grace, "and no one begrudges her her glory. She made a star play and saved the day for us. She is loyal to the team even if she doesn't like their captain." "I don't know about that," said Nora, "I think she might have exerted herself during the first game if she wanted so much to show her loyalty. She was anything but a star player, then. I have no faith in her, whatever. She cares for no one but herself, and that star play was for her own benefit, not because of any allegiance to her team. She's up to something, you may depend upon that." "Oh, Nora, don't be too hard on her. She deserves great credit for her work. Don't you think so, girls?" Grace turned appealingly to Anne and Jessica. "It was a remarkable play," said Anne. Jessica made no answer. She would not praise Grace's enemy, even to please Grace. "You may say what you please," said Nora obstinately, "I shall stick to my own convictions. The way those girls stood in the corner and whispered during intermission was simply disgraceful. Mark my words, something will come of it." "Oh, here comes David on his motorcycle," called Anne delightedly. David slowed up when he saw the girls, alighted and greeted them warmly. He at once congratulated them on their victory. "I congratulate you on having a star player for a sister," said Grace. "It must run in the family." She referred to his late football triumphs. David flushed with pleasure, more at the compliment paid to his sister than the one meant for him. "Sis can come up to the mark when she wants to," he said earnestly. "I hope she repeats the performance." Then he abruptly changed the subject. That one little speech revealed to his friends the fact that he understood the situation and longed with all his heart for a change of tactics on the part of his sister. CHAPTER XII THE WAYS OF SCHOOLGIRLS The clang of the gong announced the end of school for the day, but some of the sophomores lingered in their locker-room. They had a very disagreeable communication to make that afternoon, to one of their class, and now that the time had come were inclined to shrink from the ordeal. "I think Miriam should break the news herself," observed Marian Barber, "as long as she is to succeed Grace." "Miriam isn't here," said Eva Allen, "she went home early. She told me she could not bear to see anyone unhappy. She is so sensitive you know?" Eva Allen was devoted to Miriam's cause. "Oh, I don't know about that," said practical Marian. "She'll make a good captain, however, because she has showed more loyalty to the team than Grace has." Marian firmly believed what she said. She had never been an ardent admirer of Miriam, and had at first stubbornly refused to repudiate Grace. But Miriam had little by little instilled into her the idea of Grace's incompetency, until Marian, who thought only of the good of the team, became convinced that a change of captains was advisable. Miriam's brilliant playing in the recent game was the final touch needed, and now Marian was prepared to do what she considered was her absolute duty. "Suppose we write Grace a letter," suggested one of the substitutes, "as long as no one seems anxious to tell her." "Hush," exclaimed Eva Allen, holding up her finger. "Here come Nora and Jessica. I know they are going to make a lot of fuss when they hear the news. Suppose we go back to the classroom and write the letter. We can all sign our names to it, and then we'll be equally to blame." The conspirators accordingly trooped into the corridor, just as Nora and Jessica were about to enter the locker-room. "What in the world is the matter now?" called Jessica. "You girls looks as guilty as though you'd stolen a gold mine." "Wait and see," said Eva with a rather embarrassed laugh, as she hurried after the others up the stairs. "Do you know, Jessica, I believe they're up to some hateful mischief. What did I tell you the other day? Those girls have given Grace the cold shoulder more than ever, since the game. They have been following Miriam about like a lot of sheep. Grace notices it, too, and it makes her unhappy, only she's too proud to say so." "Never mind," said Jessica soothingly. "They'll be sorry some day. Miriam's influence won't last. Grace did perfectly right in standing by Anne, and you and I must always stand by Grace. Grace is a fine captain, and----" "What are you saying about me?" demanded Grace herself, walking into the locker-room with Anne. Jessica blushed and was silent, but Nora said glibly, "Oh, Jessica just now said that you made a fine captain." Then she went on hurriedly, "I think our chances for winning the championship are better than ever, don't you?" "The juniors have been practising like mad since their defeat," mused Grace. "They will make a hard fight next time. Miss Thompson told me yesterday that she never saw better work in basketball than ours last Saturday. I am so proud of my team, even though they haven't been very nice to me lately. My whole desire is for them to win the final game. I suppose a captain has about the same feeling toward her players that a mother has toward her daughters. She is willing to make any sacrifice in order to make fine girls of them." "And you are a fine captain," cried Anne. "I felt so proud of you the other day. You handled your team so well. Knowing how hateful they have been, it was wonderful to see you give your orders as though nothing had happened. No other girl could have done it." "That is a nice compliment, Anne, dear," said Grace pleased with the words of praise from her friend, for the bitterness of her recent unpopularity had made her heart heavy. At that moment the sophomores whom Jessica and Nora had encountered filed into the room. Each girl wore a self-conscious expression. Eva Allen carried an envelope in her hand. She was confused and nervous. Once inside the door the girls paused and began a whispered conversation. Then Eva Allen tried to push the envelope into another girl's hand; but the girl put her hands behind her back and obstinately refused to take it. There was another whispered conference with many side glances in Grace's direction. Nora stood scowling savagely at the group. She noticed that it consisted of the basketball team and its substitutes. They were all there except Miriam. "If you have any secrets, girls," remarked Grace in a hurt tone, "please postpone the telling of them for a few minutes. I am going, directly." She opened her locker and drew out her coat and hat, trying to hide the tears that filled her eyes. Then Marian Barber impatiently took the envelope from Eva and stepped forward. She had made up her mind to get the whole thing over as rapidly as she could. "Er--Grace," she said, clearing her throat, "er--the team has----" "Well, what is it?" exclaimed Nora, irritated beyond her power of endurance. "Why don't you speak out, instead of stuttering in that fashion? I always did detest stuttering." "Marian has a note for you, Grace," interposed one of the substitutes growing bolder. Marian placed the note in Grace's hand and turned slowly away. Up to that minute she had believed that what they were about to do was for the best; but all at once the feeling swept over her that she had done a contemptible thing. She turned as though about to take the envelope from Grace, but the latter had already opened it, and unfolding the paper began reading the contents aloud. "Dear Grace," she read, "after a meeting to-day of the members of the regular and substitute sophomore basketball teams, it was decided that your resignation as captain of the same be requested. "We are sorry to do this, but we believe it is for the good of the team. We feel that you cannot be loyal to its interests as long as you persist in being a friend of one of its enemies." The names of the players, with the exception of Nora's and Miriam's, were signed to this communication. After she had finished reading Grace stood perfectly still, looking searchingly into the faces of her classmates. She was trying to gain her self-control before speaking to them. She could hardly realize that her own team had dealt this cruel blow. For the first time in her life she had received a real shock. She took a long deep breath and clenched her hands. She did not wish to break down before she had spoken what was in her mind. Nora was muttering angrily to herself. Jessica looked ready to cry, while Anne, pale and resolute, came over and stood by Grace. She felt that she had been the primary cause of the whole trouble. She had borne the girls' unjust treatment of herself in silence, but, now, they had visited their displeasure upon Grace, and that was not to be borne. "How dared you do such a despicable thing?" she cried. "You are cruel, unfeeling, and oh, so unjust. You accused me of something I would scorn to do, and not satisfied with that, visited your petty spite upon a girl who is the soul of truth and honor. You may say what you choose about me, but you shall not hurt Grace, and if you don't immediately retract what you have written I will take measures which may prove most unpleasant to all of you." Just what Anne intended to do she did not know, but her outburst had its effect on the conspirators, and they squirmed uneasily under the lash of her words. Perhaps, they had misjudged this slender, dark-eyed girl after all. Before Anne could say more, Grace spoke quietly. "Sit down, all of you," she said at last, with a sweetness and dignity that was remarkable in so young a girl. "I have something to say to you. It is curious," she went on, "that I was just talking about our basketball team when you came into the room. I had said to Nora, Jessica and Anne that I wanted more than anything else in the world to beat the junior team. Miss Thompson had been praising the team to me, and I said to the girls that I thought I loved it just as a mother loves her daughters. There is no sacrifice I wouldn't make to keep up the team's good work, and that is the reason why I am going to make a sacrifice, now, and decline to resign. If I had been a poor captain, you would have had a right to ask for my resignation But I haven't. I have been a good, hard-working, conscientious captain, and I have made a success of the team. None of you can deny it. If you took a new captain at this stage it might ruin everything, and I tell you I have thought too much about it; I have set my heart on it so firmly that it would just break if we lost the deciding game." Her voice broke a little. Nora was sobbing openly. It was hard work for Grace to control her own tears. "Of course," she went on, clearing her throat and raising her voice to steady it, "it will be a sacrifice for me to keep on being your captain when you don't want me. It's no fun, I can assure you. Perhaps none of you has ever felt the hurt that comes of being turned out by people who were once fond of you. I hope you never will. I am still fond of all of you, and some day, perhaps, you will see that you have made a mistake. At any rate, I decline to resign my place. It was given to me for the year, and I won't give it up." Grace turned her back and walked to the window. She had come at last to the end of her strength. She leaned against the window jamb and wept bitterly. But the address of Mark Anthony over the dead body of Cæsar was not more effective than this simple schoolgirl's speech. Every girl there melted into tears of remorse and sympathy. "Oh, Grace," cried Marian Barber, "won't you forgive us? We never dreamed it would hurt you so. Now that I look back upon it, I can't see how we could have asked you to do it. We did believe that Miss Pierson betrayed us; but after all, that had nothing to do with your being captain of the team. I think you have been a great deal more loyal than we have. I want to say right here, girls, that I apologize to Grace and scratch my name off the list." She took a pencil, dashing it through her signature, which was the first one on the letter. One by one each of the other girls put a pencil stroke through her name. Then they pinned on their hats, slipped into their coats and left the room as quickly as possible. They were all desperately ashamed; each in her secret heart wished she had never entered into the conspiracy. They had given the captaincy to Grace, and after all, they had no right to take away what they had freely given, and for no better reason than that Grace was loyal to a friend whom they distrusted. It was a cruel thing that they had done. They admitted it to each other now, and wished they had never listened to Miriam Nesbit. Speaking of Miriam, who was to tell her that she had not supplanted Grace after all, as captain of the team. "You are all cowards," exclaimed Marian Barber still buoyed up by her recent emotions, "I am not afraid of Miriam, or anyone else, and I'll undertake to tell her." But at the last moment she determined to break the news by letter. In the meantime, Miss Thompson had quietly entered the locker-room, where Grace and her three chums were still standing. "Grace," said the principal, "I was passing by and I could not help overhearing what has been said, and while I don't care to enter into the little private quarrels of my girls, I want to tell you that you made a noble defense of your position. I am very proud of you, my child." Miss Thompson put her arms around the weeping girl and kissed her. "I wish every girl in my school would make such a stand for her principles. You were right not to have resigned. Always do what your judgment tells you is right, no matter what the result is, and don't give up the captaincy!" CHAPTER XIII A SKATING PARTY The holidays had come and gone, and the pupils of Oakdale High School had resigned themselves to a period of hard study. The dreaded mid-year examinations stared them in the face, and for the time being basketball ardor had cooled and a surprising devotion to study had ensued. Since the day that Grace had refused to give up her captaincy there had been considerable change in the girls' attitude toward her. She had not regained her old-time popularity, but it was evident that her schoolmates respected her for her brave decision and treated her with courtesy. They still retained a feeling of suspicion toward Anne, however, although they did not openly manifest it. Miriam Nesbit had been inwardly furious over the outcome of her plan to gain the captaincy, but she was wise enough to assume an air of indifference over her defeat. Grace's speech had made considerable impression on the minds of even Miriam's most devoted supporters and she knew that the slightest slip on her part would turn the tide of opinion against her. Grace was in a more cheerful frame of mind than formerly. She felt that all would come right some day. "Truth crushed to earth shall rise again," she told herself, and the familiar saying proved very comforting to her. Winter had settled down on Oakdale as only a northern winter can do. There had been snow on the ground since Thanksgiving, and sleigh rides and skating parties were in order. Grace awoke one Saturday morning in high good humor. "To-day's the day," she said to herself. "Hurrah for skating!" She hurried through her breakfast and was donning her fur cap and sweater, when Anne, Jessica and Nora, accompanied by David, Hippy, Reddy and, to her surprise and delight, Tom Gray, turned in at her gate. "'Oh, be joyful, oh, be gay, For there's skating on the bay,'" sang Hippy. "Meaning pond, I suppose," laughed Grace, as she opened her front door. "Meaning pond?" answered Hippy, "only pond doesn't rhyme with gay." "You might say, "'Oh, be joyful, oh, be fond, For there's skating on the pond,'" suggested David. "Fond of what?" demanded Hippy. "Of the person you've asked to skate with you," replied David, looking toward Anne, who stood with a small pair of new skates tucked under her arm. "I shall be initiated into all the mysteries of the world soon," she observed, smiling happily. "Last year it was coasting and football and now it's dancing and skating. When I once get these things on, David, I'll be like a bird trying its wings, I'll flop about just as helplessly." "I'm awfully glad to see you, Tom," said Grace, "I did not expect to see you until Easter." "Oh, I couldn't keep away," laughed Tom. "This is the jolliest place I know." "Good reason," said Reddy, "we are the real people." "Stop praising yourself and listen to me," said Hippy. "Our pond has frozen over in the most obliging manner. It's as smooth as glass. Let's go there to skate. There's a crowd of boys and girls on it already." The pond on the Wingate estate was really a small lake, a mile or more in circumference. While it froze over every winter, the ice was apt to be rough, and there were often dangerous places in it, air-holes and thin spots where several serious accidents had occurred. Therefore, Wingate's Pond was not used as much as the river for skating; but this winter the ice was as smooth and solid as if it had been frozen artificially, so the High School boys and girls could not resist the temptation to skim over its surface. "Isn't it a fine sight?" asked Grace, as they came in view of the skaters who were circling and gliding over the pond, some by twos and threes, others in long rows, laughing and shouting. A big fire burned on the bank, rows of new-comers sat near it, fitting on their skates. "Away with dull care!" cried Hippy, as he circled gracefully over the ice; for, with all his weight, Hippy was considered one of the best skaters in Oakdale. "Away with everything but fun," finished Grace who could think of nothing save the joy of skating. "Come along, Anne. Don't be afraid. David and I will keep you up until you learn to use those tiny little feet of yours." Anne's small feet went almost higher than her head while Grace was speaking, and she sat flat down on the ice. "No harm done," she laughed, "only I didn't know it could possibly be so slippery." They pulled her up, David and Grace, and put her between them with Tom Gray on the other side of Grace as additional support, and off they flew, while Anne, keeping her feet together and holding on tightly, sailed along like a small ice boat. "This will give you confidence," explained David, "and later on you can learn how to use your feet." But Anne hardly heard him, so thrilled was she by the glorious sensation. As they flew by, followed by Hippy and Nora, with Reddy and Jessica, she caught glimpses of many people looking strangely unfamiliar on skates. Miriam passed, gliding gracefully over the ice with a troop of sophomores at her heels. There were many High School boys "cracking the whip" in long rows of eight or more, while there were some older people comfortably seated in sleigh chairs which were pushed from behind, generally by some poor boys in Oakdale, who stood on the bank waiting to be hired. "Now, we'll have a lesson," exclaimed David when they had reached the starting point again, while the others lost themselves in the crowd. Anne was a good pupil, but she was soon tired and sat down on a bench near the bank. "Do go and have a good skate yourself, David," she insisted. "I'll rest for awhile and look on." But it was far too cold to sit still. "I'll give myself a lesson," she said. "This is a quiet spot. All the others seem to have skated up to the other end." As she was carefully taking the strokes David had taught her, with an occasional struggle to keep her balance, she heard a great shouting behind her. The next instant, some one had seized her by the hand. "Keep your feet together!" was shouted in her ear, and she found herself going like the wind at the end of a long line of girls. They were juniors, she saw at once, and it was Julia Crosby at the whip end who had seized her by the hand. Anne closed her eyes. They were going at a tremendous rate of speed, it seemed to her, like a comet shooting through the air. Then, suddenly, the head of the comet stood still and the tail swung around it, and Anne, who represented the very tip of the tail and who hardly reached to Julia Crosby's shoulder, felt herself carried along with such velocity that the breath left her body, her knees gave way and she fell down in a limp little bundle. Julia Crosby instantly let go her hand and the impetus of the rush shot her like a catapult far over the ice into the midst of a crowd of skaters. But the juniors never stopped to see what damage had been done. They quickly joined hands again, and were off on another expedition almost before Anne had been picked up by David and Hippy. "It's that Julia Crosby again," cried David. "I wish she would move to Europe. I'd gladly buy her a ticket. The town of Oakdale isn't big enough to hold her and other people. She's always trying to knock somebody off the side of the earth." Anne went home, tired and bruised. She had had enough of skating for one morning David returned to join the others; for this was not the last of the day's adventures and Julia Crosby, before sunset, was to repent of her cruelty to Anne. In the meantime Grace and Tom had skated up to the far end of the pond. "Well, Grace," said Tom, "how has the world been using you? I suppose you have been adding to your laurels as a basketball captain." "Far from it," said Grace a trifle sadly. "Miriam Nesbit is star player at present." They skated on for some time in silence. Tom felt there was something wrong, so he tactfully changed the subject. "Who is the girl doing the fancy strokes?" he asked, pointing to Julia Crosby, who, some distance ahead of them, was giving an exhibition of her powers as a maker of figure eights and cross-cuts. "That's the junior captain," answered Grace. "I hope she won't fall, because she's heavy enough to go right through the ice if she should have a hard tumble." "Suppose we stop watching her," suggested Tom. "I don't want to see her take a header, and people who show off on skates always do so, sooner or later." They changed their course toward the middle of the pond, while Julia, who was turning and circling nearer the shore, watched them from one corner of her eye. Suddenly Grace stopped. "Julia! Julia!" she cried. "Miss Crosby!" "What's the matter?" demanded Tom. "Don't you see the danger flag over there? She will skate into a hole if she keeps on. The ice houses are near here, and I suppose it is where they have been cutting ice." "Hello-o!" cried Tom, straining his lungs to reach the skater, who looked back, gave her usual tantalizing laugh and skated on. "You are getting onto thin ice," screamed Grace in despair, beckoning wildly. "Stop! Stop!" Julia Crosby was skating backwards now, facing the others. "Catch me if you can," she called, and the wind carried her words to them as they flew after her. Then Grace, who had been anxiously watching the skater and not the ice, stumbled on a piece of frozen wood and fell headlong. She lay still for an instant, half stunned by the blow, but even in that distressful moment she could hear the other girl's derisive laughter. Tom called again: "You'll be drowned, if you don't look where you are going." "Why don't you learn to skate?" was Julia's answer. "O Tom," exclaimed Grace. "Leave me. I'll soon get my breath. Do go and stop that girl. The pond's awfully deep there." "Miss Crosby," Tom Gray called, "won't you wait a minute? I have something to tell you." "Catch me first!" she cried. She turned and began skating for dear life, bending from the waist and going like the wind. "I think I'll try and catch her from the front," he said to himself. "I don't propose to tumble in, too, and leave poor Grace to fish, us both out." With arms swinging freely, he made for the center of the pond. As he whizzed past the girl, he turned with a wide sweep and came toward her, pointing at the same time to the white flag. But it was too late. In her effort to outstrip him, Julia slid heavily into the danger zone. There was a crash and a splash, then down she went into the icy water, followed by Tom, who had seized her arm in a fruitless effort to save her. For an instant Tom was paralyzed with the coldness of the water. Still, keeping a firm grip on the arm of the girl who had been responsible for his ice bath, he managed to clutch the ledge of ice made by their fall with his free hand. "Take hold of the ice and try to help yourself a little," commanded Tom. Julia made a half-hearted attempt, and managed to grasp the ledge, but her hold was so feeble that Tom dared not withdraw his support He was powerless to act, and they would both drown unless help came quickly. CHAPTER XIV A BRAVE RESCUE Grace was still where she had fallen, cooling a large, red lump on her forehead by applying her handkerchief first to the ice and then to the swollen place, when she suddenly felt herself to be entirely alone in the world. "Everybody has gone home to dinner!" she exclaimed, as she glanced over her shoulder at the other end of the pond, now denuded of skaters. Then she shifted her position, looking for Tom and Julia. She had never dreamed, when she saw her friend go whizzing across the ice, that he had not caught the reckless girl in time to warn her of her danger. In a flash she saw the empty expanse of ice before her. She leaped to her feet, balancing herself with difficulty, for her head was still dizzy from the blow. "Tom! Tom Gray!" she called. "Where are you?" "Run for help!" came the answer. In another moment she saw them clinging to a broken ledge of ice, Tom supporting Julia Crosby. As for the junior captain, she was weeping bitterly, and making no attempt to help herself. Grace anxiously scanned the expanse of the ice. It was nearly a mile to the other end of the pond, and the last group of skaters had disappeared over the brow of the hill. "You must think quickly," she said to herself. Her eyes took in the other shore. Not a soul was there, not a dwelling of any sort; nothing but the great ice house that stood like a lonely sentinel on the bank. Yet something seemed to tell her that help lay in that direction. Once before, in a moment of danger, Grace had obeyed this same impulse and had never regretted it. Once again she was following the instinct that might have seemed to another person anything but wise. Skating as she had never skated before, Grace Harlowe reached the shore in a moment. Here, dropping to the bank, she quickly removed her skates, then ran toward the ice house, feeling strangely unaccustomed to walking on the ground after her long morning on skates. "What if I am off on a wild-goose chase?" she said to herself. "Suppose there is no one there?" She paused for an instant and then ran on faster than before. "I shall find help over there, I know I shall," she thought as she hurried over the frozen ground and made straight for the ice house. There was no time to be lost. Tom and Julia were liable to be sucked under and drowned while she was looking for help. Grace pushed resolutely on. In the meantime hardly four minutes had really elapsed since the skaters had tumbled into the water. On the other side of the ice house she came abruptly upon a man engaged in loading a child's wagon with chips of wood. "Help!" cried Grace. "Help! Some people have broken through the ice. Have you a rope?" The man made no answer whatever. He did not even look up until Grace shook him by the shoulder. "There is no time to lose," she cried. "They may drown at any moment. Come! Come quickly, and help me save them." The man looked at her with a strange, far-away expression in his eyes. "Don't you hear me?" cried Grace in an agony of impatience. "Are you deaf?" He shook his head stupidly, touching his ears and mouth. "Deaf and dumb!" she exclaimed in despair. Holding up two fingers, Grace pointed toward the water. Then she made a swimming motion. Perhaps he had understood. She could not tell, but her quick eye had caught sight of a long, thin plank on the shore. Pulling off one of her mittens, she showed him a little pearl and turquoise ring her mother had given her for a birthday present, indicating that she would give it to him if he would help her. Then she seized one end of the plank and made a sign for him to take the other; but the stubborn creature began to unload the chips from the wagon. Grace ran blindly ahead, dragging the plank alone. "He's feeble-minded," she quivered. "I suppose I shall have to work this thing by myself." When she had reached the bank, Grace heard him trotting behind her with his little wagon. In another moment there was a tug at the board. She turned and shook her fist angrily at him; but, without regarding her in the least, he lifted the plank and rested it on the wagon. Then motioning her to hold up the back end, he started on a run down the bank. "The poor soul thinks he's a horse, I suppose," she said to herself, "but what difference does it make, if we can only get the plank to Tom and Julia?" Grace soon saw, however, that the idea was not entirely idiotic. Later she was to offer up a prayer of thanks for that same child's wagon. The deaf and dumb man was wearing heavy Arctic rubbers, which kept him from slipping; while Grace, whose soles were as smooth as glass, kept her balance admirably by means of the other end of the plank. Tom and Julia Crosby had now been nearly ten minutes in the water. Twice the ice had broken under Tom's grasp, while Julia, who seemed unable to help herself, had thrown all her weight on the poor boy, while she called wildly for help and heaped Grace with reproaches for running away. "If it were not for the fact that it would be the act of a coward," exclaimed Tom at last, his teeth chattering with cold, "I would let go of your arm and give up the job of supporting you in this ice water for talking about Grace like that. Of course she has gone for help. Haven't you found out long ago that she is the right sort?" "Well, why did she go in the wrong direction?" sobbed Julia. "Everybody is over on the other bank. There is nothing but an ice house over here." "You may trust to her to have had some good, sensible reason," retorted Tom loyally. "I don't think I can keep up much longer," exclaimed Julia, beginning to cry again. "Keep on crying," replied Tom exasperated. "It will warm you--and remember that I am doing the keeping up. I don't see that you are making any special effort in that direction." Once Tom had endeavored to lift Julia out of the hole, and he believed, and always insisted, in telling the story afterwards, that if she had been willing to help herself it could have been accomplished. But Julia Crosby, triumphant leader of her class, and Julia Crosby cold and wet as a result of her own recklessness, were two different beings altogether. "Grace Harlowe has left us to drown," she sobbed. "I am so wretched. She is a selfish girl." "No such thing," replied Tom vigorously. "Here she comes now, bringing help as I expected I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself." He gave a sigh of relief when he saw Grace and the strange man approaching at a quick trot, the wagon and plank between them. His confidence in Grace had not been misplaced. He felt that they would soon be released from their perilous predicament. [Illustration: Grace and the Strange Man Quickly Approached.] "All right," called Grace cheerfully as she approached. "Keep up a little while longer. We'll have you both out in a jiffy." Both rescuers slid the plank on the ice until one end projected over the hole. Then the man and Grace both lay flat down on the other end and Grace called "ready." Julia Crosby seized the board and pulled herself out of the water, safe, now, from the breaking of thin ice at the edge. "Now, Tom," cried Grace. But Julia's considerable weight had already weakened the wood. When Tom attempted to draw himself up, crack! went the board, and a jagged piece broke off. This would not have been so serious if the ice had not given way. Then, into the water, with many strange, guttural cries, slipped the deaf and dumb man. Grace herself was wet through by the rush of water over the ice, and just saved herself by slipping backward. There was still a small portion of the plank left, and, with Julia Crosby's help, Grace thought they might manage to pull the two men out. But Julia looked hardly able to help herself. She sat shivering on the bank trying to remove her skates. "Julia," called Grace desperately. "You must help me now or these two men will drown. Help me hold down this plank." Aroused by Grace's appeal, Julia meekly obeyed, and, still shivering violently, knelt beside Grace on the plank. But it was too short; when Tom Gray seized one end of it he nearly upset both the girls into the water. "Oh, what shall we do?" cried Grace in despair when suddenly there came the thought of the little wagon. Quickly untwisting a long muffler of red silk from about her neck, Grace tied it securely in the middle, around the cross piece of the tongue of the stout little vehicle. Then she pushed it gently until it stood on the edge of the hole. Giving one end of the muffler to Julia, Grace took the other herself. "Catch hold of the tail piece, Tom," she cried. Fortunately the ice was very rough where the girls were standing, or they would certainly have slipped and fallen. They pulled and tugged until gradually the ice in front of them, with Tom's additional weight on it, instead of breaking began to sink. But Tom Gray was out of the hole now; helped by the wagon he slipped easily along the half-submerged ice, then finally rolled over with a cry of relief upon the firm surface. In the same way they pulled out the deaf and dumb man, who had certainly been brave and patient during the ordeal, although he had uttered the most fearful sounds. As soon as his feet touched the solid ice, he seized his wagon and made for the bank. Grace, remembering she had promised him her ring, hurried after him, but she was chilled to the bone and could not run. By the time she reached the bank he had rounded the corner of the ice house and was out of sight. "He evidently doesn't care to be thanked," said Tom Gray as Grace returned to where he and Julia stood waiting. "We had better get home as soon as possible or we'll all be laid up with colds." The three half-frozen young people made their way home as best they could. Their clothes had frozen stiff, making it impossible for them to hurry. Julia Crosby said not a word during the walk, but when she left them at the corner where she turned into her own street, she said huskily: "Thank you both for what you did for me to-day, I owe my life to you." "That was a whole lot for her to say," said Grace. "She ought to be grateful," growled Tom. "She was the cause of all this mess," pointing to his wet clothes. "I believe she will be," said Grace softly, "After all, 'It's an ill wind that blows no one good.'" Grace's mother was justly horrified when Grace, in her bedraggled condition, walked into the living room. She insisted on putting her to bed, wrapping her in blankets and giving her hot drinks. Grace fell into a sound sleep from which she did not awaken until evening. Then she rose, dressed and appeared at the supper table apparently none the worse for her wetting. Meanwhile Tom Gray had gone to his aunt's, given himself a brisk rubbing down and changed his wet clothing for another suit he fortunately happened to have with him. Thanks to his strong constitution and vigorous health, he felt no bad effects. He then went down to the kitchen, asked the cook for a cup of hot coffee, and, after hastily swallowing it, rushed off to find David, Hippy and Reddy and tell them the news. He was filled with admiration for Grace. "She is the finest, most resolute girl I ever knew!" he exclaimed as he finished his story. "Hurrah for Grace Harlowe!" shouted Reddy. "Let's go down to-night and see if she's all right?" suggested David. Before seven o'clock the four boys were on their way to the Harlowe's. They crept quietly up to the living-room window. Grace sat by the fire reading. Very softly they began a popular song that was a favorite of hers. Grace's quick ears caught the sound of the music. She was out of the house like a flash, and five minutes later the four boys were seated around the fire going over the day's adventure. "The deaf and dumb man who helped you out is quite a character," said Hippy. "I know him well. He used to work for my father. He isn't half so foolish as he looks, either. As for that wagon you used as a life preserver, I am proud to say that it was once mine." "It must have been made especially strong," observed Reddy. "It was. Hickory and iron were the materials used, I believe. I played with it when but a toddling che-ild," continued Hippy, "and also smashed three before my father had this one made to order. ''Twas ever thus from childhood's earliest hour,'" he added mournfully. "I always had to have things made to order." There was a shout of laughter at Hippy's last remark. From infancy Hippy had been the prize fat boy of Oakdale. "It's only seven o'clock," said David. I move that we hunt up the girls and have a party. That is, if Grace is willing." "That will be fine," cried Grace. Hippy and Reddy were despatched to find Nora and Jessica. While David took upon himself the pleasant task of going for Anne. Tom remained with Grace. He had a boyish admiration for this straightforward, gray-eyed girl and made no secret of his preference for her. Inside of an hour the sound of girls' voices outside proclaimed the fact that the boys' mission had not been in vain. The girls had been informed by their escorts of the afternoon's happenings, but Grace and Tom were obliged to tell the story all over again. "I hope Julia Crosby's ice bath will have a subduing effect upon her," said Nora. "I am glad, of course, that she didn't lose her life, but I'm not sorry she got a good ducking. She deserved something for the way she dragged Anne into that game of crack the whip." "Let's talk about something pleasant," proposed Reddy. "Me, for instance," said Hippy, with a Cheshire cat grin. "I am a thing of beauty, and, consequently, a joy forever." "Smother him with a sofa pillow!" commanded Tom. "He is too conceited to live." Reddy seized the unfortunate Hippy by the back of the neck, while David covered the fat youth with pillows until only his feet were visible and the smothering process was carried on with great glee until Nora mercifully came to his rescue. CHAPTER XV A BELATED REPENTANCE The following Monday as Grace Harlowe was about to leave the schoolroom, Julia Crosby's younger sister, one of the freshman class, handed her a note. It was from Julia, and read as follows: "DEAR GRACE: "Will you come and see me this afternoon when school is over? I have a severe cold, and am unable to be out of bed. I have something I must say to you that cannot wait until I get back to school. "Your sincere friend, "JULIA" "Oh, dear!" thought Grace. "I don't want to go up there. Her mother will fall upon my neck and weep, and tell me I saved Julia's life. I know her of old. She's one of the weeping kind. I suppose it's my duty to go, however." Grace's prognostication was fulfilled to the letter. Mrs. Crosby clasped her in a tumultuous embrace the moment she entered the hall. Grace finally escaped from her, and was shown up to Julia's room. She looked about her with some curiosity. It was a light airy room, daintily furnished. Julia was lying on the pretty brass bed in one corner of the room. She wore a dressing gown of pale blue eiderdown, and Grace thought she had never seen her old enemy look better. "How do you do, Julia?" she said, walking over to the bed and holding out her hand to the invalid. "Not very well," responded Julia hoarsely. "I have a bad cold and am too weak to be up." "I'm sorry," said Grace, "the wetting didn't hurt me in the least. But, of course, I wasn't in the water like you were. It didn't hurt Tom, either." "I'm glad you are both all right," said Julia. She looked solemnly at Grace, and then said hesitatingly, "Grace, I didn't deserve to be rescued the other day. I've been awfully mean to you." She buried her face in the bed clothing and sobbed convulsively. "Julia, Julia, please don't cry," said Grace, her quick sympathy aroused by the distress of another. "Did you think we would leave you to drown? You would have done the same for me. Don't you know that people never think of petty differences when real trouble arises?" She laid her hand upon the head of the weeping girl. After a little the sobs ceased and Julia sat up and wiped her eyes. "Bring that chair over and sit down beside me, Grace. I want to tell you everything," she said. "Last year I was perfectly horrid to you and that little Pierson girl, for no earthly reason either, I thought it was smart to annoy you and torment you. After we had the quarrel that day in the gymnasium, I was really angry with you, and determined to pay you back. "You know, of course, that I purposely tripped you the day of the basketball game. I was awfully shocked when I found you had sprained your ankle, but I was too cowardly to confess that I did it. Miss Thompson would have suspended me from school. I didn't know whether you knew that I had done it until I met you that day in the corridor, and the way you looked at me made me feel miserable. Then we got hold of your signals." She paused. Grace leaned forward in her chair in an agony of suspense. "Julia," she said, "I don't care what you did to me; but won't you please say that Anne didn't give you those signals?" "Miss Pierson did not give them to me," was the quick reply. "I'm so glad to hear you say it," Grace answered. "I knew she was innocent, but the girls have distrusted her all year. She lost the list accidentally, you know, but they wouldn't believe that she did." "Yes, I heard that she did," said Julia. "The list was given to me, but I am not at liberty to tell who gave it. It was not your Anne, although I was too mean to say so, even when I knew that she had been accused. I'll write you a statement to that effect if you want me to do so. That will clear her." "Oh, Julia, will you truly? I want it more than anything else in the whole world. A statement from you will carry more weight with the girls than anything I could possibly tell them. It will convince the doubters, you know. There are sure to be some who will insist on being skeptical." Acting under Julia's direction, Grace brought a little writing case from a nearby table, Julia opened it, selected a sheet of paper and wrote in a firm, clear hand: "To the members of the sophomore class, and to all those whom it may concern: "The accusation made against Anne Pierson last fall regarding the betrayal of the basketball signals to the junior team is false. Our knowledge of these signals came from an entirely different source. "JULIA CROSBY, Capt. Junior Team." "And now," concluded Julia, "I have done something toward straightening out the mischief I made. Will you forgive me, Grace, and try to think of me as your friend?" "With all my heart," replied Grace, kissing her warmly. "And I am so happy to-day. Just think, the junior and sophomore classes will be at peace at last." The two girls looked into each other's eyes, and both began to laugh. "After two years' war the hatchet will be buried," said Julia a little tremulously. "Oh, Julia!" exclaimed Grace, hopping about, "I've a perfectly splendid idea!" "What is it?" asked Julia breathlessly. "Let's have a grand blow out and bury the hatchet with pomp and ceremony. We'll have speeches from both classes, and a perfectly gorgeous feed afterwards. You break the news to your class and I'll endeavor to get my naughty children under control once more. I believe some of them love me a little yet," she smiled. "Of course, they do," said Julia stoutly. "I must say I don't see why they were so hateful to you, even if Anne Pierson were under suspicion. I know I am to blame for helping the grudge along," she added remorsefully, "but I am, not the only one." "I know," said Grace quickly. "There are lots of things I'd like to say, but for certain reasons of my own I shall not say them. You understand, I think." Julia nodded. She did, indeed, understand, and the full beauty of Grace Harlowe's nobility of spirit was revealed to her. "You are the finest, squarest girl I ever knew, Grace," she said admiringly. "Nonsense," laughed Grace, flushing a little at the tribute paid her by the once arrogant junior captain. "You don't know me at all. I have just as many faults as other girls, with a few extra ones thrown in. I have no claim to a pedestal. I hope we shall be friends for the rest of our schooldays and forever after. You will be a senior next year, and I shall be a junior. It's time we put by childish quarrels, and assumed the high and mighty attitude of the upper classes. It is our duty to become a living example to erring freshmen." Both girls laughed merrily; then Grace rose to go. She kissed Julia good-bye and walked out of the house as though on air. Her cup of happiness was full to the brim. She carefully tucked the precious paper away in her bag and sped down the street on winged feet. The incredible had come to pass. Her old-time enemy had become her friend. She wondered if it could have ever come about by any other means. She doubted it. She had always heard that "Desperate cases require desperate remedies." The happenings of the past week seemed conclusive proof of the truth of the saying. Furthermore, she believed in the sincerity of Julia Crosby's repentance. It was more than skin deep. She felt that henceforward Julia would be different. Best of all, she had the reward of her own conscience. In being true to Anne she had been true to herself. CHAPTER XVI AN OUNCE OF LOYALTY When the girls of the sophomore class entered their locker-room the next day they found a notice posted to the effect that a class meeting would be held after school in the locker-room at which all members were earnestly requested to be present. There was considerable speculation as to the object of the meeting, and no one knew who had posted the notice. Grace kept her own counsel. She wished to take the class by surprise, and thus make Anne's restoration to favor complete. At recess Nora and Jessica brought up the subject, but found that Grace apparently wished to avoid talking about it. "You'll attend, won't you, Grace?" asked Anne. "Of course," said Grace hastily. "Will you excuse me, girls? I have a theorem to study." She felt that if she stayed a minute longer she would tell her friends the good news and spoil her surprise. "What makes Grace act so queerly to-day?" said Jessica. "I believe she knows something and won't tell us." "I'll make her tell it," said Nora, and ran after Grace. But just then the gong sounded and recess was over. As soon as school was dismissed for the day, the entire sophomore class crowded into the locker-room. They were curious to know what was in the wind. Every member was present, and Grace felt a secret satisfaction when Miriam Nesbit, looking rather bored, sauntered in. There was a confused murmur of voices. The girls chattered gayly to each other, as they waited for some one to call the meeting to order. When Grace left the corner where she had been standing with her three friends, and stood facing her classmates, the talking instantly ceased. "Girls," she said, "I suppose you wonder who called this meeting, and why it was called? I wrote the notice you all read this morning. I have something to tell you which I hope you will be glad to hear." "At the beginning of the school year, some things happened that caused unpleasant suspicions to rest upon a member of our class. You all know who I mean. It has caused her and her friends a great deal of unhappiness, and I am glad to be able at last to bring you the proof that she has been misjudged." Grace paused and looked about her. She noted that Miriam had turned very pale. "Just as I suspected," thought Grace, "she really did have a hand in that signal affair." Then she continued. "A few days ago I had occasion to call upon the junior captain, Miss Crosby. While there, she assured me that the juniors did receive our signals, but that Miss Pierson had absolutely nothing to do with the matter. I was not sure that you would care to take my word, alone, for this"--Grace couldn't resist this one tiny thrust--"so she very kindly gave me the assurance in writing, signed by herself." Grace then unfolded the paper and in a clear voice read Julia's statement. There was not a sound in the room. Grace stood waiting. She had done her part, the rest lay with her classmates. Nora and Jessica had their arms around Anne, who had begun to cry quietly. The relief was so great that it had unnerved her. Then Marian Barber sprang to Grace's side and seized her by the hand. "Listen, girls," she cried, "I want to acknowledge for the second time that I am heartily ashamed of myself. We have all been nasty and suspicious toward Anne. We never gave her a chance to defend herself, we just went ahead and behaved like a lot of silly children. I am sorry for anything I have ever said about her, and I want to tell you right here that I consider Grace Harlowe the ideal type of High School girl. I only wish I were half as noble and courageous. I suppose you all wonder why Grace went to see Julia Crosby. Well I'll tell you. I found out about it from Julia's sister this morning." "Oh Marian, please don't," begged Grace, rosy with confusion. But the girls cried in chorus, "Tell us, Marian! Don't mind Grace!" When Marian had finished many of the girls were in tears. They crowded around Anne and Grace vying with each other in trying to show their good will. Then Eva Allen proposed three cheers for Grace and Anne. They were given with a will. The noise of the ovation bringing one of the teachers to the door with the severe injunction, "Young ladies please contain yourselves. There is too much noise here." The girls dispersed by twos and threes, until Marian Barber and the chums were the only ones left. "I have a motto," said Marian, "that I shall bring here to-morrow and hang in the locker-room. If I had paid more attention to it it would have been better for me." "What is it, Marian?" asked Jessica. "Wait and see," replied Marian. "Oh, it's a good one, and appropriate, too." After saying good-bye to Marian the four chums walked on together. "Are you happy, Anne, dear?" said Grace, slipping her hand into Anne's. Anne looked up at Grace with a smile so full of love and gratitude that Grace felt well repaid for all she had endured for friendship's sake. "Everything has turned out just like the last chapter in a book," sighed Nora with satisfaction "The sinner--that's Julia Crosby--has repented, and the truly good people--Anne and Grace--have triumphed and will live happy forever after." The girls laughed at Nora's remark. "Now I can go on planning for our big game without being afraid that the girls will stay away from practice and do things to annoy and make it hard for me," said Grace happily. "I know that we shall win. I feel so full of enthusiasm I don't know what to do. Oh, girls, I forgot to tell you that Julia Crosby and I have a perfectly splendid plan. But I promised not to say anything to anyone about it until she comes back to school." "How funny it sounds to hear you talk about having plans with Julia Crosby," said Jessica laughing. "You will make Miriam Nesbit jealous if you take Julia away from her." "By the way, girls!" exclaimed Nora, "what became of Miriam? I saw her enter the locker-room, but she wasn't there when Marian Barber began her speech. I know she did not remain, because I looked for her and couldn't find her." "I saw her go," said Grace quietly, "That is the only part of this story that doesn't end well. She doesn't like Anne or me any better than before and never will, I'm afraid. She influenced the girls against us, after the first game, and you remember what she said at the basketball meeting, don't you, Nora?" "Yes," responded Nora, "I do, and if she hadn't been David's sister I would have told her a few plain truths, then and there." "I said at the beginning of the year that I believed Miriam had a better self," said Grace thoughtfully. "I still believe it, and I am not going to give her up yet." "I don't envy you the task of finding it," said Jessica. "I wonder what Marian Barber's motto is?" mused Anne. "She said it would be a good one." "I have no doubt of that. Marian Barber doesn't usually do things by halves when once she starts," said Jessica. "I am surprised that she ever allowed herself to be drawn into Miriam's net. She seems awfully sorry for it now." "Oh, girls," cried Nora suddenly. "I have a half a dollar." "Really?" said Jessica. "I didn't suppose there was that much money in Oakdale." "My sister gave it to me this morning," Nora went on, ignoring Jessica's remark. "I am supposed to buy a new collar with it, but if you are thirsty----" "I am simply perishing with thirst," murmured Grace. Five minutes later the four girls were seated in the nearest drug store busily engaged with hot chocolate, while they congratulated Nora on having spent her money in a good cause. The sophomores smiled to themselves next morning at Marian's motto. It hung in a prominent place in the locker-room and read: "An ounce of loyalty is worth a pound of cleverness." CHAPTER XVII BURYING THE HATCHET It was some days before Julia Crosby was able to return to school, but when she did put in an appearance, she lost no time in taking her class in hand and bringing about a much-needed reform. The part played by Grace Harlowe in Julia's rescue had been related by her to various classmates who had visited her during her illness, and Grace found that the older girls were inclined to lionize her more than she cared to be. She received praise enough to have completely turned her head had she not been too sensible to allow it to do so. After holding a conference with Julia, the two girls sent out notices to their respective classes that a grand reunion of the two classes would take place on the next Saturday afternoon at one o'clock, at the old Omnibus House, providing the weather permitted. A tax of twenty-five cents apiece was levied on the members of both classes. "Please pay your money promptly to the treasurer of your class," ended the notices, "if you wish to have plenty to eat. Important rites and ceremonies will be observed. You will be sorry if you stay away, as an interesting program is promised. Please keep this notice a secret." "The field back of the Omnibus House is an ideal place for the burial," Julia told Grace. "It was there that the 'Black Monks of Asia' held their revel and were unmasked by the freshmen. Besides, it's quiet and we shan't be disturbed." Grace agreed with her, and the two girls outlined the proceedings with many a chuckle. The junior and sophomore classes had been requested to go directly to the Omnibus House. "It would be great to have both classes march out there, but we should have the whole of Oakdale marching with us before we arrived at the sacred spot," observed Grace, with a giggle. "If we don't have a lot of freshmen to suppress it will be surprising. I do hope the girls haven't told anyone," Julia answered. "By the way, we have a hatchet at home that will be just the thing to bury. It is more like a battle-ax than anything else, and looks formidable enough to represent the feeling that the juniors and sophomores are about to bury. Now, Grace, you must prepare a speech, for we ought to have representative remarks from both classes. Then Anne Pierson must recite 'The Bridge of Sighs,' after I have made it over to suit the occasion. We'll have to have some pallbearers. Three girls from each class will do." Julia planned rapidly and well. Grace listened attentively. The junior captain had remarkable energy. It was easy to see why Julia had always headed her class. Julia in turn, was equally impressed with Grace's ability. A mutual admiration society bade fair to spring up between the two, so recently at swords' points. On Saturday the weather left nothing to be desired. It seemed like a day in late spring, although it was in reality early March. At one o'clock precisely the two classes, with the exception of one member, assembled. Julia Crosby acting as master of ceremonies, formed the classes in two lines, and marched them to the middle of the field. Here, to their complete mystification, they saw a large hole about four feet in depth had been dug. "Who on earth dug that hole, and what is it for?" inquired a curious sophomore. "Hush!" said Julia Crosby reverently. "That is a grave. Be patient. Curb your rising curiosity. Soon you shall know all." "Assistant Master Harlowe, will you arrange the esteemed spectators, so that the ceremony may proceed?" Grace stepped forward and solemnly requested the girls to form a double line on each side of the opening. The shorter girls were placed in the front rows. "The sophomores will now sing their class song," directed the master of ceremonies. When the sophomores had finished, the juniors applauded vigorously. The juniors' song was next in order and the sophomores graciously returned the applause. "I will now request the worthy junior members Olive Craig, Anne Green and Elsie Todd, to advance. Honorable Assistant Master Harlowe, will you name your trusted followers?" Grace named Nora, Jessica and Marian Barber who came to her side with alacrity. "During the brief space of time that we are obliged to absent ourselves, will every guest keep her roving eyes bent reverently on the ground and think about nothing. It is well to fittingly prepare for what is to come." With this Julia marched her adherents down the field and around the corner of the Omnibus House. She was followed by Grace and her band. There was a chorus of giggles from the chosen helpers that was sternly checked by Julia. Before their eyes stood a large, open paste-board box lined with the colors of both classes, in which reposed the Crosby hatchet, likened to a battle-ax by Julia. Its handle was decorated with sophomore and junior ribbons, and around the head was a wreath of immortelles. A disreputable looking sheaf of wheat lay across the end of the box. There was a smothered laugh from Nora, whose quick brain had grasped the full significance of the thing. "This is not an occasion for levity," reprimanded Grace sternly. "Laughing will not be tolerated." Three twisted ribbon handles of sophomore colors and three of junior ornamented either side of the box. Each girl grasped a handle. "We will proceed with the ceremony," directed Julia. "Lift up the box." This was easier said than done. The handles were so close together that the girls hardly had room to step. The journey was finally accomplished without any further mishap than the sliding off of the wheat sheaf. This was hastily replaced by Jessica before its fall had been marked by the eagle eye of the master of ceremonies, who marched ahead with her assistant. When the box had been carefully deposited at one side of the "grave," Julia Crosby took her place beside it, and assuming a Daniel Webster attitude began her address. "Honored juniors and sophomores. We have met together to-day for a great and noble purpose. We are about to take a step which will forever after be recorded among the doughty deeds of Oakdale High School. It will go down in High School history as the glorious inspiration of a master mind. We are going to unfurl the banner of peace and bury the hatchet. "Since the early days of our class history, war, cruel war, has raged between the august bodies represented here to-day. On this very field many moons ago the gallant sophomores advanced upon the, then, very fresh freshmen, but retreated in wild confusion. It is therefore fitting that this should be the place chosen for the burial of all grudges, jealousies and unworthy emotions that formerly rent our breasts." Here Julia paused to take breath. The girls cheered wildly. Julia bowed right and left, her hand over her heart. When the noise had subsided, she continued. She bewailed junior misdeeds and professed meek repentance. She dwelt upon the beauty of peace and she begged her hearers henceforth to live with each other amicably. It was a capital address, delivered in a mock-serious manner that provoked mirth, and did more toward establishing general good feeling than any other method she might have tried. In closing she said: "The hatchet is the symbol of war. The wheat-sheaf represents our elderly grudge; but the immortelles are the everlasting flowers of good will that spring from the planting of these two. We will now listen to a few remarks from the pride of the sophomore class, Assistant Master of Ceremonies Grace Harlowe." Grace attempted to speak, but received an ovation that made her flush and laughingly put her hands over her ears. When she was finally allowed to proceed, she delivered an oration as flowery as that of the master of ceremonies. When the cries of approbation evoked by Grace's oration had died away, it was announced that the "renowned elocutionist," Miss Anne Pierson, would recite a poem appropriate to the occasion. Anne accordingly recited "The Bridge of Sighs," done over by Julia Crosby, and beginning: "Take it up gingerly; Handle with care; 'Tis a relic of sophomore And junior warfare." The intense feeling with which Anne rendered this touching effusion, caused the master of ceremonies to sob audibly and lean so heavily upon her assistant for support that that dignified person almost pitched head first into the opening, and was saved from an ignominious tumble by one of her attendants. This was too much for the others, who, forgetting the solemnity of their office, shrieked with mirth, in which the spectators were not slow to join. "I think we had better wind up the ceremony," said Julia with great dignity. "These people will soon be beyond our control." The attendants managed to straighten their faces long enough to assist in the concluding rites that were somewhat hastily performed, and the master of ceremonies and her assistants held an impromptu reception on the spot. "Now," said Julia Crosby, "we have done a good day's work for both classes. I only hope that no prying freshmen hear of this. They will be sure to come here and dig up what we have gone to such pains to bury. They have no respect for their superiors. However, you have all behaved yourselves with true High School spirit, and I wish to announce that you will find a spread awaiting you around the corner of the Omnibus House." There was a general hurrah at this statement, and the guests rushed off to the spot designated. Grace had held an earnest conference with old Jean, and the result showed itself in the row of tables rudely constructed to fit the emergency. He it was who had dug the "grave." He now sat on the steps waiting to build a fire, over which Grace had planned to make coffee for the hungry girls whose appetites had been whetted by the fresh air. The money contributed by the classes had been used to good advantage by Grace and Julia, and piles of tempting eatables gladdened the eyes of the guests. For the next half hour feasting was in order. Juniors and sophomores shared cups; as the supply of these were limited. At the end of that time the last crumb of food had disappeared and the girls stood in groups or walked about the field, discussing the various features of school life. Some one proposed playing old-fashioned games, and soon "puss in the corner," "pom-pom-pull-away," and "prisoner's goal" were in full swing. "This brings back one's Grammar School days, doesn't it?" said Nora to Grace. They were deep in a game of prisoner's goal, and stood for a moment waiting for the enemy to move toward them. "I haven't had such a good, wholesale romp for ages," answered Grace, and was off like the wind to intercept Eva Allen as she endeavored to make a wide detour of their goal. The hours slipped by on wings. The start home was made about five o'clock. The juniors and sophomores trooped back to Oakdale arm in arm, singing school songs and making the welkin ring with their joyous laughter. The people of Oakdale smiled at the procession of happy girls and wondered what particular celebration was in order. When the center of town was reached the party broke up with a great deal of laughing and chattering, the girls going their separate ways in the best of spirits. "I've had a perfectly fine time," declared Grace, as she said good-bye to her chums, "and how glad I am that we are all friends again." She quite forgot when she made that statement that Miriam Nesbit had not honored the reunion with her presence. CHAPTER XVIII AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR One more excitement was to quicken the pulses of the sophomores before they settled down to that long last period of study between Easter holidays and vacation. The great, decisive basketball game with the juniors was now to take place. Grace, in conclave with her team, had gone over her instructions for the hundredth time. They had discussed the strong points of the juniors and what were their own weak ones. Miriam Nesbit was sullen at these meetings; but in the practice game she had played with her usual agility and skill, so the girls felt that she was far too valuable a member of the team for them to mind her humors. "Everybody is coming to-morrow to see us play," exclaimed Nora in the locker-room, at the recess on Friday. "I don't believe the President's visit would create more excitement, really," she added with a touch of pride. "Did you know," interposed Anne, "that the upperclass girls are calling Grace and Julia Crosby 'David and Jonathan'?" This was also an amusing piece of news at which the other girls laughed joyously. In fact, there was no such feeling of depression before this game as had affected the class when the first game was played. The sophomores were cheerful and confident, awaiting the great battle with courage in their hearts. "Be here early, girls," cautioned Grace, as they parted after school that day. "Perhaps we may get in a little practice before the people begin to come." Grace hurried through her own dinner as fast as she could, on the eventful Saturday. "I shall be glad when this final game is over, child," exclaimed Mrs. Harlowe anxiously, "I really think you have had more athletics this winter than has been good for you, what with your walking, and skating, dancing, and now basketball." "You'll come, won't you, mother?" cried Grace, seizing her hat and rushing off without listening to Mrs. Harlowe's comments. "We are sure to win," she called as she waved her a good-bye kiss. There was no one in the school building when Grace got back; that is, no one except the old janitress, who was sweeping down the corridor, as usual. The other girls had not been so expeditious and Grace found the locker-room deserted. With trembling eagerness she was slipping on her gymnasium suit and rubber-soled shoes, when she suddenly remembered that she had left her tie in the geometry classroom. She had bought a new one the day before, placed it in the back of her geometry and walked out of the classroom, leaving book, tie and all behind. "I'll run up and get it right away, before the others come," she said to herself. Running nimbly up the broad stairway, she entered the deserted classroom and hurried down the aisle to the end of the room where she usually sat during recitation. "Here it is," she murmured, taking it out of the book and tying it on. Then, sitting down at the desk, she rested her chin in her hands. The quiet of the place was soothing to her excited nerves, and since it was so early she would rest there for a moment and think. Grace might have dreamed away five minutes when she heard the distant sound of voices below. "Dear me," she exclaimed, laughing, "they'll scold me for not being on time. I must hurry." So she hastened up the aisle to the door, which was shut, although she had not remembered closing it after her. She turned the knob, still smiling to herself, but the door stuck fast. It was locked! Grace was so stunned that for a moment she hardly comprehended what had happened. She sat down and tried to collect her thoughts. Locked up in an upper classroom on the afternoon of the great game! She tried the one other door in the room. It also was locked. As for the great windows, they were too large for her to push up without a pole. "I'll try calling," she said. "They may hear me." But her calls were fruitless, and beating and knocking on the door panels seemed nothing but muffled sounds in the stillness. "Oh! Oh!" she cried, rushing wildly from doors to windows and back again. "What shall I do! What shall I do?" In the meantime, it was growing late. The sophomores had assembled and were confidently waiting for their captain. "She's late for the first time," observed one of the girls, "but we'll forgive her under the circumstances." "Maybe she's in the gymnasium," suggested Anne, hurrying off to look for her friend. In spite of herself she felt some misgivings and she meant to lose no time in finding her beloved Grace. The gallery was already half full of people. Anne moved about looking for David, or some one who could help her. Just then Mrs. Harlowe appeared at the door. "Where is Grace, Mrs. Harlowe?" Anne demanded eagerly. "I don't know, dear," answered Mrs. Harlowe "She ate her dinner and went off in such a hurry that I hardly had time to speak to her. She told me she wanted to get back to meet the girls." Anne ran back to the locker-room. "Grace left home hours ago," she cried. "I just felt that something had happened." Jessica opened Grace's locker. "Grace must be in the building," she exclaimed "Here are her clothes." The girls began to rush about wildly, looking for their captain in the various rooms on the basement floor. In a few moments a junior came to the door. "The game will be called in ten minutes," she said. "Are you ready?" "Yes," answered Nora calmly. "Be careful," she whispered. "Don't let them know yet." Anne ran again to the gymnasium. "I'll get David this time," she said to herself. "Something will have to be done if Grace is to be found in time." David was sitting at one side of the gallery with Reddy and Hippy. He looked very grave when Anne whispered the news to him. The place was packed with impatient spectators. The junior team was already standing on the floor talking in low voices as they waited impatiently for their opponents to appear at the opposite end. "She must be somewhere in the building," David ejaculated. "That is if she has on her gymnasium suit. Have you looked upstairs yet?" "No," replied Anne, "but we have been all through the downstairs' rooms." As they ran up the steps they heard the shrill whistle that summoned the players to their positions. "Come on," cried Nora. "Miriam, you will have to take Grace's place, and Eva Allen will substitute for you." It still lacked a few moments of the toss up; the whistle having been blown sooner to hurry the dilatory sophomores, who seemed determined to linger, unaccountably, in the little side room. But in that brief time a remarkable change had taken place in the demeanor of Miriam Nesbit. Two brilliant spots burned on her cheeks, and her black eyes flashed and glowed with happiness. The other girls were too downcast and wretched to notice the transformation. They walked slowly into the gymnasium and stood, ill at ease and downcast, at their end of the hall. A wave of gossip had spread quickly over the audience, that sat waiting with breathless interest for the appearance of the tardy sophomore. What had happened? Had there been an accident? No; it was all a mistake. There they were. And tremendous applause burst forth, which died down almost as soon as it had begun. Where was Grace Harlowe, the daring captain of the sophomore team, who had boasted that her team would win the game if it took their last breath to do it? There was a great craning of necks as the spectators looked in vain for the missing Grace. Hippy dropped his chin upon his breast disconsolately. "I feel limp as a rag," he groaned. "Where, oh, where, is our gallant captain? I'll never believe Grace deserted her post." In the meantime poor Grace, locked in the upper classroom, had concentrated all her thoughts and mental energies on a means of making her escape in time. She sat down quietly, and, folding her hands, began to consider the situation. In looking back long afterwards upon this tragic hour, it seemed to her that it was the blackest moment of her life. The walls were thick. The doors heavy and massive. The ceilings high. There was no possibility of her cries being heard below. It is true she might break a window, but what good would that do? She couldn't jump down three stories into a stone court below. She went to the window and looked out. "If I hung by this window sill," Grace said aloud, "I believe my feet would just reach the cornice of the second-story window." Seizing a heavy ruler from one of the desks, she ran to the window and deliberately smashed out all the plate glass in the lower sash. Then, hoisting herself onto the sill, she looked down from what seemed to be rather a dizzy height. But nerve and determination will accomplish anything, and Grace turned her eyes upward. "I shall do it," she kept saying to herself over and over. Clinging to the window sill, she gradually let herself down until her feet touched the top of the cornice underneath. Then, steadying herself she looked down. The cornice ledge was quite broad; broad enough to kneel on, in fact. She was glad of this, for she had intended to kneel on it, whatever its width. With infinite caution, she gradually slipped along the ledge until she was kneeling. Resting her elbows on the stone shelf, she lowered herself to the next window sill. There she stood for a moment, looking in at the empty classroom. The door into the corridor stood open, and as she clung to the narrow ledge, her face pressed against the window, she wondered how she was going to get in. "Unless I butt my head against this plate glass," she exclaimed, "I really don't think I can make it. I can't kick in the glass, for fear of losing my balance." Suddenly she heard her name called. "Grace! Grace! Where are you?" First it was David's voice, and then Anne's, and then the two together, echoing through the empty corridors and classrooms. "I'm here," she answered. "Help! Help!" Fortunately, they were passing the door at that instant and heard her muffled cries. "Here," she cried again, and they saw her at last, clinging desperately to the window ledge. "I don't dare open the window," exclaimed David, thinking aloud. "The slightest jar might make her lose her balance. Grace," he cried, "I'll have to break out the upper sash. Lower your head as much as possible and close your eyes." Another instant, and Grace was crouching in a shower of broken glass, which fell harmlessly on her back and the top of her head. David knocked off the jagged pieces at the lower end, and Grace climbed nimbly over the sash. "There's no time for explanations now," she cried. "I was mysteriously locked in. Has the game been called?" David looked hurriedly at his watch. "You have just a minute and a half," he exclaimed, and the three ran madly down the steps and into the gymnasium just as the whistle blew and the girls took their places. When Grace, covered with dust, a long, red scratch across one cheek, rushed into the gymnasium, wild applause shook the walls of the building, for the honor of the sophomore class was saved. CHAPTER XIX THE GREAT GAME It was a pitched battle from the very beginning. The junior team was in splendid trim, and they played with great finish and judgment; but the sight of Grace, one side of whose face was tinged with blood that had risen to the surface from the deep scratch, seemed to spur the sophomores to the most spectacular and brilliant plays. Only one girl lagged, and was not in her usual trim. It was Miriam Nesbit, whose actions were dispirited and showed no enthusiasm. Her shooting was so inaccurate that a wave of criticism spread over the audience, and the members of her own class watched her with deep anxiety. When the first half ended, however the sophomores were two points to the good. "Grand little players!" cried Hippy, expressing his joy by kicking both feet against the wooden walls as hard as he could, while he clapped his hands and roared with all his might. "The gamest little team I ever saw," answered Reddy. But David, who had resumed his seat beside them, made no reply. He rose presently and went to find his sister, who was sitting somewhat apart from the other girls in gloomy silence. "What's the matter with you, sister?" he asked gently. "You are not playing as well as usual. I expected you, especially, to do some fine work to-day. On the contrary, you have never played worse." Miriam looked at her brother coldly. "Why should I help them when they have dishonored me?" she demanded fiercely. "How have they dishonored you, Miriam?" asked David. "By making me the last in everything; putting me at the foot," she said, stifling a sob of anger. David looked at his sister sorrowfully. He saw there was no reasoning with her in her present state of mind; yet knowing her revengeful spirit, he dreaded the consequences. "Miriam," he said at last, speaking slowly, "perhaps, some day, you will learn by experience that the people who give a square deal are the only ones who really stay at the head. They always win out; and those who are not on the level----" He stopped. A sudden suspicion had come into his mind. "You don't mean to say that it was you who----" But he didn't finish. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked away. In one glance he had read Miriam's secret. Now he understood that look of wild appeal, baffled rage, mortification and disappointment, all jumbled together in her turbulent soul. "Did she really want it so badly as all that?" he thought, "or was it only her insatiable desire never to be beaten?" In the meantime, Grace, surrounded by a circle of her school-fellows, was telling them the history of her imprisonment. Miss Thompson and Mrs. Harlowe had made their way across the floor to the crowd of sophomores; Mrs. Harlowe to find out whether her daughter's cheek had been seriously cut, which it had not, and the principal to ask a few questions. "Did it look like a trick, Grace?" she asked when she had heard the story. "I hardly know, Miss Thompson. I feel certain that I left the door open when I went in. The janitress may have locked it without seeing me." "Perhaps," answered Miss Thompson thoughtfully, "but the rule of locking the larger classrooms after school hours has never been followed that I know of. There is really no reason for it, and it might cause some delay in the morning, in case Mrs. Gunby were not around to unlock the doors." "You will have to send a bill to father for all the broken glass," laughed Grace. "I shouldn't have been here at this moment if I hadn't done some smashing." Miss Thompson smiled. "You were perfectly right to do it, my dear. It was an exhibition of good judgment and great courage. As for the bill, certainly the victim of an employé's stupidity should not be held accountable for costs. But we won't disturb you now with any more questions. You deserve to win the game and I hope with all my heart you will." There was still a little time left and Grace determined to improve those shining moments by having a talk with Miriam. Miriam never looked up when Grace approached her. Her dark brows were knit in an ugly frown and her eyes were on the floor. "Miriam, aren't you glad I got out of prison in time?" asked Grace cordially. "I suppose so," answered Miriam, looking anywhere but at Grace. "Is there anything the matter with you to-day?" continued Grace. "No," answered Miriam shortly. "Your playing is not up to mark. The girls are very uneasy. Won't you try to do a little better next half?" There was a childlike appeal in Grace's voice that grated so on Miriam's nerves, at that moment that she deliberately turned and walked away, leaving Grace standing alone. "Wait a minute, Miriam," called Nora, who, with some of the other sophomores, had been watching the scene. "You aren't ill to-day, are you?" "No," replied Miriam angrily. "Because, if you are really ill, you know," continued Nora, "your sub. could take your place. Anna Ray can play a great deal better game than you played the first half." Miriam turned on Nora furiously, and was about to make one of her most violent replies, when the whistle blew and the girls flew to their places. Julia Crosby and Grace smiled at each other in the most friendly fashion as they stood face to face for the last time that season. There was nothing but good-natured rivalry between them now. The referee balanced the ball for an instant, her whistle to her lips. Then the ball shot up, her whistle sounded and the great decisive last half had begun. Grace managed to bat the ball as it descended in the direction of one of her eager forwards who tried for the basket and just missed it. The juniors made a desperate attempt to get the ball into their territory, but the sophomores were too quick for them, and Nora made a brilliant throw to goal that caused the sophomore fans to cheer with wild enthusiasm. It was a game long to be remembered. Both teams fought with a determination and spirit that caused their fans in the gallery to shout themselves hoarse. The juniors made some plays little short of marvellous, and five minutes before the last half was over the score stood 8 to 6 in favor of the sophomores. "This game will end in a tie if they're not careful," exclaimed Hippy. "No, Nora has the ball! She'll score if anyone can! Put her home, Nora!" he yelled excitedly. Nora was about to make one of the lightning goal throws for which she was noted, when like a flash Miriam Nesbit seized the ball from her, and attempted to make the play herself. But her aim was inaccurate. The ball flew wide of the basket and was seized by a junior guard. The tie seemed inevitable. A groan went up from the gallery. Then a distinct hiss was heard, and a second later the entire sophomore class hissed Miriam Nesbit. Miss Thompson rose, thinking to call the house to order, but sat down again, shaking her head. "They know what they are about," she said, for Grace herself did not know the game any better than the principal. "It was inexcusable of Miriam, inexcusable and intentional. In attempting to gratify her own vanity she has prevented her side from scoring at a time when all personal desire should be put aside. She really deserves it." But the score was not tied after all, for the junior guard fumbled the ball, dropped it and before she could regain possession of it, it was speeding toward Marian Barber, thrown with unerring accuracy by Grace. Up went Marian's hands. She grasped it, then hurled it with all her might, straight into the basket. Five seconds later the whistle blew, with the score 10 to 6. The sophomores had won. The enthusiastic fans of both classes rushed out of the gallery and down the stairs to the gymnasium. Two tall sophomores seized Grace and making a chair of their hands, carried her around the gymnasium, followed by the rest of the class, sounding their class yell at the tops of their voices. The story of Grace's imprisonment and escape out of the third story window went from mouth to mouth, and her friends eagerly crowded the floor in an effort to speak to her. There were High School yells and class yells until Miss Thompson was obliged to cover her ears to deaden the noise. Miss Thompson made her way through the crowd to where Grace was standing in the midst of her admiring schoolmates. The principal took the young captain in her arms, embracing her tenderly. Surely no one had ever seen Miss Thompson display so much unrestrained and candid emotion before. There were tears in her eyes, her voice trembled when she spoke. "It was a great victory, Grace, I congratulate you and your class. You have fought a fine, courageous battle against great odds. Many another girl who had climbed out of a third-story window, without even a rope to hold by, would have little strength left to play basketball much less to win the championship. I am very proud of you to-day, my dear," and she kissed Grace right on the deep, red scratch that marred her cheek. "She is a girl after my own heart," Miss Thompson was thinking, as she hurried to her office. "Grace has faults, of course, but on the other hand, she is as honest as the day, modest about her ability, unselfish and with boundless courage. Certainly she is a splendid influence in a school, and I wish I had more pupils like her." It was with difficulty that Grace extricated herself from her admiring friends and, accompanied by her chums, made for the locker room to don street attire. Now that it was all over the reaction had set in, and she began to feel a little tired, although she was almost too happy for words. She walked along, dimly alive to what the girls were saying. Nora was still upset over Miriam Nesbit's lawless attempt to score, and sputtered angrily all the way down the corridor. "I should think Miriam Nesbit would be ashamed to show her face in school, again, after this afternoon's performance," Nora declared. "Did you see what David did?" queried Jessica. "Yes, I did," said Anne. "What was it?" asked Grace, coming out of her day dream. "The minute the girls began to hiss Miriam, he got up and walked out of the gymnasium," Jessica replied. "I believe he was so deeply ashamed of what she did that he couldn't bear to stay." "Well, he found Grace, and rescued her in time for the game," said Anne. "That must be some consolation to him. I don't see how you got locked in, Grace. Are you sure you didn't close the door after you. It has a spring lock, you know." "I thought I left it open," mused Grace, "but I might have unconsciously pulled it to." "It is very strange," replied Anne, in whose mind a vague suspicion had taken root. Then she made a mental resolve to do a little private investigating on her own account. When Grace reached home that night she found two boxes awaiting her. "Oh, what can they be?" she cried in great excitement, for it was not every day that she found two imposing packages on the hall table, at the same time, addressed to her. "Open them and see, little daughter," replied Grace's father, pinching her unscratched cheek. The one was a large box of candy from her classmates, the contents of which they helped to devour the next day. The other box held a bunch of violets and lilies of the valley. In this were two cards, "Mrs. Robert Nesbit" and "Mr. David Nesbit." "Poor old David!" thought Grace, as she buried her nose in the violets. "He is trying to atone for Miriam's sins." CHAPTER XX A PIECE OF NEWS After the excitement of the famous game came a great calm. The various teachers privately congratulated themselves on the marked improvement in lessons, and were secretly relieved with the thought that basketball was laid on the shelf for the rest of the school year. Miriam Nesbit left Oakdale for a visit the Monday after the game, and did not return for two weeks. The general opinion seemed to be that she was ashamed of herself; but the expression on her face when she did return was not indicative of either shame or humility. She was more aggressive than before, and looked as though she considered the whole school far beneath her. She refused to even nod to Grace, Nora, Anne or Jessica, while Julia Crosby remarked with a cheerful grin that she guessed Miriam had forgotten that they had ever been introduced. During the Easter holidays, Tom Gray came down and his aunt gave a dinner to her "adopted children" in honor of her nephew. Nora gave a fancy dress party to about twenty of her friends, while Grace invited the seven young people to a straw ride and a moonlight picnic in Upton Wood. The days sped swiftly by, and spring came with her wealth of bud and bloom. During the long, balmy days Grace inwardly chafed at schoolbooks and lessons. She wanted to be out of doors. As she sat trying to write a theme for her advanced English class, one sunny afternoon during the latter part of April, she glanced frequently out the window toward the golf links that lay just beyond the High School campus. How she wished it were Saturday instead of only Wednesday. That very day she had arranged to play a game of golf with one of the senior class girls, who had made a record the previous year on the links. Grace felt rather flattered at the notice of the older girl, who was considered particularly exclusive, and rarely if ever paid any attention to the lower class girls. She had accidentally learned that Grace was an enthusiastic golfer, and therefore lost no time in asking her to play. "I was awfully surprised when she asked me to play," confided Grace to her chums on the way home from school that afternoon. "Oh, that's nothing," said Jessica. "She ought to feel honored to think you consented. You are really an Oakdale celebrity, you know." "Please remember when you are basking in the light of her senior countenance that you once had friends among the sophomores," said Nora in a mournful tone. "I consider both those remarks verging on idiotic," laughed Grace. "Don't you, Anne?" "Certainly," replied Anne. "But let me add a word of caution. Don't allow this mark of senior caprice to turn your head. Remember you are----" "You're worse than the others," cried Grace, "Let's change the subject." Saturday proved a beautiful day, and with a light heart Grace started for the links with her golf bag strapped across her shoulder. The senior whose name was Ethel Post, sat waiting for her on one of the rustic benches set under a tree at one side of the starting place. She greeted Grace cordially and the two girls set to work without delay to demonstrate their prowess as golfers. The caddies, two small boys of Oakdale, who could be hired at the links by anyone desiring their services, carried the girls' clubs and hunted lost balls with alacrity. Miss Post found that Grace was a foeman worthy of her steel. The young girl's arm was steady, and she delivered her strokes with decision. Grace came out two holes ahead. Miss Post was delighted. "I hope you will golf with me often, Miss Harlowe," she said cordially. "It is so seldom one finds a really good player." "I am fond of all games and outdoor sports," replied Grace, "but I like basketball best of all. Did you attend any of our games during the winter, Miss Post?" "No," answered the senior. "I am not much interested in basketball. I really paid no attention to it this year, and haven't attended a game since I was a freshman. Speaking of basketball," continued Miss Post, "I picked up a paper last fall with a whole lot of basketball plays written on it. It was labeled 'Sophomore basketball signals,' and I turned it over to one of the girls in your class. She happened to be on the team, too, and seemed very glad to get it. I presume it was hers, although she didn't say so." At the mention of the word signals, Grace pricked up her ears. As Miss Post innocently told of finding the list, Grace could hardly control herself. She wanted to get up and dance a jig on the green. She was about to learn the truth at last. Trying to keep the excitement she felt out of her voice, Grace asked in a low tone, "Whom did you return it to, Miss Post?" "Why, Miss Nesbit," was the answer. "I was inside the campus when I found it, and just then she passed me on the walk. I knew she was a sophomore, and thought it best to get rid of it, as I would probably have forgotten all about it, and it never would have been returned." "Quite true," Grace replied, but she thought to herself that a great deal of unhappiness might have been avoided if Miss Post had only forgotten. The talk drifted into other channels. Miss Post told Grace that she expected to sail for Europe as soon as school was over. In the fall she would return and enter Wellesley. She had crossed the ocean once before, and had done the continent. This time she intended to spend all of her time in Germany. Grace decided her new acquaintance to be a remarkably bright girl. At any other time she would have listened to her with absorbed interest, but try as she might, Grace could not focus her attention on what was being said. One thought was uppermost in her mind, that Miriam was the real culprit. What was to be done about it? She would gain nothing by exposing Miriam to her classmates. There had been too much unpleasantness already. If there was only some way that Miriam could be brought to see the folly of her present course. Grace decided to tell Anne the news that night and ask her advice. CHAPTER XXI ANNE AND GRACE COMPARE NOTES During the walk home from the links, Grace kept continually thinking, "I knew it was Miriam. She gave them to Julia." She replied rather absent-mindedly to Miss Post's comments, and left the older girl with the impression that Miss Harlowe was not as interesting as she had at first seemed. Grace escaped from the supper table at the earliest opportunity, and seizing her hat, made for Anne's house as fast as her feet would take her. Anne opened the door for her. "Oh, Anne, Anne! You never can guess what I know!" cried Grace, before she was fairly inside the house. "Of course, I can't," replied Anne, "any more than you can guess what I know." "Why, do you know something special, too?" demanded Grace. "I do, indeed. But tell me your news first, and then I'll tell you mine," said Anne, pushing Grace into a chair. "Mine's about Miriam," said Grace soberly. "So is mine," was the reply, "and it's nothing creditable, either." "Well," began Grace, "you know I went over to the golf links to-day with Ethel Post of the senior class." Anne nodded. "We were sitting on a bench resting after the game, and the subject of basketball came up. Before I knew it, she was telling me all about finding the list of signals you lost last fall. She gave them to one of our class, you can guess who." "Miriam," said Anne. "Yes, it was Miriam. I always suspected that she had more to do with it than anyone else. She gave Julia the signals, because she wanted to see me humiliated, and fastened suspicion on you to shield herself. She knew that I had boasted, openly, that my team would win. When Julia gave me the statement that cleared you in the eyes of the girls, she told me that she was under promise not to tell how she obtained the signals. But I'm sure she knew that I suspected Miriam. What do you think we ought to do about it?" Grace looked anxiously at Anne. "I don't know, yet," Anne replied. "Now listen to my news. I have felt ever since the game that your getting locked up was not accidental. I don't know why I felt so, but I did, nevertheless. So I set to work to find out if any one else had been around there that day. I went to the janitress and asked her if she had noticed any one in the corridors before halfpast one. That was about the time that people began to come, you know. She said she hadn't. She was down in the basement and didn't go near the upstairs classrooms until after two o'clock. But when she did go up there she found this." Anne held up a curious scarab pin that Grace immediately recognized. It was one that Miriam Nesbit often wore, and was extremely fond of. "It's Miriam's," gasped Grace. "I wonder why----" She stopped. The reason Miriam had not made her loss known was plain. She was afraid to tell where and when she had lost her pin. "I see," said Grace slowly. "It looks pretty bad, doesn't it? But why didn't the janitress take it straight to Miss Thompson? That's what she usually does with articles she finds." "She missed seeing Miss Thompson that Saturday," said Anne. "When I hunted her up early Monday morning, in order to question her, she asked me if I had lost a pin. She said she had just returned one to Miss Thompson, and told me where she found it. I asked her to describe the pin, and at once recognized it. Every girl in school knows that scarab of Miriam's. There is nothing like it in Oakdale. "For a minute I didn't know what to do. Don't you remember when Miriam first had it? She showed it to Miss Thompson, and Miss Thompson spoke of how curious it was. I knew that Miss Thompson would not be apt to forget it. I hurried up to her office and found her with the pin in her hand. She had sent for Miriam, but the messenger came back with the report that Miriam wasn't in school. She laid the pin down and said, 'What is it, Anne?' So I just asked her if she would let me have the pin. Of course, she looked surprised, and asked me if I knew to whom it belonged. I told her I did. Then she looked at me very hard, and asked me to tell her exactly why I wanted it. But, of course, I couldn't tell her, so I didn't say anything. Then she said: 'Anne, I know without being told why you want this pin. I am going to give it to you, and let you settle a delicate matter in your own way. I am sure it will be the right one.'" "Anne Pierson, you bad child!" exclaimed Grace. "To think that you've kept this to yourself ever since the game. Why didn't you tell me?" "I wanted to think what to do about it, before telling even you," Anne replied. "Yesterday I had a long talk with David. He knows everything that Miriam has done since the beginning of the freshman year. He feels dreadfully about it all. I think you and I ought to go to her and tell her that we are willing to forget the past and be her friends." "It would do no good," said Grace dubiously. "She would simply laugh at us. I used to have dreams about making Miriam see the evil of her ways, but I have come to the conclusion that they were dreams, and nothing more." "Let's try, anyway," said Anne. "David says she seems sad and unhappy, and is more gentle than she has been for a long time." "All right, we'll beard the lion in her den, the Nesbit on her soil, if you say so. But I expect to be routed with great slaughter," said Grace with a shudder. "When do we go forth on our mission of reform?" "We'll call on her to-morrow after school," Anne replied, "and don't forget that you once made the remark that you thought Miriam had a better self. You told me the day you read Julia Crosby's statement to the girls that you wouldn't give her up." "I suppose that I shall have to confess that I did say so," laughed Grace. "But that was before she locked me up. She is so proud and stubborn that she will probably take the olive branch we hold out and trample upon it. After all, it really isn't our place to hold out olive branches anyway. She is the one who ought to eat humble pie. I feel ashamed to think I have to tell her what I know about her." "So do I," responded Anne. "It's horrid to have to go to people and tell them about their misdeeds. I wouldn't propose going now if it weren't for David. He seems to think that she would be willing to behave if some one showed her how." "All right," said Grace, "we'll go, but if we encounter a human tornado don't say I didn't warn you." "That's one reason I want to go to her house," replied Anne. "If we approach her at school she is liable to turn on us and make a scene, or else walk off with her nose in the air. If we can catch her at home perhaps she will be more amenable to reason. But, if, to-morrow, she refuses to melt and be forgiven, then I wash my hands of her forever." CHAPTER XXII A RESCUE AND A REFORM It was with considerable trepidation that Anne and Grace approached the Nesbit gate the following afternoon. "I feel my knees beginning to wobble," Grace observed, as they rang the bell. "This business of being a reformer has its drawbacks. How had we better begin?" "I don't know, the inspiration to say the right thing will probably come, when we see her," said Anne. "If she behaves in her usual manner, I shall have a strong inspiration, to give her a good shaking," said Grace bluntly. To their relief, the maid who answered the bell informed them that Miriam had gone out for a walk. "Do you know which way she went?" Grace asked. "I think, miss, that she went toward Upton Wood. She often walks there," replied the maid. The girls thanked her and started down the walk. "Miriam ought never to walk, alone, in Upton Wood, especially this time of year," remarked Grace. "There are any amount of tramps lurking around. If David knew it he would be awfully provoked." "Let's walk over that way, and perhaps we'll meet her," suggested Anne. "Now that we've started, I hate to turn back. If we don't see her to-day, we'll keep on putting it off and end up by not seeing her at all." "That's true," Grace agreed. The two girls strolled along in the direction of Upton Wood, thoroughly enjoying their walk. Occasionally, they stopped to gather a few wild flowers, or listen to the joyous trill of a bird. They were at the edge of the wood, when Grace suddenly put up her hand. "Hush!" she said. "I hear voices." Just then the cry Help! Help! rang out. "That's Miriam's voice," cried Grace. Glancing quickly about for a weapon, Grace picked up a good-sized stick she found on the ground, and ran in the direction of the sound, Anne at her heels. Miriam was struggling desperately to free herself from the grasp of a rough, unkempt fellow who had her by the arm and was trying to abstract the little gold watch that she wore fastened to her shirtwaist with a châtelaine pin. The tramp stood with his back to the approaching girls. Before he was aware of their presence, Grace brought her stick down on his head with all the force she had in her strong, young arms. With a howl of pain he released Miriam, whirling on his assailant. Grace hit him again, the force of her second blow knocking him over. Before the man could regain his feet the three girls were off through the wood. They ran without looking back until fairly out in the open field. "I don't see him," panted Grace, halting to get her breath. "I guess he's gone." Anne was pale and trembling. The run out of the woods had been almost too much for her. As for Miriam, she was sobbing quite hysterically. "Don't cry, Miriam," soothed Grace, putting her arm around the frightened girl. "He can't hurt you now. I am so glad that we happened along. You ought never to go into Upton Wood alone, you know." Miriam gradually gained control of herself. Wiping her eyes, she asked, "How did you ever happen to be out here just at the time I needed help?" "To tell the truth, we were hunting for you," Grace replied. "Your maid said that you had gone toward Upton Wood. We walked on, expecting every minute to meet you. Then we heard you scream and that's all." "It's not all," said Miriam quickly. "I know I have been a wretch. I have made things unpleasant for you two girls ever since we started in at High School. I made fun of Anne, and tried to make her lose the freshman prize. I sent her that doll a year ago last Christmas, knowing that it would hurt her feelings. But the things I did last year aren't half as bad as all I've done this year, I gave----" "That's just what we came to see you about, Miriam," interrupted Grace. "We know that you gave the signals to Julia, and we know that you locked me in the classroom the day of the big game." Miriam flushed with shame and her lip quivered. Seeing her distress, Grace went on quickly: "The janitress found your scarab pin just outside the door on the day of the game. Anne has it here for you." Anne fumbled in her purse and drew out the pin. "But how did you get it?" asked Miriam faintly, as she took the pin with evident reluctance. "Miss Thompson gave it to me," Anne answered. Miriam looked frightened. "Then she knows----" "Nothing," said Grace softly. "As soon as Anne heard that Miss Thompson had your pin and knew where it had been found, she went right to the office and asked Miss Thompson to give it to her. Miss Thompson thought from the first that I had been the victim of a trick. Anne knew that the finding of your pin would make her suspect you. She had already sent for you when Anne reached the office. Luckily you weren't in school. Anne asked permission to return the pin to you. She wouldn't give any reason for asking. Finally Miss Thompson handed it to her, and told Anne she was sure she would do what was right." "You owe a great deal to Anne, Miriam," Grace continued, "for if she had not gone to Miss Thompson I am afraid you would have been suspended from school. Miss Thompson would have had very little mercy upon you, for she knew about those examination papers last June." Miriam looked so utterly miserable and ashamed at Grace's words, that Anne hastened to say: "I would have given you your pin at once, Miriam, but you were away from school. Then David told me how unhappy you seemed. I hadn't said a word to any one about the pin until I told Grace. We decided to come and see you, and say that we were willing to 'let bygones be bygones' if you were. We thought it was right to let you know that we knew everything. There is only one other person who knows. That person is your brother." "He knew I locked you up the day of the game," faltered Miriam, "The way he looked at me has haunted me ever since. He thinks me the most dishonorable girl in the world." She began to cry again. Anne and Grace walked along silently beside the weeping girl. They thought it better to let her have her cry out. She really deserved to spend a brief season in the Valley of Humiliation. They had now left the fields and were turning into one of the smaller streets of Oakdale. "Miriam," said Grace, "try and brace up. We'll soon be on Main Street and you don't want people to see you cry, do you? Here," extracting a little book of rice powder paper from her bag, "rub this over your face and the marks of your tears won't show." Miriam took the paper gratefully, and did as Grace bade her. Then she straightened up and gave a long sigh, "I feel like that man in Pilgrim's Progress, after he dropped his burden from his back," she said. "The mean things I did never bothered me until just lately. After I saw that my own brother had nothing but contempt for me, I began to realize what a wretch I was, and the remorse has been just awful." It was David, after all, who had been instrumental in holding up the mirror so that his stubborn sister could see herself as others saw her. Although she had quarreled frequently with him, she had secretly respected his high standard of honor and fine principles. The fear that he despised her utterly had brought her face to face with herself at last. "Anne has always wanted to be friends with you, Miriam," Grace said earnestly as they neared the Nesbit home. "You and I used to play together when we were little girls in the grammar school. It's only since we started High School that this quarreling has begun. Let's put it all aside and swear to be friends, tried and true, from now on? You can be a great power for good if you choose. We all ought to try to set up a high standard, for the sake of those who come after. Then Oakdale will have good reason to be proud of her High School girls." They had reached the gate. Miriam turned and stretched out a hand to each girl. There was a new light in her eyes. "My dear, dear friends," she said softly. A shrill whistle broke in upon this little love feast and the three girls looked up. David was hurrying down the walk, his face aglow. "I whistled to attract your attention. I was afraid you girls would go before I could reach you. Mother wants you girls to come in for dinner. She saw you from the window. Don't say you can't, for I'm going to call on the Piersons and Harlowes right now and inform them that their daughters are dining out to-night. So hurry along now, for mother's waiting for you." A minute later he had mounted his motorcycle and was off down the street, going like the wind. The girls entered the house and were warmly greeted by Mrs. Nesbit. She and David had viewed the little scene from the window. She had deeply deplored Miriam's attitude toward Grace and her chums. It was with delight that she and David had watched the three girls stop at the gate and clasp hands. She therefore hurried her son out to the girls to offer them her hospitality. Anne had never before entered the Nesbit home. She thought it very beautiful and luxurious. Miriam put forth every effort to be agreeable, and the time passed so rapidly that they were surprised when dinner was announced. After dinner, Miriam, who was really a brilliant performer for a girl of her age, played for them. Anne, who was a music-hungry little soul, listened like one entranced. David, seeing her absorption, beckoned to Grace, who stole softly out of the room without being observed. Once out in the hall the two young people did a sort of wild dance to express their feelings. "You are the best girl a fellow ever knew," said David in a whisper. "How did you do it?" "I'll tell you some other time," whispered Grace, who had cautioned the girls to say nothing of the adventure for fear of frightening Miriam's mother. "Let's go back before they notice we're gone." "Anne is too wrapped up in music to pay any attention to us. Come on up to my workshop. I want to show you something I'm working at in connection with my aëroplane. We can talk there, without being disturbed. I want to know what worked this transformation. It is really too good to be true. I've always wanted Miriam to be friends with Anne, but I had just about lost all hope." Grace followed David up the stairs and through the hall to his workshop, which was situated at the back of the house. "Now," said the young man, as he pushed forward a stool for his guest, "fire away." Grace began with their call at the house, their walk in search of Miriam, and their adventure with the tramp, modestly making light of her own bravery. When she had finished, David held out his hand, his face glowing with appreciation "Grace," he said, "you've more spirit and courage than any girl I ever knew. You ought to have been a boy. You would have done great things." Grace felt that this was the highest compliment David could pay her. She had always cherished a secret regret that she had been born a girl. "Thank you, David," she said, blushing, then hastily changed the subject. "Tell me about your aëroplane. Is it still at the old Omnibus House?" "Yes," David answered. "I had it here all winter, but I moved it out there again about a month ago." "I should like to see it again," said Grace. "I didn't have time to look at it carefully the day you invited us out there." "I'll take you over any time you want to go," said David. "Oh, better still, here's a duplicate key to the place. You can take the girls and go over there whenever you please, without waiting for me. You are the only person that I'd trust with this key, Grace," he added gravely. "I had it made in case old Jean or I should lose those we carry. I wouldn't even let the fellows have one, for fear they might go over there, get careless and do some damage." "It's awfully good of you, David," Grace replied as she took the key. "I'll be careful not to lose it. I'll put it on my watch chain. It's such a small key it is not likely it will be noticed." Grace took from her neck the long, silver chain from which her watch was suspended. She opened the clasp, slid the key on the chain and tucked both watch and key snugly into her belt. "There," she said, patting it, "that can't get lost. My chain is very strong. I prefer a chain to a pin or fob, because either one is so easy to lose." "That's sensible," commented David. "Girls wouldn't be eternally losing their watches if they weren't so vain about wearing those silly little châtelaine pins." "Why, David Nesbit!" exclaimed Grace, glancing up at the mission clock on the wall. "It's almost nine o'clock! I had no idea it was so late. Let's go down at once." They returned to the parlor to find Anne and Miriam deep in some foreign photographs that Miriam had collected during her trip to Europe the previous summer. "How I should love to see Europe," sighed Anne. "I'm going there some day, though, if I live," she added with a sudden resolution. "Mother and father have promised me a trip across as a graduation gift. Maybe you'll be able to go, too, by that time, Anne," said Grace hopefully. "Perhaps I shall, but I'm afraid it's doubtful," said Anne, smiling a little. "We've had a fine time, Miriam," said Grace, "but we really must go. Mother will worry if I stay any later." "Please come again soon," said Miriam, kissing both girls affectionately. "I have a plan to talk over with you, but I can't say anything about it now. I must consult mother first. You'll like it, I'm sure." "Of course we shall," responded Grace. "Good night, Miriam, and pleasant dreams." "They are the nicest girls in Oakdale, and I shall try hard to be like them," thought Miriam, as she closed the door. "David is right. It certainly pays to be square." CHAPTER XXIII GRACE MEETS A DISTINGUISHED CHARACTER June had come, bringing with it the trials and tribulations of final examinations. The days grew long and sunny. Roses nodded from every bush, but the pupils of Oakdale's two High Schools were far too busy to think about the beauty of the weather. Golf, tennis, baseball and other outdoor sports were sternly put aside, and the usual season of "cramming" set in. Young faces wore an almost tragic expression, and back lessons were reviewed with desperate zeal. Grace Harlowe had crammed as assiduously as the rest, for a day or two. She was particularly shaky on her geometry. She went over her theorems until she came to triangles, then she threw the book down in disgust. "What's the use of cramming?" she said to herself. "If I keep on I won't even be able to remember that 'the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides.' I'm in a muddle over these triangles now. I'll find the girls and get them to go to the woods with me. I really ought to collect a few more botany specimens." Grace's specimens were a source of keen delight to her girlish heart. She didn't care so much about pressing and mounting them. It was the joy she experienced in being in the woods that, to her, made botany the most fascinating of studies. She poked into secluded spots unearthing rare specimens. Her collection was already overflowing; still she could never resist adding just a few more. She was doomed to disappointment as far as Nora and Jessica were concerned. Both girls mournfully shook their heads when invited to specimen-hunting, declaring regretfully they were obliged to study. Anne was at Mrs. Gray's attending to the old lady's correspondence. This had been her regular task since the beginning of the freshman year, and she never failed to perform it. "Oh, dear, I wish examinations and school were over," Grace sighed impatiently. "I can't go to the woods alone, and I can't get any one to go with me. I suppose I'll have to give it up and go home. No, I won't, either. I'll go as far as the old Omnibus House. There are lots of wild plants in the orchard surrounding it, and I may get some new specimens." With her basket on her arm, Grace turned her steps in the direction of the old house. She had not been there since the day of their reunion. She smiled to herself as she recalled the absurdities of that occasion. After traversing the orchard several times and finding nothing startling in the way of specimens, Grace concluded that she might as well have stayed at home. She walked slowly over to the steps and sat down, placing the basket beside her. "How lonely it seems here to-day," she thought. "I wonder where old Jean is? I haven't seen him for an age." Then she fell to musing over the school year so nearly ended. Everything that had happened passed through her mind like a panorama. It had been a stormy year, full of quarrels and bickerings, but it was about to end gloriously. Anne and Miriam had become the best of friends, while she and Julia Crosby were daily finding out each other's good qualities There was nothing left to be desired. Grace started from her dream and looked at her watch. It was after six o'clock. She had better be getting back. She rose and reached for her basket. Suddenly a figure loomed up before her. Grace started in surprise, to find herself facing a tall, thin man with wild, dark eyes. He stood with folded arms, regarding her fixedly. [Illustration: Grace Found Herself Facing a Tall, Thin Man.] "Why, where----" but she got no further, for the curious new-comer interrupted her. "Ah, Josephine," he said, "so I have found you at last." "My name isn't Josephine at all. It's Grace Harlowe, and you have made a mistake," said Grace, endeavoring to pass him. But he barred her way, saying sadly: "What, do you, too, pretend? Do you think I do not know you? I, your royal husband, Napoleon Bonaparte." "Good gracious," gasped Grace. "He's crazy as can be. How ever shall I get away from him?" The man heard the word "crazy" and exclaimed angrily: "How dare you call me crazy! You, of all people, should know I am sane. I have just returned from Isle of St. Helena to claim my empire. For years I have been an exile, but now I am free, free." He waved his arms wildly. "Yes, of course I know you, now," said Grace, thinking to mollify him. "How strange that I didn't recognize you before." Then she remembered reading in the paper of the preceding night of the escape of a dangerous lunatic from the state asylum, that was situated a few miles from Oakdale. This must be the man. Grace decided that he answered the description the paper had given. She realized that she would have to be careful not to anger him. It would require strategy to get clear of him. "It's time you remembered me," returned Napoleon Bonaparte, petulantly. "They told me that you had died years ago, but I knew better. Now that I have found you, we'd better start for France at once. Have you your court robes with you? And what have you done with your crown? You are dressed like a peasant." He was disdainfully eyeing her brown, linen gown. In spite of her danger, Grace could scarcely repress a laugh. It all seemed so ludicrous. Then a sudden thought seized her. "You see, I have nothing fit to travel in," she said. "Suppose you wait here for me while I go back to town and get my things? then I can appear properly at court." "No you don't," said Napoleon promptly, a cunning expression stealing into his face. "If you go you'll never come back. I need your influence at the royal court, and I can't afford to lose you. I am about to conquer the world. I should have done it long ago, if those villains hadn't exiled me, and locked me up." He walked back and forth, muttering to himself still keeping his eye on Grace for fear that she might escape. "Oh, what shall I do?" thought the terrified girl. "Goodness knows what he'll think of next. He may keep me here until dark, and I shall die if I have to stay here until then, I must get away." Grace knew that it would be sheer folly to try to run. Her captor would overtake her before she had gone six yards, not to mention the fit of rage her attempted flight would be likely to throw him into. She anxiously scanned the neighboring fields in the hope of seeing old Jean, the hunter. He was usually not far away. But look as she might, she could discover no sign of him. There was only one thing in her favor. It would be light for some time yet. Being June, the darkness would not descend for two hours. She must escape, but how was she to do it! She racked her brain for some means of deliverance, but received no inspiration. Again she drew out her watch. Then her eye rested for a second on the little key that hung on her watch chain. It was the key to the lean-to in which David kept his aëroplane. Like a flash the way was revealed to her. But would she be able to carry out the daring design that had sprung into her mind? She would try, at any rate. With an unconcern that she was far from feeling, Grace walked carelessly toward the door of the lean-to. The demented man was beside her in a twinkling He clutched Grace by the arm with a force that made her catch her breath. "What are you trying to do!" he exclaimed, glaring at her savagely. "Didn't I tell you that you couldn't go away!" He held her at arm's length with one hand, and threateningly shook his finger at her. "Remember, once and for all, that I am your emperor and must be obeyed. Disregard my commands and you shall pay the penalty with your life. What is the life of one like you to me, when I hold the fate of nations in my hands? Perhaps it would be better to put an end to you now. Women are ever given over to intriguing and deception. You might betray me to my enemies. Yet, I believed you loyal in the past. I----" "Indeed I have always been loyal, my emperor," interrupted Grace eagerly. "How can you doubt me?" Her situation was becoming more precarious with every minute. She must persuade this terrible individual that she was necessary to his plans, if she wished to get away with her life. "I have your welfare constantly at heart," she continued. "Have you ever thought of flying to our beloved France? In the shed behind me is a strange ship that flies through the air. Its sails are like the wings of a bird, and it flies with the speed of the wind. It waits to carry us across the sea. It is called an aëroplane." "I have heard of such things," said Napoleon. "When I was in exile, a fool who came to visit me showed me a picture of one. He told me it could fly like a bird, but he lied. I believe you are lying, too," he added, looking at her suspiciously. "Let me prove to you that I am not," Grace answered, trying to appear calm, though ready to collapse under the terrible strain of the part she was being forced to play. "Do you see this key? It unlocks the door that leads to the flying ship. Would you not like to look at it?" she said coaxingly. "Very well, but be quick about it I have already wasted too much time with you. I must be off before my enemies find me." "You must release my arm, or I cannot unlock the door," Grace said. "Oh, yes, you can," rejoined Napoleon, not relaxing his grip for an instant. "Do you think I am going to run any risk of losing you?" As she turned the key he swung her to one side, and, opening the door, peered cautiously in. For a moment he stood like a statue staring in wonder at David's aëroplane, then with a loud cry that froze the blood in Grace's veins, he threw up his arms and rushed madly into the shed, shouting, "We shall fly, fly, fly!" With a sob of terror Grace slammed the door and turned the key. She was not an instant too soon. Napoleon Bonaparte reached it with a bound and threw himself against it, uttering blood-curdling shrieks. The frightful sounds came to Grace's ears as she tore across the field in the direction of Oakdale. Terror lent wings to her feet. Every second was precious. She did not know how long the door would stand against the frantic assaults of the maniac. She had reached the road, when, to her joy and relief, she beheld half a dozen men approaching. Stumbling blindly toward them, she panted out: "The crazy man--I--locked--him--in--the Omnibus House. Here--is--the key." She gave a long, shuddering sigh, and for the first time in her life sturdy Grace Harlowe fainted. The men picked her up tenderly. "Here, Hampton," said one of them, "take this child over to the nearest house. She is all in. By George, I wonder whether she has locked that lunatic up? Something has certainly upset her. We'd better get over there right away and see what we can find out." The man addressed as Hampton picked Grace up as though she had been a baby and carried her to a house a little further up the road. Meanwhile the men hurried on, arriving at the Omnibus House just as Napoleon succeeded in breaking down the door. Before he could elude them, he was seized by five pairs of stalwart arms. He fought like a tiger, making it difficult to bind him. This was finally accomplished though they were obliged to carry him, for he had to be tied up like a papoose to keep him from doing damage. He raved continually over the duplicity of Josephine, threatening dire vengeance when he should find her. When Grace came to herself she looked about her in wonder. She was lying on a comfortable couch in a big, cheerful sitting room. A kindly faced woman was bathing her temples, while a young girl chafed her hands. "Where am I?" said Grace feebly. "Did Napoleon get out?" "Lie still and rest, my dear," said Mrs. Forrest, "Don't try to exert yourself." Grace sat up and looked about her. "Oh, I know what happened. I fainted. How silly of me. I never did that in my life before. I had a terrible scare, but I'm all right now." The man who had carried her to the house came forward. "My name is Hampton, miss. I am a guard over at the asylum. Those other men you saw are employed there, too. We were looking for one of our people who escaped night before last. He nearly killed his keeper. He's the worst patient we have out there. Thinks he's Napoleon. Judging from your fright, I guess you must have met him. Did you really lock him in that old house?" "Indeed I did," answered Grace, who was rapidly recovering from the effects of her fright. "He took me for the Empress Josephine." She related all that had happened, ending with the way she locked his emperorship in. "Well, all I've got to say is that you're the pluckiest girl I ever came across," said the man admiringly, when Grace had finished. But she shook her head. "I never was so frightened in my life before. I shall never forget his screams." It was after eight o'clock when Grace Harlowe arrived at her own door. The man Hampton had insisted on calling a carriage, so Grace rode home in state. As she neared the house she saw that the lawn and porch were full of people. "What on earth is the matter!" she asked herself. As she alighted from the carriage her mother rushed forward and took her in her arms. "My darling child," she sobbed. "What a narrow escape you have had. You must never, never wander off alone again." "Why, mother, how did you know anything about it?" "When you didn't come home to supper I felt worried, for you had not told me that you were invited anywhere. Then Nora came down to see you, and seemed surprised not to find you at home. She said you had gone on a specimen hunt after school. I became frightened and sent your father out at once to look for you. He met the keepers with that dreadful man," said Mrs. Harlowe, shuddering, "and they described you, telling him where you were and how they had met you. Your father went straight out to the Forrests. I suppose you just missed him." Grace hugged her mother tenderly. "Don't worry, mother. I'm all right. What are all these people standing around for?" "They came to see you, of course. The news is all over town. Everyone is devoured with curiosity to hear your story." "It looks as though I had become a celebrity at last," laughed Grace. She was obliged to tell the story of her adventure over and over again that night to her eager listeners. Her chums hung about her adoringly. Hippy, Reddy and David were fairly beside themselves. "Oh, you lunatic snatcher," cried Hippy, throwing up his hat to express his feelings. "You never dreamed that the little key you gave me would prove my salvation," said Grace to David, as her friends bade her good night. "It surely must have been fate." CHAPTER XXIV COMMENCEMENT Examinations had ceased to be bug-bears and kill joys to the young idea of Oakdale. The last paper had been looked over, and the anxious hearts of the majority of the High School pupils had been set at rest. In most cases there was general rejoicing over the results of the final test. Marks were compared and plans for the next year's course of study discussed. The juniors were about to come into their own. When the present seniors had been handed their diplomas, and Miss Thompson and Mr. Cole had wished them god-speed, the present juniors would start on the home stretch that ended in commencement, and a vague awakening to the real duties of life. The senior class stood for the time being in the limelight of public attention. It was the observed of all observers. Teas were given in honor of its various members, and bevies of young girls in dainty summer apparel brightened the streets of Oakdale, during the long sunny afternoons. It was truly an eventful week. Grace Harlowe gave a tea in honor of Ethel Post, which was a marked social success. The two girls had become thoroughly well acquainted over their golf and had received great benefit from each other's society. Miss Post's calm philosophical view of life had a quieting effect on impulsive Grace, while Grace's energy and whole-hearted way of diving into things proved a stimulus to the older girl. It was Tuesday afternoon and class day. High School girls in gala attire were seen hurrying up the broad walk leading to the main door of the school building. It was the day of all days, to those about to graduate. Of course, receiving one's diploma was the most important feature, but class day lay nearest the heart. The exercises were to be held in the gymnasium. The junior and senior classes had brought in half the woods to beautify the big room, and Oakdale gardens had been ruthlessly forced to give up their wealth of bud and bloom in honor of the occasion. It was customary for the seniors to invite the junior class, who always sat in a body at one side of the gymnasium; while the seniors sat on the opposite side. The rest of the space was given up to the families of the seniors and their friends. Lucky, indeed, were those who could obtain an invitation to this most characteristic of class functions. The four girl chums had been among the fortunate recipients of invitations. A very pretty picture they made as they followed the usher, one of the junior class, to their seats. Grace wore a gown of pale blue organdie that was a marvel of sheer daintiness. Jessica, a fetching little affair of white silk muslin sprinkled with tiny pink rosebuds; while Anne and Nora were resplendent in white lingerie gowns. Anne's frock was particularly beautiful and the girls had exclaimed with delight over it when they first caught sight of her. It was a present from Mrs. Gray, Anne told them. She had fully expected to wear her little white muslin, but the latter had grown rather shabby and she felt ashamed of it. Then a boy appeared with a big box addressed to her. Wrapped in fold after fold of tissue paper lay the exquisite new gown. Pinned to one sleeve was a note from Mrs. Gray, asking her to accept the gift in memory of the other Anne--Mrs. Gray's young daughter--who had passed away years ago. There were tears in Anne's eyes as she told them about it, the girls agreeing with her that there was no one in the world quite so utterly dear as Mrs. Gray. "I'm glad we're early," whispered Nora. "We can watch the classes come in. See, that place is for the juniors. It is roped off with their colors and the other side belongs to the seniors." "How fine the gym. looks," remarked Anne. "They certainly must have worked hard to fix it up so beautifully." "Julia Crosby is largely responsible for it," answered Grace. "She has the most original ideas about decorations and things. You know the juniors always decorate for the seniors. It's a sacred duty." "Did you know that Julia was elected president of her class?" asked Jessica. "Oh, yes," said Grace, "she told me about it the other day. Oh, girls, here they come! Doesn't Ethel Post look sweet? There's Julia at the head of her class." "It is certainly great to be a graduate," sighed Nora. "Speaking of graduation," said Grace, "did you know that David has put off his graduation for another year! He wished to finish school with Hippy and Reddy. They have planned to enter the same college. So our little crowd will be together for one more year." "How nice of him," cried the girls. "Yes, isn't it! I'll be awfully sorry when my turn comes," responded Grace. "I'm sure I shall never care for college as I do for this dear old school." "You can't tell until you've tried it," said Nora wisely. The two classes had now seated themselves, and an expectant hush fell upon those assembled. The first number on the program was a song by the senior glee club. This was followed by the salutatory address, given by a tall dignified senior. The class poem came next, and was received with enthusiasm. The other numbers followed in rapid succession, each being applauded to the echo. The class grinds were hailed with keen relish. Each girl solemnly rose to take her medicine in the form of mild ridicule over some past harmless folly. The class prophecy provoked ripples of merriment from the audience. Grace chuckled with glee at the idea of exclusive Ethel Post becoming the proprietor of a moving-picture show at Coney Island. The futures prophesied for the other members of the class were equally remarkable for their impossibility. At last nothing remained but the senior charge and the junior reply. The president of the senior class rose, and facing the juniors poured forth her final words of advice and counsel. She likened them to a baby in swaddling clothes, and cautioned them to be careful about standing on their feet too early. It was the usual patronizing speech so necessary to class day. Julia Crosby smiled a little as the senior exhorted her hearers to never forget the dignity of their station. She was thinking of the day she crashed into that young woman, in the corridor. The senior president had manifested the dignity of her station then. Julia straightened her face and stepped forward to make her reply. She thanked the president for her solicitude and tender counsel. She humbly acknowledged that the juniors were helpless infants, entirely innocent of the wicked world. They realized that they needed proper nourishment and exercise. There was one consolation however, they were daily growing larger and wiser, and their lungs were strong. If all went well they hoped to be healthy, well-grown seniors, capable of giving sage advice to those who would follow them. Grace's face was full of eager appreciation as she listened to Julia's clever speech. How greatly she had changed, and what a power she would be in her class during the senior year. Grace felt that her sophomore year, though dark in the beginning, was about to end in a blaze of glory. Julia sat down amid demonstrations of approval. Then the first notes of "Auld Lang Syne" sounded on the piano, and the entire audience, led by the senior glee club, rose to their feet to join in that sweetest of old songs whose plaintive melody causes heart strings to tighten and eyes to fill. The four chums silently joined hands as they sang, and mentally resolved that with them "auld acquaintance" should never "be forgot." There was a second's pause after the song was done. Then clear on the air rose the senior class yell. That broke the spell. Those who had felt lumps rising in their throats at the music, laughed. A buzz of conversation began, and soon the graduates were surrounded by their families and friends. The gymnasium gradually cleared. The seniors hurried off to their banquet on the lawn and one more class day glided off to find its place with those of the past. "Wasn't it perfectly lovely?" sighed Jessica, as they made their way out. "I think commencement week has even more thrills in it than Christmas," Nora replied. "Wait till we have our class day. You shall write the class poem, Anne, and Jessica the song." "I speak for the class prophecy," said Grace. "That leaves nothing for me but the grinds. But that job would be greatly to my taste," said Nora. "What about the rest of the class?" inquired Anne, smiling at this monopoly of class honors. "Are we to carry off all the glory!" "Without a doubt," Jessica answered. "After us there are no more." "Be sure to come to my house for supper Thursday evening," said Grace. "We are to go to commencement together, you know. The boys are coming, too." The chums parted with many expressions of satisfaction over the pleasant afternoon's entertainment. Thursday evening found them impatiently awaiting the boys. "I suppose they all stopped to fuss and prink," said Nora, as she peered through the vines that screened the porch. "Men are, truly, vainer than girls. There they come around the corner, now. I really believe Hippy is growing fatter. He looks awfully nice to-night, though," she hastily added. Hippy had a friend in Nora. "Did you know that Tom Gray is in town?" asked David, as he took his place beside Anne and Grace. The latter carried an immense bouquet of red roses to give to Ethel Post. "Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Grace. "I suppose he'll be there to-night with dear Mrs. Gray." "Yes, they are going," said David. "I don't believe Mrs. Gray has missed a commencement for the last twenty years." "I wonder who'll get the freshman prize this year?" mused Grace. "I hope it goes to some girl who really needs it. I know one thing; there will be no claimant for the hundred dollar prize this year. Anne broke the record." "Indeed she did," said David, looking fondly at Anne. "To be in company with Oakdale's star prize winner is a great honor." "Oh, don't," said Anne who hated compliments. "Very well, if you spurn the truth," replied David. "By the way, I have an invitation to deliver. Miriam wants all of you to come up to our house the minute the exercises are over to-night. Never mind if it is late. Commencement comes but once a year." "De-lighted," chorused the chums. "Hush," said Hippy. "Make no uproar. We are about to enter the sacred precincts of Assembly Hall. I feel that on account of my years of experience I must make myself responsible for the behavior of you children. Smother that giggle, Nora O'Malley," he commanded, looking at Nora with an expression of severity that set oddly on his fat, good-natured face. This made the whole party laugh, and Hippy declared, disgustedly, that he considered them quite ignorant of the first principles of good behavior. They were seated in the hall at last, and for the next two hours listened with serious attention to the essays and addresses of the graduates. Grace had sent Ethel Post her roses as soon as she entered the hall, and had the pleasure of seeing them in her friend's hands. The diplomas were presented, and the freshman prize given out. It was won by a shy-looking little girl with big, pleading, brown eyes. Grace watched her closely as she walked up to receive it and resolved to find out more about her. "She looks as though she needed friends," was her mental comment. Anne, too, felt drawn toward the slender little girl. She recalled her freshman commencement and her total collapse after the race had been won. "I hope that little girl has friends as good and true as mine," she whispered to Grace. "Don't you think she looks lonely?" Grace asked. "She surely does," returned Anne. "Let's find out all about her." "Done," Grace replied. As soon as the exercises were over the young people hurried over to where Tom Gray and his aunt stood talking with friends. "Well, well," sighed the old lady joyously, "here are all my own children. I am so glad to see you. I understand that I am too late with my invitation for an after gathering. Miriam has forestalled me," she added, placing her arm around Miriam, whose face glowed with pleasure at the caress. "She has invited me, too, so I am not to complain. As many as there are room can ride in my carriage. The rest will have go in Tom's." "Tom's?" was the cry, "When did he acquire a carriage?" "Come and see it," was Tom's reply. They all trooped out, Hippy leading the van. "I wish to be the first to look upon the miracle," he cried. "It's a peach," he shouted, as the others came up, and he was right. "O Tom, isn't it great?" Grace exclaimed. Directly in front of Mrs. Gray's carriage stood a handsome Packard car. "Aunt Rose gave it to me, to-day," he explained, his face glowing. "It has been waiting a week for me. Come on, everybody, and we'll get up steam and fly to Nesbit's." Of course every one wanted to ride in the new car. David and Anne decided, however, to go with Mrs. Gray, and with a honk! honk! the automobile was off. The Nesbit home was ablaze with light. Mrs. Nesbit stood in the wide hall waiting to receive Miriam's guests. "The first thing to do is to find food," declared David, leading the way to the dining room. The whole party exclaimed with admiration at the tastefully decorated table. A huge favor pie in the shape of a deep red rose ornamented the center, the ribbons reaching to each one's place. There were pretty, hand-painted place cards, too, tied with red and gold, the sophomore colors. Mrs. Gray occupied the place of honor at the head of the table. She was fairly overflowing with happiness and good cheer, as she beamed on first one and then another of her children. The young people did ample justice to the delicious repast served them. The favor pie created much amusement, as the favors were chosen to suit the particular personality of each guest. After every one had finished eating, a season of toasts followed. "Here's to dear Mrs. Gray," said David, raising his glass of fruit punch, "May she live to be one hundred years old, and grow younger every day. Drink her down." Mrs. Gray proposed a toast to Mrs. Nesbit, which was drunk with enthusiasm. Presently every one had been toasted, then Miriam rose and begged permission to speak. It was unanimously granted. "I suppose you all think I invited you here to-night for the express purpose of having a good time," she said. "So I did. But now that you are here, I want to talk to you about a plan that I hope you will like. It rests with you whether or not it materializes. You know that we have a cottage at Lake George, although we do not always spend our summers there. But I want to go there this year, and you can make it possible for me to do so." "We'll carry your luggage and put you on the train, if that will help you out any," volunteered Hippy. Miriam laughed. "That isn't enough," she said. "I want every one of you to go, too, Now don't say a word until I'm through. Mother has given her consent to a house party, and will chaperon us. Don't one of you refuse, for I shall pay no attention to you. You simply must come. We are to start next Tuesday, and stay as long as we like. So you'll have to make your preparations in a hurry. We'll meet at the station next Tuesday morning at 9.30. That's all." Then what a babble arose. Grace and Nora were in high glee over the proposed trip. They were sure of going. Anne was rather dubious at first, but Grace overruled her objections, and made fun of Jessica for saying she had promised to visit her aunt. "Go and visit your aunt afterwards, Jessica. Remember, she is a secondary matter when compared to us," she said laughingly. "I shall take my car," said Tom. "That will help things along." "Mother has promised me one," remarked David, "so we'll have plenty of means of conveyance. "How sorry I am that you can't go, too, Aunt Rose," exclaimed Tom regretfully. "Nonsense," replied his aunt, "you don't want an old woman at your heels all the time. Besides, I must visit my brother in California this summer. I haven't seen him for several years." "Let's drink to the success of the house party," cried Reddy, "and pledge ourselves to be on time next Tuesday morning. Drink her down." When next we meet our Oakdale boys and girls, they will have returned to their books after a long happy summer. In "GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL"; Or, "FAST FRIENDS IN THE SORORITIES," the girl chums will appear as members of a High School sorority. Here the reader will make the acquaintance of Eleanor Savell, a clever but exceedingly wilful girl, whose advent in Oakdale High School brings about a series of happenings that make the story one of absorbing interest. The doings of a rival sorority, organized by Eleanor, the contest for dramatic honors between Eleanor and Anne Pierson and the mischievous plot against the latter originated by the former and frustrated by Grace Harlowe, are among the features that will hold the attention and cement the reader's friendship for the girl chums. THE END * * * * * HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY'S CATALOGUE OF The Best and Least Expensive Books for Real Boys and Girls * * * * * Really good and new stories for boys and girls are not plentiful. Many stories, too, are so highly improbable as to bring a grin of derision to the young reader's face before he has gone far. The name of ALTEMUS is a distinctive brand on the cover of a book, always ensuring the buyer of having a book that is up-to-date and fine throughout. No buyer of an ALTEMUS book is ever disappointed. Many are the claims made as to the inexpensiveness of books. Go into any bookstore and ask for an Altemus book. Compare the price charged you for Altemus books with the price demanded for other juvenile books. You will at once discover that a given outlay of money will buy more of the ALTEMUS books than of those published by other houses. Every dealer in books carries the ALTEMUS books. * * * * * Sold by all booksellers or sent postpaid on receipt of price Henry Altemus Company 1326-1336 Vine Street, Philadelphia * * * * * The Motor Boat Club Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The keynote of these books is manliness. The stories are wonderfully entertaining, and they are at the same time sound and wholesome. No boy will willingly lay down an unfinished book in this series. 1 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC; Or, The Secret of Smugglers' Island. 2 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET; Or, The Mystery of the Dunstan Heir. 3 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND; Or, A Daring Marine Game at Racing Speed. 4 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS; Or, The Dot, Dash and Dare Cruise. 5 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA; Or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp. 6 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT THE GOLDEN GATE; Or, A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog. 7 THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB ON THE GREAT LAKES; Or, The Flying Dutchman of the Big Fresh Water. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Range and Grange Hustlers By FRANK GEE PATCHIN Have you any idea of the excitements, the glories of life on great ranches in the West? Any bright boy will "devour" the books of this series, once he has made a start with the first volume. 1 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE RANCH; Or, The Boy Shepherds of the Great Divide. 2 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS' GREATEST ROUND-UP; Or, Pitting Their Wits Against a Packers' Combine. 3 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS ON THE PLAINS; Or, Following the Steam Plows Across the Prairie. 4 THE RANGE AND GRANGE HUSTLERS AT CHICAGO; Or, The Conspiracy of the Wheat Pit. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Submarine Boys Series By VICTOR G. DURHAM These splendid books for boys and girls deal with life aboard submarine torpedo boats, and with the adventures of the young crew, and possess, in addition to the author's surpassing knack of story-telling, a great educational value for all young readers. 1 THE SUBMARINE BOYS ON DUTY; Or, Life on a Diving Torpedo Boat. 2 THE SUBMARINE BOYS' TRIAL TRIP; Or, "Making Good" as Young Experts. 3 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE MIDDIES; Or, The Prize Detail at Annapolis. 4 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SPIES; Or, Dodging the Sharks of the Deep. 5 THE SUBMARINE BOYS' LIGHTNING CRUISE; Or, The Young Kings of the Deep. 6 THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG; Or, Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam. 7 THE SUBMARINE BOYS AND THE SMUGGLERS; Or, Breaking Up the New Jersey Customs Frauds. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Square Dollar Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK The reading boy will be a voter within a few years; these books are bound to make him think, and when he casts his vote he will do it more intelligently for having read these volumes. 1 THE SQUARE DOLLAR BOYS WAKE UP; Or, Fighting the Trolley Franchise Steal. 2 THE SQUARE DOLLAR BOYS SMASH THE RING; Or, In the Lists Against the Crooked Land Deal. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The College Girls Series By JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A.M. 1 GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 2 GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 3 GRACE HARLOWE'S THIRD YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 4 GRACE HARLOWE'S FOURTH YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE. 5 GRACE HARLOWE'S RETURN TO OVERTON CAMPUS. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Pony Rider Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These tales may be aptly described as the best books for boys and girls. 1 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES; Or, The Secret of the Lost Claim.--2 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS; Or, The Veiled Riddle of the Plains.--3 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA; Or, The Mystery of the Old Custer Trail.--4 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS; Or, The Secret of Ruby Mountain.--5 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI; Or, Finding a Key to the Desert Maze.--6 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN NEW MEXICO; Or, The End of the Silver Trail.--7 THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, The Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Boys of Steel Series By JAMES R. MEARS Each book presents vivid picture of this great industry. Each story is full of adventure and fascination. 1 THE IRON BOYS IN THE MINES; Or, Starting at the Bottom of the Shaft.--2 THE IRON BOYS AS FOREMEN; Or, Heading the Diamond Drill Shift.--3 THE IRON BOYS ON THE ORE BOATS; Or, Roughing It on the Great Lakes.--4 THE IRON BOYS IN THE STEEL MILLS; Or, Beginning Anew in the Cinder Pits. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Madge Morton Books By AMY D.V. CHALMERS 1 MADGE MORTON--CAPTAIN OF THE MERRY MAID. 2 MADGE MORTON'S SECRET. 3 MADGE MORTON'S TRUST. 4 MADGE MORTON'S VICTORY. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * West Point Series By H. 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In this new series Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton prove worthy of all the traditions of Dick & Co. 1 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN COLORADO; Or, At Railroad Building in Earnest. 2 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; Or, Laying Tracks on the "Man-Killer" Quicksand. 3 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN NEVADA; Or, Seeking Fortune on the Turn of a Pick, 4 THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN MEXICO; Or, Fighting the Mine Swindlers. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Boys of the Army Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK These books breathe the life and spirit of the United States Army of to-day, and the life, just as it is, is described by a master pen. 1 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE RANKS; Or, Two Recruits in the United States Army. 2 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS ON FIELD DUTY; Or, Winning Corporal's Chevrons. 3 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS AS SERGEANTS; Or, Handling Their First Real Commands. 4 UNCLE SAM'S BOYS IN THE PHILIPPINES; Or, Following the Flag Against the Moros. (_Other volumes to follow rapidly._) Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Battleship Boys Series By FRANK GEE PATCHIN These stories throb with the life of young Americans on to-day's huge drab Dreadnaughts. 1 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS AT SEA; Or, Two Apprentices in Uncle Sam's Navy. 2 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS FIRST STEP UPWARD; Or, Winning Their Grades as Petty Officers. 3 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN FOREIGN SERVICE; Or, Earning New Ratings in European Seas. 4 THE BATTLESHIP BOYS IN THE TROPICS; Or, Upholding the American Flag in a Honduras Revolution. (_Other volumes to follow rapidly._) Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Meadow-Brook Girls Series By JANET ALDRIDGE Real live stories pulsing with the vibrant atmosphere of outdoor life. 1 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. 2 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ACROSS COUNTRY. 3 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS AFLOAT. 4 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS IN THE HILLS. 5 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS BY THE SEA. 6 THE MEADOW-BROOK GIRLS ON THE TENNIS COURTS. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * High School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK In this series of bright, crisp books a new note has been struck. Boys of every age under sixty will be interested in these fascinating volumes. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMEN; Or, Dick & Co.'s First Year Pranks and Sports. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL PITCHER; Or, Dick & Co. on the Gridley Diamond. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL LEFT END; Or, Dick & Co. Grilling on the Football Gridiron. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM; Or, Dick & Co. Leading the Athletic Vanguard. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * Grammar School Boys Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK This series of stories, based on the actual doings of grammar school boys, comes near to the heart of the average American boy. 1 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS OF GRIDLEY; Or, Dick & Co. Start Things Moving. 2 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS SNOWBOUND; Or, Dick & Co. at Winter Sports. 3 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN THE WOODS; Or, Dick & Co. Trail Fun and Knowledge. 4 THE GRAMMAR SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER ATHLETICS; Or, Dick & Co. Make Their Fame Secure. Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * High School Boys' Vacation Series By H. IRVING HANCOCK "Give us more Dick Prescott books!" This has been the burden of the cry from young readers of the country over. Almost numberless letters have been received by the publishers, making this eager demand; for Dick Prescott, Dave Darrin, Tom Reade, and the other members of Dick & Co. are the most popular high school boys in the land. Boys will alternately thrill and chuckle when reading these splendid narratives. 1 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' CANOE CLUB; Or, Dick & Co.'s Rivals on Lake Pleasant. 2 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN SUMMER CAMP; Or, The Dick Prescott Six Training for the Gridley Eleven. 3 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' FISHING TRIP; Or, Dick & Co. in the Wilderness. 4 THE HIGH SCHOOL BOYS' TRAINING HIKE; Or, Dick & Co. Making Themselves "Hard as Nails." Cloth, Illustrated Price, per Volume, 50c. * * * * * The Circus Boys Series By EDGAR B.P. DARLINGTON Mr. Darlington's books breathe forth every phase of an intensely interesting and exciting life. 1 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE FLYING RINGS; Or, Making the Start in the Sawdust Life. 2 THE CIRCUS BOYS ACROSS THE CONTINENT; Or, Winning New Laurels on the Tanbark. 3 THE CIRCUS BOYS IN DIXIE LAND; Or, Winning the Plaudits of the Sunny South. 4 THE CIRCUS BOYS ON THE MISSISSIPPI; Or, Afloat with the Big Show on the Big River. 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32651	----	ADOLESCENTS ONLY By Irving Cox, Jr. [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy January 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: Elvin wasn't sure how it had started--maybe it was the Schermerhorn twins--or the mysterious "meteorite"--or else the world had gone crazy....] He tried to convince himself he had no right to gripe. It was a pleasant place to live; he had privacy and a bath of his own. And the Schermerhorns were reasonably broadminded people. They never objected to his smoking or an occasional glass of beer. Last year at the Neuhavens'--Gary Elvin cringed inwardly at the recollection. Just the same, this was going too far. It was enough to endure their kids all day long, five days of the week, without the addition of these juvenile parties. This one had started an hour after dinner and it was still going strong when Elvin returned from the late show at the Fox. Naturally the Schermerhorn twins were popular tenth graders--husky, blond Greek Gods who had everything, including a red Convertible and a swimming pool Pop Schermerhorn had built for them at the ranch. Gary Elvin had expected a certain number of parties when he decided to board and room with the Schermerhorns, but hardly one every weekend. He fled through the cluttered hall where a buxom lass was organizing something called a bubble gum contest and took refuge on the damp and deserted patio. He flung himself on a wet, canvas lounge, and looked up at the bright night sky. Bitterly he counted off the weeks. It was still early in November. He had eight more months to endure before June came with its temporary illusion of escape. As he always did, Elvin resolved to find a better job next year. He had been teaching for five years now. He knew all the tricks of classroom control and smooth community relations. Surely if he started looking early enough, he ought to be able to get something at a small college.... Suddenly he was jerked back to reality by a curious spot of red that appeared in the sky. It moved closer and he saw that it was a falling object followed by a long plume of red flame. It flashed momentarily overhead and Elvin heard a dull thud as it fell into a field beyond the ranch house. He sprang up from the couch and moved off in the darkness. It had been a meteorite, of course; if it had survived the friction of the atmosphere it would make an interesting exhibit for the science classroom. Miss Gerken would be glassy-eyed with pleasure. There was no moon. As soon as he crossed the driveway, Elvin stumbled over the damp furrows of a newly ploughed field. He was sweating when he reached the row of palms that lined the irrigation ditch. He paused to wipe his face. And he heard a weird, shrill, rhythmic sound. It might have been called music, but there was no definable melody or beat. It was faint at first, but as he moved to the right, paralleling the ditch, the sound came louder. [Illustration: As he cautiously approached the alien object, it seemed as if a soft melody were being wafted on the night breeze. The sound made him nervous and instilled fear....] Then, beyond the trees, in a glow of blue light emanating from the thing itself, he saw the rocket. It was not quite five feet long, a slim projectile of glowing metal nosed deeply into the soft earth. The four fins were rotating slowly. * * * * * Gary Elvin might, quite properly, have been frightened, but he was totally unacquainted with modern fiction dealing with the probable potentials of science and the universes beyond the earth. Such material he classified, along with comic books and television, as the pap of mediocre minds. Now, when he first saw the rocket, he came to the somewhat prosaic conclusion that it had strayed from the government experimental site at Muroc. He walked closer. The glow of the metal brightened; the slow rotation of the fins and the weird music became hypnotic. For a moment Elvin felt a surge of fear. He tried to turn away, but he could not. Instead, moving against his will, he took two of the fins in his hands and pulled on them. The rotation and the music stopped as the tailpiece of the rocket fell open. Elvin's mind cleared as he looked into a tiny chamber capped by a small rectangular sheet of metal which was dotted with tiny globes of a translucent material. Gingerly he picked up the seal. As he touched the metal, a strange sensation, like a flood of jumbled words, tumbled through his mind. The feeling was neither unpleasant nor frightening. He was tempted to relax and enjoy it; and he would have, if he had not been distracted by a second object in the chamber. He thrust the strip of metal into the pocket of his coat. Elvin's second find was a small, transparent cylinder, filled with tiny, multi-colored spheres, exactly like a jar of hard candy. There was nothing else in the rocket, except for the motor built into the tailpiece. The blue glow of the rocket began to fade. Vaguely Elvin became aware that something was amiss. He began to suspect that he had stumbled upon something more than a stray rocket from Muroc. He wanted to tell somebody about it. Clutching the cylinder of colored balls he ran back to the house. The party had reached one of its numerous climaxes. The hall was jammed with chattering high school students. They swirled in a flood around Mrs. Schermerhorn, who seemed to be enjoying herself as much as they were. Gary Elvin grabbed her arm. "I've found a rocket!" he cried. "Rocket?" she frowned for a moment, and then smiled brightly. "Oh, the racket. Yes, but they do have so much energy, don't they?" He held up the cylinder. "This was in it!" "Oh, you found it, Mr. Elvin. We looked high and low; now we--" "It was in the rocket." "... now we can have our contest." Desperately a new idea occurred to him. "Can you get these kids quiet? I want to 'phone." "But it's so early, Mr. Elvin. We can't expect them to go home yet." "No, Mrs. Schermerhorn. 'Phone. I want to telephone!" "Oh. Yes; of course. We'll have our contest in the living room." * * * * * Gary Elvin wormed his way toward the closet under the stairway. It was a very small telephone alcove, not designed for utility. Yet he found he could shut out some of the din if he jackknifed himself against the slanting wall and held the door partly shut. But it required the use of both his hands. He set the cylinder on a bookcase in the hall and squeezed into the closet. With the telephone in his hand, he hesitated. It had seemed a good idea a moment ago--to call in the Authorities. But, to bring the generalization down to specifics, just who would that be? In a big city he would have telephoned the police. But San Benedicto was a California valley town, small, sleepy, and contented. The four-man police force was more or less capable of handling minor traffic violations, but certainly nothing else. The State Police? Elvin doubted they would have jurisdiction. His last, feeble resort seemed to be the _San Benedicto News_, a daily, four-page advertising circular that passed, locally, for a newspaper. Elvin called the editor-reporter at his home. After he had told his story, Elvin had to suffer a certain standardized banter concerning the advisability of changing his brand of bourbon. It was entirely meaningless, a form of humor enjoyed by the valley people. Matt Henderson eventually agreed that the strange rocket might bear investigation. "I'll be out first thing in the morning," he promised. "In the morning! Listen, Matt, this thing may be--it might--" He was unable to crystalize his reasons for urgency. He finished lamely, "It's important, I think." "It ain't going to run away, is it?" "No, but--" "Then we can both get a good night's sleep." Gary Elvin turned away from the telephone, vaguely dissatisfied. He felt that something ought to be done immediately. What, he didn't know, or why. He went to get his cylinder of colored spheres from the bookcase where he had left it. The jar was gone. He heard a burst of talk in the living room and he was suddenly frightened. From the archway he looked in on the guests, some thirty youngsters, all of the tenth grade of San Benedicto High School. They sprawled over chairs and couches, or they sat, Indian fashion, on the floor. Mrs. Schermerhorn stood in the center of the room, like a judge, smiling patiently. All thirty of the guests were chewing industriously. On the floor stood Elvin's jar of colored spheres, open and more than half-empty. "Oh, dear," Mrs. Schermerhorn protested, turning to Elvin. "Something seems wrong with their gum. They've tried and tried, but I haven't seen a single bubble. And it did seem such a clever game! I suppose if the gum were stale--" Her voice trailed off when she saw the horror on Elvin's face. Wordlessly he pointed at the open jar. The room fell silent. All thirty of the youngsters looked at him. Their chomping jaws became motionless. "Is--is that mine?" he whispered hoarsely. "The jar you brought in?" Mrs. Schermerhorn asked. "I don't know, Mr. Elvin, I'm sure. Mabel Travis was supposed to bring the gum for the contest, and she forgot where--" "But mine wasn't gum." He licked his lips, uncomfortable in the focus of so many staring eyes. "A--a rocket of some sort fell in the field, just beyond the irrigation ditch. I found the cylinder inside. It might be--it could be--anything." Elvin had the strange sensation, for almost ten seconds, of looking at a motion picture film that had stopped at a single frame. Then, as if the projector had started to run again, all thirty of the youngsters broke into activity. For another second the analogy of the film persisted; Elvin had the elusive impression that each of the youngsters was carefully playing a part. * * * * * They clamored to go out and see the rocket. Mrs. Schermerhorn protested that they would ruin their clothes trailing over the fields after dark. The guests allowed themselves to be talked into putting off their curiosity until morning. As their excited talk faded, Mabel Travis looked up at Elvin. "Was your jar the one on the bookcase, Mr. Elvin?" she asked, eyeing him with her enormous, blue eyes. "Yes. Is that where you got--" "No." The room was still again, and all the youngsters were looking at her with a peculiar anxiety. "I thought that was one of the prizes. You know, when we played forfeits earlier in the--" "Of course," Mrs. Schermerhorn put in. "Bill Blake did win a jar of candy, didn't he?" "And that's what I thought the jar was when I saw it on the bookcase," Mary Travis continued. "So I took it upstairs and put it with our coats in the bedroom. I'll get it for you, Mr. Elvin." Slowly she picked up the nearly empty jar on the floor and recapped it. "I'm going to take this back to the drugstore tomorrow morning and demand my money back. I certainly don't like being cheated!" When she returned to the living room, she handed Elvin his cylinder of colored balls and slowly his fear dissipated. Until a competent authority analyzed the contents, the jar represented unknown danger. It might be harmless; but it could also be an explosive, a form of fuel for the rocket, perhaps even germ colonies used in biological warfare. If Bill Blake had taken it home with him as an innocent jar of candy--Elvin shuddered. The party broke up and Elvin went to his room. He hung his suit carefully at the back of his closet to preserve the creases and thereby cut down on his cleaning bill. After five years of living on a teacher's salary, such economies had become second nature with him. He brought out his blue serge and hung it on the door; it was the suit he would wear next week to school. Saturday dawned crisply sunny. Elvin shaved and dressed leisurely. Through the dormer windows of his room he saw the rich, black fields that surrounded the ranch house and the distant ridge of misty mountains beyond the desert, one or two of them crested with snow. * * * * * The Schermerhorns, of course, were already awake and busy. Elvin heard the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. He saw the twins, David and Donald, tall and muscular in their tight jeans and brilliant plaid shirts, working in their shop back of the garage. Pop Schermerhorn was in conference with a score of day laborers clustered around the half-dozen tractors in the drive. Through the open garage door Elvin could see the Schermerhorn Cadillac, the station wagon, and the red Convertible that belonged to the twins. The scene could be duplicated, with minor variations, on any day of the week. Elvin always resented the Schermerhorn prosperity, even though Pop Schermerhorn had been kind enough to offer him board and room when it was obvious the family did not need the additional income. Elvin never allowed himself to forget that the Schermerhorns owned one of the largest ranches in the valley as well as the feed store in San Benedicto and a half-interest in the bank. Yet Pop Schermerhorn actually boasted that he had never gone past the eighth grade in school, and his kids were fortunate to be considered mentally normal. Elvin had the twins in class; he knew the limits of their ability. Donald had an I.Q. of 89, David of 85. Yet such a family literally rolled in money, while Elvin was like a slum-dweller staring emptily into a crowded shop window. Matt Henderson turned in from the main highway as Elvin finished breakfast. He joined the reporter and they walked out to the field beyond the irrigation ditch. In daylight the terrain was very different. Elvin backtracked over the same ground several times before it dawned on him that he could not locate the rocket. Perspiration beaded his face. That was impossible! The rocket was large enough to be seen from any point in the field. Even if some part of the mechanism had caused it to rise again during the night, Elvin would have found the gaping hole the point of the projectile had torn in the earth. But there was nothing. Not a furrow in the ploughed field was disturbed. Visibly amused, Matt Henderson departed, repeating his formula about brands of liquor. This time, Elvin thought, the reporter actually believed it. Elvin walked back to the ranch. He was very angry; but, more than that, he was coldly afraid--and he had no idea what he was afraid of. The Schermerhorn twins stopped him as he crossed the driveway. "You sure made us bite on that one, Mr. Elvin," Donald said good naturedly. "Yeah," David added. "All the kids came over early this morning to see your rocket." "I guest we deserve it, though," Donald went on philosophically, "for pulling that deal on you in class last week." * * * * * Gary Elvin went up to his room in a daze and sat staring at the bottle of colored spheres. It seemed entirely clear what had happened last night; yet, conceivably, the rocket could have been an hallucination. If so, it was because of the grinding frustrations of his job. But Elvin had a good mind; he did not have to let a bunch of discourteous rattle-brained kids get him down. David and Donald had given him the clue: the rocket was simply a practical joke he had played on his class of tenth graders. The second step in driving out the "dream" was an appeal to authority. He must understand the limits of scientific possibility in the use of rockets. That meant a trip to the library. Although it was four miles to San Benedicto, Elvin decided to walk; the exercise would help clear his head. He entered the library at eleven-thirty, half an hour before the building was closed for the weekend. It was a good library. The assessment rate in prosperous San Benedicto was high, and books had been purchased wisely. In the card catalogue Elvin found listed a number of up-to-date references that he could use; but there was nothing on the shelves. Five minutes before closing time, he asked the librarian for help. "I don't suppose there's anything in," she answered. "We've had a perfect run on books all morning." "You mean everything in the library is out?" "Everything worthwhile." She beamed. "And most of the borrowers were your tenth graders, too, Mr. Elvin. You've certainly done a wonderful job of inspiring that class to do serious reading. Why, do you know Mabel Travis has been in here three times today? She took out seven books as soon as the library opened, and she had them back by nine-thirty. Said she'd read them all, too." "Seven books in less than two hours?" Elvin laughed. "I suppose she thought she had. Poor little Mabel! She hasn't much to work with, you know. But it was her new attitude I liked--so intense, so serious. And she was doing such heavy reading, too." Elvin walked back to the Schermerhorn ranch, enjoying the noon-day warmth. San Benedicto was crowded with Saturday shoppers. He met his students everywhere, and always they commented on the practical joke he had played on them. By the time he was back in his room, the fiction of the joke was thoroughly established in his own mind. He almost believed it himself. He glanced again at the transparent cylinder of spheres. A chemist might be able to analyze the contents and say where the jar had originated. Perhaps Miss Gerkin could do it. She had taught science for more than twenty years at San Benedicto High. Yet Elvin knew he couldn't ask her for help. If the colored balls turned out to be nothing more than hard candy, then by inescapable logic he would have to accept the fact that he was suffering from a major hallucination. It was more comfortable not to know the truth. The idea of candy, however, brought up another association. Mrs. Schermerhorn had said that earlier in the evening Bill Blake had won a jar of candy as a prize. Bill Blake was the prize joker of the tenth grade. Elvin had what seemed to be an intuitive flash of understanding. The rocket had been a joke, all right, but it had been aimed at Elvin. The kids had rigged it up before he came home from the show. During the night they had come back and taken the stage setting away. * * * * * Elvin spent the rest of the weekend planning his revenge. He didn't think of it as that, but rather disciplinary action. Yet he knew the class would get the point and possibly even heed the implied warning. In five years Elvin had reduced the complex process of teaching to one workable rule: break the class, or the kids will break you. Now he chose the classical cat-whip of a surprise test to crack them back into line. He spent Sunday planning it and duplicating the pages. He was scrupulously careful to be fair--at least as he defined the term. The examination covered nothing that had not been discussed in class. But Elvin taught grammar, and no field of the abstract allows such devious application of the flimsy nonsense passing for rules. On Monday morning, with a thin smile, Elvin was ready for them. He had tenth grade English first period. As he passed out the mimeographed pages, he waited for waves of groaning to sweep the room. Nothing happened. He felt an annoying pang of anger. A hand shot up. "Yes, Charles?" he snapped. "If we finish before the end of the period, can we have free reading?" "I doubt you'll finish, Charles. This test is ten pages long." "But if we do--" "By all means, yes." Gary Elvin leaned back in his chair and surveyed, with satisfaction, the thirty heads bent studiously over their desks. For perhaps five minutes the idyll lasted, until Donald Schermerhorn brought his test up to the desk and asked permission to go to the library. Elvin was both amazed and disappointed; but at once he reassured himself. The test had been simply too hard for Donald. Nonetheless, as soon as Donald was out of the room, Elvin checked his examination against the key. As he turned through the pages, his fingers began to tremble. Donald had answered everything--and answered it correctly. Before Elvin had finished checking Donald's test, ten more students had left theirs on the desk and headed for the school library. Within ten minutes Elvin was fighting a disorganizing bewilderment far worse than the rocket-hallucination. Every examination was completed, and none that he checked had as much as one mistake. Elvin wished he could believe that whole-sale cheating had taken place, but he knew that was impossible because of the precautions he always took. * * * * * All of the tenth graders were back from the library by that time. They had each brought two or more books. Elvin's body went rigid with anger when he saw what was currently passing among them for the skill of reading. They were methodically turning pages almost as quickly as they could move their hands from one side of the books to the other, all with the appearance of engrossed attention. Elvin banged a ruler on his desk. One or two faces looked up. "This has gone far enough!" he cried. "You asked for the privilege of free reading, but I do not intend you to make a farce of it." A hand went up. "Yes, Marilyn?" "But we are reading, Mr. Elvin. Honestly." "Oh, I see." His voice was thickly sarcastic. "And what's the title of your book?" "Toynbee's _Study of History_." "You've given up Grace Livingston Hill? Could you summarize Toynbee for us, Marilyn?" "In another ten minutes, Mr. Elvin. I still have sixty pages to read." Elvin turned savagely to another girl. "Mabel Travis! What are you reading?" The buxom girl looked up languidly. For a split second her big eyes seemed focused on a distant prospective. "Why--why this, Mr. Elvin." She held up her book so he could see the title. "_Hypnotism in Theory and Practice_," he snorted. And Mabel's I/Q was 71! "You've outgrown the comics, Mabel?" "In a sense, yes, Mr. Elvin." Elvin was saved from further disorientation by the interruption of an office messenger with a special bulletin announcing a second period assembly. By the time he had read it, his anger was under control. He let the reading go on and spent the rest of the period plodding through the examinations. There was not an error in any of the papers. From the prospective of the day's events, Elvin later realized that, however personally unnerving, his own particular crisis had been a minor one. * * * * * The first full scale public disaster came during the assembly, when the entire student body--nearly one hundred and fifty youngsters--was gathered in the auditorium. The principal, as always, rose to lead them in the Alma Mater. He was a huge, hatchet-faced, white-haired man, the terror of evil-doer and faculty members alike. He had a tendency to give a solemn importance to trivial things and to overlook the great ones; and there was no mistaking the awed, almost religious fervor with which he sang the school song--which was, perhaps, only natural, since he had written it himself. On that disastrous morning he suddenly burst into a dance as the student body barrelled into the first chorus. He snatched up the startled girls' counselor and improvised a little rumba. Slowly the students' voices fell silent as they watched. Under the sweating leadership of the music teacher, the school orchestra held the pace for another bar or two, until one of the players stood up and rendered a discordant hot lick on his trumpet. A trio of caretakers carried the struggling principal off the platform and shouting teachers herded the students on to their next classes. Thirty minutes later the word-of-mouth information was carefully spread through the school that the principal had been taken to the hospital for observation and he was doing nicely. But by that time his fate seemed unimportant, for the girls' tenth grade gym teacher was having hysterics on the front lawn, convinced that all her students had turned into fish; and the boys' glee club teacher had abruptly announced that the nation was being invaded by Martians. He, too, had been carried off to the hospital in haste. The rest of the faculty was badly shaken. When they met at lunch, they unanimously wanted the school closed for the rest of the day. But the principal had been too small a man to delegate any of his authority; as long as he was hospitalized, the teachers could do nothing. After the ominous activity of the morning, however, most of the afternoon passed in relative order. True, the counselor gave pick-up tests to three tenth graders whose earlier I.Q. scores had been so low the validity had been questioned; and this time the same three outdid an Einstein. And the tenth grade math teacher was almost driven to distraction by a classroom discussion of the algebraic symbology equating matter and time--all of which was entirely over his head. Nothing really happened until five minutes before the end of the school day, when Miss Gerkin knocked weakly on Gary Elvin's door. As soon as he saw her face, he gave his class free reading and joined her in the hall. Fearfully she showed him a yellow Bunsen burner, which glowed softly in the afternoon sunlight. "Do you know what it is, Gary?" "It's one of those gas burners you have on the lab tables in--" "The metal, I mean." "Looks like gold. Aren't these rather expensive for a high school classroom?" She sagged against the wall, running her trembling fingers over her thin lips. "It's that tenth grade, Gary. I have them last period for general science. Bill Blake and the Schermerhorn twins got to fooling around with the electro-magnet. They rewired it somehow and added a few--well, frankly, I don't understand at all! But now when anything--metal, glass, granite--when anything is put in the magnetic field, it's changed to gold." "Transmutation of atomic structure? You know it can't be done!" "Yes, I know it. But I saw it happen." She began to laugh, but checked herself quickly. "It's a trick. I know that bunch better than you do. It's time one of us had it out with them." * * * * * He strode along the hall toward the science room, Miss Gerkin following meekly behind him. "I'm sure you're right, Gary, because the rest of the class hardly showed any interest in what the boys were doing. I actually asked Marilyn if she didn't want her necklace turned to gold, and she said she was too busy to bother. Imagine that, from a high school kid!" "Busy doing what?" "Working out the application of the Law of Degravitation, she said." "The Law of Degravitation? I never heard of it." Miss Gerkin sniffed righteously. "Neither have I, and I've taught science all my life." Gary Elvin flung open the door of the science room. It was one minute before the end of the period. For a moment he looked in on a peacefully ideal classroom. Every student was at his bench working industriously. Then, row by row, they began to float upward toward the ceiling, each of them holding a tiny coil of thin wires twisted intricately around two pieces of metal and an electronic tube. The breeze from the open window gathered them languidly into a kind of huddle above the door. The bell rang as Miss Gerkin began to scream. Elvin fought to hold on to his own sanity as he tried to help her, but a degree of her hysteria transferred itself to him. His mind became a patchwork of yawning blank spaces interspersed with uncoordinated episodes of reality. He remembered hearing the bell and the rush of the class out of the room. He remembered the piercing screams of Miss Gerkin's terror echoing through the suddenly crowded halls. Beyond one of his black gulfs of no-memory, he was in the nurse's office helping to hold Miss Gerkin on the lounge while the school doctor administered a sedative. Slowly the integrated pattern of his thinking returned when he was driving back toward the Schermerhorn ranch. It was late in the afternoon; the sun was setting redly beyond the ridge of mountains. As Elvin's fear receded, he was able to think with a kind of hazy clarity. He had seen a metal Bunsen burner that had been turned into gold; he had seen the crusty principal of the school break into a rumba, and three of his colleagues driven to hysteria; he had seen a tenth grade class floating unsupported in the air. All of it manifestly absurd and impossible. But it had happened. Elvin could visualize only two plausible explanations: mass insanity or mass hypnosis. Hypnosis! A sluggish relay clicked in his mind. He remembered a book. One of the tenth graders had been reading it--_Hypnotism in Theory and Practice_. Everything seemed clear after that. The tenth grade was an obstreperous bunch of unsocial adolescents. Somehow they had stumbled upon hypnotism and learned how to use it. The time for an accounting had come. Because of where Elvin lived, he was admirably situated to break the Schermerhorn twins first; and they were, perhaps, the weakest members of the group. He would have them alone, without the support of their peers. It would be easy. After all, he was a mature adult; they were still children. Once he had a confession from them, it would only be a minor operation to clear up the whole mess. When he reached the Schermerhorn ranch, dinner was on the table. He had no time to talk to the twins until afterward. Both David and Donald bolted the meal and rushed back to their workshop behind the garage. Their usual bad manners, Elvin realized, but what else could be expected? * * * * * Elvin finished a leisurely pipe in the living room, and then sauntered out to the boys' workshop. Surprisingly, the door was locked, the windows thickly curtained; they had never taken such precautions before. He knocked and, after a long wait, both David and Donald came outside to talk to him. They were naked to the waist and their husky, tanned bodies gleamed with sweat. A smudge of grease was smeared over David's unkempt blond hair. "Working on your car, boys?" Elvin inquired indulgently. He knew the technique. Put them at their ease, first; then come to the point when their guard was down. "Well, not exactly, Mr. Elvin." Donald said. "Mind if I watch? I always say I can learn as much about motors from you two as you learn from me about grammar." Neither of the twins said anything. After an uncomfortable silence, Elvin cleared his throat pointedly. He had never met with such disrespect. If they were his kids, they would long ago have been taught proper courtesy for their superiors! To fill the lengthening void, he asked. "What did you think of the little test I gave this morning?" "It was all right," Donald said. "You both did pretty well; I'm proud of you." "We had everything right," David pointed out without a flicker of expression. Elvin couldn't seem to engineer the dialogue as he used to. In that case, this was as appropriate a time as any for the question he had come to ask. He spoke slowly, with a tone of disinterest. "Do either of you know anything about hypnotism?" As a shocker, Elvin realized, it left much to be desired; their faces told him nothing. "A little," David volunteered. "We read eight or nine books on it over the weekend," Donald added. "That's a lot of reading. It must have taken a great deal of time." "Oh, a couple of hours." Elvin clenched his fists in futile anger, but he kept his voice steady. "Is anybody else in the tenth grade reading up on hypnotism?" "I suppose so," Donald admitted. "I'm not sure. Why don't you ask in class tomorrow?" "It occurs to me that a clever hypnotist could be responsible for what happened at school today." "Some of it; isn't that rather obvious? We'd like to go on talking, Mr. Elvin, honest. But we have a lot of work to finish. It'll be bedtime soon enough." "But you know about hypnotism, don't you?" "We know how it's done, yes, and its limitations so far as genuine telepathy--" "Who created that ridiculous scene in the auditorium?" Elvin's voice rose as he tried to put on pressure. "I wouldn't worry about the principal, Mr. Elvin, if I were you. He's always been a neurotic." "Mighty big words you're using these days, Donald. Where'd you hear them?" "The principal is a little man--mentally, I mean. He's afraid of people because he isn't sure of himself. So he makes himself a tin god, a dictator, just to show the rest of us--" "I want to know where you picked all this up!" Patiently the twins began to talk, taking turns at delivering an improvised lecture in psychology, shot through with an array of highly technical terms. As Elvin listened to their monotonous voices, he slowly felt very tired. His head began to ache as his anger ebbed. More than anything else, he wanted a long night's sleep. Yawning wearily, he thanked the boys--for what, he wasn't quite sure--and went up to his room. * * * * * Some time before dawn Elvin awoke for a moment. He thought he heard the sound of a motor in the driveway, but he was too sleepy to get up to see what it was. Two hours later he awoke to chaos. Mrs. Schermerhorn was shaking his shoulder. He looked up into her white, terrified face. Her hand trembled as she clutched her quilted robe close to her throat. "Mr. Elvin, they'll need your help. Mr. Schermerhorn's waiting for you." He shook sleep out of his mind sluggishly. "Why? What's happened?" "The bank's gone. Just--just gone!" He blinked and shook his head again. "I--I don't think I heard you right, Mrs. Schermerhorn." "There's a jungle where the bank used to be. With tigers in it." She laughed wildly for a moment, but the laughter dissolved into tears and she reached for the bottle of smelling salts in the pocket of her robe. "Most of them have been shot by this time, I think. The tigers. Think of it, Mr. Elvin--tigers in San Benedicto!" She began to laugh again. When Elvin joined Pop Schermerhorn and the twins in the station wagon, Mrs. Schermerhorn followed him out of the house with a thermos of hot coffee. As she put it in the car, she saw the rifles they were taking with them. She began to weep again, clinging desperately to the side of the car. Suddenly the twins knelt beside her, and threw their arms around her neck. "We're sorry, Mom," David whispered. "Terribly sorry." "You've nothing to be sorry about," she replied. "It's not your fault." "Better get back inside," Pop Schermerhorn told her. "Mind, keep the doors locked. Things ain't safe no more around here." As they drove into San Benedicto, Elvin was considerably puzzled by the attitude of the twins. Normally talkative to the point of nausea, they were now strangely quiet. And this was exactly the sort of thing that should have inspired their most adolescent repartee. The sun was rising as they stopped the station wagon among the clutter of cars filling Main Street. Elvin stared in disbelief at the neat square of tropical jungle rising cleanly in the heart of San Benedicto. Not only the bank but a whole block of business houses was gone. This could be written off neither as insanity nor hypnotism; it was a madness existing in actual fact. Elvin gave up trying to discover any logic in what was happening. Both reason and natural law seemed to have abdicated. The periphery of jungle was surrounded by armed men. At intervals they shot at shadows lurking among the trees and, as the sun brightened, the accuracy of their aim increased. They were not worrying about causes, either; they were responding with excellent self-discipline to the emergency of tigers roaming the streets of San Benedicto. Afterwards, at their leisure, they could speculate on how the jungle had come to be there. There was only one fatality. A tiger sprang out of the jungle and mauled a man who had pressed too close. It happened directly in front of the Schermerhorn twins. They turned their rifles on the tiger and killed it instantly; but the man was dead, too. * * * * * Elvin was surprised to see tears in the eyes of the twins, but he credited it to the unstable emotions of adolescence. Both of them had acted with maturity when they faced the tiger; no adult could have done more. Still they wept, even though the man was a stranger. By eight o'clock the stirrings in the jungle had stopped. The men began to relax. Waitresses from the Bid-a-Wee Cafe brought out doughnuts and coffee and distributed them among the crowd. There came, then, a new disturbance at the far end of Main Street, a shouting of tumultuous voices. A mob moved slowly into the center of town, clinging to the sides of an antiquated dump truck. "Gold! Gold! Gold!" It was like a chant shouted with ecstatic antiphony. The dump truck stopped and Elvin saw the unbelievable--gleaming heaps of gold shoveled like gravel into the back of the vehicle. The driver stood on the running board, weaving drunkenly. "The whole damn' desert," he shouted. "All of it, as far as I could see--all pure gold!" He took a shovel and scattered the nuggets and dust among the throng. "Take all you like. Lots more where this came from!" The mob stirred slowly at first, and then more and more violently, as the men began to race for their cars. The vehicles were already crowded close together. Gears ground and fenders crumbled. The street became helplessly jammed with locked cars. Only a few on the fringe escaped. Angry arguments broke out, degenerating into fist fights. The peak violence cooled a little after a few heads had been smashed, and grudgingly the men turned to the task of freeing their cars. Donald snatched Elvin's arm. "Stay here with Pop," he shouted above the clatter. "Dave and I are going back to the ranch. Mom may need us. The desert runs right up to the edge of our property, you know." "Going to walk?" "I think we can get the station wagon out. It's pretty far back." Elvin and Pop Schermerhorn worked side by side helping untangle the mass of vehicles. After an hour order had been more or less restored, and the mob had thinned, since each of the freed cars had been driven off at top speed to the desert bonanza. For a moment the sky darkened. Elvin looked up. The jungle had disappeared and a medieval castle, complete with knights, had taken its place. The mob shrank back in terror. So did the knights, although one or two on the battlements ventured to send shafts into this new enemy that had appeared at the castle gates. But there was no time for real hostilities to develop, for the castle vanished and a 19th century factory took its place. The factory survived less than thirty seconds, before it gave way to the bank and row of stores which had originally stood on the site. For some reason the crowd began to cheer, as they would a victorious football team. But the tumult died quickly, for the buildings were covered with a slime of jungle vines, torn up by their roots, and a pair of snarling lions stood at bay on the sidewalk. After they had shot the lions, they found a cobra was coiled on the cashier's desk in the bank and an antelope was imprisoned in the dry goods store. They were still clearing out miscellaneous wild life when reporters from the city newspapers, apprised by the _San Benedicto News_ of the gold strike, descended upon the town. They were followed by a deluge of prospectors, arriving in anything that would move--bicycles and Cadillacs, Model T's and Greyhound buses. The mob poured into town first by the scores, and then by the thousands. Primarily male, their prevailing mood was explosive instability, a glassy-eyed greed flamed higher as each truckload of gold poured back into town from the diggings. The four-man police force was helpless. The major telegraphed to Sacramento for the National Guard; in the interim, he deputized every townsman he could find, among them Elvin and Pop Schermerhorn. * * * * * Elvin worked until he was exhausted, herding the mob into the streets and through the town as rapidly as they would move; and still there was no relief, and the number in the throng increased by the minute. Newsreel trucks, television units, press cars twisted among the vehicles heading for the desert. Regularly, heavy duty trucks brought tons of gold back from the diggings and deposited them at the bank until the aisles overflowed and the precious metal sifted through the windows forming little pyramids in the street. By noon Treasury men flew in from Washington. They circled the diggings and landed to inspect the quality of the gold hoard at the bank. Fifteen minutes later a rumor filtered among the deputies: the Treasury men estimated that the San Benedicto strike would yield upwards of two or three hundred thousand times the known gold supply of the world. When the _San Benedicto News_ came out in mid-afternoon, it headlined the first shock of the economic disaster. World currencies were collapsing; three nations were already bankrupt; international trade was grinding to a standstill, with no medium of exchange; retail prices in the United States had started to skyrocket, in the wake of rising stock market quotations. And still the procession of dump trucks brought the tons of gold back from the desert. When the bank overflowed the dry goods store was commandeered as an emergency depository, and later the Five-and-Ten and the sprawling basement of Montgomery Ward's. When the first contingent of National Guardsmen marched into San Benedicto, it was obviously too small to police the mob. The press estimated that a quarter of a million people were moving into the valley every hour. More Guard units were summoned and ultimately, at the Governor's request, two regiments of the regular army were dispatched to San Benedicto, along with a Tank Corps and ten thousand Marines from Camp Pendleton. It was nightfall before the deputies were relieved. Tired and dirty, Elvin and Pop Schermerhorn rode back to the ranch on a prospector's truck. From the lawn they looked across Schermerhorn's ploughed fields at the desert, teeming with mobs of men and bright in the glare of countless searchlights. Mrs. Schermerhorn met them on the porch. She clung to her husband's arms, trembling. "I'm so glad you're back safely!" she whispered. "They've been moving closer all day." She nodded toward the desert. "Like ants, trampling and destroying everything that gets in their way." Pop Schermerhorn clenched his fists. "If they'd broken in here, I'd have--" "If it hadn't been for the twins, I don't know what might have happened. They got their class over here, the whole tenth grade. All day long they've been patrolling our fences, without even stopping long enough to eat. They're all out in the workshop now; they've made it a kind of headquarters." * * * * * The three of them went into the living room. Pop Schermerhorn and Elvin dropped wearily on a couch, while Mrs. Schermerhorn poured stiff drinks for both of them. The radio was playing, a smoothly sweet dance orchestra from San Francisco. But the music faded abruptly, and an excited newscaster interrupted. "It's been like this all day," Mrs. Schermerhorn said. She looked up nervously as the side door opened and the twins came in. "We just wanted some more copper wire, Mom, for the thing we're making," Donald said, but he hesitated when he heard the news broadcast. Both twins dropped silently on the arms of an overstuffed chair and listened. The bulletin was brief; it reviewed the growing chaos among the foreign exchanges, the expanding list of bankruptcies. Two European nations, driven to internal disaster, had gone to war; already the big powers were choosing sides, framing ultimatums. War seemed to be the one universal panacea for all things. In New York stores had started to quote new dollar prices every hour, although purchases made in silver were still relatively stable at the old value. The grating voice concluded, "The first estimates of today's yield from the San Benedicto field place it in the neighborhood of seventy-thousand tons; mining experts predict that tomorrow the figure may be tripled." As the music came on again, Donald got up and snapped off the radio. "The economy of the world's being wrecked, isn't it?" he asked. "By too much gold." "I don't understand," Pop Schermerhorn answered, shaking his head. "Gold's valuable; we need it; it makes us rich. But now, when we have all we want--" "The trouble is, it has no use," David said. "Governments buy it and bury it. If gold becomes as plentiful as iron ore, we still can't do much with it. You can't make skyscrapers or sewer pipes out of gold; it's too soft." "The government ought to clear out the field and stop the mining," Donald suggested. "That might help." "Not as long as the world knows the gold is still here," Elvin answered. He studied the twins carefully; their comment on the economy seemed mature for tenth graders. Suddenly Elvin's weary mind began to piece together a vague kind of understanding, when he remembered the transformation of the Bunsen burner to gold. Beyond his shadowy comprehension loomed the vista of a grandiose dream of how he could use the situation for his own profit. It was intoxicating, like reaching out for the stars and finding them within his grasp. "It's all crazy!" David cried. "We don't really use gold, anyway, in our economy. Why can't we just forget it, and go on using dollars the way we used to?" "Because people are fools," Elvin said. "Or, perhaps, just children," David replied. He stood up, stretching, so that his muscles rippled beneath his plaid shirt. "Well, we better get that wire, Don, and go back to work." * * * * * After the twins had left, Elvin went up to his room to bathe. His mind skipped pleasantly over the delightful and limitless possibilities of his new understanding. The whole thing, of course, hinged on his approach. But, after all, that shouldn't be hard; they were still children emotionally. Five years of teaching had demonstrated, to his satisfaction, that he could handle any adolescent. He began to dress. The clothes he had worn that day were streaked and torn. He took his second suit out of the closet. As he hung the coat over the back of his desk chair, he heard metal strike against the wood. It was the coat he had worn on Friday night, when he found the rocket; in the pocket was the strip of metal that had been sealed over the cylinder of colored spheres. He held it in his hand again. It was the first time the full surface of the metal had touched his skin. As he had before, he felt the sensation of jumbled words flooding his mind, but now the feeling was more intense. He could not put the metal down. Instead he dropped into his desk chair and his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the pattern of tiny, translucent globes that dotted the surface of the metal. The heat of his body produced a chemical reaction; one by one the little globes exploded. Pictures filled Elvin's mind, of cities, machines, towering stacks of books. These dissolved, and he saw planets whirling on the black emptiness of space around the glowing disk of a red sun. There was a cataclysmic splatter of light as the sun exploded, and slashing flame shot out to destroy its circling planets. That picture, too, disappeared and he was staring at a gray nothingness while an emotional voice spoke to him deep within his brain. "_To the intelligent life form, on the Third Planet, System K, Greetings from the dying world of Dyran. You have located our rocket from the hypnotichord built into the fins, and, by opening it, you have demonstrated a condition of rationality that we are able to help. We speak to you now through hypnotic pictures which you are translating into the symbology of your own society. Our astronomers predict that our planetary system will shortly be destroyed, because our sun is dying. It is useless for us to try to escape, for no world that we can find within the limits of our telescope has the particular combination of atmospheric gases which we need in order to live. The only sky-body that we have ever studied that gives any indication of higher life forms is yours. To you, then, we send the substance of our knowledge, the laws and principles that we have developed over a period of two million years since our recorded history began. We could have sent our machines, our libraries of records, yet the chance that you would not comprehend them alone is too great. Instead we send our learning capsules, which we use in the instruction of our young. Break the container which is sealed into this rocket and consume one of the colored spheres. It is, basically, a stimulant to the cerebral cortex of any reasoning animal which already has a memory of the past and a concept of the future. Long ago we discovered that, unaided, the mind will function with only a small portion of its specialized cells. This stimulant forces conscious activity upon all parts of the cortex; in the process of stimulation, your brain will receive the full knowledge of basic principles which we ourselves have developed. We send you fifty of these only, but it will be enough. You have not, on your planet, the material with which to make additional capsules for your people, but you will not need them. The fifty who learn from these will become teachers for the rest. Carry on for us the culture that we have made on the dying world of Dyran._" * * * * * The gray mist faded and Elvin stood up. He felt refreshed, alert; his mind bubbled again with schemes. He looked at the bottle of colored spheres still standing on his desk, and he knew they were no more than bubble gum or candy. On Friday night, while he telephoned, the tenth graders at the Schermerhorn party had started their bubble gum contest, but instead of gum they had by accident absorbed the accumulated knowledge of Dyran, a culture more than three hundred times as old as the earth's! It was overwhelmingly clear what had happened after that. Thirty adolescents, suddenly possessing more knowledge than the world had ever known, had run riot, playing with hypnotism, the transmutation of matter, the Law of Degravitation, the fourth dimensional transposition of whole city blocks. Within two days their energetic curiosity, their adolescent love of excitement and experiment, had thrown the world into crisis. By this time, Elvin concluded, they would be terrified by a feeling of immense guilt, ready to be told what to do to make amends. It was up to him to be the one who did the telling. If, at the same time, he could get his hands on one of the learning capsules--the prospect was so dazzling it left him breathless. He slipped out to the boys' workshop back of the garage. When he knocked on the door, Donald opened it two inches and quickly tried to close it again. But Elvin thrust his hand over the latch. "No, Donald," he said sternly. "This time you don't get away with it. You see, I know what happened when you ate the spheres." The door creaked open. Elvin walked into the workshop, where all thirty of the tenth graders were gathered around the littered work table. The rocket was there, and they were studying the tiny motor. In a corner was a hastily constructed forge; three girls were working with it, turning out curved strips of metal, which a boy was machining on the metal lathe. In the center of the shop was a tall, gleaming bar of metal, surrounded by a network of wires and fastened to a wooden base made from an orange crate. "You're cooking up some more surprises for us?" Elvin asked. "No," Donald replied solemnly. "We're ashamed of--" "As, indeed, you should be." "We're doing our best to put everything back the way it was," Mabel Travis said. "Honestly, Mr. Elvin." "It won't help much; the damage is already done." "But it can be undone. We've already fixed up part of it." "Yes," David Schermerhorn cut in anxiously. "When Don and I came back this morning, the first thing we did was bring back the bank. Our machine's kind of crude, Mr. Elvin, so we couldn't get it right at first. I guess we picked up a castle or something in between; but that's all right, now. And the gold--well, we're going to turn it back to gravel again tonight." He gestured toward the bar of metal. "We can work from the edge of our field," David pointed out. "The whole desert will change at once, the way it did last night." "And what will you do with all the people on it?" "It won't hurt them." "But when they find their gold is gravel, you'll have a major catastrophe on your hands." Marilyn bit her lip. "That's why we haven't done anything yet. We don't want anybody to get hurt but--" "So you've considered that at last." The more Elvin rubbed in the guilt, he reasoned, the more secure he would make himself. "We could just transpose the whole area," Charles suggested. "We've considered that, too. Maybe in pieces, Mr. Elvin. You know, an acre or two to Australia, another to Germany, another to England. That couldn't cause much more than local riots." "But the men would be mighty uncomfortable for a while." "The only trouble is, our machines are so crude; we've had to build them out of scraps. And something could go wrong. We might try to send some of the mob to China, and end up putting them in the Pacific, or maybe back in time." "You've done enough tampering," Elvin declared. "I won't help you at all, unless you promise to leave everything as it is. You have to put yourselves in a position to help the world, not destroy it." * * * * * Elvin had injected just the right tone of nobility into his voice. The thirty adolescents consulted together in whispers. Then David asked, "What do you want us to do, Mr. Elvin?" "Let me act as your representative. I'll go to Washington and talk to responsible men in the government; I'll try to see the president himself. We should set up a scientific foundation for you, where you'll have the equipment you need and where your experiments won't do the rest of us any harm. But, if I'm to convince anybody, I'm going to have to do some tall talking. If you had one of the capsules left--" "No, Mr. Elvin; they're all gone." David was not looking at him, and Elvin knew he was lying; but this was not the occasion to make an issue of it. Above everything else, he had to see to it that they had complete faith in his motives. "Then one of your machines," he suggested. "I have to make them understand I'm not a crank." "That sounds sensible. Which one, Mr. Elvin? The Degravitational Unit is the smallest, and it would do the least harm if--" David looked away again. "--if it got out of your hands." "It isn't sensational enough. I rather wanted to show them this thing you used to transpose the bank and a square of jungle." "Oh, no!" Marilyn broke in. "We couldn't--" "Why that, Mr. Elvin?" "I've already told you. It's the sort of thing that would attract the attention of the important officials immediately, because it could be converted so readily to a weapon of inestimable value." There was a long silence, while the thirty youngsters looked from one to the other. It lengthened. Elvin felt a creeping edge of fear. David spoke at last, "I think you're right, Mr. Elvin. We could show the world how to build a society adjusted to the needs of man; we could develop techniques for wiping out disease and mental disorders; we could show you how to conserve our resources, how to build material things for the mutual happiness of all people; how to create instead of destroying. But of course you're right. The only thing that would really interest any of us would be a new weapon, wouldn't it? All right; we'll give it to you." Marilyn sprang up. "But, David--" "I know what I'm doing!" he snapped at her in a tense whisper. Turning back to Elvin he added smoothly, "But we'll want something from you first, Mr. Elvin." "Anything, my boy; anything to promote the welfare of mankind. But no more of your tricks, mind." "This is far from a trick, Mr. Elvin." "So long as that's understood--" "We're working on a machine--a new one. We have everything we need except tungsten. They use that in building television sets, among other things. I want you to drive down to one of the plants in Los Angeles and get us a pound of tungsten. They won't sell it to you; you'll have to steal it." "Now, David! Only a thick-skulled schoolboy would take such an unsocial attitude! I'm a teacher, a responsible citizen, proud--" "Do you want the machine for transposing matter?" "Yes; for the good of the nation. But--" "Then you'll have to take this risk. We'll give you a Degravitational Unit. That'll help you get away. When you bring us the tungsten, we'll deliver the transportation machine." Elvin made the drive to Los Angeles in record time. The highway was jammed with traffic, but all of it was moving in the opposite direction, toward San Benedicto. He refused to think of the consequences if he were caught. The glittering dream was still blazing on the horizon of his mind. If they refused him the learning capsule, it was unfortunate, but there was nothing he could do about it. The important machine was the one that transposed matter through time. With that one device alone, Elvin could sway the world. Placed in the scales against such a reward, the moral issue of theft counted not at all. * * * * * Los Angeles whirled chaotically in the monetary crisis. The streets were jammed with people, buying everything they could before prices jumped again. In the confusion, Elvin had no difficulty breaking into a television plant. He didn't trip a burglar alarm until he was leaving the factory, but the Degravitational Unit made his escape easy. Within four hours he was back in San Benedicto. He hurried to the workshop. But when he pounded on the door, there was no response. He tried the latch and the door swung open. The room was empty, but on the table was a large envelope addressed to him. A thin thread of wire was fastened to it; as he picked it up, the wire broke and somewhere in the distance a motor began to hum. "Dear Mr. Elvin," he read. "It was unkind of us to play another trick on you, but we're sure you'll be clever enough to steal the tungsten without getting caught. When you came to talk to us, we realized that the conclusion we had reached was right. Children--adolescent minds--have wrecked our world. You know all about that, Mr. Elvin; teachers always do. And you've told us so often in class about the unstable emotions of adolescents, their tantrums, their unpredictability, their unsocial behavior, their egocentricity and all the rest. We'd like to help, but there isn't much we can do, not really; you just want the machines we know how to make, not the ideas we've learned. We grew up, you see, on the day we turned the desert to gold. We found out what happens when you give children dangerous toys to play with. "We made our mistake, and we know how to straighten it out. We've only waited for you to read this so that you would understand, at least for a moment. We have isolated ourselves in suspended time; we're right here in the workshop with you, but you can't see us, naturally, because we started standing still in time more than an hour ago. When you opened your envelope, you tripped the motor of a matter transposition machine which will throw all time backward to last Friday night. None of this will have happened then. That should straighten everything out, don't you think? "You'll find the rocket again, and you'll open it, just as you did before. But this time there'll be only a jar of bubble gum inside, because we've already consumed the learning capsules. There won't be any memory left for anyone--except ours. We've learned how to work with a planet of adolescents. We think we can help you mature in spite of yourselves; but this time no one will ever know how it is being done." Elvin looked up, but before the anger and frustration could crystalize in his mind, the yellow lamp dimmed, the walls of the workshop faded and vanished. He fought for a moment against the blackness rising in his mind. The light paled and paled and finally it was nothing more than a red streak in the sky. It moved closer and he saw that it was a falling object followed by a long plume of red flame. It flashed momentarily overhead and Elvin heard a dull thud as it fell in a field beyond the ranch house. He sprang up from the couch and moved off in the darkness. It had been a meteorite, of course; if it had survived the friction of the atmosphere, it would make an interesting exhibit for the science classroom.... 
23644	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 23644-h.htm or 23644-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/6/4/23644/23644-h/23644-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/3/6/4/23644/23644-h.zip) MARJORIE DEAN HIGH SCHOOL SERIES By PAULINE LESTER Cloth Bound, Cover Designs in Colors MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN. MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE. MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL JUNIOR. MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR. * * * * * * [Illustration: Poising herself on the bank, she cut the water in a clean, sharp dive. Page 234. Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman] * * * * * * MARJORIE DEAN HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN by PAULINE LESTER Author of "Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore" "Marjorie Dean, High School Junior" "Marjorie Dean, High School Senior" A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York Copyright, 1917 by A. L. Burt Company MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN CHAPTER I THE PARTING OF THE WAYS "What am I going to do without you, Marjorie?" Mary Raymond's blue eyes looked suspiciously misty as she solemnly regarded her chum. "What am I going to do without _you_, you mean," corrected Marjorie Dean, with a wistful smile. "Please, please don't let's talk of it. I simply can't bear it." "One, two--only two more weeks now," sighed Mary. "You'll surely write to me, Marjorie?" "Of course, silly girl," returned Marjorie, patting her friend's arm affectionately. "I'll write at least once a week." Marjorie Dean's merry face looked unusually sober as she walked down the corridor beside Mary and into the locker room of the Franklin High School. The two friends put on their wraps almost in silence. The majority of the girl students of the big city high school had passed out some little time before. Marjorie had lingered for a last talk with Miss Fielding, who taught English and was the idol of the school, while Mary had hung about outside the classroom to wait for her chum. It seemed to Mary that the greatest sorrow of her sixteen years had come. Marjorie, her sworn ally and confidante, was going away for good and all. When, six years before, a brown-eyed little girl of nine, with long golden-brown curls, had moved into the house next door to the Raymonds, Mary had lost no time in making her acquaintance. They had begun with shy little nods and smiles, which soon developed into doorstep confidences. Within two weeks Mary, whose eyes were very blue, and whose short yellow curls reminded one of the golden petals of a daffodil, had become Marjorie's adorer and slave. She it was who had escorted Marjorie to the Lincoln Grammar School and seen her triumphantly through her first week there. She had thrilled with unselfish pride to see how quickly the other little girls of the school had succumbed to Marjorie's charm. She had felt a most delightful sense of pardonable vanity when, as the year progressed, Marjorie had preferred her above all the others. She had clung to Mary, even though Alice Lawton, who rode to school every day in a shining limousine, had tried her utmost to be best friends with the brown-eyed little girl whose pretty face and lovable personality had soon made her the pet of the school. Year after year Mary and Marjorie had lived side by side and kept their childish faith. But now, here they were, just beginning their freshman year in Franklin High School, to which they had so long looked forward, and about to be separated; for Marjorie's father had been made manager of the northern branch of his employer's business and Marjorie was going to live in the little city of Sanford. Instead of being a freshman in dear old Franklin, she was to enter the freshman class in Sanford High School, where she didn't know a solitary girl, and where she was sure she would be too unhappy for words. During the first days which had followed the dismaying news that Marjorie Dean was going to leave Franklin High School and go hundreds of miles away, the two friends had talked of little else. There was so much to be said, yet now that their parting was but two weeks off they felt the weight of the coming separation bearing heavily upon them. Both young faces wore expressions of deepest gloom as they walked slowly down the steps of the school building and traversed the short space of stone walk that led to the street. It was Marjorie who broke the silence. "No other girl can ever be as dear to me as you are. You know that, don't you, Mary?" Mary nodded mutely. Her blue eyes had filled with a sudden rush of hot tears. "But it won't do any good," continued Marjorie, slowly, "for us to mourn over being separated. We know how we feel about each other, and that's going to be a whole lot of comfort to us after--I'm gone." Her girlish treble faltered slightly. Then she threw her arm across Mary's shoulder and said with forced steadiness of tone: "I'm not going to be a silly and cry. This is one of those 'vicissitudes' of life that Professor Taylor was talking about in chapel yesterday. We must be very brave. We'll write lots of letters and visit each other during vacation, and perhaps, some day I'll come back here to live." "Of course you will. You must come back," nodded Mary, her face brightening at the prospect of a future reunion, even though remote. "Can't you come with me to dinner?" coaxed Marjorie, as they paused at the corner where they were accustomed to wait for their respective street cars. "You know, you are one of mother's exceptions. I never have to give notice before bringing you home." "Not to-night. I'm going out this evening," returned Mary, vaguely. "I must hurry home." "Where are you going?" asked Marjorie, curiously. "You never said a word about it this morning." "Oh, didn't I? Well, I'm going out with----Here comes your car, Marjorie. You'd better hurry home, too." "Why?" Marjorie's brown eyes looked their reproach. "Do you want to get rid of me, Mary? I've oceans of time before dinner. You know we never have it until half-past six. Never mind, I'll take this car. Good-bye." With a proud little nod of her head, Marjorie climbed the steps of the car which had now stopped at their corner, without giving her friend an opportunity for reply. Mary looked after the moving car with a rueful smile that changed to one of glee. Her eyes danced. "She hasn't the least idea of what's going to happen," thought the little fluffy-haired girl. "Won't she be surprised? Now that she's gone, Clark and Ethel and Seldon ought to be here." A shrill whistle farther up the street caused her to glance quickly in the direction of the sound. Two young men were hurrying toward her, their boyish faces alight with enthusiasm and good nature. "It's all O.K., Mary," called the taller of the two, his black eyes glowing. "Every last thing has been thought of. Ethel has the pin. She'll be along in a minute." "It's a peach!" shouted the smaller lad, waving his cap, then jamming it down on his thick, fair hair. "We've been waiting up the street for Marjorie to take her car. Thought she'd never start." "I am afraid I hurt her feelings," deplored Mary. "I forgot myself and told her she'd better hurry home. She looked at me in the most reproachful way." "Cheer up," laughed Clark Grayson, the black-eyed youth. "To-night'll fix things. All the fellows are coming." "So are all the girls," returned Mary, happily. "I do wish Ethel would hurry. I'm so anxious to see the pin. I know Marjorie will love it. Oh, here comes Ethel now." Ethel Duval, a tall, slender girl of sixteen, with earnest, gray-blue eyes and wavy, flaxen hair, joined the trio with: "I'm so glad we waited. I wanted you to see the pin, Mary." She was fumbling busily in her shopping bag as she spoke. "Here it is." She held up a small, square package, which, when divested of its white paper wrapping, disclosed a blue plush box. A second later Mary was exclaiming over the dainty beauty of the bit of jewelry lying securely on its white satin bed. The pin was fashioned in the form of a golden butterfly, the body of which was set with tiny pearls. "Oh-h-h!" breathed Mary. "Isn't it wonderful! But do you suppose her mother will allow her to accept such an expensive gift? It must have cost a lot of money." "Fifteen dollars," announced Clark, cheerfully, "but it was a case of only fifty cents apiece, and besides, it's for Marjorie. Fifteen times fifteen dollars wouldn't be too much for her. Every fellow and girl that was invited accepted the invitation and handed over the tax. To make things sure, Ethel went round to see Marjorie's mother about it and won her over to our side. So that's settled." "It's perfectly lovely," sighed Mary in rapture, "and you boys have worked so hard to make the whole affair a gorgeous success. I'm afraid we had better be moving on, though. It won't be long now until half-past seven. I do hope everyone will be on time." "They've all been warned," declared Seldon Ames. "Good-bye, then, until to-night." The two boys raised their caps and swung down the street, while Mary and Ethel stopped for one more look at the precious pin that in later days was to mean far more to their schoolmate, Marjorie Dean, than they had ever dreamed. CHAPTER II GOOD-BYE, MARJORIE DEAN "Whatever you do, don't laugh, or speak above a whisper, or fall up the steps, or do anything else that will give us away before we're ready," lectured Clark Grayson to the little crowd of happy-faced boys and girls who were gathered round him on the corner above Marjorie Dean's home. "We'd better advance by fives. Seldon, you go with the first lot. When I give the signal, this way," Clark puckered his lips and emitted a soft whistle, "ring the bell." "Right-o," softly retorted three or four boyish voices. Clark rapidly divided his little squad of thirty into fives, and moved toward the house with the first division. Two minutes later the next five conspirators began to move, and in an incredibly short space of time the surprise party was overflowing the Dean veranda and front steps. The boy who had been appointed bell ringer pressed his finger firmly against the electric bell. There came the sound of a quick footstep, then Marjorie herself opened the door, to be greeted with a merry shout of "Surprise! Surprise!" "Why--what--who!" she gasped. "Just exactly," agreed Clark Grayson. "'Why--what--who'--and enough others to make thirty. Of course, if you don't want us----" "Stop teasing me, Clark, until I get over my surprise, at least," begged Marjorie. "No, I never suspected a single thing," she said, in answer to Ethel Duval's question. "Here are mother and father. They know more about all this than they'll say. They made me believe they were going to a party." "And so we are," declared her father, as he and Mrs. Dean came forward to welcome their young guests, with the cordiality and graciousness for which they were noted among Marjorie's friends. "Come this way, girls," invited Marjorie's mother, who, in an evening frock of white silk, looked almost as young as the bevy of pretty girls that followed her. "Mr. Dean will look after you, boys." Once she had helped her mother usher the girls into the upstairs sleeping room set aside for their use, Marjorie lost no time in slipping over to the dressing table where Mary stood, patting her fluffy hair and lamenting because it would not stay smooth. "You dear thing," whispered Marjorie, slipping her arm about her chum. "I'll forgive you for not telling me where you were going. I was terribly hurt for a minute, though. You know we've never had secrets from each other." "And we never will," declared Mary, firmly. "Promise me, Marjorie, that you'll always tell me things; that is, when they're not someone else's secrets." "I will," promised Marjorie, solemnly. "We'll write our secrets to each other instead of telling them. Now I must leave you for a minute and see if everyone is having a good time. We'll have another comfy old talk later." To Mary Raymond fell the altogether agreeable task of keeping Marjorie away from the dining-room, where Mrs. Dean, Ethel Duval and two of her classmates busied themselves with the decorating of the two long tables. By ten o'clock all was ready for the guests. In the middle of each table, rising from a centerpiece of ferns, was a green silk pennant, bearing the figures 19-- embroidered in scarlet. The staffs of the two pennants were wound with green and scarlet ribazine which extended in long streamers to each place, and was tied to dainty hand-painted pennant-shaped cards, on which appeared the names of the guests. Laid beside the place cards were funny little favors, which had been gleefully chosen with a sly view toward exploiting every one's pet hobby, while at either end of each table were tall vases of red roses, which seemed to nod their fragrant approval of the merry-making. "It's quite perfect, isn't it?" sighed Ethel, with deep satisfaction, gently touching one of the red roses. "The very nicest part of it all is that you've been just as enthusiastic as we over the party." She turned affectionate eyes upon Mrs. Dean. "It could hardly be otherwise, my dear," returned Mrs. Dean. "Remember, it is for my little girl that you have planned all this happiness. Nothing can please me more than the thought that Marjorie has so many friends. I only hope she will be equally fortunate in her new home, though, I am sure, she will never forget her Franklin High School chums." "We won't give her that chance," nodded Ethel, emphatically. "There, I think we are ready. Clark wants to be your partner, Mrs. Dean, and Seldon is to escort Marjorie to her place. We aren't going to give her the pin until we are ready to drink the toasts. Robert Barrett is to be toastmaster. Will you go first and announce supper?" There was a buzz of delight and admiration from the guests, as headed by Marjorie and Seldon, the little procession marched into the dining-room. For a moment the very sight of the gayly decked table with its weight of goodies and wonderful red roses caused Marjorie's brown eyes to blur. Then, as Seldon bowed her to the head of one of the tables, she winked back her tears, and nodding gayly to the eager faces turned toward her and said with her prettiest smile: "It's the very nicest surprise that ever happened to me, and I hope you will all have a perfectly splendid time to-night." "Three cheers for Marjorie Dean! May we give them, Mrs. Dean?" called Robert Barrett. Mrs. Dean's smiling assent was lost in the volume of sound that went up from thirty lusty young throats. "Now, Franklin High," proposed Mary Hammond, and the Franklin yell was given by the girls. The boys, who were nearly all students at the La Fayette High School, just around the corner from Franklin, responded with their yell, and the merry little company began hunting their places and seating themselves at the tables. Marjorie was far too much excited to eat. Her glances strayed continually down the long tables to the cheery faces of her schoolmates. It seemed almost too wonderful that her friends should care so much about her. "Marjorie Dean, stop dreaming and eat your supper," commanded Mary, who had been covertly watching her friend. "Clark, you are sitting next to her. Make her eat her chicken salad. It's perfectly delicious." "Will you eat your salad or must I exercise my stern authority?" began Clark, drawing down his face until he exactly resembled a certain roundly disliked teacher of mathematics in the boys' high school. There was a laugh of recognition from the boys sitting nearest to Clark. He continued to eye Marjorie severely. "Of course, I'm going to eat my salad," declared Marjorie, stoutly. "You must give me time, though. I'm still too surprised to be hungry." But the greatest surprise was still in store for her. When everyone had finished eating, Robert Barrett began his duties as toastmaster. Ethel Duval came first with "What Friendships Mean to a Schoolgirl," and Seldon Ames followed with a ridiculously funny little toast to "The High School Fellows." Then Mr. and Mrs. Dean were toasted, and Lillian Hale, a next-door neighbor and the only upper-class girl invited, gave solemn counsel and advice to the "freshman babies." As Marjorie's dearest friend, to Mary had been accorded the honor of giving the farewell toast, "Aufwiedersehen," and the presentation of the pin. Mary's clear voice trembled slightly as she began the little speech which she had composed and learned for the occasion. Then her faltering tones gathered strength, and before she realized that she was actually making a speech, she had reached the most important part of it and was saying, "We wish you to keep and wear this remembrance of our good will throughout your school life in Sanford. We hope you will make new friends, and we ask only that you won't forget the old." "I can't begin to tell you how much I thank you all," Marjorie responded, her tones not quite steady, her face lighted with a fond pride that lay very near to tears. "I shall love my butterfly all my life, and never forget that you gave it to me. I am going to call it my talisman, and I am sure it will bring me good luck." But neither the givers nor Marjorie Dean could possibly guess that, in the days to come, the beautiful golden butterfly was to prove anything but a talisman to the popular little freshman. CHAPTER III THE GIRL WHO LOOKED LIKE MARY "It's rather nice to have so much room, but I know I shall never feel quite at home here," murmured Marjorie Dean, under her breath, as she came slowly down the steps of her new home and paused for a moment in the middle of the stone walk which led to the street. Her wistful glance strayed over the stretch of lawn, still green, then turned to rest on the house, a comfortable three-story structure of wood, painted dark green, with lighter green trimmings. Her mother's sudden appearance at the window caused Marjorie to retrace her steps. Luncheon was ready. "Everything is so different," she sighed, as she climbed the steps she had so lately descended. "I've been here a week, and I haven't met a single girl. I don't believe there are any girls in this neighborhood. I should feel a good deal worse, too, if the Franklin girls hadn't been such dears!" Marjorie's last comment, spoken half aloud, referred to the numerous letters she had received since her arrival in the town of Sanford from her Franklin High School friends, now so many miles away. Mary Raymond had not only fulfilled her promise to write one long letter every week, but had mailed Marjorie, almost daily, hurriedly-written little notes full of the news of what went on among the boys and girls she had left behind. It had been a busy, yet a very long week for Marjorie. The unpacking of the Deans' furniture, which had been shipped to Sanford a week before their arrival there, and the setting to rights of her new home had so occupied the attention of Mrs. Dean and Nora, her faithful maid-of-all-work, that Marjorie, aside from certain tasks allotted to her to perform, was left for the most part to her own devices. As they had arrived in Sanford on Monday, Marjorie's mother had decided to give her daughter an opportunity to accustom herself to her new home and surroundings before allowing her to enter the high school. So the day for Marjorie's initial appearance in "The Sanford High School for Girls" had been set for the following Monday. It was now Friday afternoon. Marjorie had spent the morning in writing a fifteen-page letter to Mary, the minor refrain of which was: "I can't tell you how much I miss you, Mary," and which contained views regarding her future high school career that were far from being optimistic. She had not finished her letter. She decided to leave it open until after luncheon and, laying it aside for the time, she had tripped down stairs and out doors. "What are you going to do this afternoon, dear?" asked her mother as Marjorie slipped into place at the luncheon table. "I don't know, Mother," was the almost doleful reply. "I thought I might take a walk up Orchard street as far as Sargent's, that cunning little confectioner's shop on the corner. Perhaps, if I go, I may see something interesting to tell Mary. I haven't finished my letter." Marjorie did not add that her walk would include a last stroll past the towering gray walls of a certain stone building on Lincoln avenue, which bore over its massive oak doors the inscription, "The Sanford High School for Girls." Almost every day since her arrival, she had visited it, viewing it speculatively and with a curious kind of apprehension. She was not afraid to plunge into her new school life, but deep down in her heart she felt some little misgiving. What if the new girls proved to be neither likable nor companionable? What if she liked them but they did not like her? She had just begun the same apprehensive train of thought that had been disturbing her peace of mind for the last four days when her mother's voice broke the spell. "If you are going that far I wish you would go on to Parke & Whitfield's for me. I should like you to match this embroidery silk. I have not enough of it to finish this collar and cuff set I am making for you." "I'll be your faithful servant and execute all your commissions, mum," declared Marjorie with a little obeisance, her spirits rising a little at the prospect of actual errands to perform. She was already tired of aimlessly wandering along the wide, well-kept streets of Sanford, feeling herself to be quite out of things. Even errands were actual blessings sometimes, she decided, as a little later, she ran upstairs to dress. "May I wear my best suit and hat, Mother?" she called anxiously down from the head of the stairs. "It's such a lovely day, I'm sure it won't rain, snow, hail or do anything else to spoil them." "Very well," answered Mrs. Dean, placidly. With a gurgle of delight Marjorie hurried into her room to put on her new brown suit, which had the mark of a well-known tailor in the coat, and her best hat, on which all the Franklin High girls had set their seal of approval. She had shoes and gloves to match her suit, too, and her dancing brown eyes and fluffy brown hair were the last touches needed to complete the dainty little study in brown. "Don't I look nice in this suit?" she asked her mother saucily, turning slowly around before the living-room mirror. "Aren't you and father perfect dears to let me have it, though?" She whirled and descended upon her mother with outstretched arms, enveloping her in an ecstatic hug that sadly disturbed the proper angle of her brown velvet hat. "Don't be gone too long," reminded her mother. "You know father has promised us tickets for the theatre to-night. We shall have an early dinner." "All right, I'll remember, Captain." With a brisk touching of her hand to her hat brim in salute Marjorie vanished through the door, to reappear a moment later at the living-room window, flash a merry smile at her mother, about face and march down the walk in true military style. Long before when Marjorie was a tiny girl she had shown an unusual preference for soldiers. She had owned enough wooden soldiers to make a regiment and was never at a loss to invent war games in which they figured. Sometimes, when she tired of her stiff, silent armies, which could only move as she willed, she inveigled her father or mother into being the hero, the enemy, the traitor or whatever her active imagination chose to suggest. Her parents, amused at her boyish love of military things, encouraged her in her play and entered into it with as much spirit as the child herself. Her father, who had once been an officer in the National Guard, taught her the manual of arms and she had learned it with a will. Marjorie's military enthusiasm had been at its height when she met Mary Raymond, who soon became equally fascinated with the stirring play. In time other interests crowded their lives. The hard-worked armies were laid peacefully on their wooden backs to enjoy a long, undisturbed rest, while Marjorie and Mary became soldiers instead, addressing Mr. Dean as "General," Mrs. Dean as "Captain," and bestowing upon themselves the rank of ordinary enlisted soldiers who must earn their promotion by loyal and faithful service. Mr. Dean had been rather chary of promotions, frequently reminding his little detachment that it is a far cry from the ranks of a private to that of a commissioned officer. So when their parting came, Mary and Marjorie had just received their commissions as second lieutenants, their awards of faithful service in the grammar school. Lieutenant Marjorie smiled, then sighed, as she started on her walk. The salute she had just given brought a flood of memories of Mary. She felt she would not mind exploring this strange, new, high school territory if Mary were with her. She was sure no girl in Sanford could understand her as Mary had. On two different afternoons she had stood across the street from the school at the time of dismissal. She had eagerly watched the great oak doors open wide and the long lines of girls file out, waking the still October air with their merry voices. She had been particularly attracted toward one tall, lithe, graceful girl whose golden hair and brown eyes made her unusually lovely. At first sight of her, lonely, imaginative Marjorie had named her "The Picture Girl," and had decided that she was a darling. She had noticed that the pretty girl was always the center of a group and she had also noted that one small, black-haired girl with an elfish face, who wore the most exquisite clothes invariably walked at the tall girl's side. There was a pink-cheeked girl, too, with laughing blue eyes and dimples, and a fair-haired, serious-faced girl, who reminded Marjorie of Alice Duval. They usually formed part of the group about the tall girl and her dark companion, and there was also a very short, stout girl who puffed along anxiously in the rear of the group as though never quite able to catch up. Marjorie had already imagined much concerning this particular knot of girls, and her desire to see them again before entering school was responsible for her walk down Lincoln avenue that sunny fall afternoon. She would do her errands first, she decided, then, returning by the way of the school, pass there just at the time that the afternoon session was dismissed. She went about her far-from-arduous commissions in leisurely fashion, now and then glancing at her châtelaine watch to make sure of the time. Three o'clock saw the daily procession of girls down the high school steps, and released from classes for the day. She did not intend to miss them. It was twenty minutes to three when Marjorie finished a remarkable concoction of nuts, chocolate syrup and ice cream, a kind of glorified nut sundae, rejoicing in the name of "Sargent Nectar," and left the smart little confectioner's shop. As she neared the school building her eyes suddenly became riveted upon a slim, blue-clad figure that hesitated for on instant at the top of the high steps then ran lightly down and came hurrying toward where she stood. "The advance guard," declared Marjorie half aloud. Then, as her eyes sought the approaching girl: "Why, she looks like Mary! And she's been crying! I'm going to speak to her." She took an impulsive step forward as the stranger came abreast of her and began: "Won't you----" Marjorie's speech ended abruptly. The weeping girl cast one startled glance toward her from a pair of wet blue eyes, lunged by her without speaking and, breaking into a run, turned the corner and disappeared from view. Marjorie surveyed the back of the rapidly vanishing yellow head with rueful surprise. Then she gave a short laugh. "I should have known better," she reflected. "Of course, she'd hardly care to tell her personal affairs to the first one who asks her. But she made me think of Mary. Oh, dear, I'm so homesick. Not even my new suit and hat can make me forget that. I wouldn't have mother know it for the world. I believe she is a wee bit homesick, too." Marjorie paused for an instant at her accustomed place on the opposite side of the street, undecided whether to loiter there and once more watch her future companions pass out of school or to go on about her business. Suddenly the school doors swung wide and the pupils began flocking out. The little stranger yielded to the temptation to linger long enough to watch the five girls pass in whom she had become interested. They were among the last to emerge and, the moment they reached the steps, their voices rose in a confused babble, each one determined to make herself heard above the others. "I knew she wouldn't do it," shrilled the stout girl, as they neared Marjorie. "She's too stingy for words. That's the third time she's refused to go into things with the rest of us." "Be still," reminded the Picture Girl; "she might have very good reasons----" "Good reasons," scornfully mimicked the little dark girl, her black eyes glittering angrily. "It was only because the plan was mine. She hates me, and you all know why. I don't think you ought to stand up for her, Muriel. You know how deceitful she is and what unkind things she said about me." "I'm not standing up for her," contradicted Muriel, but her tones lacked force. "I only felt a little bit sorry for her. She looked ready to cry all the afternoon. I think she went home early to avoid meeting us." "That proves she is a coward," was the triumphant retort. "Remember----" With a sudden swift movement she rose on tiptoe and, drawing the Picture Girl's head to the level of her mouth, whispered something to her. The fair-haired girl looked annoyed, the fat girl openly sulky and the dimpled girl disapproving. Exchanging significant glances, they walked on ahead of the other two. Without the slightest intention of being an eavesdropper, Marjorie had heard every word of the loud-spoken conversation. Her eyes were fixed in fascination upon the dark, sharp-featured face so close to the fair, beautiful one. She suddenly recalled a picture she had once seen called "The Evil Genius," in which a dark, mocking face peered over the shoulder of a young man who sat at a table as though in deep thought. This girl's vivid face bore a slight resemblance to that of the Evil Genius, and it was not until the end of Marjorie's junior year in Sanford that this sinister impression faded and disappeared forever. When the little company had passed on down the street, Marjorie turned and followed them from a distance. For several blocks her way lay in the same direction, but as she turned into her own street she swept a last glance toward the five girls. She wondered whom they had been discussing so freely. She was vaguely disappointed in the Picture Girl, who seemed to her independent mind too easily influenced by the Evil Genius. Marjorie had already begun to think of the small, dark girl as that. She was glad not to be the girl they had discussed. Then, her thought changing, a vision of two wet blue eyes and a tear-stained face set in fluffy yellow curls came to her, and Marjorie knew that she had seen the object of their discussion. A wave of sympathy for the offender swept over her. "I don't believe she could do anything deceitful or horrid," she reflected stoutly. "Her eyes are as true and as blue as Mary's. I'm going to like her and be her friend, if she'll let me, for she certainly seems to need one. I did so want to be friends with the Picture Girl, but I can't help wishing she had been just a little bit braver." While Marjorie strolled thoughtfully home, deep in her own cogitations, the five girls, having joined forces again, were discussing her. "Did you see that pretty girl standing across from the school as we came out?" asked Susan Atwell, the girl with the dimples. "Yes," returned Irma Linton. "I noticed her there the other day, too. I wonder who she can be." "I don't know," said Muriel Harding. "She is awfully sweet though, and dresses beautifully. She----" "I know all about her," interrupted Geraldine Macy. "Her father is the new manager for Preston & Haines. They only moved here from the city last week. Her name is Dean. That is, her last name. I don't know her other name." "I am surprised that you don't know that," was the sarcastic comment of Mignon La Salle, the little dark girl. "You needn't be," flung back the stout girl. "There are lots of things I don't know that I'd like to know. For instance----" "Don't be cross, Jerry," interrupted Mignon, hastily. "I was only teasing you." She cast a peculiar glance at the ruffled Jerry from under her heavy lashes which the young woman failed to catch. "Tell us some more about this new girl. I really didn't pay hardly any attention to her to-day." "There isn't anything more to tell that I know of," muttered Jerry, sulkily, her desire to distribute news quite gone. "Wait until Monday and see. I know she's going to enter Sanford High and that she's a freshman." "Then as freshmen it's our solemn duty to be nice to her and make her feel at home," stated Muriel, seriously. Mignon La Salle shrugged her thin shoulders. "Perhaps," she said, without enthusiasm. "I shall wait until I see her before I decide that." Meanwhile, Marjorie had reached home, and, seated before the library table, was writing for dear life on the letter she had begun to Mary. So far she had had nothing to tell her chum regarding the young women who were to be her classmates. To be sure, what she had seen and heard that afternoon had amounted to nothing, but the girl who looked like Mary had set her to longing all over again to be able, just for one afternoon, to sit side by side on the front steps with her childhood's friend and talk things over. "You can't imagine, Mary," she wrote, "how sorry I felt when I saw that poor girl crying with your eyes. They were just like yours. I forgot everything except that she looked like you, and asked her what the trouble was. Of course, she didn't answer me, but actually ran down the street. I should have known better, but I felt so terribly sympathetic. 'Terribly' is the only word that expresses it. Right after she had gone the others began to come out of school, and at last the five girls I told you about came out. They were all talking at once, but I heard the horrid, sharp-faced, dark girl say that someone was stingy and deceitful and a lot of other unpleasant things. I thought the Picture Girl was going to stand up for the person, but that mean little Evil Genius wouldn't let her. Then all at once it came to me that it was this Mary girl they were talking about. It was really this one dark girl who said most of the mean things. The others just listened to her. At any rate, I'm going to find out who the Mary girl is and try to be a friend to her just because she looks like you. Don't imagine I could ever like her better than you, because you know I couldn't. But it's a true soldier's duty to stand by his comrades on the firing line, you know, and I am going to be this girl's freshman comrade, and, if she's one-half as nice as you, I'll be ready to help her fight her battles. "Monday is the great day. I dread it, and yet I am looking forward to it. I like the outside of the school, but will I like the inside? Mother is going to the principal's office with me. I hope I sha'n't have to try a lot of tiresome examinations. I have forgotten everything I ever knew, and the weather has been too pleasant to study. This is such a pretty town, with plenty of nice walks. If only you were here it would be quite perfect. I do hope you can come and visit me at Easter. Must stop now, as I hear mother calling me. We are going to walk down to meet father. With my dearest love. Write soon. "Yours always, "Marjorie." Marjorie folded, addressed and stamped her letter, then catching her hat from the hallrack ran out the front door to overtake her mother who had walked on ahead. "I finished my letter to Mary," she held it up for inspection, "and I've something to report, Captain." "I am ready to hear you," smiled her mother, as they walked on arm in arm. For the second time Marjorie related her little adventure, ending with her resolve to learn to know and befriend, if necessary, the girl who looked like Mary. Nor did she have the slightest premonition of how much this readily-avowed championing of a stranger was to cost her. CHAPTER IV SANFORD'S LATEST FRESHMAN "Will you tell me the way to the principal's office, please?" A clear voice broke in upon the conversation of two girls who had paused before the broad stairway leading to the second floor of the Sanford High School for a last word before separating for their morning recitations. At the sound of the soft, interrupting voice, which contained a touch of perplexity in its tones, both girls turned quickly to regard the owner. They saw an attractive little figure, wearing a dainty blue cloth gown, which was set off by hand-embroidered cuffs and an open rolling collar of sheerest white. From under a smart blue hat escaped a wealth of soft, brown curls, while two brown eyes looked into theirs with an expression of appeal that brought forth instant reply. "Miss Archer's office is the last room on the east side of the second-floor corridor. I am going there now and shall be glad to show you the way," was the quick response of the taller of the two girls, accompanied by a cheery smile that warmed Marjorie Dean's heart and made her feel the least bit less of a stranger in this strange land which she was about to explore. "Thank you," she returned gratefully, trying to smile in an equally friendly manner. Marjorie's first day of school had begun far from propitiously. She had not reckoned on making her initial appearance in Sanford High School alone. It had been planned that her mother should accompany her, but when Monday morning came, her beloved captain had awakened with a racking headache, which meant nothing less than lying in bed for a long, pain-filled day in a darkened room. Torn between sympathy for her mother and her own disappointment, Marjorie had experienced a desire to go to her captain's room and cry her eyes out, but being fashioned of sturdier stuff, she made a desperate effort to brace up and be a good soldier. This was just another of those miserable "vicissitudes" that no one could foresee. She must face it without grumbling. Her father had already telephoned for a physician when she entered her mother's room, and Marjorie put on her sweetest smile as she kissed her mother and assured her that she didn't in the least mind going to school alone. As she followed the young woman up the stairs and down the long corridor Marjorie felt her heart beat a little faster. Her low spirits of the early morning began to rise. How good it seemed actually to be in school again! And what a beautiful school it was! Even Franklin would appear dingy beside it. She gazed appreciatively at the high ceiling and the shining oak wainscotings of the wide corridor through which she was passing. When her guide, who was tall, thin and plain of face, opened the last door on the right and ushered her into a beautiful sunshiny office which seemed more like a living-room than a place wherein business was transacted, Marjorie uttered an involuntary, "Oh, how lovely!" "Yes, isn't it though," returned the tall girl. "This is Miss Archer's own idea, and, so far, it's proving a brilliant success. That is, we all think so. Is Miss Archer in her private office?" she asked the young woman who had risen from her desk near the door and came forward to receive them. Marjorie would have liked to ask her new acquaintance what she meant, but at that moment a door at the farther end of the room opened and a stately, black-haired woman, with just a suspicion of gray at her temples, emerged. She turned a pair of grave, deep-set eyes upon the tall girl and said, pleasantly: "Well, Ellen, what can I do for you this morning?" "Oh, Miss Archer!" exclaimed the tall girl, eagerly, with an impulsive step forward, "you haven't forbidden basketball this year, have you? Stella and I couldn't believe our ears when we heard it this morning!" It was evident that the impetuous Ellen was on the best possible terms with her principal. "I don't remember having issued an order to that effect," smiled Miss Archer. "Where did you hear that bit of news?" Ellen Seymour's plain face flushed, then paled. "It was just a rumor," she replied with reluctance. "I'd rather not mention names. Still, when I heard it, I could not rest until I had asked you. The sophomores hope to do something wonderful this year. We couldn't bear to believe for a minute that there would be no basketball. We had planned to have a tryout some day this week, after school. I'm so glad," she added fervently. "Thank you, Miss Archer. Oh, pardon me," she turned to Marjorie, "this is Miss Archer, our principal. Miss Archer, this young lady wishes to see you. I met her in the corridor downstairs and volunteered my services as guide." With a courteous nod to Marjorie, the tall girl left the room and the principal turned her attention toward the prospective freshman. At the calm, kindly inquiry of the gray eyes Marjorie's feeling of shyness vanished, and she said in her most soldierly manner, as though speaking to her mother: "Miss Archer, my name is Marjorie Dean, and I wish to enter the freshman class of Sanford High School. We moved to Sanford from the city of B----. We have been here just a week. I was a freshman in Franklin High School at B----." Miss Archer took the young girl's hand in hers. Her rather stern face was lighted with a welcoming smile. Marjorie's direct speech and frank, honest eyes had pleased the older woman. "I am glad to know that we are to have a new pupil," she said cordially. "The freshman class is smaller than usual this year. So many girls leave school when their grammar school course is finished. I wish we could persuade these mothers and fathers to let their daughters have at least a year of high school. It would help them so much in whatever kind of work they elected to do later." "That is what mother says," returned Marjorie, quickly. "My mother intended to come with me to-day, but was unable to do so." She did not go into details. Young as she was, Marjorie had a horror of discussing her personal affairs with a stranger. "She will call upon you later." "I shall be pleased to meet your mother," Miss Archer made courteous answer. "The first and most important matter to be considered this morning is your class standing. Let me see. B---- is in the same state as the town of Sanford. I believe the system of credits is the same in all the high schools throughout this state, as the examinations come from the state board at the capital. What studies had you begun at B----?" "English composition, algebra, physiology, American history and French," recited Marjorie, dutifully. Miss Archer raised her eyebrows. "You are ambitious. We usually allow our pupils to carry only four subjects." "But these are quite easy subjects," pleaded Marjorie; "that is, all except algebra. I am not especially clever in mathematics. I am obliged to study very hard to make good recitations. Still, I should like to continue with the subjects I have begun. Won't you try me until the end of the first term?" she added, a coaxing note in her voice. "I will at least try you for a week or two. Then if I find that you are not overtaxing your strength you may go on with them." "Thank you." Marjorie's relieved tone caused the principal to smile again. It was not usual for a pupil to show concern over the prospect of losing a subject. Many of the students rebelled at having to carry four subjects. "Have you your grammar school certificate with you?" asked Miss Archer, the smile giving way to a businesslike expression. Marjorie handed the principal the large envelope she had been carrying. Miss Archer drew forth a square of thick white paper, ornamented with the red seal by which the state board of school commissioners had signified their approval of Marjorie Dean and her work in the grammar school. The older woman read it carefully. "Yes, this is, as I thought the same form of certificate. From this moment on you are a freshman in Sanford High School, Miss Dean. I trust that you will be happy here. Sanford has the reputation of being one of the finest schools in the state. I am going to assign you to a seat in the study hall at once. Miss Merton is in charge there. She will give you a printed form of our curriculum of study. School opens at nine o'clock in the morning. The morning session lasts until twelve o'clock. We have an hour and a quarter for luncheon, and our last recitation for the day is over at half past three o'clock. We have devotional exercises in the chapel on Monday and Friday mornings, and the course in gymnastics is optional. There are, of course, many other things regarding the regulations of the school which you will gradually come to know." "Miss Arnold," the thin-faced, sharp-eyed young woman, who had been covertly appraising Marjorie during her talk with Miss Archer, came languidly forward. "This is Miss Dean." The two girls bowed rather distantly. Marjorie had conceived an instant and violent dislike for this lynx-eyed stranger. "Take Miss Dean to the locker room, then to Miss Merton. Say to Miss Merton that Miss Dean is a freshman, and that I wish her assigned to a desk in the freshman section." With a last glance of pleasant approval, which Marjorie's pretty face, dainty attire and frank, yet modest bearing had evoked, the principal retired to her inner office, and Marjorie obediently followed her guide, who, without speaking, set off down the corridor at almost unnecessary speed. "This way," she directed curtly as they reached the main corridor. They passed down the corridor, descended a second stairway and brought up directly in front of long rows of lockers. Within five minutes Marjorie's hat had been put away, and she had received a locker key. This done, her companion hurried her upstairs and down the wide corridor through which they had first come. Then she suddenly opened a door, and Marjorie found herself in an enormous square room, which contained row upon row of shining oak desks, occupied by what seemed to her hundreds of pupils. In reality there were not more than two hundred and forty persons in the room, but in the eyes of the little stranger everything was quadrupled. How different it was from Franklin! So this was the study hall, one of the things on which the school prided itself. In front of the rows of desks was one large desk on a small raised platform, reminding Marjorie of an island in the midst of a sea. At the desk sat a small, gray-haired woman, who peered suspiciously over her glasses at Marjorie as she was lifelessly introduced by Miss Arnold. "I don't like _her_ at all," was the young girl's inward comment as she walked behind the stiff, uncompromising, black-clothed back to a desk almost in the middle of the last row of seats on the east side. But Marjorie experienced a little shiver of delight as she seated herself, for directly in front of her, and gazing at her with reassuring, smiling eyes, was the Picture Girl. CHAPTER V GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE PICTURE GIRL "Welcome to Sanford," whispered the girl, "and to the freshman class. I was sure when I saw you the other day you couldn't be anything other than a freshman." Marjorie flushed, then smiled faintly. "I didn't think any of the girls would remember me," she confessed. "Oh, I remember you perfectly. You were across the street from school on three different days, weren't you?" Marjorie nodded. "I just had to come down and get acquainted with the outside of the school. I was awfully curious about it." "Miss Harding," a cold voice at their elbows caused both girls to start. So intent had they been on their conversation that they had not noticed Miss Merton's approach, "you may answer any questions Miss Dean wishes to ask regarding our course of study here as set forth in our curriculum." She laid a closely printed sheet of paper before Marjorie. "This does not mean, however, the personal conversation in which, I am sorry to say, you appeared to be engrossed when I approached. Remember, Miss Dean, that personal conversation will neither be excused nor tolerated in the study hall. I trust I shall not have to remind you of this again." Marjorie watched with unseeing eyes the angular form of the teacher as she retreated to her platform. If Miss Merton had dealt her a blow on her upturned face, it could have hurt no more severely than had this unlooked-for reprimand. She was filled with a choking sense of shame that threatened to end in a burst of angry sobs. The deep blush that had risen to her face receded, leaving her very white. Those students sitting in her immediate vicinity had, of course, heard Miss Merton. She glanced quickly about to encounter two pairs of eyes. One pair was blue and, it seemed to the embarrassed newcomer, sympathetic. Their owner was the "Mary" girl, who sat two seats behind her in the next aisle. The other pair was cruelly mocking, and they belonged to the girl that Marjorie had mentally styled the Evil Genius. Something in their taunting depths stirred an hitherto unawakened chord in gentle Marjorie Dean. She returned the insolent gaze with one so full of steady strength and defiance that the girl's eyes dropped before it and she devoted herself assiduously to the open book which she held in her hand. "Don't mind Miss Merton," whispered Muriel, comfortingly. "She is the worst crank I ever saw. No one likes her. I don't believe even Miss Archer does. She's been here for ages, so the Board of Education thinks that Sanford High can't run without her, I guess." "I'm so mortified and ashamed," murmured Marjorie. "On my first day, too." "Don't think about it," soothed Muriel. "What studies are you going to take? I hope you will recite in some of my classes. Wait a moment. I'll come back there and sit with you; then we'll make less noise. Miss Merton told me to help you, you know," she reminded, with a soft chuckle. The fair head and the dark one bent earnestly over the printed sheet. Marjorie whispered her list of subjects to her new friend, who jotted them down on the margin of the program. "How about 9.15 English Comp?" she asked. "That's my section." Marjorie nodded her approval. "Then you can recite algebra with me at 10.05, and there's a first-year French class at 11.10. That brings three subjects in the morning. Now, let me see about your history. If you can make your history and physiology come the first two periods in the afternoon, you will be through by three o'clock and can have that last half hour for study or gym, or whatever you like. I am carrying only four subjects, so I have nothing but physical geography in the afternoon. I am through reciting every day by 2 o'clock, so I learn most of my lessons in school and hardly ever take my books home. If I were you, I'd drop one subject--American History, for instance. You can study it later. The freshman class is planning a lot of good times for this winter, and, of course, you want to be in them, too, don't you?" "I should say so," beamed Marjorie. "Still," her face sobering, "I think I won't drop history. It's easy, and I love it." "Well, I don't," emphasized Muriel. "By the way, do you play basketball?" "I played left guard on our team last year, and I had just been chosen for center on the freshman team, at Franklin High, when I left there," was the whispered reply. "That's encouraging," declared Muriel. "We haven't chosen our team yet. We are to have a tryout at four o'clock on Friday afternoon in the gymnasium. You can go to the meeting with me, although you will have met most of the freshman class before Friday. Oh, yes, did Miss Archer tell you that we report in the study hall at half-past eight o'clock on Monday and Friday mornings? We have chapel exercises, and woe be unto you if you are late. It's an unforgivable offense in Miss Merton's eyes to walk into chapel after the service has begun. If you are late, you take particular pains to linger around the corridor until the line comes out of chapel, then you slide into your section and march into the study hall as boldly as though you'd never been late in your life," ended Muriel with a giggle, which she promptly smothered. "But what if Miss Merton sees one?" Muriel made a little resigned gesture. "Try it some day and see. There's the 9.15 bell. Come along. If we hurry we'll have a minute with the girls before class begins. All of my chums recite English this first hour. You needn't stop at Miss Merton's desk. It'll be all right." Marjorie walked down the aisle behind Muriel, looking rather worried. Then she touched Muriel's arm. "I think I'd rather stop and speak to Miss Merton," she said with soft decision. "All right," the response came indifferently as Muriel, a bored look on her youthful face, walked on ahead. Marjorie walked bravely up to the teacher. "Miss Merton, I have arranged my studies and recitation hours. Miss Harding is going to show me the way to the English composition class." Miss Merton stared coldly at the girl's vivid, colorless face, framed in its soft brown curls. Her own youth had been prim and narrow, and she felt that she almost hated this girl whose expressive features gave promise of remarkable personality and abundant joy of living. "Very well." The disagreeable note of dismissal in the teacher's voice angered Marjorie. "I'll never again speak to her unless it's positively necessary," she resolved resentfully. "I wish I'd taken Miss Harding's advice." "Well, did she snap your head off?" inquired Muriel as Marjorie joined her. "No," was the brief answer. "It's a wonder. There goes the third bell. It's on to English comp for us. I won't have time to introduce you to the girls. We'll have to wait until noon. Miss Flint teaches English. She's a dear, and everyone likes her." Muriel's voice dropped on her last speech, for they were now entering the classroom. At the first flat-topped desk in one corner of the room sat a small, fair woman with a sweet, sunshiny face that quite won Marjorie to her. "Miss Flint, this is Miss Dean," began Muriel, as they stopped before the desk. "She is a freshman and has just been registered in the study hall by Miss Merton." A long, earnest glance passed between teacher and pupil, then Marjorie felt her hand taken between two small, warm palms. "I am sure Miss Dean and I are going to be friends," said a sweet, reassuring voice that amply made up for Miss Merton's stiffness. "Are you a stranger in Sanford, my dear? I am sure I have never seen you before." "We have lived here a week," smiled Marjorie. "We moved here from B----." "How interesting. Were you a student of Franklin High School? I have a dear friend who teaches English there." "Oh!" exclaimed Marjorie, her eyes sparkling, "do you mean Miss Fielding?" "Yes," returned Miss Flint. "We were best friends during our college days, too. Hampton College is our alma mater." "That is where I hope to go when I finish high school. Miss Fielding has told me so many nice things about Hampton," was Marjorie's eager reply. Then she added impetuously, "I'm going to like Sanford, too. I'm quite sure of it." "That is the right spirit in which to begin your work here," was the instant response. "I will assign you to that last seat in the third row. We do not change seats. Each girl is given her own place for the year." Marjorie thanked Miss Flint, and made her way to the seat indicated. The sound of footsteps in the corridor had ceased. A tall girl in the front row of desks slipped from her seat and closed the door. Miss Flint rose, faced her class, and the recitation began. After the class was dismissed Miss Flint detained Marjorie for a moment to ask a few questions regarding her text and note books. Muriel waited in the corridor. Her face wore an expression of extreme satisfaction. It looked as though the new freshman might be a distinct addition to the critical little company of girls who had set themselves as rulers and arbiters of the freshman class. She was pretty, wore lovely clothes, lived in a big house in a select neighborhood, had played center on a city basketball team, and was the friend of Miss Flint's friend. To be sure, Mignon La Salle might raise some objection to the newcomer. Mignon was so unreasonably jealous. But for all her money, Mignon must not be allowed always to have her own way. Muriel was sure the rest of the girls would be quite in favor of adding Marjorie Dean to their number. They needed one more girl to complete their sextette. To Marjorie should fall the honor. "I'll introduce her to the girls this noon, and let them look her over. Then I'll have a talk with them to-night and see what they think," planned Muriel as she went back to the study hall at Marjorie's side. There was a hurried exchange of books, then Marjorie was rushed off to her algebra recitation. Here she found herself at least two weeks ahead of the others, and was able to solve a problem at the blackboard that had puzzled several members of the class, thereby winning a reputation for herself as a mathematician to which it afterward proved anything but easy to live up to. While in both her English and algebra classes Marjorie had searched the room with alert eyes for the girl who looked like Mary. She felt vaguely disappointed. She had hoped to come into closer contact with her. She liked Muriel, she decided, but she did not altogether understand her half-cordial, half-joking manner. She was rather glad that she was to go to her French class alone. She had told Muriel not to bother. She could find the classroom by herself. As she clicked down the short, left-hand, third floor corridor, she saw just ahead of her a little blue-clad figure passing through the very doorway for which she was making. An instant and she too had entered the room. She stared about her, then walked to a seat directly opposite to the one now occupied by the girl that looked like Mary. For a brief moment the girl eyed Marjorie indifferently, then something in the scrutiny of the other girl evidently annoyed her. She drew her straight dark brows together in a displeased frown, and deliberately turned her face away. By this time perhaps a dozen girls had entered, and, as the clang of the third bell echoed through the school, an alert little man with a thin, sensitive face and timid brown eyes, bustled into the room and carefully closed the door. Hardly had he taken his hand from the knob when the door was flung open, this time to admit a sharp-featured girl with bright, dark eyes and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth. Smiling maliciously, she swung the door shut with an echoing bang. The meek little professor looked reproachfully at the offender, who did not even appear to see him. "The Evil Genius," recognized Marjorie. Her eyes strayed furtively toward the Mary girl, who had not paid the slightest attention to this late arrival. "What a hateful person that black-eyed girl is," ran on Marjorie's thoughts. "I know it was she who made that nice girl cry the other day. I wish she wasn't quite so distant. The nice girl, I mean. Oh, dear. I forgot to go up to the professor's desk and register. That's his fault. He came in late. He'll see me in a minute and ask who I am." To her extreme surprise, the little man paid no particular attention to her, but, opening his grammar, began the giving out of the next day's lesson. This he explained volubly and with many gestures. Marjorie's lips curved into a half smile as she compared this rather noisy instructor with Professor Rousseau, of Franklin. Later, when he called upon his pupils to recite, however, he was a different being. His politely sarcastic arraignment of those who floundered through the lessons, accompanied by certain ominous marks he placed after their names in a fat black book that lay on his desk, plainly showed that, despite his mild appearance, he was a force yet to be reckoned with. "I hope he doesn't notice me until class is over," fidgeted Marjorie. "It surely must be time for that bell to ring." She began nervously to count those who were due to recite before her turn came. It would be so embarrassing to do her explaining before this group of strange girls, particularly before the Evil Genius. Ah, she had begun to read! And how beautifully she read French! The critical professor was listening to the smooth flow of words that tripped from her tongue with approbation written on every feature. "She must have studied French before," speculated Marjorie, as the professor directed the next girl to go on with the exercise; "or else she is French. I believe she is. Oh, dear, only two more girls." Clang! sounded the bell. "Thank goodness," breathed the relieved freshman. There was a general closing of books. "To-morrow I shall geev you a wreetten test," warned Professor Fontaine. Then the second bell rang, and the class filed out of the room. "Eet ees not strange that I haf overlooked you, Mademoiselle," explained Professor Fontaine five minutes later, after listening to Marjorie's apology for not presenting herself to him before class. "The freshmen like to make so many alterations in their programs. They haf soch good excuses for changeeng classes, but, sometimes, too, they do not tell me. Eet maks exasperation." He waved his hands comprehensively. "I am pleased," he added, with true French courtesy, "to haf another pupil. Ees eet that you like the French, Mademoiselle Dean?" "It is a beautiful language, Professor Fontaine," Marjorie assured him. "I have only begun learning it, but I like it so much." "C'est vrai," murmured the delighted professor. "La Francais est une belle langue. If, then, you like it, you weel study your lessons, n'est pas?" "I'll try very hard to make good recitations. I will bring my books to-morrow. We used the same grammar at Franklin High School." Marjorie hastened back to the study hall to find it empty. The clock on the north wall pointed significant hands to ten minutes past twelve. The Picture Girl had said that she wished Marjorie to meet her friends, but she was not waiting. It was disappointing, but her own fault, thought the lonely freshman as she left the study hall and went slowly downstairs to the locker room. She gave an impatient sigh as she pinned on her hat. Exploring new territory wasn't half so interesting as she could wish. Then a light footstep sounded at her side. A dignified little voice said, stiffly, "Will you please allow me to get my hat?" Marjorie whirled about in amazement. Could she believe her eyes? The voice belonged to the Mary girl; they were to share the same locker. CHAPTER VI THE PLEDGE "Oh, I am so glad we are to have a locker together!" exclaimed Marjorie, impulsively. "I've been very anxious to know you. I really owe you an apology. I spoke to you in the street the other day. I don't know what you thought of me, but you look so much like my dearest chum in B---- that I called to you before I realized what I was doing." The other girl regarded Marjorie with the suspicious, uneasy eyes of a cornered animal. Then, without answering, she reached for her hat and was about to go silently on her way, when something in Marjorie's gracious words seemed to touch her and she said, grudgingly, "I remember you." "That's nice," beamed Marjorie. "I was afraid you wouldn't. Let me tell you about my chum." She launched forth in an enthusiastic description of Mary Raymond and of their long friendship. "I wrote Mary about having seen a girl that looked like her. She will be very curious to see you. She's coming to visit me some time during the year. So I hope you and I will be friends. But I haven't even told you who I am. My name is Marjorie Dean. Won't you please tell me yours?" She offered her hand winningly, but the strange, self-contained young girl ignored it. "My name is Constance Stevens." Her voice was coldly reluctant, carrying with it an unmistakable rebuff. Marjorie drew back, puzzled and hurt. She was not used to having her friendly overtures rejected. The blue-eyed girl saw the shrinking movement, and, stirred by some hitherto unknown impulse, stretched forth her hand. "Please forgive me for being so rude," she said contritely. "It is awfully sweet in you to tell me about your chum and to say that you wish to be my friend. You are the first girl, who has been so nice with me since I came to Sanford. How I hate them!" Her expressive face darkened and her blue eyes became filled with brooding, sullen anger. "Are you going home to luncheon now?" asked Marjorie, with a view toward keeping away from disagreeable subjects. The other girl nodded, then, pinning on her hat, the two left the building. Marjorie wished to ask questions, but she did not know how to begin with this strange, moody girl. There were so many things to say. "Do you play basketball?" she asked, almost timidly, when they had traversed three blocks in silence. Constance shook her head. "I don't even know the game, let alone trying to play it. Do you play?" "Yes. I have played every position on the team. I was chosen for center of the freshman team at Franklin High just before I came here. One of the freshmen has asked me to go to the tryout on Friday." The Mary girl looked wistfully at Marjorie. "I'm going to tell you something," she announced with finality. "Truly, it's for your own good. You mustn't try to be friends with me. If you do, you'll be sorry. We, my father and I, are nobodies in this town. Father's a broken-down musician who teaches the violin for a living. I've a little lame brother, and we take care of a poor old musician, who, people say, is crazy. He isn't, though. He's merely childish. "People call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds. They don't understand that our greatest crime is just being poor. The girls in the freshman class make fun of me and call me a tramp and a beggar behind my back. One girl did try to be the least bit pleasant with me, but she soon stopped. We've been in Sanford only two months, but it seems like a hundred years. At first I was glad to think I was going to high school. How I hate it now! But they sha'n't drive me away. I'll get my education in spite of everything." Her lips drew together with resolute purpose. "So, you see," her voice grew gentle, "you mustn't waste your time upon me. The girls won't like you if you do, and you don't know how dreadful it is to be left out of everything. Of course, you can speak to me, but----" She paused and looked eloquent meaning at Marjorie. Her late aloofness had quite vanished. Her small face was now soft and friendly, making the resemblance to happy-go-lucky Mary Raymond more apparent. Marjorie laughed. Those who knew her best would have understood that her laughter meant defiance. "I don't choose my friends because they are rich or because others like them. I choose them because I want them myself," she declared with a proud lift of her head. "I knew that someone had been horrid to you the first day I ever saw you. I heard several girls talking of you afterward. At least, I think they were talking of you. I said to myself then that they had misjudged you. So I went home and wrote my letter to Mary. I told mother all about you, too, and that I was going to be your friend, if you would let me. I want you to come and see me and meet mother and father. As for the girls in the freshman class, I'd like to be friends with them, too, but I couldn't do anything so contemptible and unfair as to dislike a girl just because they thought they did. Now, you know what I think about it. Are we going to share our locker and our troubles and our pleasures?" The tears flashed across Constance Stevens' eyes. Her hand slid into Marjorie's, and thus began a friendship between the two freshmen that was to defy time and change. They separated on the next corner and, throwing dignity to the winds, Marjorie raced up the long walk and into the house to see if her captain was better. "I came to report, Captain," she said gently as she tiptoed up to her mother's bed. "How are you, dear?" "Better, Lieutenant," returned her mother, kissing the pretty, flushed face. "Now for the report." "You are sure I won't make your head ache with my chatter?" "No, dear; it is ever so much better now." Marjorie went faithfully through with the events of the morning. "I had to stand by my colors, Captain. I wouldn't be fit to be a soldier if I didn't know how to stand fast. Just as though it makes any difference whether a girl is rich or poor if she's a dear and one likes her. How can some girls be so silly? They wouldn't be if they had Mary's and my military training. When in doubt ask your captain." She laughed gaily, then her merry glance changed to one of dismay. "Good gracious! It's fifteen minutes to one. I'll have to eat my luncheon in a hurry." With a hasty kiss Marjorie flitted from the room and down the stairs to the dining-room. After luncheon she lingered for a brief moment with her mother, then set off for the afternoon session of school. But she could not help wondering as she walked just how it would seem to be in the freshman class but not of it. CHAPTER VII THE WARNING The afternoon session of school passed uneventfully for Marjorie. She had returned too late from luncheon to hold more than a few words of conversation with the Picture Girl. In spite of the watchful espionage of Miss Merton, whose eyes seemed riveted to her side of the room, Muriel managed to convey to Marjorie the news that the girls were dying to meet her and were so sorry they had missed her at noon. "We waited for you more than ten minutes," Muriel whispered guardedly. "Mignon saw you stop at Professor Fontaine's desk. We knew what that meant. It always takes him forever to explain anything. Do you remember a black-haired, black-eyed girl in the French class this morning? She wore the sweetest brown crêpe-de-chine dress. Well, that's Mignon La Salle. Her father is the richest man in Sanford. Mignon could go away to school if she liked, but she doesn't care about it. Tell you more later." Muriel faced front with a sudden jerk that could mean but one thing. Marjorie cast a fleeting glance at Miss Merton. The teacher was frowning angrily, as though about to deliver a rebuke. Luckily for the two girls, the first recitation bell rang and they stood not upon the order of their going, but went with alacrity. Once outside the study-hall door they were safe. "I don't know what ails Miss Merton," complained Muriel. "She has never said a word to me before. That's twice to-day she has shown her claws." "She doesn't like me," said Marjorie, calmly, "and I don't like her. I think she is the rudest teacher I ever knew. It was I, not you that she meant that scolding for this morning." "Nonsense!" scoffed Muriel. "She likes you as well as she likes the rest of us. I don't believe she is awfully, terribly, fearfully fond of girls. When she was young she must have been one of those stiff, prim goody-goodies; the distressingly snippy sort that made all her friends so tired." Muriel laughed softly. Marjorie smiled at Muriel's unflattering description of Miss Merton's youth, then her face sobered. In her heart she knew that Miss Merton disliked her, and the knowledge was not pleasant. She made an earnest resolve to overcome the teacher's prejudice. She would make Miss Merton like her. Muriel went with her as far as the door of the history room, which was in charge of Miss Atkins, a stout, middle-aged woman, who beamed amiably upon Marjorie, entered her name in the class register, motioned her to a front seat and promptly appeared to forget her existence. But though Miss Atkins exhibited small personal interest in her new pupil, such was not the case with regard to the subject which she taught. The lesson dealt with the coming of the Virginia colonists, their settlement in Jamestown and the final burning of the town. Miss Atkins' vivid description of the colonists' determined struggles to gain a foothold in the New World was well worth listening to. The reading of extracts from special reference books pertaining to that gallant expedition into the treacherous forests of an unknown, untried country made the lesson seem doubly interesting. When the recitation was over Marjorie went back to the study hall congratulating herself on the fact that she had not dropped history, and reflecting that no one would ever have suspected Miss Atkins of being so fascinating. As she groped in her desk for her textbook on physiology, she looked about her for some sign of Constance Stevens. She recollected that she had not seen her in her seat when the afternoon session began. The moment her recitation in physiology was over she hastened to the locker room. No, her new friend's hat was not there. She had not returned to school after luncheon. Marjorie reached for her own hat, vaguely wondering what had happened to keep Constance away from school. She stood meditatively poking her hatpins in and out of her hat, when the sound of footsteps on the stairs came to her ears. School was over for the day. She put on her hat in a hurry, took a swift peep at herself as she passed the one large mirror that hung at the end of the freshmen's lockers, and ran up the stairs. She would not disappoint Muriel's friends again. This time she was first on the scene, standing on the identical spot where she had stood the day Constance rushed weeping past her. Why didn't her class come out? Surely she had heard their footsteps on the stairs. But it was fully five minutes before the stream of girls began to issue from the big doors. Then Muriel appeared, surrounded by her friends, and in another instant the girl with the dimples, the fair-haired girl, the stout girl and the Evil Genius were, with varying degrees of friendliness, telling Marjorie Dean that they were glad to meet her. Susan Atwell said so frankly with a delightful show of dimples. Irma Linton looked the acme of gentle friendliness. Geraldine Macy's face wore an expression of open admiration. Mignon La Salle's greeting, however, was distinctly reserved. To be sure, she smiled; but Muriel, who had been furtively watching her, knew that the French girl was not pleased with the idea of admitting another girl to their fellowship. "The rest of the girls like her," thought Muriel. "Mignon will find she'll have to give in this time." Purposely, to make sure she was right, she said boldly: "Miss Dean, will you go to the basketball tryout with us on Friday afternoon?" "Yes, do," urged Geraldine Macy, eagerly. "We'd love to have you," came from Susan Atwell. "We understand that you are a star player." "Of course you must," smiled Irma Linton. The French girl alone hesitated. Her eyes roved speculatively from one face to another, then she said suavely, "Come by all means, Miss Dean. It will be quite interesting." "Thank you. I shall be pleased to go with you." Marjorie ignored Mignon's slight hesitation, although she had noted it. "I wonder if you are all as fond of basketball as I," she went on quickly. "It's a splendid game, isn't it?" Her new acquaintances answered with emphasis that it was certainly a great game, and, the ice now broken, they began to ply their new acquaintance with questions. How did she like Sanford? Did it seem strange to her after a big city high school? What subjects had she selected? Had she met any other girls besides themselves? Marjorie answered them readily enough. She was glad to be one of a crowd of girls again. "Have you met any other girls?" asked Geraldine Macy, abruptly. "I met a Miss Seymour before I had even gone as far as Miss Archer's office. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?" No one of the five girls made answer. The little freshman regarded them perplexedly. "Mm!" ejaculated Muriel Harding. "You wouldn't think her quite so nice if you knew as much about her as we do. Wait until you see her play basketball. She plays center on the sophomore team, and she makes some very peculiar plays. She's always creating trouble, too. She and some of her sophomore friends seem to have a particular grudge against Mignon. They are forever criticising her playing. They have even gone so far as to say that we don't play fairly; that we are tricky. The idea!" Muriel looked highly offended at the mere idea of any such thing. Marjorie listened without comment. Muriel's ready tirade against the pleasant-faced sophomore who had willingly offered her services that morning made her feel decidedly uncomfortable. Then Miss Seymour's straightforward speech to Miss Archer came back to her. The sophomore had been generous to her enemies, if they were enemies, in that she had refused to mention any names. Marjorie wondered if Muriel or Mignon would be equally generous in the same circumstances. She resolved to say nothing of what she had been privileged to hear. It was not hers to tell. Suddenly she divined, rather than saw, Mignon's elfish eyes fixed upon her. "You met another girl, at noon, did you not, Miss Dean?" asked the French girl, with an almost sarcastic inflection. "Yes; Miss Stevens," was the composed answer. "We share the same locker. She is a nice girl, too, and I like her very much, so, please, don't say anything against her," she ended, in half-smiling warning. Mignon La Salle's face grew dark. She recognized the challenging note in the new girl's tone. Muriel, too, frowned. Susan Atwell sidled up to Mignon, Irma Linton looked distressed and Geraldine Macy calmly curious as to what would come next. It came in the way of a small tempest, for the French girl lost her temper over Marjorie's retort. She stamped her foot in childish rage, saying vehemently: "She is a nobody, that Stevens person, and her family are vagabonds. You will make a great mistake if you choose her for your friend." Then, her rage receding as suddenly as it had come, she shrugged her shoulders deprecatingly. "Pardonnez moi." She bowed to Marjorie. "I spoke too strongly. It is not for me to choose Miss Dean's friends." Slipping her arm through Muriel's, she drew her ahead of the others. Susan Atwell took a hurried step forward and caught her other arm, leaving Marjorie to walk between Irma and Geraldine. "Don't mind her," said Jerry, in a low voice. "She has it in for that Miss Stevens. She, the Stevens girl, did something, no one knows what, to make Mignon angry with her. Mignon says Miss Stevens talked about her and Muriel and Susan believed it, but Irma and I are not so silly." Two blocks further on Marjorie bade good-bye to the five girls. She said it without enthusiasm. Their carping, quarrelsome attitude had taken all the pleasure from knowing them. She made mental exception in favor of Irma and Jerry. The gentleness of the one and the sturdy, outspoken manner of the other had impressed her favorably. But she was sorely disappointed in Muriel. Should she tell her mother of the disagreeable ending of her first day? She decided not to do so. She would carry nothing save pleasant tales to her captain to-day. And so that night, when she entered the living-room and found her mother, in a becoming negligee, occupying the wide leather couch by the window, she saluted, like a dutiful soldier, and included in her report only the pleasant happenings of her first, never-to-be-forgotten day in Sanford High School. CHAPTER VIII STANDING BY HER COLORS When Marjorie took her seat in the study hall the next morning, Muriel's greeting was as affable as it had been before the disagreement of the previous afternoon. She even went so far as to whisper, "Don't take Mignon too seriously. She is really dreadfully hurt over the unkind things Miss Stevens has said of her." Marjorie listened in polite silence to the Picture Girl's rather lame apology in behalf of her friend. She could think of nothing to say. Muriel had turned about in her seat, her eyes fixed expectantly upon the other girl. But just then came an unexpected interruption. "Miss Dean," shrilled Miss Merton's high, querulous voice, "who gave you permission to leave school before the regular hour of dismissal yesterday afternoon?" "I did not----" began the astonished girl. "Young woman, do you mean to contradict me?" thundered Miss Merton. Marjorie had now risen to her feet. Her pretty face had turned very white, her brown eyes gleamed like two angry flames. "I had no intention of contradicting you, Miss Merton." Her low, steady tones were full of repressed indignation. "What I had begun to say was that I did not know I was expected to return to the study hall after my last class. In the high school which I attended in B---- we went from our last class to our locker rooms. It is, of course, my fault. I should have inquired about it beforehand." The freshman quietly resumed her seat. Every pair of eyes in the room was turned upon Marjorie. Miss Merton, however, had no intention of letting her off so easily. "The rules and regulations of another high school do not, in the least, interest me, Miss Dean," she said, with biting sarcasm. "It is my business to see that the rules of _Sanford_ High School are enforced, and I propose to do it. You have been a pupil in this school for only one day, yet I have been obliged to reprimand you on two different occasions. If you annoy me further I shall consider myself fully justified in sending you to Miss Archer." The ringing of the first recitation bell put an end to the little scene. Marjorie rose from her seat and marched from the study hall, her head held high. If Miss Merton expected her to break down and cry she would find herself sadly mistaken. Muriel overtook her in the corridor. "My, but Miss Merton hates you!" she commented cheerfully, as though enjoying her classmate's discomfiture. Marjorie made no reply. Her proud spirit was too deeply crushed for words. She went through her recitation in English that morning like one in a dream. Several times during her French hour she gazed appealingly at Constance, but the Mary girl kept her fair head turned resolutely away. She did not appear at her locker either at noon or after school was over, although Marjorie lingered, in the hope that she would come. So successfully did she manage to steer clear of Marjorie, who was too proud to make advances in the face of Constance's marked avoidance, that, when Friday came and the afternoon session was over, Marjorie was escorted to the gymnasium by the Picture Girl and her friends, who, even to Mignon, believed that the newcomer had been wise and taken their brusque advice. At least half of the freshman class had elected to try for a place on the team. Miss Randall, the instructor in gymnastics, and several seniors had been chosen to pick the team, and when the six girls arrived on the scene the testing had begun. Mignon La Salle was the first of their group to play. Her almost marvelous agility, her quick, catlike springs and her fleetness of foot called forth unstinted praise from Marjorie. Muriel, too, played a skilful game; so did Susan Atwell. When Marjorie was called upon to play left guard on a team composed of the last lot of aspirants for basketball honors, she advanced to her position rather nervously. Muriel, Mignon, Susan Atwell and two freshmen, whom she did not know, were to oppose her. She wondered if she could play fast enough to keep up with her clever opponents. Then, as she caught the French girl's elfish eyes fixed upon her, mocking incredulity in their depths, she rallied her doubting spirit and resolved to outplay even Mignon. Fifteen minutes later Marjorie Dean had been chosen to play left guard on a team of which Mignon was center, Muriel, right guard, Susan Atwell, right forward, and a freshman named Harriet Delaney, left forward. Muriel had also been made captain, and several girls were chosen as substitutes. "Hurrah for the new team!" cried Muriel Harding. "Let's call ourselves the Invincibles. You certainly can play basketball, Miss Dean. How lucky in you to come to Sanford just when we need you. By the way, 'Miss Dean' is too formal. Please let us call you Marjorie. You can call us by our first names. What's the use of so much formality among team-mates?" Being merely a very human young girl, Marjorie could not help feeling a little bit pleased with herself. She was glad she had played so well. She felt that she had really begun to like her new associates very much. Even Mignon must have her good points; and how wonderfully well she played basketball! Perhaps Constance Stevens had been just a little bit at fault. Certainly she had acted very queerly after that first day when they had pledged their friendship. Had she, Marjorie, been wise to avow unswerving loyalty to a stranger, and all because she looked like Mary Raymond? Marjorie's disquieting reflections were interrupted by something the French girl was saying. "It was too funny for anything, wasn't it, Muriel?" Mignon laughed with gleeful malice. "Yes," nodded Muriel. "We gave the sophomores a bad scare." "What did you do?" asked Irma Linton, curiously. Seeing that she had the attention of her audience, the French girl began. "You remember the practice game we played against the sophomores last week? According to my way of thinking, the sophomores played a very rough game. I complained to Miss Seymour, their captain. She laughed at me," Mignon scowled at the remembrance, "so I decided to teach her a lesson." "I told Muriel about it, and between us we made up a dialogue. It was all about the sophomores' unfair playing, and how surprised they would be when they found themselves forbidden to play basketball. Then we managed to walk out of school behind two girls that always tell everything they know, and recited our dialogue. The next morning Muriel saw one of the girls talking to Miss Seymour for all she was worth, so we know that she faithfully repeated everything she heard. Miss Seymour wouldn't dare go to Miss Archer with it for fear Miss Archer would ask too many questions. You know Miss Archer said last year when Inez Chester made such a fuss about her sprained wrist that if ever again one team reported another for rough playing she would disband the accused team and have Miss Randall select a new one. So I imagine we gave our friends the sophs something to think about." "But who told you the sophomores would be forbidden to play?" demanded candid Jerry. "No one told us, silly," retorted Muriel, her color rising. "We simply said they would be surprised when they found themselves forbidden to play. 'When' may mean next week or next month, or next year or century, or any other time. We were only talking for their general edification." "Then nobody actually said a word about it?" persisted Jerry. "You just made up all that stuff?" "It didn't do any hurt," began Muriel. "We thought----" "Don't be such a prig, Jerry," put in Mignon, impatiently. "It isn't half so wicked to play a joke on those stupid sophomores as it is to ask one's mother for money for a fountain pen, and then use the money for candy and ice cream." There was a chorus of giggles from the girls, in which Jerry did not join. She was eyeing Mignon steadily. "See here, Mignon," she said with offended dignity. "I just want you to know that I told my mother about that money that very same night. I may have my faults, but I certainly don't tell things that aren't true." Jerry punctuated this pertinent speech with emphatic nods of her head, and, having said her say, walked on a little ahead of her friends, the picture of belligerence. "Now, you've made Jerry angry, Mignon," laughed Susan Atwell. Mignon merely lifted her thin shoulders. "I can't please every one. If I did, I should never please myself." "I don't know what ails Jerry all of a sudden," commented Muriel to Marjorie. "She isn't usually so--so funny." Again Marjorie kept her own counsel. She, alone, knew that the object of the rumor which Muriel and Mignon had started had failed. Ellen Seymour had gone frankly to headquarters with it, and Miss Archer had asked no questions. Marjorie wondered what these girls would say if they knew the truth. She did not like to criticize them, but were they truly honorable? For a moment she wished she had refused to play on the team with them. Muriel and Mignon, in particular, seemed so careless of other people's feelings. Her sympathies were with Jerry, and quickening her pace she slipped her arm through that of the fat girl, saying, "Don't you think to-morrow's algebra lesson is hard?" Jerry viewed her companion's smiling face rather sulkily. Then succumbing to the other's charm, she said in a mollified tone: "Of course it's hard. They're all hard. I know I shall never pass in algebra." "Oh, yes, you will," was Marjorie's cheerful assurance. "It's my hardest study, too; but I'm going to pass my final examination in it. I've simply made up my mind that I must do it." "Then I'll make up my mind to pass, too," announced Jerry, inspired by Marjorie's determined tones. "And, say, it would be splendid if we could do our lessons together sometimes. My mother likes me to bring my school friends home." "So does mine," returned Marjorie, cordially. "She says home is the place for me to entertain my schoolmates. I hope you will come to see me soon. It's your turn first, you know. Oh, please pardon me a moment, I must speak to this girl!" The cause of this sudden exclamation was a young woman in a well-worn blue suit who was coming across the street directly ahead of them. "Oh, Constance!" hailed Marjorie, "I have been looking for you. Stop a minute!" Marjorie stood waiting for her friend with eager face and outstretched hand. By this time the four other girls had come abreast of the trio and had passed them, Irma Linton being the only one of them who bowed to Constance. Jerry stood beside Marjorie for an instant, then walked on and overtook her chums. "Please don't stop," begged Constance, her face expressing the liveliest worry. "Really, you mustn't try to be friends with me. I wish to take back my part of our compact. You've been chosen to play on the team, and those girls seem to like you. I can't stand in your way, and my friendship won't be worth anything to you, so just let's forget all we said the other day." Marjorie stared hard at the other girl, the pathetic droop of whose lips looked for all the world like Mary's when things went wrong. "You don't mean that, and I won't give you up," she said with fine stubbornness. "I haven't time to talk about it now. I must catch up with those girls. Wait for me at our locker to-morrow noon, please, _please_." With a hasty squeeze of Constance's hand, Marjorie raced on up the street to overtake her companions. They were so busily engaged in discussing her, however, that they did not hear her approach, and consequently did not lower their voices. "I will not speak to her; I will not play with her on the team!" she heard Mignon La Salle sputter angrily. "We certainly don't care to bother with her if she's going to take up with all sorts of low people." This loftily from Muriel, who was afraid to cross the French girl. "My mother told me never to speak to any of those crazy Stevens persons," added Susan Atwell, with a toss of her curly head. "I don't care so very much for this Dean girl, either." "Oh, you make me tired, the whole lot of you," cried Jerry, with angry contempt. "Marjorie Dean is nicer than all of you put together, and if she likes that little white-faced Stevens girl, then the girl is all right, even if her family were ragpickers. I'm ashamed of myself for being so silly as to listen to any of Mignon's complaints against her. You can do as you like, but if it's a case of being your friend or Marjorie's, then I guess I'd rather be hers." "Thank you, Geraldine." Marjorie's quiet voice caused the party to turn, then exchange sheepish glances. "I don't wish you to quarrel over me," she went on. "I should like to be friends with all of you, but none of you can choose my friends for me any more than I can choose yours for you." "You can't chum with us and be the friend of that Miss Stevens," muttered Mignon. "She is my enemy. Do you understand?" "I am sorry to hear that," returned Marjorie, keeping her temper with difficulty, "but she is not mine. I like her. I shall stand up for her and be her friend as long as we go to Sanford High School. I am sorry to seem disagreeable, but I shouldn't feel the least bit true to myself if I were afraid to say what I think. This is my street. Good-bye." Marjorie walked proudly away from the group. An instant and she heard the patter of running feet behind her. "You can't get rid of us so easily," panted Geraldine Macy. "I think you are right, Marjorie," said Irma Linton, quietly, putting out her hand. "I should like to be your friend." And the dividing of the sextette of girls was the dividing of the freshman class of Sanford High School. CHAPTER IX A BITTER MOMENT Marjorie went soberly up the steps of her home that afternoon. Her pleasure in making the team had been short-lived. She wondered if it would not be better to write her resignation. How could she bear to play on a team when three of the members had decided to drop her acquaintance? Still, they had not chosen her to play on the team; why, then, should she resign? She decided to consult her captain on the subject; then changed her mind. She would not trouble her mother with such petty grievances. This prejudice against Constance Stevens had originated wholly with Mignon La Salle. Perhaps the French girl would soon forget it, and it would die a natural death. Marjorie was not mortally hurt over the turn of the afternoon's affairs. She had not been so deeply impressed with the importance of Mignon and her friends that she failed to see their snobbish tendencies. She made mental exception of Jerry and Irma. She was secretly glad that they had declared for her. She liked Jerry's blunt independence and Irma's gentle, lovable personality. With the optimism of sixteen, she declined to worry over what had happened, and her report to her captain at the end of that troubled afternoon included only the pleasant events of the day. When she went to school the next Monday morning she discovered that it did hurt, just a trifle, to be deliberately cut by the Picture Girl, and, instead of being greeted with Susan Atwell's dimpled smile, to receive an icy stare from that young woman, as, later in the morning, they passed each other in the corridor. In some mysterious manner the story of the disagreement had been noised about the freshman class, with the result that Marjorie's acquaintance was eagerly sought by a number of freshmen whom she knew merely by sight, and that several girls, who had made it a point to smile and nod to her, now passed her, frigid and unsmiling. As for the members of the little group Marjorie had watched so earnestly before she had been enrolled as a freshman at Sanford, they were now divided indeed. As the week progressed the "Terrible Trio," as Jerry had satirically named Mignon, Muriel and Susan, endeavored to make plain to whoever would listen to them that there was but one side to the story, namely, their side. Emulating Marjorie's example, Jerry and Irma had taken particular pains to be friendly with Constance Stevens. After an eloquent dissertation on friendship, delivered by Marjorie at their locker on the Monday morning following her disagreement with the other girls, Constance had shed a few happy tears and admitted that she had rather be "best friends" with Marjorie than anyone else in the world. The hardest part of it all for Marjorie was her basketball practice. It was dreadful to be on speaking terms with only one girl on the team, Harriet Delaney, and she was not overly cordial. Marjorie tried to remember that Miss Randall had appointed her to her position, that the right to play was hers; but the unfriendly players made her nervous, and she lost her usual snap and daring. The second week's practice came, and she resolved to play up to her usual form, but, try as she might, she fell far short of the promise she had shown at the tryout. She also noted uneasily that, no matter how early she reported for practice, the team seemed always to be in the gymnasium before her and that one of the substitutes invariably held her position. The freshmen had challenged the sophomores to play against them on the first Saturday afternoon in November. It was now the latter part of October and both teams were utilizing as much of their spare time as possible in preparing for the fray. "Are you going to practice this afternoon?" whispered Geraldine Macy to Marjorie as they left the algebra class on Monday morning. Marjorie nodded. "Oh, dear," grumbled Jerry under her breath. "I wanted to talk to you about the Hallowe'en party." "What Hallowe'en party?" asked Marjorie, opening her eyes. "Haven't you your invitation?" It was Jerry's turn to look surprised. "I don't even know what you're talking about." Their entrance into the study hall put an end to the conversation. It was renewed at noon, however, when Jerry, Irma, Marjorie and Constance trooped out of the school building together, a seemingly contented quartet. "Just imagine, girls," announced Jerry, excitedly. "Marjorie doesn't know a thing about the Hallowe'en party. She hasn't her invitation either. I think that's awfully queer." "I haven't mine, but I know all about it," put in Constance Stevens, quietly. "Who has charge of the invitations?" asked Marjorie. "Miss Arnold. You'd better see her about yours to-day. Of course you both want to go." "But what is it and where is it held?" questioned Marjorie. "It's a big dance. Weston High School, that's the boys' school, gives a party to Sanford High on every Hallowe'en night. It's a town institution and as unchangeable as any law the Medes and Persians ever thought of making," informed Jerry. "Oh, how splendid!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I should like to know some nice Sanford boys, and I love to dance!" "Then you ought to meet my brother Hal," declared Jerry, solemnly, "for he's the nicest, handsomest, best boy I know." "Wait until you see the Crane," laughed Irma Linton. "He's the tallest boy in high school. He's six feet two inches now. They say he hasn't stopped growing, either, and he is awfully thin. That's why the boys call him the 'Crane.' He doesn't mind it a bit. His real name is Sherman Norwood, but no one ever calls him that except the teachers." During the rest of the walk home the coming dance was the sole subject under discussion. Yes, the girls wore evening gowns, if they had them. Lots of girls wore their best summer dresses. The leading caterer of Sanford always had charge of the refreshments and the boys paid the bills. There was a real orchestra, too. Of course all the teachers were there, but the pokey ones went home early and the jolly ones, like Miss Flint and Miss Atkins, stayed until the last dance. There were countless other questions to ask, but the luncheon hour was too short to admit of any lingering on the corner. "I wish we had more time to talk," sighed Marjorie, reluctantly, as she came to her street. "I'd love to hear more about the dance." "We'll tell you all there is to tell after school," promised Jerry. "Oh, no, we can't either. You'll have to go to that old basketball practice. What a nuisance it is. And to think you have to play on the team with Mignon, Muriel and Susan, after the way they've treated you. Why don't you resign?" "I don't believe I'll play next term," said Marjorie, slowly, "but I feel as though I ought to stay on the team for the rest of this term. Our game with the sophomores is set for two weeks from to-morrow; then, I believe we are to play against two teams from nearby towns. It wouldn't be fair to leave the team now, after having practiced with it." "I don't believe I'd bother my head much about that part of it," sniffed Jerry, "I'd just quit." "No, you wouldn't, Geraldine Macy," laughed Irma. "You might grumble, but you wouldn't be so hateful." "You don't know how hateful I can be," warned Jerry. "Some other girls are likely to find out, though." "Good-bye. I must not stop here another second," declared Marjorie. "Good-bye!" floated after her as she walked rapidly toward home. "How goes it, Lieutenant?" asked her father, who, with her mother, was already seated at the table as she entered the dining-room. "Pretty well, thank you, General," she replied, touching her hand to her curly head. "I haven't heard you say a word about school for at least a week, my dear," commented her mother. "Has the novelty of Sanford High worn off so soon?" "No, indeed, Captain," returned Marjorie, earnestly. "I'm finding out new things every day." She did not add that some of the "new things" had not been agreeable, nor did she volunteer any further information concerning her school. This touch of reticence on the part of her usually talkative daughter caused her mother to look at her searchingly and wonder if Marjorie had something on her mind which in due season would be brought to light. The subject of the dance returning to the young girl's thoughts, she began at once to talk of it, and her enthusiastic description of the coming affair served to allay her mother's vague impression that Marjorie was not quite happy, and she entered into the important discussion of what her daughter should wear with that unselfish interest belonging only to a mother. When Marjorie returned to school that afternoon she felt happier than she had been since her advent into Sanford High School. The thought of the coming dance brought with it a delightful thrill of anticipation. She had always had such good times at the school dances given by her boy and her girl chums of B----. She hoped she would enjoy this Hallowe'en frolic. She wondered if the "Terrible Trio" would be there. She smiled over Jerry's appropriate appellation, then frowned at herself for countenancing it. Good soldiers didn't indulge in personalities. That afternoon she found it hard, however, to concentrate her thoughts on her studies, and when Miss Atkins asked her on what day the Pilgrim Fathers landed in America, she absent-mindedly replied "Hallowe'en," to the great joy of her class. During her physiology hour she managed to keep strictly to the subject; but she was impatient for the afternoon to pass so that she could go to Miss Arnold for her invitation. Her eyes sparkled, however, when, on returning to the study hall, she saw lying on her desk a square white envelope addressed to her. "Oh, here it is," she thought delightedly. "I'm so glad. I wonder if Constance has hers." She tore open the end of the envelope with eager fingers and drew out a folded sheet of note paper. But the light died out of her face as she read: "My dear Miss Dean: "For some time the members of the freshman team have been dissatisfied with your playing, and have repeatedly urged me to allow Miss Thornton to play in your position on the team. Not wishing to seem unfair, Miss Randall and I watched your work at practice Wednesday afternoon and agreed that the requested change would be best. As manager of the freshmen team, their welfare must ever be my first consideration. I therefore feel no hesitation in asking you for your resignation from the team. "Yours sincerely, "MARCIA ARNOLD." A sigh of humiliation that was half a sob rose to Marjorie's lips. Her chin quivered ominously. Suddenly a dreadful thought flashed across her brain. Suppose Mignon and the others were watching her to see how she received the bad news. Marjorie's desire to cry left her. She leaned back in her seat and assumed an air of indifference far removed from her real state of mind. Then she calmly refolded the letter and placed it in its envelope with the impassivity of a young sphinx. Later that afternoon, as Mignon La Salle strolled out of school between her two satellites, Susan and Muriel, she was heard to declare with disappointed peevishness that that priggish Miss Dean was either too stupid to resent or too thick-skinned to feel a plain out-and-out snub. CHAPTER X A BLUE GOWN AND A SOLEMN RESOLVE The next day in school was a particularly trying one for poor Marjorie. It was decidedly hard for the sore-hearted little freshman to believe that Miss Arnold's motive in asking her to resign from the team had been purely disinterested. She was reasonably sure that she had Mignon to blame for the humiliation. Jerry Macy had told her of Miss Arnold's respect for Mignon's father's money, and that Miss Archer's thin-lipped, austere-looking secretary was one of the French girl's most devoted followers. The wave of dislike which had swept over Marjorie upon first beholding Marcia Arnold had, as the days passed, intensified rather than lessened. Jerry, too, could not endure the secretary. "I never could bear her," she had confided to Marjorie. "I'm glad she's a junior. I'll have two years of comfort after she's gone. I suppose she deserves a lot of credit for keeping up in her studies and earning money as a secretary at the same time, but I'd rather have a nice wriggly snake, or a cheerful crocodile for a friend if it comes to a choice." Marjorie was equally certain that Miss Arnold did not like her. She had had occasion to ask the secretary several questions and the latter's manner of answering had been curt, almost to rudeness. The desired resignation was yet to be written. Marjorie had purposely delayed writing it until the last hour of the afternoon session. She wished to think before writing. It took her the greater part of the hour to compose it, although, when it was finally copied on a sheet of note paper she had brought to school for that purpose, it covered little more than one side of the sheet. While she was addressing it for mailing, she suddenly remembered that she had not yet asked Miss Arnold for her Hallowe'en invitation. Should she hand the secretary her resignation instead of mailing it? She decided that the more dignified course would be to mail it. As to the invitation for the dance, she was entitled to it; therefore she was not afraid to demand it. She wondered if Constance had received hers, and, when her new friend returned from class, Marjorie managed to catch her eye and question her by means of a sign language known only to schoolgirls. A vigorous shake of Constance's fair head brought forth more signs, which, when school was dismissed, resulted in a determined march upon Miss Archer's office by the two friends, reinforced by Jerry and Irma, who had managed to join Marjorie and Constance in the corridor. "That's just why we waited," announced Jerry, wagging her head emphatically when Marjorie explained her mission. "We wondered if she'd given them to you. You let me do the talking. She won't have a word to say when I'm through." "Hush, Jerry!" cautioned Irma. "She'll hear you." They were now entering Miss Archer's living-room office. Marcia Arnold, who was seated before her desk, intent on the book she held in her hand, raised her eyes and regarded the quartette with a displeased frown. Then she addressed them in peremptory tones. "Please make less noise, girls. Your voices can be plainly heard in Miss Archer's office and she is too busy now to be disturbed." This last with a view to discouraging any attempt on their part to see the principal. "We didn't come to see Miss Archer," was Geraldine Macy's calm retort. "We came to see you about Miss Dean's and Miss Stevens' invitations for the dance. They haven't received them." "I know nothing whatever about them," snapped Miss Arnold, picking up her book as a sign of dismissal. "You ought to know. The invitations were given to you by the boys' committee," was Jerry's pertinent reminder. "You sent them the list of names, didn't you? Perhaps you accidentally left out these two names." This was a malicious afterthought on Jerry's part, but it had a potent effect on Marcia Arnold. A tide of red rose to her sallow face. For a second her eyes wavered from the four pairs searchingly upon her. Then she answered with elaborate carelessness: "It is just possible that these two names have been omitted. I will go over my list and see." "Yes, do," advised Jerry, laconically. Then she slyly added: "It seems funny, doesn't it, that when 'D' and 'S' are so far apart on the alphabetical list, they should both happen to be overlooked? If the girls don't receive their invitations by to-morrow night I'll speak to my brother about it. He's the president of the junior class, you know, and he'll take it up with the committee. Come on, girls." The three young women obediently following her, Jerry marched from the room with the air of a conqueror. True to her prediction, Marcia Arnold had found nothing to say to the stout girl's parting shot. "There really wasn't much use in our going. I'm afraid we weren't very brave. We shouldn't have stood like wooden images and let you fight our battles, Jerry. It was awfully dear in you, but I do hope Miss Arnold won't think Constance and I are babies," demurred Marjorie. "What do you care what she thinks as long as she hunts up your invitations?" asked Jerry, with superb contempt. "What she thinks will never hurt either of you." The belated invitations were delivered to the two freshmen by Miss Arnold herself the next day, greatly to Jerry's satisfaction. "I saw her give them to you, girls," she whispered to Marjorie on the way to the English class. "She looked mad as a hatter, too. She thought she'd hold back your invitations until the last minute; then maybe you would get mad and not go to the dance." "But why should she wish to keep us from going?" asked Marjorie, wonderingly. "Ask Mignon," was Jerry's enigmatical answer. "Very likely she knows more about it than anyone else." Marjorie found no chance for conversation with Constance until they met in French class. Even then she had only time to say, "Be sure to wait for me this noon," before Professor Fontaine called his class to order and attacked the advance lesson with his usual Latin ardor. Constance was first at their locker. She had already put on her own hat and coat and was holding Marjorie's for her, when her friend arrived. "What are you going to wear, Constance?" asked Marjorie, as she put on her coat and hat. "I'm not going," was the brief answer. "Not going!" Marjorie stared hard at her friend. Was Constance hurt because she had not received her invitation? Then she went on, eagerly apologetic: "It wasn't the Weston boys' fault that we didn't get our invitations when the others received theirs. They didn't intend to leave us out, even though they only knew our names." "It's not that." Constance's voice trembled a little. "I--I--well, I haven't a dress fit to wear!" Her pale cheeks grew pink with shame as she burst forth with this confession of poverty. "This blue suit and three house dresses are all the clothes I have in the world. Don't say you feel sorry for me. I shall hate you if you do. I sha'n't always be poor. Some day," her eyes grew dreamy, "I'll have all sorts of lovely clothes. When I am a----" She stopped abruptly, then said in her usual half-sullen tones, "I can't go, so don't ask me." Marjorie looked curiously at this strange girl. The longer she knew Constance the better she liked her, but she did not in the least understand her. Suddenly a bright idea popped into her head. "I'm so sorry you can't go to the dance," she commented, then promptly dropped the subject. When she left Constance, however, she remarked innocently: "Don't forget, you are coming home with me to-night. Don't say you can't. You promised, you know." "I will come," promised Constance, brightening. "Good-bye." The moment Marjorie reached home she made a dash for her room and going to her closet, emerged a moment afterward with an immense white pasteboard box in her arms. Stopping only long enough to drop her wraps on her bed she ran downstairs and burst into the dining-room with: "I have found her, Mother. I've found the girl this was made for." "What is all this commotion about, Lieutenant?" asked her father, teasingly. "Are we about to be attacked by the enemy? Salute your superior officers and then state your case. Discipline must be preserved at all costs in the army. Is it a requisition for new uniforms? You soldiers are dreadfully hard on your clothes. Or is the post about to move and is that a packing case?" Marjorie made a most unsoldierlike rush for him and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed his cheek. "You are a great big tease, and I choose to salute you this way." Then she kissed her mother, saying: "I've the loveliest plan, Captain. I'm sure that this dress will fit Constance. She says she won't go to the school dance because she has no pretty gown to wear. May I give her this darling blue one?" She opened the box and drew forth a dainty frock of pale blue chiffon over silk. The chiffon was caught up here and there with tiny clusters of pinky-white rosebuds. The round neck was just low enough to show to advantage a white girlish throat, while the soft, fluffy sleeves reached barely to the elbows. It was a particularly beautiful and appropriate frock for a young girl. "You see, General," explained Marjorie, "Aunt Mary sent this to me when I graduated from grammar school. She hadn't seen me for two years and didn't know I had grown so fast. She bought it ready made in one of the New York stores. It was too short and too tight for me and to make it over meant simply to spoil it. It was so sweet in her to send it that when I wrote my thank you to her I couldn't bear to tell her that it didn't fit, so I kept it just to look at. I didn't really need it, for, thanks to you and mother, I have plenty of others. Don't you think I ought to make someone else happy when I have the chance? It is right to share one's spoils with a comrade, isn't it?" Her father looked lovingly at the pretty, earnest face of his daughter as she stood holding up the filmy gown, her eyes bright with unselfish purpose. "I am very glad my little girl is so thoughtful of others," he said. "Whatever your captain says is law. How about it, Captain?" His wife and he exchanged glances. "You may give your friend the dress if you like, dear," consented Mrs. Dean, "if you think she will accept it." "That's just the point, Captain," returned Marjorie. "You know you said I could bring Constance home for dinner to-night, and she is coming. Perhaps we can think of some nice way to give it to her while she is here." Marjorie carefully replaced the gown in its box and ran upstairs with it. She returned with her hat and coat on her arm, and hanging them on the hall rack hastened to eat her luncheon. All afternoon she puzzled as to how she might best offer Constance the gown. When the four girls strolled homeward together after school she had still not thought of a way. Jerry and Irma held forth, at length, with true schoolgirl eloquence, upon the subject of their gowns. Constance listened gravely without comment. Her small, impassive face showed no sign of her hopeless longing for the pretty things she had never possessed. Once inside the Dean's pleasant home, a flash of appreciation routed her impassivity as Marjorie conducted her into the comfortable living-room where Mrs. Dean sat reading, and her face softened under the spell of the older woman's gentle greeting. "I am pleased to know you, Constance," said Mrs. Dean, offering her hand. "I have been expecting you for some time. Now that I have seen you I will say that you do look very much like Marjorie's friend Mary." She did not add that this girl's face lacked the good-natured, happy expression that so perfectly matched Mary Raymond's sunny curls. Yet she noted that the blue eyes met hers openly and frankly, and that there was an undeniable air of sincerity and truth about Constance which caused one instinctively to trust her. To the formerly friendless girl who had never before been invited to the home of a Sanford girl, the evening passed like a dream. Under the genial atmosphere of the Dean household, her reserve melted and before dinner was over she had forgotten all about herself and was laughing merrily with Marjorie over Mr. Dean's nonsense. After dinner Mrs. Dean played on the piano and Constance, who knew how to dance was initiated into the mysteries of several new steps which were favorites of the Franklin girls, and later the two girls spent a happy hour in Marjorie's room with her books, of which she had a large collection. "Oh, dear," sighed Constance, as she glanced at the clock on the chiffonier. "It is ten o'clock. I must go." "Wait a few minutes," requested Marjorie. "I have something to show you, but I must see mother for a minute first. Please excuse me. I'll be back directly." "Mother," Marjorie hurried into the living-room. "Have you thought of a way? Constance is going home, and it's now or never." "Suppose you give it to her by yourself," suggested her mother. "I am afraid my presence will embarrass her and then she will surely refuse." Marjorie stood eyeing her mother uncertainly. Then she laughed. "I know the easiest way in the world," she declared, and was gone. When she entered the room Constance was kneeling interestedly before the book-shelves. "You have the 'Jungle Books,' haven't you? Don't you love them?" "Yes," laughed Marjorie. "Mary and I read them together. I always called myself 'Bagheera' the black panther, and she always called herself 'Mogli, the man-cub.' We used to write notes to each other sometimes in the language of the jungle." "How funny," smiled Constance. Her gaze intent upon the books, she did not notice that Marjorie had stepped to her closet, returning to her bed with a cloud of pink over her arm. Next she opened a big box and laid a cloud of blue beside the one of pink. "Constance, come here a minute," she said. Constance sprang up obediently. Her glance fell upon the bed and she gave a little startled, admiring "Oh!" Marjorie linked her arm in that of her friend and drew her up to the bed. "This gown," she pointed to the pink one, "is mine, and this one," she withdrew her arm, and lifting the blue cloud held it out to Constance, "is yours." The Mary girl drew back sharply. "I don't know what you mean," she muttered. "Please don't make fun of me." "I'm not making fun of you. It's your very own, and after I tell you all about it you'll see just why it happens to be yours." Seated on the edge of the bed beside Marjorie, the wonderful blue gown on her lap, the girl who had never owned a party dress before heard the story of how it happened to be hers. At first she steadily refused its acceptance, but in the end wily Marjorie persuaded her to "just try it on," and when she saw herself, for the first time in her poverty-stricken young life, wearing a real evening gown that glimpsed her unusually white neck and arms she wavered. So intent was she upon examining her reflection that she did not notice Marjorie had slipped from the room, returning with a pair of blue silk stockings and satin slippers to match. "These go with it," she announced. "Oh--I--can't," faltered Constance, making a move toward unhooking the frock. "Of course you can." Marjorie deposited the stockings and slippers on the foot of her bed and going over to Constance put both arms around her. "You are going to have this dress because mother and I want you to. I can't possibly wear it myself, and it's a shame to lay it away in the closet until it is all out of style. Please, please take it. You simply must, for I won't go to the dance unless you do, and you know how dreadfully I should hate to miss it. I mean what I say, too." "I'll take it," said Constance, slowly. Suddenly she slipped from Marjorie's encircling arm and leaned against the chiffonier, covering her face with her hands. "Constance!" Marjorie cried out in surprise. "You mustn't cry." "I--can't--help--it." The words came brokenly. "Ever since I was little I've dreamed about a blue dress like this. You--are--too--good--to--me. Nobody--was--ever--good to me before." It was a quarter to eleven o'clock before Constance, her tears dried, her face beaming with a new expression of happiness, left the Deans' house, accompanied by Mr. Dean, who had come in shortly before ten o'clock and insisted on seeing her safely home. Later, as she prepared for bed in her bare little room she could not help wondering why Marjorie had desired her for a best friend, and had clung to her in spite of the displeasure of certain other girls. She wondered, too, if there were any way in which she might show Marjorie her affection and gratitude, and she made a solemn resolve that if that time came she would prove herself worthy of Marjorie Dean's friendship. CHAPTER XI THE HALLOWE'EN DANCE Saturday dawned as inauspiciously as any other day in the week, but to the high school boys and girls of the little city of Sanford it was a day set apart. Aside from commencement, the great event of their high school year was about to take place. As early as eight o'clock that morning the decorating committee of Weston High School was up and laboring manfully at the task of turning Weston's big gymnasium into a veritable bower of beauty, which should, in due season, draw forth plenty of admiring "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" from their gentle guests. For three days the committee had been borrowing, with lavish promises of safe return, as many cushions, draperies, chairs, divans and various other articles calculated to fitly adorn the ballroom, as their families and friends confidingly allowed them to carry off. Their progress along this line had been painstakingly watched by numerous pairs of sharp, young eyes, and the report had gone forth among the girls that this particular Hallowe'en party was going to be "the nicest dance the boys had ever given." To Marjorie Dean, however, the event promised more than the usual interest. It was to be her first opportunity of entering into the social life of the boys and girls of Sanford. In B---- she had numbered many stanch friends among the young men of Lafayette High School, but she had lived in Sanford for, what seemed to her, a very long time and had not met a single Weston boy. Jerry had promised to introduce Marjorie to her brother and to the tall, fair-haired youth known as the Crane, but so far the young people had not been thrown together. Marjorie had no silly, sentimental ideas in her curly brown head about boys. From early childhood she had been allowed to play with them. She was fond of their games and had always evinced far more interest in marbles, tops and even baseball than she had in dolls. Still, at sixteen, she was not a hoyden nor a tomboy, but a merry, light-hearted girl with a strong, healthy body and a feeling of comradeship toward boys in general which was to carry her far in her later life. At the time she had given Constance the blue gown she had also gained her friend's rather reluctant consent to come to dinner at the Deans' on the great night and dress with her for the dance. Marjorie attributed Constance's hesitation to shyness. Always reticent regarding her home life, Constance, aside from her one outburst relating to her family on the day when she had advised Marjorie against her friendship, had said little or nothing further of her home. So Marjorie did not know that it was not a matter of shyness, but rather a question of who would keep house and get the supper while she was out enjoying herself, that caused Constance to demur before accepting the invitation. Then she remembered that Hallowe'en came on Saturday and decided that she could manage after all. The momentous Saturday dawned clear and cold, with just the suspicion of a fall tang to the air. It was a busy day for the Weston boys, and when at four o'clock the last garland of green had been twined about the gymnasium posts and the gallery railing, while the last flag had been painstakingly hung at the proper angle, the dozen or more of young men who formed the decorating committee viewed their work with boyish pride. "It looks bully," shouted an enthusiastic freshman, with a sweep of his arm which was intended to include the whole room. "If the girls aren't suited with this, they won't be invited over here again in a hurry." "Hear him rave!" sadly commented a sophomore. "It takes a freshman to fall all over himself." "That's because we are young and have more enthusiasm," retorted the freshman, his freckled face alive with an impish grin. "Desist from your squabbles And join in the waltz," caroled an extremely tall, thin youth, pirouetting on his toes, and waving a long trail of ground pine about his head in true première danseuse fashion. There was a shout of laughter from the boys at this burst of terpsichorean art. The tall youth pranced and whirled the length of the gymnasium and back, ending his performance with a swift, high kick and a bow that bade fair to dislocate his spine. "Did I hear someone laugh?" he asked severely, drawing down his face with such an indescribably funny expression that the laughter broke forth afresh. "It is evident that you don't appreciate my rare ability as a dancer." "You mean as a grasshopper," jeered the freckle-faced youth. "Exactly. No, I don't either. How dare you insult me?" He made a lengthy lunge toward the freshman, who promptly dodged behind a tall, good-looking young man who had at that moment joined the group. The lunging youth brought up short with, "Hello, Hal, I thought you had gone." "So I had. Got halfway home and found I'd left my pocketknife here. Maybe I didn't hotfoot it back though. Hope the girls will like the looks of things." He cast approving eyes about the transformed gymnasium. "Jerry's been raving to me ever since school began about her new friend, Marjorie Dean. Have you met her? I understand she is coming to-night." "Not I, I can't tell one of those girls from another," grumbled the Crane. "You know just how much I like girls. I don't mind helping get ready for this business, but I'd rather take a licking than come back here to-night. You'll see me vanishing around the corner and out of here at the very first chance. Girls are an awful nuisance anyway." "Nothing like true chivalry," murmured the freckle-faced freshman. An instant later he was sprinting down the gymnasium as fast as his short legs could carry him, the Crane in hot pursuit. "Cut it out, fellows," laughed Harold Macy. "You'll upset something or other, and then, look out." "If we do it will be the Crane's fault," came plaintively from the freckle-faced freshman, as he dodged his pursuer with an agility born of long practice. "I don't see why he wants to chase me. I merely made a simple remark." "Now that you've owned up to its being simple I'll let you off this time," declared the Crane, magnanimously, "but see that it doesn't happen again." "I will," was the glib promise. "I'm sorry I said you were a grasshopper. You look more like a giraffe." Then he made a hurried exit through a nearby side door, leaving the Crane to vow dire vengeance the next time he ventured within reach. A little further loitering and the group of boys broke up, and, leaving the gymnasium, went home to get ready for the evening's fun and be back in good season to help receive their guests. There were two guests, however, who dressed for the party with entirely different emotions. To Constance it was the most wonderful night of her life. She stole frequent, half-startled glances at her blue satin-shod feet and even pinched a fold of her chiffon gown between her fingers to feel if it were real. Mrs. Dean had arranged the girl's fair curling hair in precisely the same fashion that Mary Raymond wore hers, and when she had been hooked into the precious gown, with its exquisite little sprays of rosebuds, she thought she knew just how poor, lowly Cinderella felt when the fairy godmother touched her with her wand. While she was being dressed she said little, yet Marjorie and her mother knew by the happy light that crowded the wistful look quite out of her expressive eyes that their guest was too deeply appreciative for words. Marjorie, who looked radiantly pretty in her frock of pink silk with its overdress of delicate pink net, welcomed the dance with all the enthusiasm of one who was heartily glad to get in touch with the social side of her school life. She had forgotten for the moment that certain girls in the freshman class had turned against her; that she was no longer a member of the freshman basketball team. She remembered only that it seemed ages since she had attended a party and she hoped fervently that someone would ask her to dance. Jerry and Irma had arranged to call for Marjorie and Constance, as the quartette were to use the Macys' limousine. When the automobile stopped before the house, Jerry insisted on getting out and running into the house to see her friends' gowns. Irma followed her, a smile of good-natured tolerance on her placid face. "Jerry couldn't wait to see your dresses," she said, then exclaimed in wonder: "How lovely you look, Constance, and what a perfectly sweet gown!" Constance colored to the tips of her small ears. Jerry, too, began voicing loud approval, and when, after having stood in line and been inspected by Mrs. Dean, the four girls piled into the limousine, Constance was overcome with the peculiar sensation of experiencing too much happiness. She felt that it could not possibly last. The gymnasium was fairly well filled when they entered and by half past eight o'clock the majority of the guests had arrived. Hardly had they deposited their scarfs in the dressing-room and administered last judicious pats to straying fluffy locks of hair when Jerry, who had disappeared the moment they reached the dressing-room, came hurrying back with the information that Hal was waiting outside to do the honors. "You'd better hurry out and console the Crane, Irma," she added slyly. "He looks about ten feet tall in his evening clothes and perfectly miserable." Following in Jerry's wake Marjorie stepped into the gaily decorated room and the next instant was shaking hands with handsome Hal Macy, the most popular fellow in Weston High. As the brown eyes met the frank manly gaze of the gray, there passed between the two young people a vivid flash of liking and comradeship that was later to develop into a stanch and beautiful friendship. "I am so glad to know you," said Marjorie, earnestly. "I am very fond of your sister." "I am sure we shall be friends," declared Hal Macy. Involuntarily he put out his hand. Marjorie's hand met it, and thus began the friendship between Marjorie Dean and Hal Macy. CHAPTER XII ON THE FIRING LINE Introductions followed thick and fast. More than one pair of boyish eyes had been centered approvingly on the girls that "Macy" was "rushing," and he was soon besieged with gentle reminders not to be stingy, but to give someone else a chance. When the enlivening strains of a popular dance began, Hal Macy pointed significantly to his name on Marjorie's card. She nodded happily then glanced quickly about to see if Constance had a partner. Surely enough, she was just about to dance off with a rather tall, slender lad, whose dark, sensitive face, heavy-browed, black-lashed eyes of intense blue and straight-lipped, sensitive mouth caused her to say impulsively, "Oh, who is that nice-looking boy dancing with Constance?" Hal glanced after the two graceful, gliding figures. "That's Lawrence Armitage. He's one of the best fellows in school and my chum. You ought to hear him play on the violin. He's going to Europe to study when he finishes high school." "How interesting," commented Marjorie as they joined the dancers. Then, as Mignon La Salle, wearing an elaborate apricot satin frock, flashed by them on the arm of a rather stout boy, with a disagreeable face, Marjorie suddenly remembered the existence of Mignon, Muriel and Susan. Her eyes began an eager search for the Picture Girl. Muriel was sure to look pretty in evening dress. Mignon's frock made her look older, she decided. She soon spied Muriel, whose gown of white lace was vastly becoming. So was Susan Atwell's dress of old rose and silver. She wondered a trifle wickedly if they had not been surprised to see Constance blossom out in such brave attire. Then she put the thought aside as unworthy and determined to remember only the good time she was having. After each dance the four friends managed to meet and compare notes before they were off again with their next partners, and as the party progressed it became noticeable that there were no wallflowers in that particular group. "What do you think of that Stevens girl to-night, Mignon?" inquired Susan Atwell as she and the French girl stood together for a moment between dances. Mignon's elfish eyes gleamed angrily. "I think such beggars as she ought never to be allowed to come to our parties. Goodness knows where she borrowed that dress. Perhaps she didn't borrow it." She raised her shoulders significantly. "If Laurie Armitage knew what a low, disreputable family she has, I don't think he'd waste his time with her." "Did Laurie ask you to dance to-night?" asked Susan inquisitively. But with a muttered, "I want to speak to Marcia," Mignon flounced off without answering Susan's question, and the latter confided to Muriel afterward that Mignon was mad as anything because Laurie hadn't noticed her, but was trailing about after Miss Nobody Stevens. Completely unaware that she was adding to the French girl's list of grievances, Constance had danced to her heart's content, quite positive in her own mind that she had never met a more delightful boy than Lawrence Armitage, and that never before had she so greatly enjoyed herself. And now the wonderful party was almost over. She examined her card to see with whom she had the next dance. Then her glance straying down, she noticed that a bit of the tiny plaiting at the bottom of her chiffon skirt had become loose and was hanging. Fearful of a fall, she hurried toward the dressing-room. She would have the maid take a stitch or two in it. But the maid was not in the room. A solitary figure in an apricot gown stood before the mirror, lingered for a moment after Constance entered, then glided noiselessly out. Evincing no sign of having seen Mignon, Constance began a diligent hunt for a needle and thread. Failing to find them, she fastened the loose bit of plaiting with a pin and hurried out into the gymnasium. Her next dance was with Lawrence Armitage. She must not miss it. To her surprise Mignon re-entered the dressing-room as she left it. Constance quickly made her way toward the corner which her friends had selected as their headquarters. "I tore the plaiting of my dress," she said ruefully to Marjorie. "I couldn't find the maid or a needle, so I had to pin it. I'm awfully sorry. I don't know how it happened." "That's nothing," returned Marjorie, cheerfully. "I have a great long tear in my sleeve. Someone caught hold of it in Paul Jones, and away it went. Don't look so guilty over a little thing like that." "You don't----" began Constance, but she never finished. A tense little figure clad in apricot satin confronted her, crying out in tones too plainly audible to those standing near, "Where is my bracelet? What have you done with it?" Constance stared at her accuser in stupefied amazement. Her friends, too, were for the moment speechless. "Answer me!" commanded Mignon. "I left it on the table in the dressing-room. You were the only one in there at the time. When I remembered and came back for it you were just leaving, but the bracelet was gone. No one else except you could have taken it." Still Constance continued to stare in horror at the French girl. She tried to speak, but the words would not come. Attracted by Mignon's shrill tones, the dancers began to gather about the two girls. It was Marjorie who came to her friend's defense. Even as a wee girl Marjorie Dean had possessed a temper. It was not an ordinary temper. It was not easily aroused, but when once awakened it shook her small body with intense fury and the object of her rage was likely to remember her outburst forever after. Knowing it to be her greatest fault, she had striven diligently to conquer it and it burst forth only at rare intervals. To-night, however, the French girl's heartless denunciation of Constance during a moment of happiness was too monstrous to be borne. In a voice shaking with indignation she turned to those surrounding her and said, "Will you please go on dancing? I have something to say to Miss La Salle." They scattered as if by magic, leaving Marjorie facing Mignon, her arm about Constance, her face a white mask, her eyes flaming with scorn. Then she began in low, even tones: "I forbid you to say another word either to or about my friend Constance Stevens. She has not taken your bracelet. She knows nothing about it. I will answer for her as I would for myself. You have accused her of this because you wish to disgrace her in the eyes of her friends and schoolmates. I am not at all sure that you have lost it, but I am very sure that Miss Stevens hasn't seen it. And now I hope I shall never be called upon to speak to you again, for you are the cruelest, most contemptible girl I have ever known; but, if I hear anything further of this, I will take you to Miss Archer, to the Board of Education, if necessary, and make you retract every word. Come on, Constance." With her arm still encircling the now weeping girl, Marjorie made her way to the dressing-room. Jerry followed her within the next five minutes. "The car's here," she announced briefly. "Hal and Laurie and the Crane are going home with us." "Don't you cry, Constance," she soothed, patting the curly, golden head. "Mignon made a goose of herself to-night. The boys are all disgusted, and everyone knows she was making a fuss over nothing. You did exactly right, too, Marjorie, when you sent us all about our business. I'm sorry it happened, but you remember what I tell you, Mignon has hurt herself a great deal more than she has hurt you." CHAPTER XIII A PITCHED BATTLE After the echoes of the dance had died away, basketball received a new impetus that brought it to the fore with a bound. With the renewed interest in the coming game was also noised about the report that "Miss Dean wasn't on the team any longer," and in some unknown fashion the news that she had been "asked" to resign had also gone the round of the study hall. The upper class girls were not particularly interested either in Marjorie or her affairs. She had not lived in Sanford long enough to become well-known to them, and as a rule the juniors and seniors left the bringing up of the freshmen to their sophomore sisters. The sophomores were too much absorbed in the progress of their own team to trouble themselves greatly over what was happening in the freshman organization. If Muriel or Mignon had resigned, then there would have been good cause for predicting an easy victory, for both girls were considered formidable opponents; but Marjorie was new material, untried and unproven. It was in the freshman class, however, that comment ran rife. Since the night of the Weston dance the class had been almost equally divided. A little less than half the girls had either openly or by friendly smiles and nods declared in favor of Marjorie and her friends. The remaining members of the class, with a few neutral exceptions, were apparently devoted to the French girl and Muriel. Among their adherents they also counted Miss Merton, who took no pains to conceal her open dislike for Marjorie, and Marcia Arnold, who even went so far as to try to explain the situation to Miss Archer and was sternly reminded that the principal would take no part in the private differences of her girls unless they had something to do with breaking the rules of the school. The days immediately preceding the game were not cheerful ones for Marjorie. She was still unhappy over her unjust dismissal from the team, and she wondered if it had been much talked of among her classmates. At home she had announced offhandedly her resignation from the team and her mother had asked no questions. Mignon was greatly disturbed and displeased with the advent of Marjorie Dean into Sanford High School. Young as she was, she was very shrewd, and she at once foresaw in Marjorie's pretty face and attractive personality a rival power. To be sure, Marjorie's father was not so rich as her own, but it could not be denied that the Deans lived in a big house on Maple avenue, that Marjorie wore "perfectly lovely" clothes and had plenty of pocket money. In the beginning she had decided that it would be better to make friends with her, but Marjorie's sturdy defense of Constance and utter disregard for Mignon's significant warning had shown her plainly that she could not influence the other girl to do what she considered an unworthy act. Therefore, she had secretly determined to make matters as disagreeable as lay within her power for the two girls during her freshman year. Still she was obliged to admit to herself that her next move would have to be planned and carried out with more discretion. And now it was the Friday before the much-heralded basketball game which was to be played between the sophomores and the freshmen, and the merits and shortcomings of the respective organizations were being eagerly discussed throughout the school. The game was to be called at half-past two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and from all accounts there was to be no lack of spectators. "I wouldn't for anything miss that game to-morrow!" exclaimed Jerry Macy, as she and Constance and Marjorie came down the steps of the school together. "I hope the freshmen get the worst whitewashing that any team in this school has ever had, too," she added, with a deliberate air of spite. "You mustn't say that, Jerry," returned Marjorie, a faint color rising to her cheeks. "You must not let my grievances affect your loyalty to your class." "Do you mean to say that you want that horrid Mignon La Salle and her crowd to win the game, and then go around crowing that it was all because they put you out of the team? You needn't look so as though you didn't believe me. You mark my word, if they win you'll find out that they'll do just as I say. Freshman or no freshman, I'd rather see that nice Ellen Seymour's team win any day." "So would I," echoed Constance, her face darkening with the remembrance of her own wrongs at Mignon's hands. Marjorie was silent for a moment. She knew that Jerry's outburst rose from pure devotion to her friends, and she could not blame Constance for her hostile spirit. Still, was it right to allow personal grudges to warp one's loyalty to one's class? If the record of their class read badly at the end of their freshman year, whose fault would it be? She had fought it all out with herself on the day she wrote her resignation, and had wisely determined, then, not to allow it to spoil her year. "I know how you girls feel about this," she said slowly. "I felt the same way until after I had written my resignation. While I was writing I kept hoping that the team would lose and be sorry they had put someone else in my place. Then it just came to me all of a sudden that a good soldier wouldn't be a traitor to his country even if he were reduced in rank or had something happen unpleasant to him in his camp." She stopped and looked embarrassed. She had forgotten that the girls could not possibly know what she meant. She had never told any one in Sanford High School about the pretty soldier play which she and Mary had carried on for so long. It was one of the little intimate details of her life which she preferred to keep to herself. Should she explain? Jerry's impatient retort made it unnecessary. "The only traitor I know anything about is Mignon," she flung back, failing to grasp the significance of Marjorie's comparison. Constance, however, had flashed a curious glance at her friend, saying nothing. When Geraldine had nodded good-bye at her street, and the two were alone, she asked: "What did you mean by comparing yourself to a soldier, Marjorie?" Marjorie smiled. "I think I'd better tell you all about it. I've never told anyone else." "What a splendid game," mused Constance, half to herself, when Marjorie had finished. "Do you--would you--could I be a soldier, too, Marjorie? It would help me. You don't know. There are so many things." The wistful appeal touched Marjorie. "Of course you can," she assured. "You'd better come to my house to luncheon to-morrow. You can join the army then and go to the game with me." "I'm not going to the game." The look of expectancy died out of Constance's face. "You can't be a soldier if you balk at the first disagreeable thing that comes along," reminded Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend. Constance walked a few steps in stolid silence. She could not make up her mind to watch the playing of the girls whom she felt she hated, even to please Marjorie. It was not until they were about to separate that Marjorie said quietly. "Shall I tell mother you are coming?" and Constance forced herself to reply shortly, "I'll come." By half past one Saturday afternoon every seat in the large gallery surrounding the gymnasium was filled, and by a quarter to two every square foot of standing room was occupied by an enthusiastic audience largely composed of boys and girls of the two high schools. Marjorie's mother had after some little coaxing consented to come to the game with her daughter as her guest. She sat with Constance and Marjorie in the first row of the gallery, while beside her sat none other than Miss Archer, whom they had encountered on their way to the high school and who had invited them to take seats in the front row with her. She had already met Mrs. Dean at the church which both women attended and had conceived an instant liking for the pretty, gracious woman who looked little older than her daughter. "Wasn't it nice of Miss Archer to ask us to sit here?" whispered Marjorie in her friend's ear. "We have mother to thank for it. She is so dear that no one can help liking her." Marjorie looked adoring admiration at her mother's clear-cut profile. "Do you suppose anyone will mistake us for faculty?" Both girls giggled softly at such an improbability. "I never went to a basketball game before," confessed Constance after a time. "What are those girls over there in the red paper hats and big red bows going to do?" "Oh, that's the sophomore class. They lead their class in the songs. The green and purple girls are the freshman chorus." "I didn't even know our class colors were green and purple." "You didn't! Why, that's the reason you and I wore violets to the dance. Almost every freshman had them." "Oh, look!" Constance's eyes were fixed upon a tiny purple figure that had just emerged from a side door in the gymnasium and was walking slowly across the big floor. Immediately afterward a door opened on the opposite side and a diminutive scarlet-clad boy flashed forth. "They are the mascots," explained Marjorie, her gaze on the two children who advanced to the center of the room and gravely shook hands. Then the boy in red announced in a high, clear treble: "Ladies and gentlemen, the noble sophomores!" The door swung wide and a band of lithe blue figures, bearing a huge letter "S" done in scarlet on the fronts of their blouses, pattered into the gymnasium, amid loud applause. "The valiant freshmen!" piped the purple-clad youngster. There was a rush of black-clad girls, with resplendent violet "F's" ornamenting their breasts, another volley of cheers from the audience, then a shrill blast from the referee's whistle rent the air, the teams dropped into their places, the umpire, time-keeper and scorer took their stations, and a tense silence settled over the audience. The referee balanced the ball. Ellen Seymour and Mignon La Salle gathered themselves for the toss. Up it went. The two players leaped for it. The referee's whistle sounded again. The struggle for basketball honors began. A jubilant shout swelled from the throats of the watching freshmen and their fans. Mignon had caught the ball. She sent it speeding toward Helen Thornton, who fumbled it, and losing her head, threw it away from, instead of to the basket. An audible sigh of disapproval came from the freshman contingent as they beheld the ball pass into the hands of the sophomores, who scored shortly afterward. Now that the ball was in their hands the sophomores proceeded to show their friends and opponents a few things about playing. They had the advantage and they kept it. Try as the freshmen might, they could not score. The first unlucky error on the part of Helen Thornton had seemed to turn the tide against them. Toward the close of the first half they managed to score, but all too soon the whistle blew, with the score 8 to 2 in favor of the sophomores. Their fans went wild with delight and their chorus sang or rather shouted gleefully their pet song, beginning, "Hail the sophomores, gallant band! See how bold they take their stand!" to the tune of "Hail Columbia," coming out noisily on the concluding lines, "Firm and steadfast shall they be, Marching on to victory; As a band of players, they Shall be conquerors to-day." The freshmen answered with their song, "The Freshmen's Brave Banner," but they did not sing as spiritedly as they had before the beginning of the game. "I wonder what Jerry and Irma think," commented Marjorie. Their two chums had been detailed to sing in the freshman chorus, which accounted for their absence from the Dean party. "Jerry looks awfully cross," returned Constance, scanning the opposite side of the gallery where Jerry was singing lustily, her straight, heavy brows drawn together in a savage scowl. "There goes the whistle!" Marjorie leaned eagerly forward to see the freshman team come in from the side room which they were using. Her alert eyes noted that Muriel looked sulky, Mignon stormy, Susan Atwell belligerent, Harriet Delaney offended, and that Helen Thornton, the substitute who had replaced her, had been crying. Marjorie felt a thrill of pity for the unfortunate substitute. It looked as though she had spent an unhappy quarter of an hour in the little side room. The teams changed sides and hastened to their places. Again Mignon and Ellen faced each other. Then the whistle shrilled and the second half of the game was on. From the beginning of the second half it looked as though the freshmen might retrieve their early losses. They worked with might and main and made no false moves. Slowly their score climbed to six. So far the sophomores had gained nothing. Then Ellen Seymour made a spectacular throw to the basket and brought her team up two points. With the realization that they were facing defeat the freshmen rallied and made a desperate effort to hold their own, bringing their count up to eight. Two more points were gained and the score was tied, but the time was growing short. Helen Thornton had the ball and was plainly trying to elude the tantalizing sophomore who barred her way. She made a clumsy feint of throwing the ball. It slipped from her fingers and rolled along the floor. There was a mad scramble for it. Mignon and Ellen Seymour leaped forward simultaneously. The crowd in the gallery was aroused to the height of excitement. Marjorie, breathless, leaned far over the gallery rail. She knew every detail of the dear old game. She saw Mignon's and Ellen's heads close together as they sprang; then she saw Mignon give a sly, vicious side lunge which threw Ellen almost off her feet. In the instant it took Ellen to recover herself the French girl had seized the ball and was off with it. Eluding her pursuers, she balanced herself on her toes, and threw her prize toward the freshman basket. But it never reached there. A long blue figure shot straight up into the air. Elizabeth Corey, a girl whose sensational plays had made her a lion during her freshman year, had intercepted the flying ball. She sent it spinning through the air toward the sophomore nearest their basket, whose willing hands received it and threw it home. Mignon's trickery had availed her little. The sophomores had won. CHAPTER XIV WHAT HAPPENED ON BLUE MONDAY For the next ten minutes the air was rent with the lusty voices of the sophomore chorus and the joyous cheers of their fans. No echoing song arose from freshman lips. The vanquished team had already betaken themselves to their quarters, but the sophomore players were holding an impromptu reception on the ground they had so hotly contested. Marjorie and Constance watched them eagerly. "Go downstairs, girls, and join the hero worshipers," smiled Miss Archer. "We will excuse you, won't we, Mrs. Dean?" "Yes; after the fervent manner in which they hung over the railing it would be cruel to keep them with us," smiled Mrs. Dean. "Let's find Jerry and Irma," said Marjorie, as they paused in the open doorway of the gymnasium. Hardly had she spoken, when Jerry's unmistakable tones rose behind her. The stout girl was talking excitedly, a rising note of indignation in her voice. "I tell you I saw her push against Ellen Seymour," she declared. "You must have seen her, too, Irma." "I thought so," admitted Irma, "but I wasn't sure." "Well, I was. Oh, girls, we were just going upstairs to find you! Now that you're here, let's go into the gym, and join the celebration. I don't know how you feel about it, but I'm glad the sophomores won," Jerry ended, with an emphatic wag of her head. "Listen, Jerry," said Marjorie, earnestly, "you were talking so loudly when you were behind us that I couldn't help hearing you. Did it seem to you as though Mignon deliberately pushed against Ellen Seymour?" "I know she did," reiterated Jerry. "I watched her, for she is always unfair and tricky. Anyone who has ever played on a team could tell. I'm surprised that you----" She stopped abruptly. "I believe you saw her, too. Confess, you did see her; now, didn't you?" Marjorie nodded. "Now's your chance to get even with her. Let's go to Miss Archer and tell her," proposed the stout girl. "She'll send for Ellen Seymour and then, good-bye freshman basketball for a while. But what do you care? You aren't on the team any more. It would serve them right at that." "Oh, no," Marjorie looked her horror at the bare idea of tale-bearing. "Just as you say," shrugged Jerry. They were still standing just inside the door watching the sophomore team receiving congratulations, when they beheld a familiar figure in a black gymnasium suit pause squarely in front of Ellen Seymour. They saw Ellen start angrily, then a confused murmur of voices arose and the circle of fans and players closed in about the two girls. "What's happened?" demanded Jerry. "Come on, girls." She hurried toward the crowd, the three girls at her heels. Even as they joined the throng they heard Mignon declare in a tone freighted with malice! "You purposely pushed against me when we ran for the ball in our last play and nearly threw me off my feet. You know that deliberate pushing, striking or any kind of roughness is forbidden, and you could be disqualified as a player. I do not know where the referee's eyes were, I am sure, but I do know that you are not fit to be on a team, and I can prove it by the other players of my team. I shall certainly complain to Miss Archer about it the first thing Monday morning." "All right, I'll meet you in Miss Archer's office the first thing after chapel," answered Ellen, coolly, ignoring everything save the French girl's final threat. "Come along, girls." She beckoned to the other members of her team, who had listened in blank amazement to the bold accusation. With her head held high, a careless smile on her fine face, Ellen marched through the crowd, which made way for her, and across the gymnasium to the sophomores' room, accompanied by her team. "Isn't that a shame?" burst out Jerry. "Ellen will have an awful time to prove herself innocent. She never touched Mignon. It was Mignon who pushed her away. I saw her with my own eyes, and so did you, Marjorie. Say," she looked blankly at Marjorie, "do you suppose it's our duty to go to Miss Archer and tell her what we saw?" "I--don't--know." The words came doubtfully. "Perhaps it will all blow over. I hate to carry tales. Suppose we wait until Monday and see? Mignon may change her mind. Even if she doesn't, Miss Archer may not listen to her. But, if she should, then we'll have to do it, Jerry. It wouldn't be fair to Ellen to keep still about it; I heard Miss Archer tell mother Monday that she would not tolerate the least bit of roughness in the girls' games. She knew of several schools where girls had been tripped or knocked down and seriously hurt. She said that if any reports of rough playing were brought to her she would 'deal severely with the offender.' Those were her very words." "All right; we'll wait," agreed Jerry. "I'm not crazy about reporting even Mignon. Ellen can take care of herself, I guess." So the matter was apparently settled for the time, and the four girls strolled home discussing the various features of the game. "How did you like the game, Captain?" she asked, saluting, as an hour later she entered the living-room, where her mother sat reading. "Very well, indeed," replied her mother, laying down her magazine. "Neither Miss Archer nor I understand all the fine points of the game, but we managed to keep track of most of the plays. By the way, Marjorie, when you go to school on Monday morning, I wish you to take this magazine to Miss Archer. It contains an article which I have marked for her. It is quite in line with a discussion we had this afternoon." "I'll remember," promised Marjorie, and when Monday morning came she kept her word, starting for school with the magazine under her arm. "I'll run up to Miss Archer's office with it after chapel," she decided. When the morning service was over, Marjorie returned to the study hall, and obtained Miss Merton's grudging permission to execute her commission. "I wish to see Miss Archer," she said shortly, as Marcia Arnold looked up from her writing just long enough to cast a half insolent glance of inquiry in her direction. "You can't see her. She's busy." The color flew to Marjorie's cheeks at the bold refusal. Her first impulse was to turn and walk away. She could see Miss Archer later. Then her natural independence asserted itself, and she determined to stand her ground at least long enough to discover whether or not Miss Archer were really too busy to be seen. "Then I'll wait here until she is at liberty." Marcia frowned and seemed on the verge of further unpleasantness when the sound of a buzzer from the inner office sent her hurrying toward it. As she opened the door, Marjorie caught a fleeting glimpse of two persons; one was Miss Archer, her face set and stern, the other Mignon La Salle, her black eyes blazing with satisfaction. "Oh!" gasped Marjorie, remembering Mignon's threat, "she is reporting poor Ellen." The door swung open again and the secretary glided past her and out into the corridor with the peculiar sliding gait that had caused Jerry to liken her to a "nice, wriggly snake." "She is going to bring Ellen here," guessed Marjorie. Sure enough, within five minutes Marcia returned, followed by Ellen Seymour, whose pale, defiant face meant battle. Again the door of the inner office closed with a portending click. Marcia Arnold did not return to the outer office. Marjorie waited apprehensively, wondering if Ellen were holding her own. Then to her utter amazement, the secretary appeared with a sulky, "Miss Archer wants you," and returned to her desk. "Good morning, Miss Dean," was the principal's grave salutation. "I did not know until I asked Miss Arnold to go for you that you were in the outer office." "I have been waiting to give you the magazine that mother promised you. She asked me to say to you that she had marked the article she wished you to read." "Please thank your mother for me," returned Miss Archer, her face relaxing, "and thank you for bringing it. To return to why I sent for you, you understand the game of basketball, do you not?" "Yes," answered Marjorie, simply. "You have played on a team?" inquired the principal. "Yes." "Did I not see you at practice with the freshmen shortly before the game?" Marjorie colored hotly. "I made the team, but afterward was asked to resign because I did not play well enough." "Who asked you to resign?" "The note was signed by the manager of the team." "And is that the reason you stopped playing?" broke in Ellen Seymour, with impulsive disregard for her surroundings. "I might have known it." Then she whirled upon Mignon in a burst of indignation as scathing as it was unexpected. "How contemptible you are! I haven't the least doubt that you are to blame for Miss Dean's leaving the team. You knew her to be a skilful player and you were afraid she would outplay you. You know, too, that when we jumped for the ball Saturday you purposely pushed me away from it, almost throwing me down. It didn't do you the least bit of good, and because you are spiteful you have set out to disgrace me and put a stain on the sophomores' victory." "How dare you? You are not telling the truth! Prove your charge against me, if you can," challenged Mignon, with blazing eyes. "It will be easier to prove than yours against me," flung back Ellen. "Girls, this is disgraceful! Not another word." Miss Archer's tone of stern command had an immediate effect on the belligerents. "Please pardon me, Miss Archer." There was real contrition in Ellen's voice. "I didn't mean to be so rude. I lost control of my temper." Mignon, however, made no apology. Her elfish eyes turned from Marjorie to Ellen with an expression of concentrated hate. "Now, girls," began Miss Archer, firmly, "we are going to settle this difficulty here in my office before anyone of you goes back to her classes. That is the reason I have sent for Miss Dean. When Miss La Salle entered her complaint against you, Miss Seymour, I decided that you should have a chance to speak in your own behalf. No sooner were you brought face to face than one accused the other of treachery. From the front row of the gallery, where I sat on the afternoon of the game, I could see every move of the players, but my eyes were not sufficiently trained to detect the roughness of which you accuse each other. Then I remembered that Miss Dean sat next to me and that she was a seasoned player. So I sent for her to ask her in your presence if she saw the alleged roughness on the part of either of you." There was a half-smothered exclamation of dismay from Marjorie. Ellen was regarding her in mute appeal. Mignon's lips curled back in a sneer. It was dreadful to remain under a cloud. "I am waiting for you to speak, Miss Dean." Marjorie drew a long breath. "Miss Seymour spoke the truth. I saw Miss La Salle purposely push Miss Seymour away from the ball. Someone else saw her, too--someone who sat on the other side of the gallery." Her tones carried unmistakable truth with them. "It isn't true! It isn't true!" Mignon's voice rose to an enraged shriek. "She only says so because she wants to pay me for making her resign from the team." "What did I tell you?" asked Ellen Seymour, triumphantly. "She admits that she was responsible for that resignation." "That will do," commanded Miss Archer, raising her hand. Ellen subsided meekly. Realizing that she had said too much, Mignon quieted as suddenly as she had burst forth. "Miss Dean, are you perfectly sure of what you say?" questioned Miss Archer. "I am quite sure," was the steady answer. A seemingly endless silence followed Marjorie's reply. The principal surveyed the trio searchingly. "What girls comprise the freshman team?" At last she put the question coldly to Mignon. The French girl sulkily named them. Miss Archer made note of their names. The principal then pressed the buzzer that summoned her secretary. "Send these young women to me at once," she directed, handing Marcia the slip of paper. Turning to the three girls before her she said, "Miss Seymour, you may go back to the study hall. Unless you hear from me further you are exonerated from blame. I shall not need you either, Miss Dean. I am sorry that I was obliged to involve you in this affair, but I am glad that you were not afraid to tell the truth." Marjorie turned to follow Ellen Seymour from the room, when the door opened and the freshman basketball team filed in. For a brief instant the principal's attention was fixed upon the entering girls, and in that instant Mignon found time to mutter in Marjorie's ear, "I'll never forgive you for this and you'll be sorry. Just wait and see if you're not." CHAPTER XV MARJORIE'S WONDERFUL DISCOVERY What transpired in Miss Archer's private office on that memorable morning when the freshman team visited her in a body was a subject that agitated high school circles for at least a week afterward. Other than the team no one could furnish any authentic information as to what had actually been said and done, but the amazing report that "Miss Archer had disbanded the freshman basketball team" was on every one's tongue. Whether or not another team would be selected no one knew. That would depend wholly upon Miss Archer's decision. That the members of the team had offended seriously there could be no doubt. As for the ex-members themselves, they were absolutely mute on the subject. Among themselves, however, they had a great deal to say, and, one and all, held Marjorie Dean responsible for their downfall. When Miss Archer had commanded their presence in her office that eventful morning it was not in connection with the conflicting statements of Ellen Seymour and Mignon La Salle. Satisfied that Mignon was the real offender, she had read that young woman a lesson on untruthfulness and treachery in the presence of the team that left her white with mortification, her stormy black eyes alone betraying her rage. Then Miss Archer proceeded to the other business at hand, which was an inquiry into their reason for requesting Marjorie Dean's resignation from the team. One by one, the four girls, with the exception of Helen Thornton, were questioned separately and acknowledged, in shamefaced fashion, that Marjorie was a really good player. "Then why," Miss Archer had asked sharply, "did you ask her to resign?" There had been no answer to this pertinent question, and then had followed their principal's rebuke, sharp and stinging. "It is not often that I feel impelled to interfere in your games," she had said. "Not long since I refused to listen to something Miss Arnold tried to tell me; but, when several heartless girls deliberately combine to humiliate and discomfit a companion under the flimsy pretext of 'the good of the team' it is time to call a halt. Four girls were prime movers in this contemptible plan. One girl was an accessory, and therefore equally guilty. In justice to the traditions of Sanford High School the girl who has suffered at your hands, and in defense of my own self-respect, these offenders must be punished. So I am going to disband your team and forbid any one of you to play basketball again until I am satisfied that you know something of the first principles of honor and fair play. However, I shall not forbid basketball to the freshmen. The innocent shall not suffer with the guilty. A new team will be chosen which I trust will be a credit rather than a detriment to our high school. You are dismissed." Five girls, whose faces were an open indication of their chagrin, had left the principal's office in a far more chastened frame of mind than when they had entered it. Miss Archer's arraignment had been a most unpleasant surprise, and in discussing it among themselves afterward, Helen Thornton had caused Mignon to pour forth a torrent of biting words by saying sulkily, that if Mignon had let Ellen Seymour alone everything would have been all right. "Do you mean to say that you believe those miserable girls?" Mignon had cried out. And Helen had answered with marked sarcasm, "No; I believe what I saw with my own eyes, and I wish I'd never heard of your old team. I'm ashamed to think I ever listened to you," and had walked away from the group with a sore and penitent heart, never to return to their circle again. All this was, of course, kept strictly secret by the other four ex-members, who joined hands and vowed solemnly that they would weather the gale together. The disbanding of the team by Miss Archer and Ellen Seymour's vindication, could not be hushed up, however, and, despite their protests that Miss Archer was unfair, and that the statements of certain other girls were wholly unreliable, they lost ground with their classmates. Marjorie, too, had been made to feel the weight of their displeasure, for they took pains to circulate the report that it was she who had told tales to the principal, and thus brought them to grief. Several of the sophomores, including Ellen Seymour, heatedly denied the rumor, and a number of freshmen also took up the cudgels in her behalf. Jerry, Irma and Constance stood firmly by her, and, although the poor little lieutenant was far more hurt over the allegation than she would show, she kept a brave face to the front and tried to ignore the ill-natured thrusts launched chiefly by Muriel and Mignon. But in the midst of this uncomfortable season Marjorie made a wonderful discovery. It was quite by chance that she made it, and it concerned Constance Stevens. Although the Mary girl had apparently grown very fond of Marjorie and had almost entirely dropped her strange cloak of reserve, she had never invited the girl who had so graciously befriended her to her home. From the words of vehement protest which Constance had spoken on that day when Marjorie had followed her and protested that they become friends, she had partly understood the other girl's position in regard to her family, and had tactfully avoided the subject ever afterward. She had talked the matter over with her captain, and they had decided to respect Constance's reticence and keep religiously away from anything bordering on the discussion of her family. It was on a crisp November afternoon, several days before Thanksgiving, that Marjorie made her discovery. As she walked into the living-room, her books on her arm, her cheeks pink from the sharp, frosty air, her mother hung up the telephone with: "Marjorie, do you think Constance would like to go with us to the theatre to-night? Your father has just telephoned me that he has four tickets." "She'd love it. I know she would. I'll hurry straight down to her house and ask her." Marjorie dropped her books on the table with a joyful thump. "Very well; but I wish you would wait until I finish my letter, then you can post it on your way there." "Did Nora bake chocolate cake to-day?" asked Marjorie irrelevantly. "Yes." There was a rush of light feet from the room. Three minutes later Marjorie returned, a huge piece of chocolate layer cake in her hand. "It's the best ever," she declared between bites. By the time the cake was eaten the letter was ready. "Hurry, dear," her mother called after her; "we shall have an early dinner." It did not recur to Marjorie until within sight of the house where Constance lived that she was an uninvited guest. What a queer-looking little house it was! Long ago it had been painted a pale gray with white trimmings, but now it was a dingy, hopeless color that defied description. A child's dilapidated tricycle stood on the rickety porch, which was approached by a flight of three unstable-looking steps. Her mind centered upon her errand, Marjorie paid small attention to her surroundings. She bounded up the steps, searching with alert eyes for a bell. Finding none she doubled her fist to knock, but paused suddenly with upraised arm. From within the house came the vibrant notes of a violin mingled with the soft accompaniment of a piano. "Schubert's 'Serenade,'" breathed Marjorie, delightedly, lowering her arm. "I simply must listen." Suddenly a voice took up the plaintive strain. It was so high and sweet and clear that the listener caught her breath in sheer amazement. She stood spellbound, while the wonderful voice sang on and on to the last note of the exquisite "Serenade" that seemed to end in a long-drawn sigh. Marjorie knocked lightly, but no one responded. The singer had begun again. This time it was Nevin's "Oh That We Two Were Maying." She listened again; then, to her surprise, the door was gently opened. Before her stood the tiny figure of a boy whose great black eyes looked curiously into hers. Laying his finger upon his lips, he gravely motioned with his other hand for her to enter. Then as he limped away from the door Marjorie saw he was a cripple. Marjorie stepped noiselessly into the room, her eyes on the piano. A man was seated before it. She could not see his face, but she noted that he had an enormous shock of snow-white hair. At one side of him stood another old man, his thin cheek resting lovingly against his violin, his whole soul intent upon the flood of melody he was bringing forth, while on the other side of the pianist, her quiet face fairly transfigured stood Constance, pouring out her very heart in song. CHAPTER XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE LITTLE GRAY HOUSE Intent upon their music, neither the singer nor the two men were immediately aware of the presence of another person in the room. "Oh, that we two were lying Under the churchyard sod," sang Constance, voicing the pent-up longing of Kingsley's tenderly regretful words and Nevin's wistful setting, while the violin sang a subdued, pensive obligato. Marjorie stood very still, her gaze fastened upon Constance. The quaint little boy stared at Marjorie with an equally intent interest. Thus, as Constance began the last line the earnest, compelling regard of the brown eyes caused her own to be turned toward Marjorie. "Oh!" she ejaculated in faltering surprise. "Where--where did you come from? What made you come here?" There was mingled amazement, consternation and embarrassment in the question. The white-haired pianist swung round on his stool, and the old man with the violin raised his head and regarded the unexpected visitor out of two mildly inquiring blue eyes. "I'm sorry," began Marjorie, her cheeks hot with the shame of being unwelcome. "I suppose I ought not to have come, but----" Constance sprang to her side and catching her hands said contritely, "Forgive me, dear, and please don't feel hurt. I--you see--I never invite anyone here--because--well, just because we are so poor. I thought you wouldn't care to come and so----" "I've always wanted to come," interrupted Marjorie, eagerly. "I don't think you are poor. I think you are rich to have this wonderful music. I never dreamed you could sing, Constance. What made you keep it a secret?" "No one ever liked me well enough to care to know it until you came," returned Constance simply. "I meant to tell you, but I kept on putting it off." While the conversation went on between the two girls the one old man was going over a pile of ragged-edged music on the piano, while the other was industriously engaged with a troublesome E string. "Father, Uncle John!" called Constance, gently, "come here. I want you to meet my friend Marjorie Dean." Both musicians left their self-appointed tasks and came forward. Marjorie gave her soft little hand to each in turn, and they bowed over it with almost old-style courtesy. She looked curiously at Constance's father. His daughter did not in any way resemble him. His was the face of a dreamer, rather thin, with clean-cut features and dark eyes that seemed to see past one and into another world of his own creation. In spite of his white hair he was not old. Not more than forty-five, or, perhaps fifty, Marjorie decided. The other man was much older, sixty at least. He was very thin, and his gentle face wore a pathetically vacant expression that brought back to Marjorie the rush of bitter words Constance had poured forth on the day when she had declined to be friends. "We take care of an old man who people say is crazy, and folks call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds." "I came here to see if Constance could go to the theatre with us to-night," explained Marjorie, rather shyly. "No, thank you, I won't sit down. I promised mother I'd hurry home." "It is very kind in you to ask my daughter to share your pleasure," said Constance's father, his somber face lighting with a smile that reminded Marjorie of the sun suddenly bursting from behind a cloud. "I should like to have her go." "Have her go," repeated the thin old man, bowing and beaming. "Is there a band at the theatre?" piped a small, solemn voice. Marjorie smiled down into the earnest, upraised face of the little boy. "Oh, yes, there is a big, big band at the theatre." "Then take me, too," returned the child calmly. "No, no," reproved Constance gently, "Charlie can't go to-night." A grieved look crept into the big black eyes. Without further words the quaint little boy limped over to the old man, whom Constance had addressed as Uncle John, and hid behind him. Forgetting formality, tender-hearted Marjorie sprang after him. She knelt beside him and gathered him into her arms. He made no resistance, merely regarded her with wistful curiosity. "Listen, dear little man," she said, "you and Constance and I will go to the place where the big band plays some Saturday afternoon, and we'll sit on the front seat where you can see every single thing they do. Won't that be nice?" The boy nodded and slipped his tiny hand in hers. "I'm going to play in the band when I grow up," he confided. "Connie can go to-night if she promises to tell me all about it afterward." "You dear little soul," bubbled Marjorie, stroking his thick hair that fell carelessly over his forehead and almost into his bright eyes. "I'll tell you all about everything, Charlie," promised Constance. "That means you will go," cried Marjorie, joyfully, rising from the floor, the child's hand still in hers. "Yes, I will," returned Constance hesitatingly, "only--I--haven't anything pretty to wear." "Pretty to wear," repeated Uncle John faithfully. "Never mind that," reassured Marjorie. "Just wear a fresh white blouse with your blue suit. I'm sure that will look nice." "Will look nice," agreed Uncle John so promptly, that Marjorie started slightly, then, noting that Constance seemed embarrassed, she nodded genially at the old man, who smiled back like a pleased child. Remembering her mother's injunction, Marjorie took hasty leave of the Stevens family and set off for home at a brisk pace. Her thoughts were as active as her feet. She had seen enough in the last fifteen minutes to furnish ample food for reflection, and she now believed she understood her friend's strange reserve, which at times rose like a wall between them. What strange and yet what utterly delightful people the Stevens were! They really did remind one a little of gypsies. And what a queer room she had been ushered into by the odd little boy named Charlie! She smiled to herself as she contrasted her mother's homelike, yet orderly living-room with the room she had just left, which evidently did duty as a hall, living-room, music-room and also a playroom for little Charlie. There were hats and coats and musical instruments, pile upon pile of well-thumbed music, and numerous dilapidated playthings that bore the marks of too ardent treasuring, all scattered about in reckless confusion. No wonder Constance had fought shy of acquaintanceships which were sure to ripen into schoolgirl visits. Poor Constance! How dreadful it must be to have to keep house, cook the meals and try to go to school! The Stevenses seemed to be very poor in everything except music. She wondered how they lived. Perhaps the two men played in orchestras. Still she had never heard anything about them in school, where news circulated so quickly. "I'm going to ask Constance to tell me all about it," she decided, as she skipped up the front steps. "Perhaps I can help her in some way." Constance rang the Deans' bell at exactly half past seven o'clock. Her blue eyes were sparkling with joyous light, and her usually grave mouth broke into little curves of happiness. It was to be a red-letter night for her. The play was a clean, wholesome drama of American home life in which the leading part was taken by a young girl, who appeared to be scarcely older than Marjorie and Constance. The latter sat like one entranced during the first act, and Marjorie spoke to her twice before she heard. "Constance," she breathed, "won't you please, please tell me all about it?" "About what?" counter-questioned the other girl, reddening. "About your father and your wonderful voice, and, oh, all there is to tell." "Marjorie," the Mary girl's tones were strained and wistful, "do you really think it is wonderful?" "You will be a great singer some day," returned Marjorie, simply. "Oh, do you believe that?" Constance clasped her hands in ecstasy. "I wish to be--I hope to be. If I could only go away to New York city and study! Before we came here we lived in Buffalo. Father played in an orchestra there. He had a friend who taught singing and I studied with him for a year. Then he died suddenly of pneumonia and right after that father fell on an icy pavement and broke his leg. By the time it was well again another man had his place in the orchestra. He had a few pupils, and long before his leg was well he used to sit in a big chair and teach them. The money that they paid him for lessons was all we had to live on." The rising of the curtain on the second act cut short the narrative. With "I'll tell you the rest later," Constance turned eager eyes toward the stage. "Isn't it a beautiful play?" she sighed, when the act ended. "Lovely," agreed Marjorie; "now tell me the rest." "Oh, there isn't much more to tell. It was the last of March when father got hurt, but it was the middle of May before he was quite well again. Then summer came and most of his pupils went away and we grew poorer and poorer. Just when we were the poorest the editor of a new musical magazine wrote him and asked him to write some articles. A friend of father's in New York told the editor about father and gave him our address. We decided to move to a smaller city, where we could live more cheaply, and some of the musicians that father knew gave him a benefit concert. The money from that helped us to move to Sanford, and father has been writing articles off and on for the magazine ever since then. It's better for all of us to be here. Uncle John isn't quite like other people. When he was a young man he studied to be a virtuoso on the violin. He overworked and had brain fever just before he was to give his first recital. After he got well he never played the same again. He had spent all the money his father left him on his musical education, so he had to find work wherever he could. He played the violin in different orchestras, but he was so absent-minded that he couldn't be trusted. Sometimes he would go on playing after all the rest of the orchestra had finished, and then he began to repeat things after people. "When father first met him they were playing in the same theatre orchestra. One night a great tragedian was playing 'Hamlet,' and poor Uncle John grew so interested that he said things after him as loud as he could. The actor was dreadfully angry, and so was the leader of the orchestra. He made the poor old man leave the theatre. After that he played in other orchestras a little, but he couldn't be depended upon, so no one wanted to hire him. "Father did all he could to help him, but he grew queerer and queerer. Then he disappeared, and father didn't see him for a long while. One cold winter night he found him wandering about the streets, so he brought him to his room and he has been with father ever since. That was years ago, before father was married. He isn't really my uncle. I just call him that. The musicians used to call him 'Crazy Johnny.' His name is John Roland." Although Constance had averred that there wasn't "much to tell," the third act interrupted her recital, and it was during the interval before the beginning of the last act that Marjorie heard the story of the fourth member of the Stevenses' household, little lame Charlie. "Charlie has been with us a little over four years," returned Constance, in answer to Marjorie's interested questions. "He is seven years old, but you would hardly believe it. His mother died when he was a tiny baby, and his father was a dreadful drunkard. He was a musician, too, a clarionet player. He let Charlie fall downstairs when he was only two years old and hurt his hip. That's why he's lame. His father used to go away and be gone for days and leave the poor baby with his neighbors. Father found out about it and took Charlie away from him, and we've had him with us ever since." "It was splendid in your father to be so good to the poor old man and Charlie," said Marjorie, warmly. "Father is the best man in the world," returned Constance, with fond pride. "He is such a wonderful musician, too. He can play on the violin as well as the piano, and he teaches both. If only he could get plenty of work here in Sanford. He has a few pupils, and with the articles he writes we manage to live, but the magazine is a small one and does not pay much for them. He has tried ever so many times to get into the theatre orchestra, but there seems to be no chance for him. I think we'll go somewhere else to live before long. Perhaps to a big city again. I'd love to stay here and go through high school with you, but I am afraid I can't. I'm almost eighteen and I ought to work." "Oh, you mustn't think of leaving Sanford!" exclaimed Marjorie, in sudden dismay. "What would I do without you? Perhaps things will be brighter after a while. I am sure they will. Why couldn't your father----" But the last act was on, and she did not finish what had promised to be a suggestion. Nevertheless, a plan had taken shape in her busy mind, which she determined to discuss with her father and mother. As if to further her design they found Mr. Stevens waiting outside the theatre for his daughter and Marjorie lost no time in presenting him to her father and mother. He greeted the Deans gravely, thanking them for their kindness to his daughter, with a fine courtesy that made a marked impression on them, and after he had gone his way, a happy, smiling Constance beside him, Marjorie slipped her arms in those of her father and mother, and walking between them told Constance's story all over again. "I think it is positively noble in Mr. Stevens to take care of that old man and little Charlie, when they have no claim upon him," she finished. "He has a remarkably fine, sensitive face," said Mrs. Dean. "I suppose like nearly all persons of great musical gifts, he lacks the commercial ability to manage his affairs successfully." "Don't you believe that if the people of Sanford only knew how beautifully Mr. Stevens and the other man played together they might hire them for afternoon teas and little parties and such things?" asked Marjorie, with an earnestness that made her father say teasingly, "Are you going to enlist in his cause as his business manager?" "You mustn't tease me, General," she reproved. "I'm in dead earnest. I was just thinking to-night that Mr. Stevens ought to have an orchestra of his own. You know mother promised me a party on my birthday, and that's not until January tenth. Why can't I have it the night before Thanksgiving? That will be next Wednesday. Mr. Stevens and Mr. Roland can play for us to dance. A violin and piano will be plenty of music. If everybody likes my orchestra, then someone will be sure to want to hire it for some of the holiday parties. Don't you think that a nice plan?" "Very," laughed her father. "I see you have an eye to business, Lieutenant." "You can have your party next week, if you like, dear," agreed Mrs. Dean, who made it a point always to encourage her daughter's generous impulses. "Then I'll send my invitations to-morrow," exulted Marjorie. "Hurrah for the Stevens orchestra! Long may it wave!" She gave a joyous skip that caused her father to exclaim "Steady!" and her mother to protest against further jolting. "Beg your pardon, both of you," apologized the frisky lieutenant, giving the arms to which she clung an affectionate squeeze, "but I simply had to rejoice a little. Won't Constance be glad? I could never care quite so much for Constance as I do for Mary, but I like her next best. She's a dear and we're going to be friends as long as we live." But clouds have an uncomfortable habit of darkening the clearest skies and even sworn friendships are not always timeproof. CHAPTER XVII MARJORIE MEETS WITH A LOSS By eight o'clock the following night twenty-eight invitations to Marjorie Dean's Thanksgiving party were on their way. No one of the invitations ran the risk of being declined. Marjorie had invited only those boys and girls of her acquaintance who were quite likely to come and when the momentous evening arrived they put in twenty-eight joyful appearances and enjoyed the Deans' hospitality to the full. But to Constance, who wore her beautiful blue gown and went to the party under the protection of her father, whose somber eyes gleamed with a strange new happiness, and old John Roland, whose usually vacant expression had changed to one of inordinate pride, it was, indeed, a night to be remembered by the three. Charlie was to remain at home in the care of a kindly neighbor. The long living-room had been stripped of everything save the piano, and the polished hardwood floor was ideal to dance on. Uncle John had received careful instructions beforehand from both Mr. Stevens and Constance as to his behavior, and with a sudden flash of reason in his faded eyes had gravely promised to "be good." He had kept his word, too, and from his station beside the piano he had played like one inspired from the moment his violin sang the first magic strains of the "Blue Danube" until it crooned softly the "Home, Sweet Home" waltz. The dancers were wholly appreciative of the orchestra, as their coaxing applause for more music after every number testified, and before the evening was over several boys and girls had asked Marjorie if "those dandy musicians" would play for anyone who wanted them. "Mother's giving a tea next week, and I'm going to tell her about these men," the Crane had informed Marjorie. "Hal and I are going to give a party before long, and we'll have them, too," Jerry had promised. Lawrence Armitage, who had managed to be found near Constance the greater part of the evening, insisted on being introduced to her father, and during supper, which was served at small tables in the dining-room, he had sat at the same table with the two players and Constance, and kept up an animated and interested discussion on music with Mr. Stevens. But the crowning moment of the evening had been when, after supper, the guests had gathered in the living-room to do stunts, and Constance had sung Tosti's "Good-bye" and "Thy Blue Eyes," her exquisite voice coming as a bewildering surprise to the assembled young people. How they had crowded around her afterward! How glad Marjorie had been at the success of her plan, and how Mr. Stevens' eyes had shone to hear his daughter praised by her classmates! In less than a week afterward Constance rose from obscurity to semi-popularity. The story of her singing was noised about through school until it reached even the ears of the girls who had despised her for her poverty. Muriel and Susan had looked absolute amazement when a talkative freshman told the news as she received it from a girl who had attended the party. Mignon, however, was secretly furious at the, to her, unbelievable report that "that beggarly Stevens girl could actually sing." She had never forgiven Constance for refusing to dishonorably assist her in an algebra test, and after her unsuccessful attempt to fasten the disappearance of her bracelet upon Constance she had disliked her with that fierce hatred which the transgressor so often feels for the one he or she has wronged. Next to Constance in Mignon's black book came Marjorie, who had caused her to lose her proud position of center on the team, and in Miss Merton and Marcia Arnold she had two staunch adherents. Just why Miss Merton disliked Marjorie was hard to say. Perhaps she took violent exception to the girl's gay, gracious manner and love of life, the early years of which she was living so abundantly. At any rate, she never lost an opportunity to harass or annoy the pretty freshman, and it was only by keeping up an eternal vigilance that Marjorie managed to escape constant, nagging reproof. Last of all, Marcia Arnold had a grievance against Marjorie. She was no longer manager of the freshman team. A disagreeable ten minutes with Miss Archer after the freshman team had been disbanded, on that dreadful day, had been sufficient to deprive her of her office, and arouse her resentment against Marjorie to a fever pitch. There were still a number of girls in the freshman class who clung to Muriel and Mignon, but they were in the minority. At least two-thirds of 19-- had made friendly overtures not only to Marjorie, but to Constance as well, and as the short December days slipped by, Marjorie began to experience a contentment and peace in her school that she had not felt since leaving dear old Franklin High. "Everything's going beautifully, Captain," she declared gaily to her mother in answer to the latter's question, as she flashed into the living-room one sunny winter afternoon, with dancing eyes and pink cheeks. "It couldn't be better. I like almost every one in school; Constance's father has more playing than he can do; you bought me that darling collar and cuff set yesterday; I've a long letter from Mary; I've studied all my lessons for to-day, and--oh, yes, we're going to have creamed chicken and lemon meringue pie for dinner. Isn't that enough to make me happy for one day at least?" "What a jumble of happiness!" laughed her mother. "Isn't it, though? And now Christmas is almost here. That's another perfectly gigantic happiness," was Marjorie's extravagant comment. "I love Christmas! That reminds me, Mother, you said you would help me play Santa Claus to little Charlie. I don't believe he has ever spent a really jolly Christmas. Of course, Mr. Stevens and Constance will give him things, but he needs a whole lot more presents besides. He climbed into my lap and told me all about what he wanted when I was over there yesterday. I promised to speak to Santa Claus about it. Charlie isn't going to hang up his stocking. He's going to leave a funny little wagon that he drags around for Santa Claus. He told me very solemnly that he knew Santa Claus couldn't fill it, for Connie had said that he never had enough presents to go around, but she was sure he would have a few left when he reached Charlie. "So Constance and I are going to decorate the wagon with evergreen and hang strings of popcorn on it and fill it full of presents after he goes to bed. He has promised to go very early Christmas eve. Mr. Roland has a little violin he is going to give him, and Mr. Stevens has a cunning chair for him. He has never had a chair of his own. Constance has some picture books and toys, and I'm going to buy some, too. I saved some money from my allowance this month on purpose for this." Marjorie's face glowed with generous enthusiasm as she talked. "I am going shopping day after to-morrow," said Mrs. Dean, "and as long as it is Saturday, you had better go with me." "Oh, splendid!" cried Marjorie, dancing up and down on her tiptoes. "Things are getting interestinger and interestinger." "Regardless of English," slyly supplemented her mother, as Marjorie danced out of the room to answer the postman's ring. "Here are two letters for you, Captain, but not even a postcard for me. I'd love to have a letter from Mary, but I haven't answered her last one yet. I'll write to her to-morrow and send her present, too, with special orders not to open it until Christmas." The next morning Marjorie hurried off to school early, in hopes of seeing Constance before the morning session began. Her friend entered the study hall just as the first bell rang, however, and Marjorie had only time for a word or two in the corridor as they filed off to their respective classes. "I'll see her in French class," thought Marjorie. "I'll ask Professor Fontaine to let me sit with her." But when she reached the French room and the class gathered, Constance was not among them, nor did she enter the room later. Wondering what had happened, Marjorie reluctantly turned her attention to the advance lesson. "We weel read this leetle poem togethaire," directed Professor Fontaine, amiably, "but first I shall read eet to you. Eet is called 'Le Papillon,' which means the 'botterfly.'" Unconsciously, Marjorie's hand strayed to the open neck of her blouse. Then she dropped her hand in dismay. Her butterfly, her pretty talisman, where was it? She remembered wearing it to school that morning, or thought she remembered. Oh, yes, she now recalled that she had pinned it to her coat lapel. It had always shone so bravely against the soft blue broadcloth. She longed to rush downstairs to her locker before reporting in the study hall for dismissal, but remembering how sourly Miss Merton had looked at her only that morning, she decided to possess her soul in patience until the session was dismissed. Once out of the study hall she dashed downstairs at full speed and hastily opened her locker. As she seized her coat she noted vaguely that Constance's hat and coat were missing, but her mind was centered on her pin. Then an exclamation of grief and dismay escaped her. The lapel was bare of ornament. Her butterfly was gone! "I wonder if I really did leave it at home?" was her distracted thought, as she climbed the basement stairs with a heavy heart, after having thoroughly examined the locker. But a close search of her room that noon revealed no trace of the missing pin. Hot tears gathered in her eyes, but she brushed them away, muttering: "I won't cry. It isn't lost. It can't be. Oh, my pretty talisman!" She choked back a sob. "I sha'n't tell mother unless it is really hopeless. It won't do any good and she'll feel sorry because I do. It's my own fault. I should have seen that my butterfly was securely fastened." On the way home from the school that afternoon Marjorie reported the loss of her pin to Irma, Jerry and Constance, who had returned for the afternoon session. "What a shame!" sympathized Jerry. "It was such a beauty." "I'm so sorry you lost it," condoled Irma. "So am I," echoed Constance. "I don't remember it. I'm not very observing about jewelry, but I'm dreadfully sorry just the same." "It was----" began Marjorie, but a joyful whistle far up the street and the faint ring of running feet put a sudden end to her description. Lawrence Armitage, Hal Macy and the Crane had espied the girls from afar and come with winged feet to join them. Their evident pleasure in the girls' society, coupled with the indescribably funny antics of the Crane, who had apparently appointed himself an amusement committee of one, drove away Marjorie's distress over her loss for the time being, and it was not until later that she remembered that she had not described the butterfly pin to Constance. CHAPTER XVIII PLAYING SANTA CLAUS TO CHARLIE The next morning Marjorie wrote a description of her pin. It was placed at the end of the basement corridor above a small bulletin board, where those who passed might read. She wondered if the loss of her talisman would bring her bad luck. Before the day was over she gloomily decided that it had, for during the last hour Miss Merton accused her of whispering to the girl across the aisle, when she merely leaned forward in her seat to pick up her handkerchief. Smarting with the teacher's injustice, Marjorie politely but steadily contradicted the accusation, and two minutes later found herself on the way to Miss Archer's office, Miss Merton walking grimly beside her. Miss Archer had been through a particularly trying day, and was irritable, while Miss Merton was consumed with spiteful rage at Marjorie's "impertinence," and did not hesitate to put her side of the story forward in a most unpleasant fashion. The principal turned coldly to Marjory with, "Apologize to Miss Merton at once, Miss Dean, for disturbing her," and Marjorie said, with uplifted chin and resentful eyes, "I am sorry you thought I whispered, Miss Merton, for I did not open my lips." Something in the proud carriage of the girl's head caused Miss Archer to divine the truth of the firm statement, and she said, more gently, "Very well, you are excused, Miss Dean; but I do not wish to hear again that you have failed in courtesy to your teachers. This is not the first time I have received such reports of you." With a steady, reproachful look at Miss Merton, whose shifting eyes refused to meet hers, Marjorie walked from the room, ready to burst into tears, and when the all but interminable afternoon was ended, hurried home to the shelter of her faithful captain's arms and poured forth her grief and wrongs. But the notice of the lost pin posted on the bulletin board brought forth no trace of the vanished butterfly. Marjorie made a valiant effort to thrust aside her heavy sense of loss and allow the spirit of Christmas to enter her heart. She had promised Constance her help in arranging Santa Claus' visit to Charlie, and, when on Christmas eve, at a little after seven o'clock she set out for the Stevens' weighed down by numerous festively-wrapped, be-ribboned packages, she was filled with that quiet exaltation that attends the performance of a good deed and happier than she had been for several days. "Shh!" Constance met her at the door, a warning finger on her lips. "Hasn't he gone to sleep yet?" asked Marjorie, sliding into the house in mouse-like fashion. "Yes, but I thought he never would," returned Constance, with a relieved sigh. "What do you think? Father is playing at the theatre to-night for the first time. The pianist is ill. The leader of the orchestra was here this afternoon to see if father would take his place. We can never be grateful enough to you, Marjorie, for having father and Uncle John play at your party." "Let's talk about Charlie's little wagon," proposed Marjorie, quickly. "Nora popped and strung a lot of corn for me. It's in this bag. Do tell me where I can put the rest of this armful of things." Constance made a place on one end of an old velvet couch for them. "This is yours." Marjorie flourished a wide, flat package tied with long, graceful loops of narrow pale blue ribbon. "I tied it with blue because that's your color. Don't you dare peep at it until to-morrow morning. These two little packages are for your father and Mr. Roland, and all the rest is for Charlie." "He will be the happiest boy in Sanford," said Constance, her own face radiant. "He never dreamed of a Christmas like this." "Can we begin now?" asked Marjorie. "I'm so impatient to see how this wagon will look when we get it fixed." "Wait a minute." Constance disappeared through the door leading into the kitchen, returning with one arm piled high with evergreens, the other wound around a small balsam tree. "Lawrence Armitage brought me this yesterday," she explained. "A party of boys went to the woods to cut down Christmas trees. He brought me this cunning little tree and all this ground pine and holly. Wasn't it nice in him?" "Perfectly dear," agreed Marjorie. "I wonder if there is enough popcorn for the tree, too. I have a lot of little ornaments and candles at home. It won't take long to go there and back." She reached for her hat and coat as she spoke and in spite of Constance's protests was soon speeding home after the required decorations. "I made good time, didn't I?" she observed, as half an hour later she burst into the Stevens' living-room without knocking. Then the work of making one small boy's Christmas merry was begun in earnest. An hour later the sturdy baby balsam stood loaded with its crop of strange fruit, and the faithful, rickety wagon, whose imperfections were quite hidden beneath trails of thick, fragrant ground pine and sprays of flame-berried holly, looked as though it had received a visitation from the fairies. A diminutive black leather violin case, encircled with a wreath of ground pine and tied with a huge red bow, leaned against one wheel of the magic vehicle, and the cunning chair with its absurd little arms and leather cushion was also twined with green. "It's too lovely for words," breathed Constance, her admiring gaze fastened upon the once dingy corner now bright with the flowers of love and generosity, which had bloomed in all shapes and sizes of packages to gladden one youngster's heart. "I wish I could be here when first he sees it," commented Marjorie. "I'll be fast asleep then, for he told me that Mr. Roland promised to call him very early." "He proposed staying up all night, but I was not enthusiastic over that plan," laughed Constance. "I must go," decided Marjorie. "The hands of that clock fairly fly around the dial. I'm sure I just came and yet they point to a quarter to eleven." She reached reluctantly for her hat and her wraps. "How can I ever thank you, Marjorie," began Constance, but Marjorie put a soft hand over her friend's lips. "Please don't," she implored. "I've loved to do it." She held out both hands to Constance. "I wish you the merriest sort of a merry Christmas." "I hope you will have a perfectly wonderful day," was the earnest response. "You'll come over to-morrow and see how happy you've made Charlie and all of us, won't you?" "I'll come," promised Marjorie. "You couldn't keep me away." She reached home just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of her father disappearing up the stairs with a huge box in his arms, while her mother hastily dropped some thing into the drawer of the library table. "There, I caught both of you," she cried in triumph. "Confess you were hiding things from me, weren't you?" "I'll answer your questions to-morrow," beamed her father. "I forgive you both as long as the things are for me," was her calm declaration. "What is she talking about?" solemnly asked Mr. Dean, with an air of complete mystification. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!" exclaimed Marjorie, making a rush for him. "Help, help!" he called feebly. "The battalion has been ambushed and the general captured." "And held prisoner," added Marjorie, severely. "Unless he informs the second lieutenant what is in a certain big, white box with which he escaped upstairs, he shall be court-martialed." "Put off the court-martial until to-morrow and perhaps I'll tell," compromised the captured general, throwing his free arm across his lieutenant's shoulder in a most unmilitary manner. "All right, I'll let you go on parole," returned his daughter. "I'm too sleepy to do guard duty to-night. How I wish you might have seen Charlie's little wagon when we finished it! We had a tree, too." Forgetting that she was sleepy, Marjorie poured forth the story of her evening's work to her sympathetic listeners and it was ten minutes to twelve before she said good-night and went yawning to bed. Eight o'clock Christmas morning found her awake and stirring. Wrapped in her bathrobe, she pattered downstairs to the living-room, her arms full of bundles, but her father and mother were already there before her, and their packages greatly outnumbered hers. After the kisses and greetings of the day had been given her father handed the big white box into her outstretched arms. "Shall I tell you----" he began. "Don't you dare! I'm going to see for myself. Oh-h-h!" She had the lid off, and was clasping to her breast a mass of soft brown fur. "Oh, General, you dear thing! You sha'n't ever go to prison again." She smothered her father in the coat and a rapturous embrace, causing him to protest mildly. Her mother's gift of a bracelet watch also evoked another burst of reckless enthusiasm. What a happy hour it was, to be sure, and how beautifully all her friends had remembered her! Marjorie could hardly bear to leave her presents long enough to eat breakfast, and when after breakfast she left home for her Christmas call on the Stevens, she felt as though she must sing "Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men," at the top of her voice as she walked. CHAPTER XIX THE UNLUCKY TALISMAN There was a rapturous shriek of joy from Charlie as Constance opened the door for Marjorie and their hands and lips met in Christmas greeting. Marjorie stooped to embrace the excited little figure. "Santa Claus did come to see Charlie, didn't he?" she exclaimed, in pretended surprise. "And what did he bring?" For answer the child limped to his Christmas corner. "Oh, a fiddle," he said reverently, clasping the little violin to his heart. "Now I shall play in the band soon. Johnny said so." He thrust the violin under his sharp little chin, the thin fingers of his left hand reaching across the fingerboard, his left wrist curving into position. "Why, he holds it like a real violinist!" exclaimed Marjorie. "Can he play?" Charlie answered her question by dragging his triumphant bow across the helpless strings, drawing forth a wailing discord of tortured sound. "He thinks he can," giggled Constance. "I suppose those awful sounds are the sweetest music to his ears. Luckily, we don't mind them. I hope you don't. I hate to stop him, he is so delighted with himself." "I don't mind in the least," assured Marjorie. "I wouldn't spoil his pleasure for anything in the world." Charlie had no intention of giving a concert that morning, however; he had too many other things to distract his mind. Marjorie sat on the floor beside the Christmas tree, her feet tucked under her, and listened with becoming gravity and attention while he told her about Santa Claus' visit, and one by one brought forth his precious presents for her to see. "He must have had enough presents to go around this year or he wouldn't have left me so many," asserted the child with happy positiveness. "Connie's going to write him a letter and say thank you for me. If I don't say 'thank you' when someone gives me something, then I can never play in the band. Johnny and father always say it. I'm sorry I didn't write to Santa Claus before Christmas and ask him for a new leg. I can't go fast on this one. It's been wearing out ever since I was a baby and it keeps on getting shorter." "Santa Claus can't give you a new leg, Charlie boy," answered Marjorie, her bright face clouding momentarily, "but perhaps some day we can find a good, kind man who will make this poor little leg over like a new one." "When you find him, you'll be sure to tell him all about me, won't you, Marjorie?" he asked eagerly. "As sure as anything," nodded Marjory, brushing his heavy black hair out of his eyes and kissing him gently. "Will you walk down to the drugstore with me, Marjorie?" put in Constance, abruptly. Marjorie glanced up to meet her friend's troubled gaze. In an instant she was on her feet. "It's a good thing I didn't take off my hat and coat. I'm ready to go, you see." "Charlie can watch for us at the window," suggested Constance, hugging the child. "We won't be long." Once outside the house there was an eloquent silence. "It's dreadful, isn't it?" There was a catch in Constance's voice when finally she spoke. "Can't he be cured?" queried Marjorie, softly. "Yes; so a specialist said, if only we had the money." "He is such a quaint child, and he really and truly believes in Santa Claus," mused Marjorie, aloud. "Most children of his age don't." "He's different," was the quick reply. "He has been brought up away from other children and in a world of his own. He believes in fairies, too, good ones and bad ones. But he loves music better than anything else in the world, and his highest ambition in life is to play in the band. If only I had the money to make him well! I'd love to see him strong and sturdy like other children." "You mustn't talk about such sad things to-day, but just be happy," counseled Marjorie, slipping her arm through that of her friend. "Charlie is cheerful and jolly in spite of his poor lame leg. Perhaps the New Year will bring you something glorious." "You are so comforting, Marjorie," sighed Constance. "I'll throw all my cares to the winds and keep sunny all day if I can." "I must go now." They entered the little gray house again, just in time to hear remonstrative squeaks from the E string of the diminutive violin, blended with disheartened moans from the A and growls of protest from the G string. "How did you like that?" inquired Charlie, calmly. "It was very noisy," criticised Constance. "It was a very hard passage to play," explained the embryo musician, soberly. "It seems to have been," laughed Marjorie. "That is what Johnny says when he doesn't pay attention and makes a mistake on the fiddle," confided Charlie. Constance's sad look vanished at this naive assertion. "He imitates father and Uncle John in everything," she explained. "He will have played his way through all the music in the house before to-morrow night--most of it upside down, too." "I'd love to stay longer, but I promised to stop at Macy's and we have our dinner at one o'clock. I wish you could come, too, but I know you'd rather be at home. Thank you again for the hemstitched handkerchiefs. I don't see how you found the time to make them." "Thank you for the lovely hand-embroidered blouse and all Charlie's things," reminded Constance. "I hope we'll spend many, many more Christmases together." "So do I," echoed Marjorie, as she kissed Charlie and held out her hand to her friend. Her call on the Macys lasted the better part of an hour, for Jerry was the recipient of a host of gifts, and insisted upon displaying them, while Hal refused to pose gracefully in the background and absorbed as much of Marjorie's attention as she would give him, secretly wondering if she would be pleased with the box of American Beauty roses he had ordered the florist to deliver at the Deans' residence at noon that day. What a blissful Christmas it was! From the moment of Marjorie's awakening that morning until the day was done it was one long succession of joyous surprises. And, oh, glorious thought! there were ten blessed days of vacation stretching before her. "I'll see if Constance will go to the matinee Saturday," she planned drowsily that night as she prepared for sleep. "We will take Charlie. I promised him long ago that I would. I'll run over there to-morrow. Too bad I didn't think of it to-day." But "to-morrow" brought its own deeds to be done, and so did the following two days, and it was Friday afternoon before Marjorie found time for her visit to the little gray house. Ever since Christmas it had snowed at intervals and the snow-plow men had been kept busy clearing the streets. It was just the kind of weather to wear one's fur coat, and Marjorie gave a little shiver of delight as she slipped into her Christmas treasure. And how warm it was! The searching east wind that was abroad that day held no discomfort for her. As she stepped briskly along over the hard-packed walk, hedged in by high-piled snow, she thought rather soberly of her own good fortune and wondered why so many beautiful things had been given to her while to Constance life had grudged all but the barest necessities. With a rush of generous impulse she resolved to do all in her power to smooth the troubled way of her friend. When within sight of the house Marjorie's eyes were fastened upon the living-room windows for some sign of Charlie, who would sit contentedly at one of them by the hour watching the passersby. Catching sight of his pale little face pressed to the window pane she waved her hand gaily to him. He disappeared from the window and an instant later stood in the open door, shouting gleefully, "Oh, Connie, here's Marjorie! Here's Marjorie!" Marjorie bent and embraced the gleeful little boy. "How is Charlie to-day?" she asked. "Pretty well," nodded the child. "I wish I had asked for that leg, though. Mine hurts to-day." "You poor baby!" consoled Marjorie, tenderly. "But where is Connie, dear?" "She's upstairs. I'll call her." He limped across the room to the stair door, which was situated at one side of the living-room, and opened it. "Connie," he called, "Marjorie's come to see us." There was a sound of quick footsteps on the stairs and Constance appeared. "I didn't know you were here," she apologized. "Where were you on Thursday?" began Marjorie, laughingly. "You promised to come over. Don't you remember?" "Yes," returned Constance, briefly. Then with a swift return of the old, chilling reserve, which of late she had seemed to lose, "It was impossible for me to come." Marjorie scrutinized her friend's face. The look of impassivity had come back to it. "What is the matter, Constance?" she questioned anxiously. "Has anything happened?" An expression of intense pain leaped into Constance's blue eyes. "I've something to tell you, Marjorie. It's dreadful. I----" With a muffled sob she threw herself, face down, upon the old velvet couch, her slender shoulders shaking with passionate grief. "Why, Constance!" Marjorie regarded the sobbing girl in sympathetic amazement. Charlie went over to the couch and patted Constance's fair head. "Don't cry, Connie," he pleaded. Then, limping to a dilapidated writing desk in the corner, which Marjorie never remembered to have seen open before, he took from one of the lower pigeonholes a small, glittering object. "This is what makes Connie cry." He opened his hand and disclosed a little object on his outstretched palm. "Shall I throw the old thing into the fire, Connie?" With a sharp ejaculation of dismay, Constance sprang from the couch. One swift glance toward the desk, then she caught Charlie's tiny hand in hers. "Give it to Connie, this minute," she commanded sternly. For the instant Marjorie was forgotten. Charlie's lips quivered with grieved surprise. Relinquishing his hold on the object he wailed resentfully, "It is a horrid old thing. It made you cry, and me, too." "Charlie, dear," soothed Constance. Then she glanced up to meet the horrified stare of two accusing brown eyes. "Why--Marjorie!" she exclaimed. "Where--where--did you get that pin?" Marjorie's soft voice sounded harsh and unnatural. "That's what I started to tell you," faltered Constance. "Oh, it's so dreadful I can't bear to speak of it. Yet I must tell you. I--the pin----" she broke down and throwing herself on the lounge again began to cry disconsolately. An appalling silence fell upon the shabby, music-littered room, broken only by Constance's sobs. Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could it be true that Constance, the girl she had fought for, the girl for whose sake she had braved class ostracism, had deliberately stolen her pin? Yet she must believe the evidence of her own eyes which had told her that in Charlie's hand lay her cherished pin, her lost, much-mourned-for butterfly! If Constance had deliberately taken the pin, then she was a thief. If she had found it, but purposely failed to return it, she was still a thief. Marjorie opened her lips to pour forth a torrent of reproaches, but the words would not come. She had a wild desire to pry open the hand which held her precious butterfly and seize it, but her hands remained limply at her sides. It was her pin, her very own, yet she could not touch it unless Constance chose to hand it to her. But Constance made no such proffer. Still clutching the precious butterfly she continued to weep unrestrainedly. Marjorie waited patiently. Having failed hopelessly as a comforter, Charlie had hobbled to his corner, where his Christmas tree still stood, and, with that blessed forgetfulness of sorrow which childhood alone knows, had dragged forth his violin and begun a dismal screeching and scraping, a nerve-racking obligato to his foster sister's sobs. Five endless minutes passed, but Constance made no sign. "I'm--I'm going now," choked Marjorie. Hot tears lay thick on her eyelashes. She stumbled blindly toward the door, her face averted from the girl who had so misused and abused her friendship. "Good-bye, Constance." Something in the reproachful ring of that "Good-bye," startled Constance out of her grief. She had been too greatly overcome with her own trouble to note the effect of her tears and broken words upon Marjorie. Surely Marjorie was not angry with her for crying. "Wait a minute, Marjorie," she called. "Please don't be angry. I won't cry any more. I want to tell you about the pin. It was----" But only the sound of a closing door answered her. Marjorie was gone. CHAPTER XX THE CROWNING INJURY Marjorie never remembered just how she reached home that afternoon. She followed the familial streets mechanically, her brain tortured with but one burning thought--Constance was a thief. Over and over the dreadful sentence repeated itself in her mind. "How could she?" was her half-sobbed whisper, as she slipped quietly into the house, and, without glancing toward the living-room, went softly upstairs to her room. She wanted to be alone. Not even her beloved captain could ease the hurt dealt her by the girl she had loved and trusted. Her mother must never know that Constance was unworthy. No one should know, but she could never, never be friends with Constance again. With the tears running down her cheeks Marjorie took off the new fur coat she had worn so proudly that afternoon and dropped it upon the first convenient chair. Her hat followed it; then throwing herself across the bed, she gave way to uncontrolled weeping. Until that moment she had not realized how greatly she had loved this girl who had Mary's eyes of true blue, but who was so sadly lacking in Mary's fine sense of honor. Until the afternoon light waned and the shadows began to creep upon her she lay mourning, and inconsolable. Her generous heart had been sorely wounded and she could not easily thrust aside her dreadful sense of loss; neither could she understand why Constance had partly acknowledged that she took the butterfly pin, but had not offered to return it. "I couldn't ask her for it," she sighed to herself, as, at last, she rose, switched on the electric light, and viewed her tear-swollen face in the mirror, "not when she had kept it all this time. She knew how dreadfully I felt over losing it, and she certainly saw the notice in the hall." A flash of resentment tinged her grief. "I can't forgive her. I'll never forgive her. I----" Marjorie's lips began to quiver ominously. "I won't cry any more," she asserted stoutly. "My face is a sight now. Mother will ask me what the trouble is, and I don't want a soul to know. Of course, we can't go to the matinee to-morrow. We can't ever go anywhere together again." Once more the tears threatened to fall. She shut her eyes and forced them back, then went dejectedly down the hall to the bathroom to lave her flushed face and aching eyes. By the time dinner was ready Marjorie showed no traces of her grief. She was unusually quiet at dinner, however, and her mother inquired anxiously if she were ill. "Did you wear your new coat this afternoon?" her father asked soberly. "Yes, General. I went to see Constance." Marjorie tried to speak naturally. "Ah, that accounts for it," he declared, putting on a professional air. "Too much magnificence has struck in. You have, no doubt, a well-developed case of pride and vanity." "I haven't a single shred of either," protested Marjorie, laughing a little at her father's tone, which was an exact imitation of their former family physician. "That sounded just like good old Doctor Bates." "Are you and Constance going to take Charlie to the matinee to-morrow, dear?" asked her mother. "No, Mother," returned Marjorie. Then as though determined to evade further questioning, she asked: "May I go shopping with you?" "I wish you would. You can select the material for your new dress and the lace for that blouse I am making for you. It is so pretty. My new fashion book came to-day. I have picked out several styles of gowns for you." "What did you pick out for me?" inquired Mr. Dean, ingenuously. "You can't have any new clothes. Too much magnificence would strike in. You would have, no doubt, a well-developed case of pride and vanity," retorted Marjorie, wickedly. "Report at the guard house at once, for disrespectful conduct to your superior officer," ordered Mr. Dean with great severity. "Not to-night, thank you," bowed the disobedient lieutenant, as all three rose from the table, "I'm going upstairs to my room to write a letter." Once in her room Marjorie went to her desk and opened it with a reluctance born of the knowledge of a painful task to be performed. Seating herself, she reached for her pen and nibbled the end soberly as she racked her brain for the best way to begin a note to Constance. Finally she decided and wrote: "Dear Constance: "I cannot come over to your house to-morrow or ever again. I know what you wanted to tell me. It is too dreadful to think of. You should have told me before. I will never let anyone know, so you need not worry. You have hurt me terribly, and I can't forgive you yet, but I hope I shall some day. I don't like to mention things, but for your own sake won't you try to do what is right about the pin? I shall always speak to you in school, for I don't wish the girls to know we have separated. "Yours sorrowfully, "MARJORIE." When she had finished, the all-too-ready tears had again flooded her eyes and dropped unrestrained upon the green blotting pad on her desk. After a little she slowly wiped her eyes, and, without reading what she had written, folded the letter, addressed and stamped it. Slipping into her coat, she wound a silken scarf about her head and went downstairs. "I'm going out to the mailbox, Mother," she called, as she passed the living-room door. "Very well," returned Mrs. Dean, abstractedly. She was deep in her book and did not glance up, for which Marjorie was thankful. If her mother noticed her reddened eyelids, explanations would necessarily follow. The next day dragged interminably. Even the usual pleasure of going shopping with her captain could not mitigate the pain of yesterday's shocking discovery. To Marjorie the bare idea of theft was abhorrent. When, at the Hallowe'en dance, Mignon had accused Constance of taking her bracelet, Marjorie's wrath at the insult to her friend had been righteous and sweeping. That night, as she sat opposite her mother in the living-room trying to read one of the books she had received for Christmas the incident of the missing bracelet and Mignon's accusation suddenly loomed up in her mind like an unwelcome specter. Suppose Mignon had been right, after all. Jerry had openly asserted that she did not believe Mignon had really lost her bracelet, and in her anger Marjorie had secretly agreed with the stout girl. Suppose Constance had taken it. What if she were one of those persons one reads of in books whom continued poverty had made dishonest, or perhaps she was a kleptomaniac? The last idea, though unpleasant to contemplate, was not so repugnant to her as the first; but she did not believe it to be true. Constance's partial confession, coupled with her ready tears, was positive proof that she had been conscious of her act of theft. There was only one other theory left; she had found the pin and succumbed to the temptation of keeping it. Yet Constance had always averred that she did not care for jewelry, and would not wear it if she possessed it. Marjorie went over these suppositions again and again, but each time her theories ended with the bitter fact that, in spite of her tears, Constance had kept her ill-gotten bauble. The vacation which had promised so much, and which she had happily supposed would be all too short, seemed endless. During the long days that followed she received no word from the girl in the little gray house. If Constance had received her letter, she made no sign, and this served to add to Marjorie's belief in her unworthiness. Jerry Macy's New Year's party proved a welcome relief from the hateful experience through which she had passed. Although invited, Constance was not among the merry gathering of young people, and Jerry loudly lamented the fact. Mr. Stevens and Uncle John Roland, who furnished the music for the dancing, greeted Marjorie with affectionate regard. It was evident that they knew nothing of what had transpired. Constance was ill, her father reported, but hoped to be able to return to school on Tuesday. He thanked Marjorie for her remembrance of him and Charlie, and Uncle John forgot himself and repeated everything after him with grateful nods and smiles. During the evening Marjorie frequently found herself near the two musicians, and Lawrence Armitage, secretly disappointed because of Constance's absence, also did considerable loitering in their immediate vicinity. If the troubled little lieutenant had had nothing on her mind, she would have spent a most delightful evening, for the Macy's enormous living-room had been transformed into a veritable ballroom, where the guests might dance without bumping elbows at every turn, while Hal and Jerry were the most hospitable entertainers. If Constance's father and foster uncle had not been present, she might have forgotten her woes, but whenever she glanced at either, the sorrowful face of the Mary girl rose before her. To make matters worse, Jerry proposed to her that they call upon Constance the next day, and Marjorie was obliged to refuse lamely without giving any apparent reason. It was in the nature of a relief to her when the party broke up. In spite of the gratifying knowledge that the girls had pronounced her new white silk frock the prettiest gown of all, and that Hal Macy had been her devoted cavalier, Marjorie Dean went to bed that night in a most unhappy mood. The Monday before she returned to school she began a long letter to Mary. She and Mary had sworn that, though miles divided them, they would tell each other their secrets. Resolved to keep her word, she had written her heart out to her chum, then had read the letter and torn it into little pieces. Having written only pleasant things of her new friend to Mary, she could not bear to take away her good name with a few strokes of her pen. "If only Constance were true and honorable like Mary," she sighed as she closed her desk, and selecting a book she wandered disconsolately downstairs to the living-room to read; but her thoughts continually reverted to her own grievance. "If she gives back my pin, I'll forgive her," was her final conclusion as at last she laid her book aside with an impatient sigh, and sitting down on a little stool near the fire, stared gloomily into its ruddy depths; "but I never, never, never can feel the same toward her again." Marjorie went to school on Tuesday morning vaguely hoping that Constance would see things in a finer light and act accordingly. Unselfish in most respects, the poor little soldier had forgotten everything save the fact that she was the injured one. To her it seemed as though the other girl's crushing weight of half-acknowledged guilt ought to make her a willing suppliant for pardon. During the early part of the morning session she waited, half expecting to receive a contrite plea for grace from the Mary girl. When her French hour came, she hurried into the classroom, thinking that she might see Constance before the class gathered; but Professor Fontaine had closed the door and remarked genially, "_Bon jour, mesdemoiselles. Comment vous portez vous, aujourd'hui_. I trost that you have not forgotten your French during your 'oliday," when it opened quietly to admit Constance. Marjorie regarded her gravely, noting that she looked pale and tired. Suddenly her eyes opened in wide, unbelieving amazement. With a half-smothered exclamation that caused half the class to turn and look at her, including Mignon, whose alert eyes traveled knowingly between the two girls, she tore her gaze from the disturbing sight, and, putting one hand over her eyes, leaned her head on her arm. For fastened at the open neck of Constance's blouse was her butterfly pin. CHAPTER XXI MIGNON PLANS MISCHIEF To Marjorie, torn between resentment of Constance's bold display of the stolen pin and shame for her utter absence of honor, the French lesson was a confused jumble. She heard but dimly the rise and fall of Professor Fontaine's voice as he conducted the lesson, and when he called upon her to recite she stared at him dazedly and finally managed to stammer that she was not prepared. "Ah, Mademoiselle Dean, I am of a certainty moch surprised that you cannot translate thees paragraph," the little man declared reproachfully. "I weel begeen eet for you, and you shall do the rest, _N'est pas?_" Marjorie stumbled through the paragraph with hot cheeks and a strong desire to throw her book into the air and rush from the recitation. When class was over she seized her books and left the room without looking in Constance's direction. The eyes of the latter followed her with an expression of perplexed, questioning sorrow that, had Marjorie noted and interpreted as such, might have caused her to doubt what seemed plain, thresh the matter out frankly with Constance, and thus save them both many weeks of misunderstanding and heartache. At the close of the morning session Marjorie lingered until she was sure that Constance had taken her wraps from the locker and departed. The thought of her beloved pin ornamenting the other girl's blouse was too bitter to be tamely borne. Fierce resentment crowded out her gentler feelings, and she could not trust herself to come in contact with her faithless classmate and remain silent. On the steps of the school she met Jerry and Irma, who had posted themselves to wait for her. "I thought you had decided to stay in there all day," grumbled Jerry. "It's only five minutes past twelve," protested Marjorie. "I thought it was at least half-past," retorted Jerry. "Say, Marjorie, didn't you say that you'd lost your butterfly pin?" "Yes," replied Marjorie, shortly, bracing herself for what she felt would follow. She was not the only one who had seen the pin in Constance's possession. "Did Constance Stevens find it?" quizzed Jerry. "Yes." "Oh, then that's all right. I saw her wearing it this morning; and I'm not the only one who saw her, either. Mignon had her eye on it in French class, and I wouldn't be surprised to hear of some hateful remark she had made about it. You know, she still insists that Constance took her bracelet. She might be mean enough to say that Constance found your pin and didn't give it back to you." Marjorie stared at Jerry in amazement. Without knowing it, the stout girl had exactly stated the truth about the pin. "You needn't stare at me like that," went on Jerry. "Of course, we know that Constance wouldn't be so silly as to try to keep a pin belonging to someone else that everyone recognized; but lots of girls would believe it. I suppose you let Constance wear it because you two are so chummy; but you'd better get it back and wear it yourself. Then Mignon can't say a word." "I'll think about it," was Marjorie's evasive answer, but once she had said good-bye to the two girls she began to deliberate within herself as to what she had best do. Here was an exigency against which she had failed to provide. She had resolved never to betray Constance to the girls, but now Constance had, by openly wearing the pin, betrayed herself. Either she would be obliged to go to Constance and demand her own or allow her to wear the bit of jewelry and create the impression that she had sanctioned the wearing of it. When she returned to school that afternoon she had half determined to see Constance and put the situation fairly to her, but rather to her relief Constance did not appear at the afternoon session, nor was she in school the next day. When Friday came and she was still absent, Marjorie was divided between her pride and a desire to go to the little gray house and settle matters. On Saturday she was still halting between two opinions, and it was four o'clock Saturday afternoon before she put on her wraps with the air of one who has made up her mind and started for the Stevens'. As she approached the house she looked toward the particular window where Charlie was so fond of stationing himself to peer out on the dingy little street, but there was no sign of the boy's white, eager face. To her vivid imagination the very house itself wore a sad, cheerless aspect that filled her with a vague apprehension of some impending unpleasantness. She knocked briskly at the door, then waited a little. There was no response. She knocked again, harder and longer, but still silence unbroken by any footfall, reigned within. After pounding upon the door at intervals for at least ten minutes, she turned and walked dejectedly away from the house of denial, speculating as to what could possibly have become of the Stevens'. At the corner she almost ran against Mr. Stevens, who, with his soft black felt hat pulled low over his forehead, was hurrying along, his violin case under his arm. "Oh, Mr. Stevens," cried Marjorie, "where is Constance? I have just come from your house, and there is no one at home." Mr. Stevens looked mildly surprised. "I thought you knew," he answered. "Didn't Constance tell you she was going away? She and Charlie went to New York City yesterday. They are to meet Constance's aunt there. It was very unexpected. She received a letter from her aunt on Tuesday. I was sure she had told you." Mr. Stevens' fine face took on an expression of perplexity. "I did not know it," responded Marjorie, soberly. "When will she return?" "I am not quite sure. I shall not know definitely until I hear from her," was the discouraging reply. "I'm sorry I didn't see her," was all Marjorie could find words for, as she turned to go. "Good-bye, Mr. Stevens." "Good-bye, Miss Marjorie." The musician bared his head, his thick, white hair ruffling in the wind. "You will hear from Constance, no doubt." "No doubt I won't," breathed Marjorie, as she walked on. "What would he say, I wonder, if he knew? He'll never know from me, neither will anyone else. I hope those girls will forget all about seeing Constance wear the pin." But the affair of the pin was destined not to sink into oblivion, for the next morning Marjorie found on her desk the following note: "Miss Dean: "Do you think you are doing right in shielding a thief? It looks as though a certain person either stole or found and kept a certain article belonging to you and yet you allow her to wear it before your very eyes without protest. If you do not immediately insist on the return of your property and denounce the thief, we will put the matter before Miss Archer, as this is not the first offense. This is the decision of several indignant students who insist that the girls of the freshman class shall be above reproach." Marjorie's eyes flashed her contempt of the anonymous missive. She folded it quietly, then, reaching into her desk, drew forth a sheet of note paper and wrote: "Miss La Salle: "Although the note I found on my desk is not signed, I am sure that you wrote it. I do not think you have the slightest right to dictate to me in a personal matter. Miss Stevens and I are perfectly capable of settling our own affairs without the help of any member of the freshman class. "Marjorie Dean." Mignon's pale face flushed crimson as she read the note which Marjorie lost no time in sending to her via the student route, which was merely the passing of it from desk to desk until it reached its destination. With a scornful lifting of her shoulders she flung the note on her desk, then snatching it up, tore it into tiny pieces. When school was dismissed she lingered and twenty minutes afterward emerged from Miss Archer's office in company with Marcia Arnold, an expression of triumph in her black eyes. When she reached home that afternoon she took from the drawer of her dressing-table something small and shining and examined it carefully. "It looks the same, but is it?" she muttered. "Where did the other come from? I don't understand it in the least. Just the same, Marjorie Dean thinks Miss Smarty Stevens took her pin. She was thunderstruck when she saw that Stevens girl wearing it this morning. She's too much afraid of not telling the truth to deny it in her letter. There's something gone wrong with their friendship, too. I'm sure of it from the way they have been acting. I don't know what it's all about, but I do know that this," she touched the small, shining object, "shall never help them solve their problem." CHAPTER XXII PLANNING FOR THE MASQUERADE On the morning following Mignon's visit to Miss Archer's office, Marjorie was unpleasantly startled to hear Miss Merton call out stridently just after opening exercises, "Miss Dean, report to Miss Archer, at once." A battery of curious eyes was turned in speculation upon Marjorie as she walked the length of the study hall, outwardly composed, but inwardly resentful at Miss Merton's tone, which, to her sensitive ears, bordered on insult. "Good morning, Miss Archer; Miss Merton said you wished to see me," began Marjorie, quietly, as she entered the outer office where Miss Archer stood, reading a letter which her secretary had just handed to her for inspection. "Yes," returned the principal, briefly; "come with me." She led the way to her inner office and, motioning to Marjorie to precede her, stepped inside and closed the door. "Sit here, Miss Dean," she directed, indicating a chair at one side of her desk. Then, seating herself, she turned to the young girl, and said, with kind gravity: "I sent for you this morning because I wish to speak frankly to you of one of your classmates. I shall expect you to be absolutely frank, too. Very grave complaints have been brought to me by Miss La Salle concerning Constance Stevens. She insists that Miss Stevens is guilty of the theft of her bracelet, which disappeared on the night of the dance given by the young men of Weston High School. As I left the gymnasium some time before the party was over, I knew nothing of this, and no word of it was brought to me afterward. "Miss La Salle also states that Miss Stevens has been wearing a gold pin, in the form of a butterfly, which belongs to you and which you advertised as lost. She declares that she is positive that Miss Stevens found the pin and made no effort to return it to you, and that you are shielding her from the effects of her own wrongdoing by allowing her to continue to wear it. This latter seems to be a rather far-fetched accusation, but Miss La Salle is so insistent in the matter that I was going to settle that part of it, at least, by asking you where and when you found your pin and whether you gave Miss Stevens permission to wear it. "This may seem to you, my dear, like direct interference in your personal affairs, but it is necessary that this matter be cleared up at once. Miss Stevens cannot afford to allow such detrimental reports to be circulated about her through the school." Miss Archer looked expectantly at Marjorie, who was strangely silent, two signals of distress in her brown eyes. "I cannot answer your questions, Miss Archer," she answered at last, her clear tones a trifle unsteady. The principal regarded her with amazed displeasure. Accustomed to having the deciding voice in all matters pertaining to her position as head of the school, she could not endure being crossed, particularly by a pupil. "I must insist upon an answer, Miss Dean. Your silence is unfair, not only to Miss Stevens, but to the school. If Miss Stevens is innocent of any wrongdoing, now is the time to clear her name of suspicion. If she is guilty, by telling the true circumstances concerning your pin, you are doing the school justice. A person who deliberately appropriates that which does not belong to him or to her is a menace to the community in which he or she lives, and should be removed from it. Our school is our community. It must be kept free from those who are a detriment to it," concluded Miss Archer, her mouth settling into lines of obstinate firmness. The distress in Marjorie's face deepened. "I am sorry, Miss Archer, but I can tell you nothing. Please don't think me stubborn and obstinate. I can't help it. I--I have nothing to say." "I have explained to you the necessity for perfect frankness on your part, and you have refused to comply with my demand," reproved the principal. "I am deeply disappointed in you, Miss Dean. I looked for better things from you. The affair will have to stand as it is until Miss Stevens returns. I am sorry that you will not assist me in clearing it up." She made a gesture of dismissal. "That is all, I believe, this morning. You may return to the study hall." Without a word Marjorie rose and left the room, her eyes full of tears, her proud spirit hurt to the quick. The icy reproach in the principal's words was, indeed, hard to bear, and all for a girl who had proved herself unworthy of friendship. Yet she could not help feeling a swift pang of pity for Constance. How dreadful it would be for her when she returned to Sanford and to school! But Constance seemed in no hurry to return. Midyear, with its burden of examinations, its feverish hopes and fears, came and went. Then followed a three days' vacation, and the new term began with a great readjusting of programs and classes. Marjorie passed her state examinations in American history and physiology, and decided upon physical geography and English history in their places, as both were term studies. She entered upon her second term's work with little enthusiasm, however. The disagreeable, almost tragic events following the holidays had left a shadow on her freshman days, that had promised so much. February came, smiled deceitfully, froze vindictively, threatened a little, then thawed and froze again, as his next-door neighbor, March, whisked resentfully down upon him, hurried him out of the running for a whole year, and blustered about it for two weeks afterward. The swiftly passing days, however, brought no word or sign concerning the absent Constance, and, try as she might, Marjorie could not forget her. Mignon La Salle, though greatly disappointed over the failure of her plan to humiliate the musician's daughter, was craftily biding her time, resolved to strike the moment Constance returned to school. "Mignon certainly intends to make things interesting for Constance," declared Jerry to Marjorie, as the French girl switched haughtily by them one mild afternoon in late March on the way home from school. "Why do you say that?" asked Marjorie, quickly. "Have you heard anything new?" "Nothing startling," replied Jerry. "You know Irma and Susan Atwell used to be best friends until they began chumming with Mignon and Muriel. Well, Susan is awfully angry with Mignon for something she said about her, so she has dropped her, and Muriel, too. She went over to Irma's house the other night and cried and said she was sorry she'd been so silly. She wanted to be friends with Irma again." "What did Irma say?" asked Marjorie, breathlessly. "Oh, she made up with her, then and there," informed Jerry with fine disgust. "I'd have kept her waiting a while. She deserved it. She told Irma she hoped I'd forgive her, but I didn't make any rash promises." "What a hard-hearted person you are," smiled Marjorie. "But, tell me, Jerry, what did you hear about Constance?" "Oh, yes. That's what I started out to tell you. Mignon told Susan last week that she was only waiting for Constance to come back to school to take her to Miss Archer and accuse her of stealing her bracelet." "How dreadful!" deplored Marjorie. "Perhaps Constance won't come back." "Yes, she will. She wrote a note to Miss Archer when she went away saying that she had to go to New York City on business, but would return to school as soon as possible. Marcia Arnold saw the note, and told Mignon. Mignon told Susan before they had their fuss. Susan told Irma, and she told me. Almost an endless chain, but not quite," finished Jerry with a cheerful grin. "I should say so," returned Marjorie, in an abstracted tone. Her thoughts were on the absent girl. She wondered why Constance had gone to New York so suddenly and taken little Charlie with her. She wished she had asked Mr. Stevens more about it. "See here, Marjorie," Jerry's blunt tones interrupted her musing. "What's the trouble between you and Constance? I know something is the matter, but I'd like most awfully well to know what it is." "I can't answer your question, Jerry," said Marjorie in a low tone. "Would you care if I--if we didn't talk about Constance?" "Not a bit," rejoined the stout girl good-naturedly. "Never tell anything you don't want to tell. We'll change the subject. Let's talk about the Sanford High dance. What character do you intend to represent?" "Is Sanford High going to give a party?" Marjorie voiced her surprise. "Of course. The Sanford High girls give one every spring, and the Weston boys give their dance in the fall." "When is it to be?" "Not until after Easter, and this year it's going to be a lot of fun. We are to have a fairy-tale masquerade." "I never heard of any such thing before." "Neither did I," went on Jerry, "that is, until yesterday. The committee just decided upon it. You see, the girls always give a fancy dress party, but not always a masquerade. This year a freshman who was on the committee proposed that it would be a good stunt to make everyone dress as a character in some old fairy tale. The rest of the committee liked the idea, so you had better get busy and hunt up your costume." "But how did you happen to know so much about it?" "Well," Jerry looked impressive. "I was on the committee and I happened to be the freshman who proposed it." "You clever girl!" exclaimed Marjorie, admiringly. "I think that is a splendid idea. I wonder what I could go as?" "Snow White," suggested Jerry, eyeing her critically. "I can get seven of the Weston boys to do the Seven Little Dwarfs and follow you around." "But Snow White had 'a skin like snow, cheeks as red as blood and hair as black as ebony,'" quoted Marjorie. "I don't answer to that description." "You are pretty, and so was she, and that's all you need to care," returned Jerry, calmly. "Besides, the Seven Dwarfs will be great. Will you do it?" "All right," acquiesced Marjorie. "What are you going as?" "One of the 'Fat Friars,'" giggled Jerry. "Don't you remember, 'Four Fat Friars Fanning a Fainting Fly'? I'm going to ask three more stout girls to join me. We'll wear long, gray frocks, get bald-headed wigs and carry palmleaf fans. I don't know anyone who would be willing to go as the 'Fainting Fly,' so we'll have to do without him, I guess." "You funny girl!" laughed Marjorie. "But how will everyone know who is who after the unmasking? There will be so many queens and princesses and kings and courtiers." "We thought of that and we are going to put up a notice for everyone to carry cards. Some of the characters will be easy to guess without cards." "I must tell mother about it as soon as I go home and ask her to help me plan Snow White's costume. When will we receive our invitations?" "We only send printed invitations to the boys. Every girl in high school is invited, of course. The invitations will be sent to the boys next week, and the Sanford girls will be notified at once, so as to give them plenty of time to plan their costumes." "I wish it were to be next week," murmured Marjorie, after she had left Jerry and turned into her own street. "Everything has been gloomy and horrid for so long. I'd love to have a good time again, just to see how it seemed." She reflected rather sadly that the disagreeable happenings of her freshman year had outweighed her good times. She had entered Sanford High School with the resolve to like every girl there, and with the hope that the girls would like her, but in some way everything had gone wrong. Perhaps she had been to blame. She had been warned in the beginning not to champion Constance Stevens. Yet the very girls who had warned her could never have been her intimate friends. Her ideals and theirs, if they had ideals, were too widely separated. No; she had been right in standing up for Constance. The fault lay with the latter. It was she who had betrayed friendship. Determined to go no further into this most painful of subjects, Marjorie resolutely centered her thoughts upon the coming party. The moment she reached home she ran upstairs to her room. Sitting down on the floor before her bookcase, she drew out a thick red volume of Grimms' Fairy Tales and read the story of Snow White. To her joy she discovered that the colored frontispiece was a picture of Snow White begging admittance at the home of the Seven Little Dwarfs. "I'll ask mother to make me a high-waisted white gown like this one, with pale blue trimmings and a big blue sash," she planned. "I'll wear my pale blue slippers, the ones that have no heels, and white silk stockings. Thank goodness, my hair is curly. I'll let it hang loose on my shoulders. Of course, it isn't as black as ebony; but then, I can't help that." With the book still in her hand she ran down the stairs, two at a time, to tell her mother. What mother is not interested in her daughter's school fun and parties? Mrs. Dean entered at once into the planning of the costume and suggested that Snow White's cards be made in the shape of little apples, one half colored red, the other half green, and her name written diagonally across the surface of the apple. Marjorie hailed the idea with delight. "May I buy the water-color paper for the apples to-morrow, Captain?" "Yes," replied Mrs. Dean. "You ought to begin them at once. What is Constance going to wear? She hasn't been here for a long time. Poor child, I suppose her family keep her busy. Why not ask her to dinner some night this week, Marjorie?" Marjorie flushed hotly. Her mother, who was busily engaged with an intricate bit of embroidery, did not notice the added color in her daughter's face. "Constance is in New York visiting her aunt," returned Marjorie. "She has been there for a long time. Charlie is with her. I don't know when they will be home." Something in her daughter's tone caused Mrs. Dean to glance quickly up from her work. Marjorie was staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. "Constance has hurt Marjorie's feelings by not writing to her," was Mrs. Dean's thought. Aloud she said: "Did you know before Constance went to New York that she intended going?" "No; she didn't tell me." Marjorie volunteered no further information, and Mrs. Dean refrained from asking questions. She thought she understood her daughter's reticence. Marjorie naturally felt that Constance was neglectful and a little ungrateful, but would not say so. "I wish I could tell mother all about it," ruminated Marjorie, as she went slowly upstairs to replace the Grimms'. "I can't bear to do it. I suppose I shall some day, but it seems too dreadful to say, 'Mother, Constance is a thief. She stole my butterfly pin. That's why she doesn't come here any more.' It's like a disagreeable dream, and I wish I could wake up some day to find that it's all been a dreadful mistake." But light is sure to follow darkness, and the loyal little lieutenant's awakening was nearer at hand than she could foresee. CHAPTER XXIII THE AWAKENING It was wilful, changeable April's last night, and, being in a tender reminiscent mood, she dispensed her balmiest airs for the benefit of the distinguished company who filled to overflowing the gymnasium of Sanford High School, prepared to dance her last hours away. For the heroes and heroines of fairy-tale renown had apparently left the books that had held them captive for so long, and, jubilant in their unaccustomed freedom, promenaded the floor of the gymnasium in twos, threes or in whole companies. Simple Simon, whose tall, lank figure bore a startling resemblance to that of the Crane, paraded the floor, calm and unafraid, with none less personage than the terrible Blue Beard. Hansel and Gretel immediately formed a warm attachment for Jack and Jill, and the quartet wandered confidently about together. Little Miss Muffet, in spite of her reputed daintiness, clung to the arm of Bearskin, who, despite the fact that his furry coat was that of a buffalo instead of a bear, was a unique success in his line. One suspected, too that the Brave Little Tailor, whose waistcoat bore the modest inscription, "Seven at One Blow," and who tripped over his long sword at regular two-minute intervals, had an impish, freckled countenance. The straight, lithe figure of the youth with the Magic Fiddle reminded one of Lawrence Armitage, while his constant companion, Aladdin, a sultan of unequaled magnificence, had a peculiar swing to his gait that reminded sharp-eyed observers of Hal Macy. The Four Fat Friars loomed large and gray, and fanned imaginary flies with commendable energy, while Snow White, accompanied by her faithful dwarfs, made a radiantly beautiful figure and was greeted with ejaculations of admiration wherever she chose to walk. There were kings and courtiers, queens and goose girls. There were jesters and princesses, old witches and fairies. Mother Goose was there. So were Jack Horner, Bo-peep, Little Boy Blue and many more of her nursery children, not to mention two fearsome giants, at least ten feet high, whose voluminous cloaks concealed figures which appeared far too tall to be true. Rapunzel trailed about on the arm of her prince, her beautiful hair, which looked suspiciously like nice new rope, confined in a braid at least three inches wide and hanging gracefully to her feet. Cinderella came to the party in her old kitchen dress, accompanied by her fairy godmother, and Beauty was attended by a strange being clad in a huge fur robe and a papier-mache tiger's head, which was immediately recognized as the formidable Beast. The gallery of the gymnasium was crowded with the friends and families of the maskers who were admitted by tickets, a limited number of which had been issued. When the first notes of the grand march sounded there was a great craning of necks and a loud buzz of expectation as the gaily dressed company formed into line, and while the brilliant procession circled the gymnasium a lively guessing went on as to who was who in Fairyland. Mother Goose led the march with the Brave Little Tailor, who frisked along in high glee and executed weird and wonderful steps for the edification of his aged partner and the rest of the company in general. "Isn't it great, though," commented Aladdin to his partner, who was none other than Snow White. "I know who you are. I'm sure I do. If I guess correctly will you tell me?" Snow White nodded her curly head. "All right, here goes. You are Marjorie Dean." "I'm so glad you guessed right the first time," declared Snow White in a muffled voice from behind her mask. "I've been perfectly crazy to talk to someone. It's a gorgeous party, isn't it, Hal?" "The nicest one the Sanford girls have ever given the boys," returned Hal Macy, warmly. "You'll give me the next dance, won't you, Marjorie?" "Of course," acquiesced Marjorie. "I think the grand march is going to end in a minute." She danced the first dance with Hal. After that the Youth with the Magic Fiddle claimed her, and when he asked in a tone of deep concern, "When do you think Constance will be home, Marjorie?" she had no difficulty in recognizing Lawrence Armitage. "I don't know, Laurie," she said rather confusedly. "I--I haven't heard from her." "She wrote me one letter," declared Laurie, gloomily. "I answered it, but she hasn't written me a line since." "Then you know----" began Marjorie. She did not finish. "Know what?" asked Laurie, impatiently. "Nothing," was the answer. "That's just it!" exclaimed the boy. "I know exactly nothing about Constance. I thought you'd be sure to know something." Just then the dance came to an end. Jack and the Beanstalk, clad in doublet and hose, and decorated with long green tendrils of that fruitful vine, his famous hatchet slung over his shoulder by a stout leather thong, claimed her for the next dance, and she had no time to exchange further words with Laurie. The moment of unmasking was to follow the ninth dance. The eighth was just about to begin. Marjorie caught sight of a huge lumbering figure in princely garments heading in her direction, and turning fled toward the dressing-room. She was quite sure of the prince's identity, which was that of a youth whom she particularly disliked. Just as she reached the sheltering door a familiar voice called out a low, cautious, "Marjorie." Turning, she saw a stout, gray-robed friar hurrying toward her. "I've hunted all over for you," declared the friar, in Jerry's unmistakable tones. "Come into the dressing-room. Someone is waiting to see you there." "Waiting to see me!" exclaimed Marjorie, in surprise. "That's what I said. Come along." Jerry caught her arm and pulled her gently into the dressing-room. At one end of the room stood the dingy figure of Cinderella, deep in conversation with her fairy godmother. At the sound of the opening door Cinderella wheeled and, with a quavering little cry of "Marjorie!" ran forward to meet the newcomers. Marjorie stopped short and stared unbelievingly at the shabbily clothed figure, but Cinderella had now torn off her mask and was fumbling with trembling eagerness in the pocket of her apron. "Here it is, Marjorie, dear! I never dreamed you had one like it. No wonder you felt dreadfully that day. Look at it." She thrust a small glittering object into Marjorie's limp hand. Marjorie regarded the object with a look of growing amazement, which suddenly changed to one of alarm. "It isn't mine!" she gasped. "It's exactly like it except for one thing. Mine has no pearls here." She touched the tips of the golden butterfly's wings. "Oh, Constance, can you ever forgive me?" The pretty butterfly pin slipped from her lax fingers and Marjorie burst into tears. "Don't cry, Marjorie," said Jerry, with unusual gentleness. "You didn't know. It was just one of those miserable misunderstandings. Constance wants to tell you about the pin." "But how--where----" quavered Marjorie. "Oh, I had an idea that there was some kind of a misunderstanding, so I wrote Constance and asked her to come home as soon as she could," explained Jerry. "Her father gave me her address. She was coming home next week, anyhow, but I wrote her again and asked her to get here in time for the dance. The minute I saw that butterfly pin I asked her straight out and out where she got it. She told me, and then I knew that the thing for me to do was to bring you two together. She only came home last night, so we had to plan a costume in a hurry. You haven't said a word about her fairy godmother, either. Take off your mask, dear fairy godmother." "Irma!" cried Marjorie, as she glimpsed a laughing face. "Oh, it's too wonderful!" She wound two penitent arms around Constance and kissed her. "I guess that will settle Mignon," commented Jerry, in triumph. "It is a shame, but I suppose your butterfly pin is really lost. Constance will tell you the history of hers." "I wish the bracelet problem could be solved, too," sighed Constance. "Jerry tells me that Mignon is going to accuse me of taking it when I go back to school. How can she be so cruel? I don't remember seeing it in the dressing-room on the night of the Weston dance." "But I do!" called out a positive voice that caused them all to face the intruder in astonishment. A slim, pale-faced girl, dressed as a shepherdess, emerged from behind a curtain which hung in a little alcove at one end of the dressing-room. "Please excuse me for listening," apologized the girl. "I was standing here looking out of the window when you girls came in and began to talk. Before I could make up my mind what it was all about I heard Miss Stevens talking about Miss La Salle's bracelet and the Weston dance. Did Miss La Salle accuse you of taking her bracelet that night?" she asked, her eyes upon Constance. "Yes," began Constance, "she----" "Miss La Salle is the real thief," interrupted the girl, dryly. "I saw her take off her bracelet and lay it on the dressing table. I saw her come and take it away after Miss Stevens left the room. I had to catch the last train home that night. You know, I don't live in Sanford, and I was sitting over in one corner of the dressing-room behind a chair putting on my shoes. Neither Miss Stevens nor Miss La Salle saw me. I wondered what Miss La Salle meant by doing as she did, but I never understood until this minute. I'm glad I happened to be there that night and I'm glad I happen to be here now. If there is likely to be any trouble, just send for me. I'm Edna Halstead, of the junior class." The four girls had received this rapidly repeated information with varying degrees of amazement. It was Marjorie who first sprang forward and offered her hand to Edna Halstead. "It is the last word we needed to clear Constance," she asserted, joyously. "Will you go to Miss Archer with us on Monday?" "I should be glad to do so. I never could endure that La Salle girl," was the frank response. "We'll go together," planned Jerry. "Every one of you meet me in Miss Archer's living-room office on Monday morning before school begins." "I must go home now," demurred Constance. "I don't wish anyone to know that I've been here." "Not even Laurie?" asked Marjorie, slyly. "He spoke of you to-night." Constance smiled. "You may tell him after the 'Home, Sweet Home' waltz." "There goes the music for the ninth dance," informed Jerry, who had stepped to the door. "Oh, gracious, I promised this dance to Hal! I can't go. I simply must hear about the pin, Connie." "I'll tell you just one thing about it," stipulated Constance, "but the rest must wait until to-morrow, for Hal is too nice a boy to leave without a partner." "Then tell me that one thing," begged Marjorie. "My aunt sent me the pin," was the quick answer. "Now kiss me good-night and hurry along to Hal." And Marjorie kissed her and went with happiness singing joyfully in her heart. CHAPTER XXIV THE EXPLANATION Owing to the fervent manner in which each succeeding dance was encored, it was after midnight before the fairy-tale masquerade came to an end and the lords and ladies of fairy lore became everyday boys and girls again; and went home congratulating themselves on the blessed fact that to-morrow was Saturday and that they could make up lost sleep the next morning. Marjorie Dean, however, was not among the late sleepers. She was up and about the house at her usual hour, for the day held promise of unusual interest. First of all, Constance was coming to see her at ten o'clock. Then too, it was May day, a gloriously sunshiny May day, without the faintest trace of cloud in the deep blue sky. As a third pleasant anticipation, her class had planned a Mayday picnic at a point about two miles up the river. It had been an unusually early spring, and the wild flowers had blossomed in such profusion in the neighboring woods about the town and along the river that the picnic had been planned with a view to spending the day in gathering as many of them as possible. The expedition having been organized by the officers of the class there was no question of who should be invited or who should be left out. The class was exhorted to turn out in a body, and with the exception of a few girls who had made plans for that Saturday prior to their knowledge of the picnic, the freshmen of 19-- had promised to attend. "Oh, dear, I wish ten o'clock were here!" sighed Marjorie as she straightened the last object on her dressing table and viewed with satisfaction the immaculate order to which she had reduced her room. Keeping her room clean and dainty was almost a sacred obligation with Marjorie. Her mother had spared neither time nor expense to make it a marvel of pink-and-white beauty. The furniture was of white maple, the thick, soft rug had a cream background scattered with small pink roses. The window curtains were cunning ruffled affairs of fine white dotted Swiss, while the window draperies were in pink-and-white French cretonne. An attractive willow stand, which stood beside the bed, the two pretty willow rockers piled high with pink and white cushions and the creamy wallpaper with its graceful border of pink roses made the room a perpetual joy to its appreciative owner. Marjorie always referred to it as her "house" and when at home spent a great deal of her time there. But this morning the May sunshine poured rapturously in at her open windows, touched her brown hair with mischievous golden fingers that left gleaming imprints on her curls, and mutely coaxed her to come out and play. "I can't stand it indoors another minute," she breathed impatiently. "It's almost ten. I'll walk down to the corner. Perhaps I'll see Constance coming." As she was about to leave the window she caught a glimpse of a slender blue figure far down the street. With a cry of, "Oh, there she is!" Marjorie raced out of her room, down the stairs and across the lawn to the gate. "You dear thing!" she called, her hands extended. The next instant the two girls were embracing with a degree of affection known only to those who, after blind misunderstanding, once more see the light. Tears of contrition stood in Marjorie's eyes as she led Constance into the house and upstairs to her room. "Can you ever forgive me?" she faltered, pushing Constance gently into a chair and drawing her own opposite that of her friend. "There is nothing to forgive," returned Constance, unsteadily. "You didn't know. If only I had made you stay that day until we came to an understanding! When you said 'Good-bye' in that queer tone, I called to you to wait, for it seemed to me you were angry; but you had gone. Then your note came. I didn't know how you could possibly have learned about the pin, for I hadn't told a soul besides father and Uncle John. It occurred to me that perhaps you had seen Uncle John and he had told you. When I read what you said about not seeing me again I thought just one thing, that, knowing my story, you didn't care to be friends with me any more." "What do you mean, Constance?" Marjorie's query was full of compelling insistence. "I don't know any story about you." "I know that you don't, dear; but I thought you knew. When Uncle John came in that afternoon I asked him if he had seen you in the last two days, and he said 'no,' and then 'yes.' I asked him if he had told you about what had happened to me, and he declared that he couldn't remember. I was sure that he had told you, because he often says that when he is afraid father or I won't approve of something he has done. That is the reason I didn't come to see you. Then I went to New York in a hurry without dreaming of what your letter really meant. Jerry wrote me two days before I had planned to come home. So I changed my plans and started for Sanford the same day her letter reached me. Charlie was so much better that I wasn't needed." "Charlie?" repeated Marjorie, in bewildered interrogation. "Yes," nodded Constance. "Haven't you seen father since I left? Didn't he tell you?" "Only once. I--he--I didn't let him know about us. It was right after you went away. He said you had taken Charlie with you. I met him in the street and stopped only a minute. I had come from your house that day but there was no one at home. I couldn't bear to let things go on as they had. "Now," declared Marjorie, drawing a long breath, "begin at the beginning and tell me every single thing." "I will," assured Constance, emphatically. "Let me see. It began the day after Christmas. A letter came from New York in the morning mail addressed to father. I gave it to him, and after he read it he sat so still and looked so white that I thought he was going to faint. Then he made me come and sit down beside him and told me that the letter was from my mother's sister in New York and that she was rich and wanted me to come and live with her. "I said that I would never desert my own father no matter how poor he was, and then he told me that he was only my foster father, just as he was Charlie's. That my own father had been his best friend when they were boys. Later on, my father became a worthless, drunken wretch and my mother had to do sewing to take care of herself and me. My mother's family never forgave her for marrying my father and would not help her. She was not strong and could not stand it to be so poor and work so hard. She died when I was a year old, and just a month afterward my father died with pneumonia. No one wanted me, so I was put in an orphan asylum, but Father Stevens, who had been trying to find my father, heard where I was and took me to live with him. He wrote to my aunt first, but she said she didn't want me. That is the first part of my story." "It sounds like a story in a book," said Marjorie, softly. "Go on, Connie." "This letter that father received was from my aunt," continued Constance. "She had been trying to find us for more than two years. Finally, she saw father's name signed to an article in the musical magazine, so she wrote a letter and asked the publishers to forward it. She said in the letter that she was now an old woman who had found that blood was thicker than water, and that she wanted her sister's daughter, who must now be a young woman, to come and live with her. With the letter came a jeweler's box, and in the box was the butterfly pin. She sent it to me as a Christmas gift. "I cried and said I would not go, but father said it was the opportunity of my life time and that I must. He said that he had no legal right to me and that he loved me too dearly to stand in my way. It almost broke my heart. How I hated that butterfly and my aunt, too. When you came to see me that unlucky day I was feeling the worst. That very night I wrote my aunt a long letter. I told her just how I felt, how much I loved father and Charlie and poor old Uncle John and that I could never, never give them up. Father didn't know I wrote the letter. He thought I was becoming resigned to going away. I went back to school and wore the pin, as my aunt had asked me to do in a little note enclosed in father's letter. "Then her letter came and it was so much nicer than the other that I cried out of pure happiness. She asked me to bring Charlie to New York. She knew a famous specialist who she thought might help, if not cure him. She asked me to make her a visit and said she would never wish me to come to live with her except of my own free will. "We went to New York as you know, and, Marjorie"--Constance made an impressive pause--"Charlie is going to be entirely well in a little while. The specialist operated on his hip and the operation was successful. He will be able to walk before very long. When he knew I was coming home he said, 'Tell Marjorie that I don't need to ask Santa Claus for a new leg next year, because the good, kind man she told me about fixed mine.'" "Dear little Charlie," murmured Marjorie. "I'm so glad." A pleasant silence fell upon the two young girls. So much had happened that for a brief moment each was busy with her own thoughts. "Are you coming back to school to finish the year, Constance?" asked Marjorie, at last. "Yes. I am going to try to make up for lost time. I'll take in June the examinations I should have tried in January. I hope to be a Sanford sophomore, Marjorie. Aunt Edith is coming to visit us this summer. She is going to bring Charlie home." Constance remained with Marjorie until almost noon. "I wish you'd stay to luncheon," coaxed the little lieutenant. "I can't. I'm sorry. I promised father I'd be home at noon." "Then I wish you were going to the picnic this afternoon." Constance shook her head, looking wistful, nevertheless. "I'd rather not. Mignon will be there. It is better to be out of sight and out of mind until after Monday." "Everything is turning out beautifully," sighed Marjorie. "There's only one thing more that I could possibly wish for." "What is that?" asked Constance quickly. "My lost butterfly." "Perhaps it will fly back home when you least expect it," consoled Constance. "Lost pins don't fly," retorted Marjorie. "If they did my butterfly would have come back to me long ago." But, even then, though she could not know it, her cherished butterfly was poising its golden wings for the homeward flight. CHAPTER XXV MARJORIE DEAN TO THE RESCUE By one o'clock that afternoon 19-- had assembled at the big elm tree on the river road which had been chosen as a meeting place. The flower hunters had planned to follow the road for a mile to a point where a boat house, which had a small teashop connected with it, was situated. Owing to the continued spring weather the proprietor had opened the place earlier than usual and it was decided that the picnickers should make this their headquarters, returning there for tea when they grew tired of roaming the neighboring woods. Marjorie Dean had not hailed the prospect of 19--'s picnic with enthusiasm. She did not welcome the idea of coming into close contact with the little knot of freshmen that were loyal to Mignon La Salle's interests. However, it would be a pleasure to walk in the fresh spring woods and gather flowers, so she started for the rendezvous that afternoon determined to have the best kind of a time possible under the circumstances. She had promised to call for Jerry, but the latter, accompanied by Irma, met her halfway between the two houses. "I thought you were never coming," grumbled the stout girl, in her characteristic fashion. "I've heard those words before," giggled Marjorie. "Haven't you, Irma?" "Something very similar," laughed Irma. Jerry grinned broadly. "Shouldn't be surprised if you had," she admitted. "It's the first May I ever remember that it hasn't rained. I hope the weather doesn't change its mind and pour before we get home." "Don't speak of it," cautioned Irma, superstitiously. "You'll bring rain down upon us if you do. May is a weepy month, you know." "Weeps or no weeps, I suppose we'll have the pleasure of seeing our dear friends, Mignon and Muriel, to-day. I could weep for that," growled Jerry, resentfully. Arrived at the elm tree, the girls found the majority of their classmates already there. To Marjorie's secret disgust, Marcia Arnold was among the number of upper-class girls chosen to chaperon the picnickers. "Mignon's work," confided Jerry, as she caught sight of Marcia. "I hope she falls into the river and gets a good wetting," she added, with cheerful malice. "Jerry!" expostulated Irma in horror. "You mustn't say such awful things." "I didn't say I hoped she'd get drowned," flung back Jerry. "I'd just like to see her get a good ducking." It was impossible not to laugh at Jerry, who, encouraged by their laughter, made various other uncomplimentary remarks about the offending junior. The picnic party set out for the boathouse with merry shouts and echoing laughter. The quiet air rang with the melody of school songs welling from care-free young throats as the crowd of rollicking girls tramped along the river road. Spring had not been niggardly with her flower wealth, and gracious, smiling May trailed her pink-and-white skirts over carpets of living green, starred with hepaticas and spring beauties, while, from under clusters of green-brown leaves, the trailing arbutus lifted its shy, delicate face to peep out, the loveliest messenger of spring. The girls pounced upon the fragrant clumps of blossoms and began an enthusiastic filling of baskets. Held captive by the lure of the waking woods, the time slipped by unnoticed, and it was after four o'clock before the majority of the flower-hunters turned their steps toward the boathouse. Mignon La Salle, Muriel Harding, Marcia Arnold and half a dozen girls who were worshipful admirers of the French girl, soon found flower gathering decidedly monotonous. "Let's hurry out of these stupid woods," proposed Mignon. "My feet are damp and I'm sure I saw a snake a minute ago." "Let's go canoeing," proposed Muriel Harding, as they came in sight of the boathouse. "The very thing," exulted Mignon. "Let me see; there are nine of us. That will be three in a canoe. I'll hire the canoes and tell the man to send the bill to my father." With quick, catlike springs, she ran lightly down the bank, across the road and disappeared into the boathouse. Ten minutes later three canoes floated on the surface of the river, swollen almost to the banks by April's frequent tearful outbursts. Mignon stood on the shore and gave voluble orders as the girls cautiously took seats in the bobbing craft. "Get in, Marcia," she commanded, pointing to the third canoe. Marcia obeyed with nervous expressions of fear. An hour later, from a little slope just inside the woods, Marjorie and her friends, who had reluctantly directed their steps toward the boathouse, glimpsed the returning canoeing party through the trees. The canoers had lifted their voices in song, and Marcia Arnold, forgetful of her fears, was singing as gaily as the rest. "It's dangerous to go canoeing now," commented Jerry, judicially. "The river's too high." "Can you swim?" asked Irma, irrelevantly of Marjorie. "Yes," nodded Marjorie. "I won a prize at the seashore last year for----" A sharp, terror-freighted scream rang out. The eyes of the trio were instantly fastened upon the river, where floated an overturned canoe with two girls struggling near it in the water. They saw the one girl strike out for shore, and, unheeding her companions' wild cries, swim steadily toward the river bank. "Oh!" gasped Marjorie. Then she darted down the slope, scattering the flowers from her basket as she ran. At the river's edge she threw aside her sweater and, sitting down on the ground, tore off her shoes. Poising herself on the bank, she cut the water in a clean, sharp dive and, an instant later, came up not far from Marcia Arnold, who was making desperate efforts to keep afloat. A few skilful strokes and she had reached the now sinking secretary's side. Slipping her left hand under Marcia's chin, she managed to keep her head above water and support her with her left arm while she struck out strongly for shore with her right. The water was very cold, but the distance was short, and Marjorie felt herself equal to her task. To the panic-stricken girls on shore it seemed hours, instead of not more than ten minutes, before Marjorie reached the bank with her burden. Willing hands grasped Marcia, who, with unusual presence of mind for one threatened by drowning, had tried to lighten Marjorie's brave effort to rescue her. Once on dry land she dropped back unconscious, while Marjorie clambered ashore, little disturbed by her wetting. It was Jerry, however, who now rose to the occasion. "Marjorie Dean," she ordered, "go into that tea shop this minute. I'm going to my house to get you some dry clothes. I'll be back in a little while." Marjorie allowed herself to be led into the back room of the little shop, where Marcia was already being divested of her wet clothing. Fifteen minutes afterward the two girls sat garbed in voluminous wrappers, belonging to the boat tender's wife, sipping hot tea. Marjorie smiled and talked gaily with her admiring classmates, but Marcia sat white and silent. Suddenly a girl entered the room and pushed her way through the crowd of girls to Marcia's side. It was Muriel Harding. "How do you feel, Marcia?" she asked tremulously. "I'm all right now," quavered Marcia. Muriel turned impulsively to Marjorie, and bending down, kissed her cheek. "You are a brave, brave girl, Marjorie Dean, and I hope some day I'll be worthy of your friendship." Then she turned and fairly ran from the room. Before Marjorie could recover from her surprise, Jerry's loud, cheerful tones were heard outside. "Here's a whole wardrobe," she proclaimed, setting down two suitcases with a flourish. "I came back in our car, and as soon as you girls are dressed, I'll take you home, and as many more as the car will hold," she added genially. It was a triumphant little procession that marched to the spot where the Macy's huge car stood ready. As Marjorie put her foot on the step a girl's voice called out, "Three cheers for Marjorie Dean!" and the car glided off in the midst of a noisy but heartfelt ovation. They were well down the road when Marjorie felt a timid hand upon hers. Marcia Arnold's eyes looked penitently into her own. "Will you forgive me, Marjorie?" she said, almost in a whisper. "I've been so hateful." "Don't ever think of it again," comforted Marjorie, patting the other girl's hand. "I must think of it," returned Marcia, earnestly. "I--I can't talk about it now, but may I come to see you to-morrow afternoon? I have something to tell you." "Come by all means," invited Marjorie. "I must say good-bye now. Here we are at my house. I hope mother won't be too much alarmed when I tell her. I'll have to explain Jerry's clothes. They are not quite a perfect fit, as you can see." Marcia held the young girl's hand between her own. "I'll come to see you at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon. Maybe I can show you then how deeply I feel what you did for me to-day." "I wonder what she is so mysterious over," thought Marjorie, as she ran up the steps. "I never dreamed that she and I would be friends. And Muriel, too. How perfectly dear she was. But"--Marjorie stopped short in the middle of the veranda--"what do you suppose became of Mignon?" CHAPTER XXVI LETTING BYGONES BE BYGONES Marjorie touched the button of the electric bell for admittance, but her finger had scarcely left it when the door was opened by her mother, who regarded her daughter with mingled amazement and alarm. "Why, Marjorie!" she cried. "What has happened to you?" "Don't be frightened, Mother. I know I look awfully funny!" Marjorie stepped into the hall, with a superb disregard for her strange appearance, assumed with a view to calming Mrs. Dean's fears. "I--a canoe tipped over and I helped one of the girls out of the river and got wet. My clothes are down at the boathouse drying. Jerry went home and brought back some of hers for me. That's why I look so different. She didn't come here for fear of scaring you." "You have been in the river!" gasped her mother in horror, "and it's unusually high just now." "But it didn't hurt me a bit," averred Marjorie, cheerfully. "I can swim, and someone had to help Marcia. Come upstairs with me while I get into my own clothes and I'll tell you all about it." They had reached her room and Mrs. Dean was eyeing her lively little lieutenant doubtfully. "Are you sure you feel well, Marjorie?" she asked anxiously. "Perfectly splendid, Captain," was the extravagant assurance, as Marjorie gently backed her mother into a chair. "I'm going to get out of Jerry's clothes and into my own and then we'll have a nice comfy old talk." Slipping into a one-piece frock of blue linen, Marjorie brushed her dampened brown curls thoroughly dry and let them fall over her shoulders. Placing a sofa pillow on the floor close to her mother, she settled herself cozily at her mother's side and leaned against her knee, looking far more like a little girl than a young woman of seventeen. It was a very long talk, for there was much to be said, and it lasted until the sun dropped low in the west and the early twilight shadows fell. A sudden loud ring of the doorbell sent Marjorie scurrying to the door. She opened it to find a messenger boy, bearing a long, white box with the name of Sanford's principal florist upon it. "For Miss Marjorie Dean," said the boy, handing her the box. "Oh!" ejaculated the surprised lieutenant, almost dropping the box in her astonishment. Carrying it to the living-room table, she lifted the lid and exclaimed again over its fragrant contents. Exquisite, long-stemmed pink roses had been someone's tribute to Marjorie, and a card tucked in among their perfumed petals proclaimed that someone to be Harold Macy. At the bottom of the card was inscribed in Hal's boyish hand, "To my friend, Marjorie Dean, a real heroine." Marjorie had scarcely recovered from this pleasant shock when her father appeared upon the scene and gathered her into his arms with an anxious, "How's my brave little lieutenant?" "Why, General, who told you?" cried Marjorie. "I never dreamed you'd hear of it." "It came to me through Mr. Arnold, who has the next office to mine," said Mr. Dean. "Mrs. Arnold telephoned him as soon as her daughter reached home. She was afraid he might hear an incorrect report of it from some other source." "We never thought of that. We should have telephoned you. But it's my fault. I kept mother up in my room and talked so long to her that she forgot it," avowed Marjorie, apologetically. "It's too late for apologies," Mr. Dean assumed an air of deep injury. Then he laughed and drew from his coat pocket a small package. "Here's an appreciation of bravery," he declared. "To the brave belongs the golden circlet of courage. We might also call it your commission to first lieutenancy. I think you've won your promotion." Marjorie's second surprise was a gold bracelet, delicately chased, for which she had sighed more than once. Sunday dawned as radiantly as had the preceding day. Marjorie went to church in a peculiarly exalted mood, and came home feeling at peace with the world. After dinner she took a book and went out into a little vine-covered pagoda built at one end of the lawn, which was fitted with rustic seats and a small table. Here it was that she and her captain had planned to spend many of the long summer afternoons reading and sewing, and it was here that Marcia found her. "I have something for you, Marjorie," she said in a low voice. Then she opened a little silver mesh bag and drawing forth a small, glittering object handed it to the other girl. Marjorie's eyes opened wide. With a gurgle of joy she caught the little object and fingered it lovingly. "My very own butterfly! Where in the world did you find it, Marcia?" "I didn't find it," returned Marcia, huskily. "Then who did?" "Mignon. She found it the day after you lost it. I don't like to tell you these things, but I believe it is right that you should know. She kept it merely to hurt you. She knew you were fond of it. Muriel told her all about your receiving it as a farewell gift from your friends. I--I--am to blame, too. I knew she had it. She intended to give it back after a while. Then she saw Miss Stevens with one like it and noticed the queer way you looked at her pin in French class that day. She is very shrewd and observing. She suspected that you girls had quarreled, and so she put two and two together. She actually hates Miss Stevens, and told me she would never give the pin back if she could make Miss Stevens any trouble by keeping it. "Then she went to Miss Archer and told her about her bracelet and the pin, too." Marcia paused, looking miserable. "Miss Archer sent for me and questioned me about my pin," said Marjorie, gravely. "She is vexed with me still because I wouldn't say anything. You see I had misjudged Constance. I thought she had found it and kept it. It is only lately that I learned what a dreadful mistake I made. I think I ought to let you know, Marcia, that Constance is in Sanford. She is coming back to school on Monday and going straight to Miss Archer's office to prove her innocence. Constance was Cinderella at the dance Friday night. Jerry made her come to the party on purpose to bring us together. Constance's butterfly pin was a present from her aunt. We know the truth about Mignon's bracelet, too. Did you know that Mignon never lost it, Marcia? She only pretended that she had." The secretary shook her head in emphatic denial. "I'm not guilty of that, at least. I hope I'll never do anything underhanded or dishonorable again. It's dreadful to think that Miss Archer will have to know what a despicable girl I've been, but that's part of my punishment. I suppose she won't have me for her secretary any more." Marcia's face wore an expression of complete resignation. She had been a party to a dishonorable act, and her reaping promised to be bitter indeed. "It means a whole lot to you to be secretary, doesn't it, Marcia?" asked Marjorie, slowly. "Yes. This is my third year. I've been saving the money to go to college. Father couldn't afford to pay all my expenses. I----" Marcia broke down and covered her face with her hands. Marjorie regarded the secretary with a puzzled frown. She was apparently turning over some problem in her mind. "Marcia, how did you obtain my butterfly from Mignon?" Marcia's hands dropped slowly from her face. "I went to her house this morning and made her give it to me. She tried to make me promise that I would say she found it only a day or two ago. I didn't promise. I'm glad I can say that." "Would you go with me to her home?" asked Marjorie, abruptly. "I have thought of a way to settle the whole affair without Miss Archer knowing about either of you." "Oh, if it could only be settled among ourselves!" cried Marcia, clasping her hands. "I'll go with you. She is at home this afternoon, too. I came from her house here." "Wait just a moment, then, until I run indoors for my hat." Marjorie walked briskly across the lawn to the house. She was back in a twinkling, a pretty white flower-trimmed hat on her head, carrying a white fluffy parasol that matched her dainty lingerie gown. "How beautiful Mignon's home is!" she exclaimed softly, as they entered the beautiful grounds of the La Salle estate and walked up the broad driveway bordered with maples. "There's Mignon on the veranda. She is alone. I am glad of that." "What are you going to say to her?" asked Marcia, her curiosity getting the better of her dejection, for Mignon had risen with a muttered exclamation, and was coming toward them with the quick, catlike movements that so characterized her. "What do you mean, Marcia Arnold," she began fiercely, "by----" "Miss Arnold is not responsible for our call this afternoon, Miss La Salle," broke in Marjorie, coolly. "I asked her to come here with me." Mignon glared at the other girl in speechless anger. Her roving black eyes suddenly spied the butterfly pinned in the lace folds of Marjorie's frock. "Oh, I see," she sneered. "You think I'm going to tell you all about your trumpery butterfly pin. You are mistaken, I shall tell you nothing." "I believe I am in possession of all the facts concerning my butterfly," returned Marjorie, dryly, "and also those relating to your supposedly lost bracelet." "'Supposedly lost?'" repeated Mignon, arching her eyebrows. "Have you found it? If you have, give it to me at once." "There is only one person who can do that," said Marjorie, gravely, "and that person is you." The betraying color flew to the French girl's cheeks. "What do you mean?" she asked, but her voice shook. "Why do you ask me that?" retorted Marjorie, with sudden impatience. "You know that on the night of the Weston dance you pretended you had lost your bracelet in order to throw suspicion on Miss Stevens. Someone saw you lay your bracelet on the dressing table. The same person saw you leave the room, return a few minutes afterward and pick it up from the table. How could you be so cruel and dishonorable?" "It isn't true," stormed Mignon. "Constance Stevens is a thief. A thief, do you hear? And when she comes back to Sanford the school shall know it." "No, Constance Stevens is not a thief. You are the real thief," said Marjorie with quiet condemnation. "Knowing the butterfly pin to be mine, you kept it for many weeks. However, I did not come here to quarrel with you. I came to help Marcia and to save you from the effects of your own wrongdoing. Constance Stevens is in Sanford. She is going to Miss Archer to-morrow to prove her innocence. I am going with her. The girl who knows the truth about your bracelet will be there, too. You knew long ago that Constance's butterfly pin was her very own." "Of course I knew it," sneered Mignon. There was a look of consternation in her eyes, however. "Then that is another point against you. You do not deserve to be let off so easily, but for Marcia's sake, I am going to say that if you will go with Constance and me to Miss Archer to-morrow morning and withdraw your charges against Constance, stating that you have your bracelet, we will never mention the subject again. Meet me in Miss Archer's outer office at twenty minutes past eight." She did not even turn to look at the discomfited Mignon as she issued her command. "Marjorie," said Marcia, hesitatingly, as they walked in silence down the poplar-shaded street. "Shall I--had I--do you wish me to go with you to Miss Archer?" Marjorie cast a quick, searching glance at the thoroughly repentant junior. "What for?" she smiled, ignoring all that had been. They had now come to where their ways parted. Marjorie held out her hand. "We are going to be friends forever and always, aren't we, Marcia?" Marcia clasped the extended hand with fervor. "'Forever and always,'" she repeated. And through all their high school days that followed she kept her word. Three unusually silent young women met in Miss Archer's living-room office the next morning and awaited their opportunity to see the principal. "Miss Archer will see you," Marcia Arnold informed them after a wait of perhaps five minutes, and the trio filed into the inner office. "Good morning, girls," greeted Miss Archer, viewing them searchingly. "Miss Stevens, I am glad that you have returned, but I am sorry to say that during your absence I have heard a number of unpleasant rumors concerning you." Constance flushed, then her color receded, leaving her very white. Before the principal could continue, Marjorie's earnest tones rang out. "Miss Archer, Miss Stevens and I had a misunderstanding. When you asked me about it I could not tell you. It has since been cleared away. My butterfly pin has been found, but it was not the one Miss Stevens wore. See, here are the two pins. Mine has no pearls at the tips of the wings." She extended her open palm to the principal. In it lay two butterfly pins, precisely alike save for the pearl-tipped wings of the one. Miss Archer looked long at the pins. Then she lifted them to meet the blue and the brown eyes whose gaze was fastened earnestly upon her. What she saw seemed to satisfy her. She held out her hand to Marjorie and Constance in turn. "They are very alike," was her sole comment, as Marjorie returned Constance's pin. Then Miss Archer turned to Mignon. "I am sorry I accused Miss Stevens of taking my bracelet," murmured Mignon, sulkily. "I have it in my possession. Here it is." She thrust out an unwilling wrist, on which was the bracelet. "I am glad that you have exonerated Miss Stevens from all suspicion." Miss Archer's quiet face expressed little of what was going on in her mind. "I am also thankful that an apparently serious matter has been so easily settled." She did not offer her hand to Mignon, who left the office without answering. A moment later, Marjorie and Constance were in the outer office standing at Marcia Arnold's desk. "It's all settled, Marcia, with no names mentioned," she said reassuringly. "Good-bye, we'll see you later. We'll have to hurry or we'll be late for the opening exercises." In the corridor outside the study hall, Marcia and Constance paused by common consent and faced each other. "Connie, dear," Marjorie said softly. "There's only a little more than a month of our freshman year left. It isn't very much time, but I believe we won't have to try very hard to make up in happiness for what we've lost." "I am so happy this morning, and so grateful to you, Marjorie, for all you've done for me, and most of all for your friendship," was Constance's earnest answer. "I hope you will never have cause to question my loyalty and that next year we'll be sophomore chums, tried and true." "We'll simply have to be," laughed Marjorie, with joyous certainty, "for I don't see how we can very well get along without each other." THE END ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE GIRL SCOUTS SERIES By Edith Lavell A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. Price, 65 Cents Each. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MARJORIE DEAN COLLEGE SERIES By Pauline Lester Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean High School Series. Those who have read the Marjorie Dean High School Series will be eager to read this new series, as Marjorie Dean continues to be the heroine in these stories. All Cloth Bound. Copyright Titles. Price, 65 Cents Each. MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE FRESHMAN MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE SOPHOMORE MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE JUNIOR MARJORIE DEAN, COLLEGE SENIOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ MARJORIE DEAN HIGH SCHOOL SERIES By Pauline Lester Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean College Series. These are clean, wholesome stories that will be of great interest to all girls of high school age. All Cloth Bound. Copyright Titles. Price, 65 Cents Each. MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL JUNIOR MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SENIOR For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SERIES By Hildegard G. Frey A Series of Outdoor Stories for Girls 12 to 16 Years. All Cloth Bound. Copyright Titles. Price, 65 Cents Each. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The Winnebagos go Camping. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SCHOOL; or, The Wohelo Weavers. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT ONOWAY HOUSE; or, The Magic Garden. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS GO MOTORING; or, Along the Road That Leads the Way. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS' LARKS AND PRANKS; or, The House of the Open Door. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON ELLEN'S ISLE; or, The Trail of the Seven Cedars. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ON THE OPEN ROAD; or, Glorify Work. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS DO THEIR BIT; or, Over the Top with the Winnebagos. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY; or, The Christmas Adventure at Carver House. THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT CAMP KEEWAYDIN; or, Down Paddles. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers. A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber's Notes 1. Punctuation and hyphenation have been brought into conformity with current standards. 2. Obvious typographical errors corrected. 3. Modifications to text: p. 62 came to she ears -> came to her ears p. 132 "Yes," answered the Marjorie -> Yes, answered Marjorie p. 144 voicing the pent-up long -> voicing the pent-up longing p. 197 lace took on an expression -> face took on an expression 
34728	----	Team (http://www.fadedpage.net) BETTY LEE, SOPHOMORE by HARRIET PYNE GROVE The World Syndicate Publishing Co. Cleveland, Ohio ---- New York City Copyright, 1931 by The World Syndicate Publishing Co. Printed in the United States of America Table of Contents - CHAPTER I: "GYPSY" - CHAPTER II: CAROLYN ARRIVES - CHAPTER III: THE GREAT SURPRISE - CHAPTER IV: BETTY MEETS THE COUNTESS - CHAPTER V: A REAL SOPHOMORE AT LAST - CHAPTER VI: DOING HER BEST FOR LUCIA - CHAPTER VII: LITTLE ADJUSTMENTS - CHAPTER VIII: THE G. A. A. BREAKFAST HIKE - CHAPTER IX: WITH LUCIA AND MATHILDE - CHAPTER X: A STARTLING SITUATION - CHAPTER XI: HALLOWE'EN SURPRISES - CHAPTER XII: BEATING THE JUNIORS WITH LUCIA - CHAPTER XIII: LIGHT ON THE SORORITY QUESTION - CHAPTER XIV: THE DECISION - CHAPTER XV: CLASS CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES - CHAPTER XVI: A PARTY AND A REAL "DATE" - CHAPTER XVII: "JUST LIKE A FISH" - CHAPTER XVIII: THE COUNTESS ENTERTAINS CHAPTER I: "GYPSY" "Why, Kathryn, I think you're _awfully_ pretty!" Betty Lee exclaimed in some surprise. "And I'm not saying that just to console you, either. Why, the _idea_!" "Well, Betty, you needn't go that far. I don't have to be pretty to be happy, you know; but it did hurt to have her tell me that Peggy said it." "In the first place, Kathryn, I don't believe Peggy ever said it. You know what people say goes with their _characters_. And Peggy isn't like that." "N-no," replied Kathryn, doubtfully. "Peggy has always seemed to like me." "I think that it was just a hateful twisting of something Peggy did say, or maybe it was just made up. What sort of a girl is this Mathilde Finn anyway? And how is it that I haven't met her if she goes to Lyon High?" "Oh, she was out last year, at a private school, but she is coming back. They have plenty of money and Mathilde thinks that she is everybody, you know. She was abroad this summer and was somewhere with Peggy last week. They came back earlier than they intended. Somebody was sick. The girls used to call her 'Finny' and I imagine that she will hear the same nickname this year, though she hates it." Betty laughed. "If she only knew it, she's given you a pretty nice nickname at that. Why shouldn't you _like_ to be called Gypsy? Why, Kathryn, I know a perfectly _darling_ girl, only a grown-up one, that everybody calls Gypsy; and she likes it and signs her letters Gypsy!" Kathryn shook her head. "To be told that I looked like a horrid old gypsy!" "You couldn't look horrid if you tried, Kitten. I've seen you this summer in your worst old clothes, haven't I now?" "You certainly have," laughed Kathryn, her black eyes sparkling and her vivid face all alive amusement at the thought of some of the performances in which she and Betty had taken part. "And do you remember that week when Cousin Lil was here and you did dress up as a gypsy in your attic?" Kathryn nodded. "I always meant to tell you that you made the prettiest gypsy in the world, the nice, romantic _Romany_ kind, you know, with a handsome lover and everything as spuzzy as gypsies could have." "You're the kind of a friend to have, Betty Lee," laughingly Kathryn remarked; "but I always wanted to have golden hair, like yours, and be a goddess-like creature, all pink and white." "Isn't it funny--and ever since I read a story about a beautiful creature with black, black hair and flashy dark eyes--I longed to look like that, so entrancingly fascinating!" "Probably that is the way girls are, want to look like something else. Well, I don't know that I'd mind being called Gypsy. It _is_ a cute nickname. Oh, did you know that Carolyn is coming back today or tomorrow?" "Gypsy"--and Betty looked wickedly at Kathryn as she used the term. "Gypsy," Betty repeated, "I have had just one letter from Carolyn all this summer. I answered it and wrote _pages_; but not one word more have I had. If you have had a late letter I'm terribly jealous." "Good!" returned Kathryn. Then her face grew a little sober. "No, Betty, I've not heard from Carolyn either, except a card at the first of the summer. But I may as well confess one more secret. I've been telling you everything I know all summer, you know." At this point a slender brown hand and slim brown arm reached over after Betty's almost equally tanned head. "It's this and I'm ashamed of it, too. I've been worrying for fear when Carolyn comes we can't be such friends as we have been this summer." "Why not, Kathryn Allen!" Betty squeezed the hand which had slipped inside of her grasp and sat a little closer on the step of the porch. "Is that why you said 'good,' when I said I'd be jealous?" "Yes. Because I'm jealous myself." "Jealousy is a very bad--um--quality." "Yes; I know it. But I do hate to have you like Carolyn best!" As Betty looked now seriously into Kathryn's face so near her, she saw that Kathryn was in earnest and that tears were springing into her eyes. "Why, Kitty!" she exclaimed softly. "I didn't know you liked me as much as that. I'm rather glad to know it, though it's very silly, 'cause I'm not worth it." "Yes you are, Betty Lee. I'm not an old silly softy, Betty. You know that. I don't go around having crushes and all that. But I like to be with you. And when Carolyn comes--" Kathryn could not finish her sentence. Betty's arm was around Kathryn now. "Listen, Kathryn--I'm glad you told me this, because if you hadn't and had gone on and felt bad, when there wasn't any need of it, it would have been horrid. But you know I do like Carolyn a lot, and will you feel bad if I show it? That would make it pretty hard for me, too. There isn't any 'best' about it. I never thought about it at all. You know how wonderful Carolyn and Peggy have been to me, ever since I came to the high school as a scared little freshman, almost a year ago." "Yes; they're my friends, too." "I'm not sure but I know you a little better than either of them now, after this queer summer and all our being together and having so much fun. Why, I shall look at you even in class when I think of something funny. And if you cast those gypsy eyes in my direction with that look of yours, when I'm reciting Latin or Math or something----" Betty stopped to laugh, and Kathryn gave an answering chuckle. Tension was lessening. The idea of Kathryn's feeling that way! Well, surprises were always happening. "I like to have friends, Kathryn; and you have ever so many." "Yes, Betty, and I have sense enough to know that a girl like you will always have a great many, just like Carolyn." "I can't see that either of us have more than you have. But that isn't important, after all. Let me tell you what Mother said one time when the twins were fussing and Dick said that Mother liked Doris best. Mother pretty nearly said that there wasn't any best about it. She said that she loved all her children to pieces, whatever they did; that each child had his own place in her heart, and that she didn't even love them all together in a lump, just separately and a great deal. No child could take the place of another and she couldn't even be happy in heaven unless we all were along!" "Your mother must be a dear. Well, I know she is, from what I saw of her last year. Mother says that she wants to know her better, judging from what she has seen of you this summer." "Why, how nice! Gypsy, you'll spoil me." "No I won't. You're unspoilable! But I'd like to be friends with you forever. Honestly, Betty, I'm not going to be crabby about your being with Carolyn, or Peggy, or anybody." "It wouldn't be like you, Kathryn; and let's make a sure-bond of friendship, to tell each other things the way we have this summer. And you can count on me, Kathryn, not to say mean things about you; so if Mathilde or anybody says things, please come straight to me about it, will you?" "Yes, I will, but I couldn't believe that you could say mean things; you don't say them about anybody." "Oh, dear, I'm afraid I do criticize sometimes!" "I never heard you say a mean thing--so live up to what I think of you, Betty Lee!" Kathryn was grinning at Betty now. "I'll try to," laughed Betty. "It's good of you to think I'm nice. Wait till I bring you another piece of fudge." Betty dashed into the house, to return with the fudge pan, which they placed between them. That fudge _was_ good. It was in just the right stage, a little soft, but firm enough to hold in pieces. It certainly did melt in one's mouth. "Is the back door locked?" asked Kathryn. "Yes, indeedy. We must go in pretty soon, for Father will be driving out early. He said he was going to take us to a chicken dinner at Rockmont, a real country dinner. I hope they'll have corn on the cob!" "Yum-yum!" "Oh, I'm _so_ happy over your spending this week with me, Kathryn, and I think it so wonderful of your mother to let you do it!" -------- This was toward the close of Betty Lee's odd, but interesting summer, after her freshman year in Lyon High. The summer months had been very hot at times, but the city was still new to Betty, with much left to be seen and all its summer forms of entertainment to be investigated. As she had written more than once to her mother, "I'd rather be here than _anywhere_, Mother. You needn't feel sorry for me. It's absolutely nothing to look after the house, and Father takes me out to dinner so often that he will be bankrupt, I'm afraid." It had been the Lee custom since "time immemorial," as Betty had told Kathryn Allen, for Mrs. Lee to take the children to her mother's for most of the summer. There, at "Grandma's," in the country, they had become acquainted with all the pleasure and some of the lighter work, indeed, that the big farm afforded. But this year Grandma was not so well. The first plan had been for Dick to accompany his mother and small Amy Lou, for Dick was to "work," at least to have certain duties, in looking after the stock, particularly the horses, of which he was especially fond, and the chickens, for this branch of farm life had been developed into quite a plant. Betty was to "keep house for Papa," and Doris was to be with her part of the time, at least. But this arrangement did not work well. Doris was disappointed and not very sweet about it. She resented Betty's authority, yet was too young to have as much judgment as Betty. Accordingly, Doris was bundled off to the farm by her father and Mrs. Lee's worries over Betty's being alone through so much of the day commenced. This was when Kathryn began to come over so often, spending whole days with Betty. To be sure, there were other people in the house, the two who lived in the upper part of the house. But sometimes Mr. Lee was delayed, or there would be some evening conference, which made the safe disposition of Betty necessary to be considered; and Betty began to have visitors. She always declared that her real knowledge of the art of cooking began the summer she "kept house for Father," and had, "one after another," her "sisters and her cousins and her aunts" come to visit her. "I couldn't let them do all the cooking, could I? And we had three meals a day. My, it was good when Father took us out for dinner!" But the "sisters and cousins and aunts" amounted to only one young cousin, Lilian Lee, bright girl of about seventeen years, and an older one, related to her mother. She enjoyed being escorted around the city by Betty, who added to her own knowledge at the same time. The only drawback during the three weeks of this visit was that Cousin Eunice was so afraid of burglars. Betty privately informed her father that she "most smothered" every night, because her cousin was afraid to have the windows up enough. Then there was one unexpected guest whom Betty enjoyed, a former school chum of her mother's with her daughter, a girl about Betty's age. They were motoring through and expected to find Mrs. Lee at home. But they were persuaded to stay a few days when it was found that Mr. Lee was obliged to make a trip away. Their coming was "providential," Betty declared. So the summer had flown by on wings, with a little practicing on the precious violin, much less than anticipated, but with much coming and going, rides about the city, visits to the little resorts near by and several excursions on the river boats. It was characteristic of Betty, who usually forgot the unpleasant features, that she should write to her mother of "one continuous picnic," which she declared the summer to have furnished. "Of course," she added, "there have been some funny times, and I burnt up toast and scorched some soup, and things like that, but it's all been very exciting!" Mrs. Lee thought that very likely some of it had been too exciting to be safe; but she did not spoil Betty's morale by too many cautions, other than the general rules she had established before she left. And now, while the girls talked of intimate matters in the late afternoon on the Lee porch, here came a big car that stopped before the house and someone leaned out, waving excitedly. CHAPTER II: CAROLYN ARRIVES "Carolyn!" exclaimed Betty and Kathryn in one breath. Both girls jumped up and ran toward the pavement where Carolyn, trim and pretty, and still in her traveling suit, was lightly and quickly leaving the car, looking back for a word or two with its occupants and then, smilingly, coming to meet her two friends. "Am I still on your list of friends?" she asked, holding Betty off after an embrace. "Kathryn, I don't deserve to have such a nice welcome and I know it! Will you girls ever _forgive_ me for not writing?" It was the old Carolyn. My, but she was sweet. Betty knew why, "all over again," as she said to herself--why she loved Carolyn Gwynne. "Do you have to do anything for ten minutes or so?" continued Carolyn, walking between the girls to the porch and being escorted, not to the steps, but to a hanging swing in which they all could sit. "Not a thing," Betty assured her, "and for more than ten minutes, I hope, if you are mentioning how long you can stay." "They'll be back for me," said Carolyn. "We came most of the way by train, but were met, and I asked to drive around this way in case I should see anything of Betty, to make my peace with her--and here are both of you. I'm positively afraid to meet Peggy Pollard. I owe her two letters, and I don't owe you girls but one! And oh, I've the grandest plan for next summer. Positively, you've both got to begin planning now to come to our camp with me. Even if I didn't write, I thought of you--every time I went in swimming, Betty--or almost, to be real truthful--I could see you in your bathing suit, cutting the 'dashing waves' or rolling in the sand with me." "I'd love 'rolling in the sand' with you, Carolyn," laughed Betty, "but I've had a perfectly delicious summer at home. I am, of course, _very much offended_ at you for not having answered my letter; but I'm afraid I can't keep it up because there's so much to talk about. Kathryn, can you stay mad at Carolyn?" "Never could," smiled Kathryn. "Carolyn gets away with a lot of things she forgets because she is so nice about remembering some more important things." "There!" exclaimed Carolyn. "You're a friend worth having, Kathryn!" And Carolyn wondered at the affectionate glance, full of meaning, that Betty gave Kathryn. It was generous of Kathryn to praise Carolyn, in view of her acknowledged bit of jealousy. "Betty, I laughed and laughed over that letter. It was too clever for words. And the funny things that happened to you! How do people ever keep house and remember all the things that they have to be careful about? I suppose it's nothing unusual to have somebody at the back door, a ring at the front door, the ice man coming and all while a body is talking at the telephone and trying to get an important message, but you certainly made it funny. 'Hello, hello--yes, Father--I don't quite get that--where did you say to meet you?--mercy, there is the ice man and somebody else is knocking, too and the door-bell is ringing--what'll I do?--you can't hold the 'phone?'--something like that, Kathryn. And you _must_ have been scared the time you forgot to keep the screen door fastened and that agent walked right in." "Yes," laughed Betty. "I thought he was taking a gun from his pocket and I backed toward the front room door, ready to run, while he fixed me with his awful eye, and then asked me if I wanted to buy whatever he had. I didn't even look at it. I gasped out, 'No, sir,' and then I heard what I had on the gas stove boiling over and knew it would put out the gas; so I turned and fled, and when I came back the man was gone and nothing was missing!" "How soon can you girls come out? I'll be unpacking tomorrow and the house will be upset while things are getting back into shape again, but the day after that--oh, have you heard about Louise Madison, and Ted Dorrance?" Carolyn's manner was so impressive as she asked this question that Betty's heart gave a little leap. What could be the matter! An accident? "What about them?" asked Kathryn, "married?" "Not a bit of it. Just the other way. My sister heard all about it. Somebody wrote to her from the same summer resort where the Dorrances and the Madisons _happened_ to be together. Somebody that goes to the University was there, too, and paid a lot of attention to Louise; and she liked it--and him, of course--and you may imagine what Ted thought about it. So all at once Ted left and went somewhere else, with some boys from here, and the girl that wrote to sister claims that Louise is engaged to the other man, though we don't believe it. Louise is only a freshman in college!" "You never can tell, Carolyn," wisely returned Kathryn. "Louise is sort of flirty anyhow. And, for that matter, Ted is pretty nice to all the girls, only since he has been taking Louise around there's been nobody else." "It seems too bad," remarked Betty, pondering. "They are both so nice. I thought it so romantic last year." "I never thought it could last," said Carolyn, "from what my sister said then. You see, Louise is older than Ted and a year ahead of him in school; and it doesn't stand to reason that when she is with all these University people next year, in the same classes, and the boys liking Louise the way they always do--that Ted would have much of a chance." "But Ted is a very unusual boy," Betty insisted. "Ted _is_ one of those boys that everybody likes," Carolyn assented. "Well, we'll let him look after himself. Kathryn, did you hear that Finny is coming back to join her more democratic sisters in the sophomore class?" "Yes. I was just telling Betty about her. Do you know why she decided to come back to high school?" "I wouldn't say anything about it except to you two and Peggy, because it wouldn't be fair to Mathilde not to let her have a chance to make her own reputation in high school; but I'm pretty sure, from all the really mean things I heard said about her, that even 'discounting' the truth of some of them, as the person that repeated the most said to me, the school where she was didn't exactly appreciate her. Besides, she failed in several branches and had to make up what she could this summer. But she'll be a sophomore all right. Now, please don't tell a word of this. I wouldn't want it to come from me, or be mean to Mathilde, though I'm going _very slowly_ in that direction!" This from kind Carolyn was a good deal, as Betty knew. Still, in the excitement of the return and news telling, girls were likely to say too much. "We'll say nothing," replied Kathryn. "At least I can promise for myself, and you know Betty." "Oh, how did violin practice go, Betty? You didn't say a word about it in your letter. It didn't 'harmonize,' to be very musical in my speech--with washing dishes and cooking and having company did it?" "Not so very well, Carolyn, but I really did a little bit every day and I played for Father and he liked it. He would, you know, because I was doing it, though I will say that Father couldn't stand a discord or a rasping bow. Jazz makes him nearly crazy when the discord lasts too long, you know. He took Cousin Lil and me to a movie and got up and left, asking me if I'd mind first. I whispered that he could stop his ears while the jazz lasted, but he shook his head; and when we got outside there was Father waiting to take us into where we could get a sundae. He said he had accomplished several errands." "Think you will get into the orchestra?" "That is another thing. I did want to, you know. But I found out that I couldn't be a real member until I was a junior, unless I was a genius or something so wonderful that they had to have me. I was told that this summer, so my energy lagged in the hot weather. Father said he was sorry because I 'lacked an incentive,' but I don't know. I like violin anyhow, and maybe it's just as well not to feel hurried and lose all your dreams." "Now isn't that like you, Betty! That's one reason I like you," Carolyn declared, "because you do have 'dreams.'" Carolyn looked at Kathryn as if for confirmation of her speech and Kathryn nodded with a wide smile. "I'm very practical, though, girls. I'm not sure that having dreams is altogether good, either." "First you say one thing and then you say another," Kathryn accused her. "It's as bad as saying it the way Mr. Simcox answers our questions: 'Well, _yes_; and _no!_'" Kathryn had so nearly presented their teacher's voice and intonation that Carolyn and Betty answered with giggles. But Kathryn went on to say, with real seriousness underlying her fun, "What we should say about Betty is that she is hitching her wagon to a star and it makes everybody else want to hitch up, too." "'Inspiration,' then," said Carolyn. "What'll I hitch up with? I couldn't play a violin." "_As_piration," chuckled Betty. "Pick out your brightest dream, 'Caro,' and put on the harness!" "She calls me 'Caro.' What kind of syrup do you like best, Betty?" "'Scuse me, Carolyn. I felt affectionate and had to make up a nickname." "You are excused. Really, we might have made some little names of our own to call each other by. Wouldn't it be fun?" Betty looked mischievously at Kathryn. "We were talking of nicknames this afternoon, Kathryn and I." "Betty!" Carolyn looked from one to another. "You have some secret. That is mean, to leave out your old and tried friend Carolyn." "Oh, it wasn't anything, Carolyn, only I'm joking Kathryn about a nickname she doesn't like." "I'm not so sure now but I _do_ like it," Kathryn replied, taking up Betty's half explanation. "Tell Carolyn if you want to." "Not all of it?" "Yes, what Peggy is supposed to have said." Upon this permission from Kathryn, Betty explained that a speech of Peggy's had been repeated by Mathilde to Kathryn and how the gypsy reference had been interpreted. "Do you think that Peggy Pollard would be likely to say anything unkind about Kathryn?" Betty asked in concluding. "I can't imagine it. Kathryn, notice how Peggy acts when you see her and if I were you I'd feel around with some reference to something of the sort. I'll wager you'll find Peggy as ignorant as can be of even what you mean. You'll find out that Peggy Pollard is all right. And by the way, I hear that they are having little sororities in spite of the rules. If it is all right, and the authorities allow it, why not? There's one in our class started! The question is who started it, and why, and how, and if so, can we make it, and do we want to make it----" Carolyn was obliged to stop for breath. "Hum," said Kathryn. "Yes, I've heard about it, but I didn't tell Betty. I heard Betty's father say that he was glad there weren't any sororities in high school!" "Poor Mr. Lee!" exclaimed Carolyn. "Betty, do you know what you're going in for this year--swimming, I suppose?" "Oh, yes. But no, I haven't thought about it. I took everything with such seriousness last year; but if I want to, I'll sign up for a number of things this year. They don't meet often, and you can always stop if you can't keep on, and I'd love to be on some team, if there'd be no trouble about it." "There's always trouble about making a team. There are too many that want to be on it." "But you can try out, and if you stand better than somebody else, you get it and she doesn't. That _oughtn't_ to make trouble." "Why don't you try out for the hockey team in the fall and the basketball in the winter?" "Perhaps I will. Wait till the time comes. Oh, there's your car, Carolyn. What a shame!" "Yes, and I haven't made a date with you at all." "There's always the telephone," Betty reminded her. "It was lovely of you to stop, Carolyn. See you soon. Come back as soon as you can. 'Bye!" CHAPTER III: THE GREAT SURPRISE Betty Lee had not forgotten that, in the nature of a reward, she was to have a surprise at the end of the summer; but nothing had been said about it by her father and Betty felt a delicacy about reminding him of it. Now only two weeks remained before the opening of school. Betty was eager to begin, strange as it may seem; but boys and girls, even those not particularly keen about their studies, do look forward to the companionship, the gay plans, the activities that school brings them. One week more would bring the twins, Dick and Doris, little Amy Lou and, best of all, Mother! Perhaps the surprise would not occur until the family was together again. Poor Daddy! How hard he had been working--not even a chance to drive up to the farm over a week-end; for it was a long drive, and it was not thought best to try it while Grandmother was so miserable and nervous. Accordingly, everybody tried to make the best of the separation, Dick had written, "we can hoop (whoop) and holler outdoors, but believe me we're quiet in the house. Even Amy Lou has stopped whining." Then, on Sunday morning, when Betty and her father were driving home from church, he asked her, "Are your clothes in proper shape for a trip to New York with me tomorrow?" Mr. Lee looked a little guilty, for it had been a letter from his wife that had reminded him of the comparative importance of clothes, and he had not thought about it. "Why--Father! Do you mean it?" cried Betty, who sat beside her father and looked at his smiling face, turned straight ahead to watch traffic, for many machines were whirling along at the close of the various church services. "Oh, I know! Is that the surprise?" Mr. Lee nodded assent. "I meant to tell you before, but we had so much doing yesterday that I forgot it--well, to tell the truth, I was not sure that I could get away at all. There was some talk of sending another man. But Murchison thought that I'd had more experience with this sort of a job; and moreover, he wants me to meet his sister and a niece who has been at school in Switzerland." "Oh!" softly cried Betty again. "Murchison" was the big man in the business, the man who had offered her father the opportunity in the company. Although Betty had visited the office occasionally, she had never seen the "big bug," as Dick called him. There was silence for a little. Cars passed and Mr. Lee stopped once to pick up a man he knew and take him on to his residence. "Missed you coming out," said Mr. Lee, and the two men talked while Betty tried to digest the great news. Betty had never been to New York. She had never spent a night on the train. It would be _glorious_! Of _course_ she had clothes ready. Oh, that was what Mother meant when she told Betty always to have her suit and accompanying garments ready. At the time, Betty had thought that her mother feared a call of everybody to the farm, if Grandma continued to "go down." Dear me, she had had such a good time, as things had turned out, with the girls staying with her, or other company, that she didn't need any other reward. Still, Betty knew that she had worked hard at times. Even with the woman who came occasionally to clean, things would get "so messy," though Betty was learning now not to make work for herself by carelessness. She was glad that she had planned a nice Sunday dinner for the two of them at home today. And Father had said, "Do not invite anybody for this week, Betty." This was what he had in mind, and would not tell her for fear of some disappointment. That was it, she knew, more than his "forgetting." "Oh, Father, I'm so excited," she exclaimed, as they left the car in front of the house, ready for a drive, if they should feel like it. "I'm all mixed up and you'll have to watch me or I'll burn up the dinner or something!" "I thought that you'd like the plan, Betty; but I was a little afraid that something would happen to upset it. It was understood long ago that I was to go to New York in the fall. This meeting the countess is a new proposition, however. Do you think we are equal to it?" "'The Countess!'" "Yes; at least I think it is a countess. I will have her name in full, however, before we go to the ship after her." Mr. Lee's eyes were twinkling, and Betty, after one look at him began to laugh. "You're breaking it to me by degrees, aren't you? Well, I guess I can stand it. I'm awfully hungry right now, aren't you? Seems to me the sermon was longer than usual. Wait till I put on the potatoes and then please tell me everything!" "I will, child, and I'll not tease you a bit. I'll help you with the dinner. Didn't you say you had a 'T-bone' steak for the two of us? Just watch me broil that steak!" "Oh, goody! We'll have a lot of fun. I'm going to heat some canned asparagus tips for our other veg'table, and throw together a fruit salad, on head lettuce, and I bought a grand pie at the exchange yesterday. Will that be enough?" "Indeed it will, and I have the dearest little cook in three counties. I presume you'll have bread and butter, however; and suppose we have an iced drink instead of coffee." "Oh, yes, by all means. You fix the ice, Daddy, and I'll squeeze about two oranges and two lemons, I think--right away, so it'll be cold!" A happy girl worked with a capable father, who took off his coat, tied an apron around his waist and had as much fun as Betty, especially when the time came to cook the steak. Appetite did not lack when dinner was ready and before there was any thought of dish washing, Mr. Lee sent Betty to hunt up her over-night bag and looked up his own grip. "Put in a dress that you can wear to dinner in a hotel, Betty," said he, "and don't forget the fixings." "Oh, Daddy, my chiffon dress won't muss a bit and I mustn't forget my shoes that go with it!" Betty forgot all of her duties as a housekeeper, as she laid out on the bed the array of what she wanted to take with her to New York--_New York!_ "How long are we going to stay, Father?" she called from her bedroom. "Just two or three days--have to be back to meet Mother and the children, you know." "How long does it take to get there?" "About a night and half a day," replied Mr. Lee, who was preparing another small surprise for Betty. She was so absorbed that she did not realize how time flew until she ran back into the dining room and found that her father had cleared the table and was washing the last dish. "How awful! Father, I'm just as sorry as I can be! I never saw you washing dishes before!" "I have, daughter, in dire emergencies, but this time it was for fun. Are all the gew-gaws, or doo-dads, ready?" "I've got everything I ought to have, I think, 'cept washing out some silk stockings. Do you think it would be wicked if I'd do it tonight?" "That is, indeed, a serious matter," grinned Mr. Lee, looking like Dick. "But since it is my fault and not yours, and they will have to get dry to be packed, we might consider it. And matters of necessity are different, though we'd not make a point of saving our stockings to be washed on the Sabbath, would we?" "Oh, Father, you are just killing! What time tomorrow do we start?" "Not until night. We get right on the sleeper and go to bed." "Hurrah. Then I've plenty of time." "And the muted question can be put off for decision until some other time?" "Yes. Mother says if we begin to do weekday things on Sunday, we're likely to keep on." "Your mother is always right, and the oldest daughter has to be an example." "I never can tell when you are joking and when you aren't! I'm no example, Father! Oh, I'm just almost crazy with delight. Wait till I call up Kathryn and Carolyn and Peggy to tell them what the surprise was! And, oh, I have to leave the house in order!" In such a fashion the great surprise was inaugurated. A very demure and well-mannered young girl of nearly sixteen years accompanied a dignified but wide-awake business man to the train Monday night. Betty was concerned with the mysteries of a berth in a sleeping car and was glad of her father's clear directions. She would not for "worlds" appear ignorant of what to do, though she might well be excused for not knowing. But Betty was sensitive, quick to learn what was proper and polite, and a little too proud not to be unduly mortified at any mistake. At the station Mr. Murchison met them, talking for a little with Mr. Lee about business which Betty did not understand, and in which she was only slightly interested. He had met Betty courteously but was preoccupied with plans with her father. As the train was called, however, he turned to Betty. "You are just about the age of my niece, I judge. Her mother is to make the experiment of placing my niece in the public schools. It may be that you will be in the same school. If so, I shall be glad to have her know you, for you can be of great help to her, doubtless. It is unfortunate that she does not want to come to America." "I shall be very glad if I can be of any service to your niece," returned Betty, a bit stiffly, for Mr. Murchison's keen eyes rather disconcerted her. Betty was not sure that she liked him "a bit." But of course she had to, for her father's sake. Who was that foolish girl that didn't want to come to America? Of course Mr. Murchison's sister was one of those American girls who had married a titled foreigner. So her father had said. But Betty smiled at Mr. Murchison and prettily said her farewell. How funny the Pullman looked, all green curtains already down, berths all made up. As it had suddenly turned cold, Betty's father asked the porter for extra blankets, showed Betty where to put her things and advised her to know which berth was hers when she came back from the dressing room. But Betty decided to mark hers in some way and finally tucked up the curtain in a certain fashion before she explored the dressing room. It was more private, she decided, to undress in her berth. Also, she would wear her silk kimona all night! It was cold enough. For a long time Betty could not sleep, but finally Nature overcame unaccustomed nerves and she fell into a sound sleep, not to waken till her father called her. She decided that she liked traveling and would like to go into a "diner" often, to eat the sort of pancakes that were brought on in covered silver dishes, and to help her father decide what would make a good breakfast. The scenery was interesting. It was new to pass through the different states. She would never forget it. And New York! Was this really Betty Lee, riding in a taxi up Broadway and along Fifth Avenue? Owing to her father's different errands, which he accomplished by taxi for the most part, to expedite matters, Betty was taken to various parts of the city, even to the docks. They crossed the Hudson on a ferry boat without getting out of their taxi. Birds flew about. Different kinds of crafts floated upon the river. A great liner was just entering a space between piers. "Will Mr. Murchison's sister come in on a boat like that?" asked Betty. "Something like that," answered Mr. Lee. "How do you like this incidental sight-seeing?" "Ever so much, especially since you bought me the map. I look it all up, and I'm glad to go over the same streets more than once, especially Fifth Avenue and Broadway. I know Madison Square Park and the City Hall Square already." Betty had one rather lonesome day at the hotel when her father could not let her accompany him, but after that he took her on regular sight-seeing trips, during which she saw more than most strangers because of her father's familiarity with the city. She decided that she could find her way by herself, but her father preferred not to have her attempt any "solo flights," he said. Business was completed in comparatively short order. Mr. Lee sent telegrams to his firm; but then they were held, as Betty, at least, could not regret, by the non-arrival of the expected countess. Day by day the reports of the incoming ships were changed somewhat. There had been storms and fog. Sea traffic was held up, said Betty, and her father said that if the ships all came in safely they would do well. At the same time, he was rather restless. It did not look as if they would be able to carry out their plans. "Oh, what if we can't get there before Mother?" Betty asked. "In that case, I shall merely telegraph her. The key is with the people upstairs, you know. Your mother will understand. But I'd rather meet my own wife than any countess!" "And I'll be a day late at school, if the ship puts off coming in much longer! But Father, I can't be sorry to have these great days in New York. What shall we do today?" "We shall see. Wait till I telephone the steamship company at the pier again." Then came a telegram from home. A cablegram had been received stating that the countess and her daughter had sailed on a different ship from the one she had written her brother to meet. It was the _Statendam_, Holland-American line, due Saturday. That settled it. Mother could not be met. Mr. Lee telegraphed to Mr. Murchison that he would meet the _Statendam_. To the farm and to the home, in case there was some delay in the country, word went that Mr. Lee and Betty were unavoidably detained in New York. Betty was rather worried about missing school Monday, as was most likely, but she enjoyed the excitement and the extra expeditions due to the delay. It was an ill wind that didn't blow _anybody_ any good, she remarked. "Can we leave as soon as the ship comes?" "That, Betty, is in the hands of a very uncertain woman, I judge," smiled Mr. Lee. "It will be necessary to do whatever Mr. Murchison himself would be obliged to do. I shall handle the matter as well as I can." "Are you scared because she is a countess?" "Scarcely. But be as polite and helpful as you can, Betty. Having you will make it all easier, I think. Privately, Betty, I gathered that Miss Murchison was very badly spoiled as a girl. People exist to do her pleasure. See?" "And we pretend that we like it?" "No--it is not necessary to pretend anything. We really want to help them, do we not?" "Oh, yes; but I _dee-spise_ being patronized." "Of course. A true lady, however, does not show it--indeed, it is almost impossible to patronize a true lady." "Hum. That is all very well in theory, my precious father, but--well, I suppose I'm not a true lady inside!" The _Statendam_, due on Saturday, arrived on Sunday, and Betty with her father, was somewhat annoyed as they crossed on the ferry, to see the tall smoke stacks and funnels of the liner already at the pier. "Stars!" cried Betty. "Now we're late, and no knowing what has happened to the countess!" CHAPTER IV: BETTY MEETS THE COUNTESS "We shall not worry about being late, Betty. They have to get through customs first and it is doubtful if all the baggage is off the vessel as yet. It can not have been in long." Nevertheless Betty could see that her father was uneasy. The taxi lost no time in speeding from the ferry to the pier where the great ship stood. Such a coming and going of cars and buses, in and out of a great entrance! Other cars and taxies waited their turn outside. Their taxi found a place to stop and deliver its passengers, but Mr. Lee had to steer Betty carefully through the throng of people and cars. Next came the art of finding their friends. Mr. Lee had cards which entitled them to enter customs. "My, I hope we find them!" said Betty for the third or fourth time. "And oh, how do you speak to a countess? Shall we call her 'La Countessa'? or just Countess Coletti? And what is the daughter of a countess called--anything at all? Or could I call her 'Signorina?'?" Betty had been reading an Italian story. "I'm sure I don't know, Betty, but it would be sensible, I think, to keep to English, especially as the countess is an American. I shall not get away from 'Countess Coletti' and perhaps we shall not have to address the daughter particularly. 'Miss Coletti' does sound like a funny combination, doesn't it! Try out 'la signorina' if you like. I don't know that we are of any special importance anyway." They were climbing the stairs now and Betty's father gave her arm a little squeeze as he spoke, looking laughingly down into her face. "Yes, we _are_," said Betty, "and we can _learn_ how to do it _properly_!" Fortunately the countess and her daughter had not yet finished with customs. When Mr. Lee and Betty found the proper place and stood looking about, they had little difficulty in selecting the two whom they thought were the countess and her daughter. "We ought to have arranged to wear a red rose or a white gardenia or something," said Betty. "But that is the countess, I'm sure. Look, she has a maid with a lot of little baggage, and everybody is doing things for her. Wait a minute, Daddy. She's having an argument with the customs officer, I guess--isn't she?" Mr. Lee did wait. Though anxious to serve the lady, he did not care to sponsor her declaration in regard to duty payable to Uncle Sam, and it must be said that the countess looked perfectly able to take care of her own interests. But the affair seemed to be adjusted amicably. A great quantity of baggage, it seemed, was hastily examined, and as Mr. Lee saw that they would soon be ready for departure, he approached, with Betty. "Is this the Countess Coletti?" he inquired politely, though by this time he had noted the name upon one of the trunks. "Your brother, Mr. Murchison----" "Oh, did Lem send you to meet me?" vivaciously the countess interrupted, "That is good. I was just wondering if any one was here. Where's Lem?" Mr. Lee had had no opportunity to mention who he was, but he explained that her brother was not able to leave affairs and that he would make any arrangements for her and her daughter. "My name is Lee, Countess Coletti, and this is my daughter, Betty." "Oh, yes," brightly answered the countess, "I am very happy to met you--and Miss Betty. This is my daughter Lucia, Mr. Lee--and Miss Lee. Now if we can arrange to have all this baggage sent to whatever station my brother said, and get us to a hotel for the night, I shall be very much obliged. I want to go right on through tomorrow; but Lucia is very much upset and so am I, for that matter. It was a horribly rough passage. This customs business is always so trying!" "I am sorry to have been late," said Mr. Lee, "but the hour told me over the telephone was much later." "Oh, yes. You never can tell. It wouldn't have made any difference. They were very good about getting all my baggage off early, as I made quite a point of it. There were mobs on this boat, from first class down. Suppose we get out of here." "I have a taxi waiting, Madam," said Mr. Lee, starting to escort the countess down to where his taxi driver had said he would be waiting inside. By this time it was very likely that he had been able to enter. Betty and a very unresponsive girl of about her own height and age followed. My, but the countess was pretty! And if she had any foreign airs they were laid aside for the present. But the daughter was cool, and though polite, most uninterested in the two people whom she had just met. "Poor thing," thought Betty, "she is worn out and half sick; but I wish I'd had her chance of crossing the ocean, even if it was so rough." Both the countess and her daughter were quietly and suitably dressed for the occasion of leaving the ship. But oh, how evidently expensive everything they wore must have been. The maids were carrying two beautiful warm coats, which had obviously just been laid aside when the cold sea breezes were past and they were no longer necessary. "Send the maids and the personal baggage in a separate taxi, please," directed the countess. "We want to be alone." Whether that was a hint for Mr. Lee and Betty not to accompany them or not, Mr. Lee did not know, but as he had had no least intention to accompany them, it did not matter. He had expected, however, that the maids might be wanted. Pleasantly he assisted the two ladies into the taxi, one chosen for its superior appearance, and directed the driver to the hotel, the hotel selected by Mr. Murchison, who requested that Mr. Lee and Betty stay at the same one. It was not hard to find a second taxi for the maids, from the numbers of empty taxis whose drivers were anxious for remunerative passengers. "Now, Betty," said Mr. Lee, "for the baggage. You stay in one spot, right here, where I can find you, while I see about having that lot sent to the station. Let us hope that nothing is missed! But the countess told me the number of pieces, all marked with her name, she said." "Oh, please let me come with you, Father! It's scary here, and it's such fun to go around. I see where Lu-_chee_-a and I become intimate friends, don't you?" Mr. Lee laughed. "The poor child has been seasick," he replied. "But I fancy that she has been a very unwilling migrant this time. She looked not only sick but cross." "Did you notice it, too? But she was real polite to you, Father, and decent to me. She isn't as good-looking as her mother. I don't blame Count Coletti for falling in love with her. Probably Lucia looks like her father." "He is a very handsome man, I understand," returned Mr. Lee. "I thought Lucia Coletti rather attractive." "Yes, but not as much so as her mother. Still, it may be just her disposition that was sticking out tonight!" "Why, Betty! That isn't like you." "I guess I'm tired and cross, too. I will wait for you, right here by the stairs." Betty had quite a wait of it, but at last her father appeared and they took a taxi back to the hotel. There her father inquired if the countess, daughter and maids had arrived and were occupying the suite reserved for them. They had arrived, found everything to their satisfaction, and dinner had been sent up to them. Betty thought that a little more respect for her father was in the voice of the man at the desk since the arrival of the countess, for whose comfort Mr. Lee appeared to be responsible. Glad that everything had gone successfully for her father, Betty took the elevator to her room to dress for dinner at the hotel. They did not always dine there, but would tonight, her father said. It seemed a pity to "waste" their last night in New York by staying in the hotel, but Mr. Lee had to arrange for Pullman reservations as well as he could at the last minute, for he had not had the slightest notion whether the countess would want to stay several days in New York--or a month--so far as he knew, or whether she would want to go on home, to her people. He thought, however, that very likely the decision would be for home. Mr. Murchison had not intimated any trouble, but Mr. Lee very strongly suspected that there was some likelihood of a disagreement between the countess and her husband and a possible separation. This he did not express to Betty. Fortunately Mr. Lee had no trouble in obtaining reservations on the train whose time of leaving and of arrival seemed most suitable. A drawing room for the countess and her daughter, berths for the maids, and berths for himself and Betty were soon engaged by telephone, and on Monday morning Mr. Lee went to the station to see that everything was straight. This was all very interesting to Betty, whose ideas of how to manage these matters had been very hazy. The reservation for Mr. Lee and Betty were in another car, which was just as well, Betty thought, though if the younger countess--that is, if she is one, thought Betty--had been friendly, it would have been fun to talk with her about her school in Switzerland and what she studied and all. The trip home, however, proved more interesting than Betty anticipated. Perhaps Countess Coletti had suggested to her daughter that she ought to pay a little attention to Betty, who did not see either of them on Monday until the uniformed and meticulous "door-keeper" of the hotel, as Betty called him, put them all into their separate taxis for the station. Lucia favored Betty with a smile, which Betty returned; and when they waited for the train to be called, Lucia asked Betty to be sure to come for a visit with her on the way. "It will be so stupid this afternoon," said Lucia. "I'm too tired to read." Betty promised, but she waited until she thought Lucia might have reached the state of being bored. So far as Betty was concerned, there was nothing to tire her, and the scenery was too interesting; guessing what the rivers were, asking her father, noting the stops and admiring the suburbs of Philadelphia in particular, furnished her with considerable entertainment. "I think Pennsylvania is the loveliest yet," she confided to her father. "Let's move to Philadelphia some time!" "Haven't you had enough of a move already?" asked Mr. Lee. "I think I like adventure, Father," brightly answered Betty. "I suppose so," rather wearily her father remarked. "But remember, my lass, that there is a certain safety in being located. Did you say that the 'younger countess' asked you to call? I think I should do it, Betty." "All right, I will. How do I get there?" "Their car is only one or two in front of ours. Shall I take you?" "Mercy, no! I can get there after skipping through so many to get to the dining car on the way to New York. Your daughter considers herself quite a traveler by this time." So Betty, rather dreading the coming interview, departed to be pleasantly surprised. She had no trouble in finding her new acquaintances and discovered that they were really quite interested in finding out all Betty could tell them about school. "I am going to hate it," said Lucia, who spoke with a decided Italian accent, but used many Americanisms, probably caught from her mother. "But just the same, if I have to, I have to; and will you help me when I come out to the school the first time?" "Certainly I will. But are you sure that you will come to Lyon High?" "Oh, that can be arranged," carelessly returned Lucia, who was used to having things "arranged" for her. "I've heard so much about that high school and if I have to go, I want to go there. There were some American girls in my school in Lausanne, so I know a little bit about how they do. Do you like it?" "Very much. I'd love to hear you tell about the school in Switzerland, though." Lucia was in a favorable mood. For the next hour she and Betty talked, while Betty heard about life in foreign countries and what Lucia had studied in her different schools there. She was advanced in some lines, Betty found, behind in others, but Betty told her that it all sounded as if she would be a sophomore. "Will you use any title?" Betty rather timidly asked, for she thought that if Lucia was a "countess or something" herself, it would not go so well in school. Countess Coletti heard the question and replied herself. "Lucia is going to try democracy, Betty Lee. She will be called Lucia Coletti or Miss Coletti everywhere. I want her to have a little American training. To be sure, I was taught in private schools myself, and Lucia may in time return to them. But not until she has done some _good work_ in high school." What was back of Countess Coletti's determined tones Betty did not know. But there was some strong feeling there; that was certain. Lucia did not speak of her father, but when Betty said that it was all fascinating to hear about and asked her where her real home had been, Lucia after a slight hesitation, waxed almost enthusiastic over an Italian villa where she "loved to live" best. Every now and then Lucia would use an Italian expression, which Betty thought very impressive, though she could not help thinking of some less fortunate Italian girls in school and she wondered how Lucia would treat them, in case she were thrown into classes with them. But here came Father with the suggestion that it was an appropriate time to go for dinner. Accordingly, he escorted the countess through the cars, while Betty and Lucia followed. Betty, who always declared that she thought of too many funny things, wondered about the maids. But when they were all established at a table, with an obsequious waiter taking the order from the countess first, Betty saw the two maids at an inconspicuous table some distance from them. Probably her father had arranged it. Then they had a most "scrumptious" meal, by Betty's report at home. She gave her father an inquiring glance before she decided upon her own order and he smiled upon her; suggesting that she order a good meal, for the dining car would be taken off and their breakfast would be delayed. "We shall probably, all of us, breakfast at home. Mr. Murchison will meet the countess, Betty, and we shall take a taxi straight home." So Betty grasped the fact that her father wasn't "caring for expenses," as the girls were accustomed to express such recklessness, and modeled her own order after Lucia's. Comfortably filled, she watched her father pay the bill and leave what seemed to her an enormous tip for the waiter. But sakes alive, weren't they dining with a countess? CHAPTER V: A REAL SOPHOMORE AT LAST "Hello, Betty Lee! Where in the world have you been?" Betty was just coming from the office where she had been "signing up" for her sophomore year's work and obtaining her schedule of studies, her home room assignment and various points of information. She was very much interested in seeing to what teachers she would recite, but looked up smiling at the boy who addressed her. Classes were passing for the fifth period, the one before lunch, she supposed. It was Tuesday, but Betty had not been able to get to school till after the taxi ride home with her father, the exciting reunion of the family, the good breakfast and many little delays. Dick and Doris had gone to school on time; but Betty tarried with her mother and could scarcely stop talking long enough to scrub up and dress suitably for school. "Why, Chauncey Allen, howdy! I haven't seen you all summer! Where's Kathryn?" "Wondering why you didn't show up at school yesterday, I imagine. We heard nothing else last night at dinner." "Mother could have told if she'd telephoned. We were just detained at New York because the _Statendam_ didn't get in on time--just got home this morning about breakfast time." "Have a good time?" "Grand!" "How was the countess?" Chauncey was grinning widely now. "All right," smiled Betty. But Chauncey, seeing several girls headed in Betty's direction, threw up his hands as if to say, "Help, see who's coming," and with a comical glance at Betty, hurried off to join another boy. "Oh, _here_ you are!" exclaimed Peggy Pollard, kissing Betty warmly, while Betty held out her hands to Selma Rardon and Dotty Bradshaw. "I didn't think I'd be missed," said Betty, "for you all would be so busy on opening day; but we can't talk now, can we?" "No; come on. Are you signed up for Miss Heath's class?" "Yes. I was so scared for fear I'd get put in another section." "Good; we'll all be together, then." Scampering down the halls in order to be on time to class in the limited time between classes, the girls arrived breathless, Betty to exchange nods and smiles with girls and boys who were slipping into class room seats, and to catch a pleasant, welcoming smile from Miss Heath, who presently, in attending to the roll, gave Betty a chance to present her card. How different it was from the year before! Now she knew what to do and she began the year with a group of dear friends among the girls, to say nothing of the jolly boys. There was no lunch in the lunch room on these first days, but the usual early dismissal occurred. However, a group of Betty's friends sat for a little while in a grassy spot on the grounds, to discuss important affairs, as well as to see Betty and each other. "I hated to leave camp," said Selma, "but isn't it good to be back? Say, Betty, try out for the hockey team. We need a lot of good material besides just the regular team." "Maybe," said Betty. "Tell us what you saw in New York, Betty," suggested Dotty Bradshaw, cute little Dotty, as "big as a minute" and so serious about some things. "It would take too long," replied Betty. "Oh, just mention a few things." "Like Fifth Avenue and Broadway, for instance? Well, the parks and the Tombs with the 'Bridge of Sighs' across from the Criminal Court----" Betty adopted a hollow tone here, but went on more cheerfully--"and Tammany Hall, another wicked place, I suppose, and the skyscrapers and the Hudson River and of course the statue of 'Liberty Enlightening the World.' We took a little trip up the Hudson and crossed on the ferries, and rode out Riverside Drive, and went into the big stores, and I spent all my money, of course; and we had delicious things to eat at different places, and museums and art galleries and the Battery. Father gave me a good time. It was said to be a reward of virtue for keeping house for him. But I've had a fine time all summer." "How many art museums did you eat, Betty?" asked Peggy. Betty looked blank for a moment, then laughed. "I did mention the museums and art galleries along with things to eat, didn't I? But don't begin on English now, Peggy. I'll get enough of that pretty soon." "So will we all," returned Peggy Pollard, pretending to groan. "_Shall_, Peggy," corrected Carolyn, and Peggy reached over to tweak the curve on an ear that showed among curling locks. Carolyn had acquired a new style of hair dressing during the summer, and Betty privately determined to copy it. It was becoming to Carolyn and she _thought_ it would be to her. She would try it anyway, and see. "Did your father meet the countess, Betty?" Carolyn inquired; but just then two girls sauntered up. They were Mathilde Finn and Kathryn Allen. Kathryn was making funny signs to Betty behind Mathilde's back, but Peggy welcomed them both. "'Lo, Finny," said she, "have a seat on the 'over-stuffed' furniture. It's been so dry that we're perfectly safe on the grass now. How's everything signing up and starting in?" "Perfectly terrible," returned Mathilde cheerfully, as she plumped down beside Betty. Kathryn managed to squeeze in beside Betty and whispered, "You see how friendly Peggy and Mathilde are?" "M-hm," replied Betty, linking arms with Kathryn. "You'll slide down this slope the first thing you know." "Who said something about a countess?" asked Selma. "I did," answered Carolyn. "I asked Betty if her father met the countess." Mathilde gave Betty a glance full of interest. "Introduce me, Peggy," she whispered. "Oh, yes. Betty, I want you to meet a new sophomore, Mathilde Finn. Mathilde, this is Betty Lee." Betty smiled and acknowledged the introduction with a little nod, as Mathilde and Peggy were some little distance away. "I hope you will enjoy being a sophomore," she said. "I have been one at another school," Mathilde remarked rather airily. "But there is such a difference in courses, you know." Kathryn nudged Betty, who kept countenance and acknowledged that there was, a great difference. Betty recalled Carolyn's question, but thought that she would not answer it unless some one insisted. Curiosity, however, had been aroused. "Well," said Selma, "how about the 'countess,' Betty?" "Oh," said Betty. "Mr. Murchison asked Father to meet his sister, Countess Coletti, and her daughter. They came over on the _Statendam_. That was why I couldn't get home till today. First the ship was to arrive on--Thursday, I think. Then the New York _Times_ said Friday and the next day it was Saturday. It really came in on Sunday; so, of course, we had to wait till we could meet them." "Did you meet them, too?" asked Selma, a little impressed with Betty's opportunity. "Yes, I went with Father to the boat. He thought it would be better, since Miss Coletti was coming, too." "What is the girl called, Betty?" asked Peggy. "Lucia." "I didn't mean that. Hasn't she any title, too?" "I don't know what they call her over in Italy, or at the school in Switzerland that she has been attending. But her mother say that she is to be Lucia Coletti, or Miss Coletti at school. She wants to come to Lyon High; but I don't suppose they will hurry about it." "Are they really going to send her to a _public_ school?" asked Mathilde in a shocked tone. "That shows what you really think of the public school, Mathilde Finn," said Dotty, not unpleasantly, but with firmness. "Suppose I _do_," returned Mathilde, a question in her tone, as well as a bit of resentment. "Well," said Dotty, "all I have to say is that there are _some_ who would call that _snobbish_!" "All right, if you think that, Dotty Bradshaw, think away!" This was getting a little too warm for comfort and Betty spoke again. "I think we must all be nice to Lucia, for she will not know what to do, she says, and besides, she will be terribly homesick. When I first saw her she was both seasick, or just getting over it, and homesick, too. But her mother says that Lucia is going to have a taste of American democracy." "She will probably get all she wants of it here," sarcastically said Mathilde. "But Betty Lee is right--we must all be friendly." Kathryn nudged Betty again. "_She_ will, all right," Kathryn whispered, "the little snob!" Betty gave a sideway smile at Kathryn and whispered, "Tut-tut!" But Kathryn's eyes were twinkling and her expression not as unpleasant as her words. "My mother was at school with Miss Murchison, I think," Mathilde continued. "She will probably call upon the countess." "And you ought to go with her, Mathilde," wickedly added Kathryn. At this Betty jumped up. It would be better not to say anything more about her trip with the countess and her daughter and maids. Betty had learned since coming to the city that telling all you know, with perfect frankness, was not always wise. There were some understanding people, but also many others who were critical, or at least not at all appreciative. It was sometimes best not to satisfy curiosity or place yourself open to misunderstanding or criticism. It was a courteous Betty who said to Mathilde that she hoped she would enjoy being a sophomore "with the rest of us," and to the rest she said she had too much to do at home to stay any longer. "I'm suffering from an aching void, girls," declared Dotty. "It's past lunch time for me!" "Come on home with me, Betty," begged Kathryn. "No, both you come with me," said Carolyn. "I have an arrangement with Cook for a special lunch of something I adore." "Thank you, girls; I must get back to Mother, besides having a lot of things to see to. Just think, I haven't seen my mother all summer, except just a little while this morning. I have to hear all about how my grandmother is, and Dick and Doris have actually _grown_ this summer. I can _see_ it, to say nothing of Amy Lou, who is peachier than ever." "You do love your family, don't you, Betty Lee?" said Carolyn. "I should think so!" "Well, come along, Kathryn. Take pity on me and let's have a good old visit together. Peggy, can't you come, too?" Peggy accepted, and Kathryn gave Betty a meaning look as they separated, taking different cars. "Maybe I'll call you up tonight, Betty," she said. "Do it, Gypsy," replied Betty. CHAPTER VI: DOING HER BEST FOR LUCIA No message came from Kathryn, and Betty had scarcely time to think of whether "Gypsy" had had an opportunity to find out anything further about Peggy's reported speech. How wonderful it was to have Mother at home again! Betty had missed her presence and advice and help so many times, fun though it was to take the helm herself. Still, it hadn't always been so _much_ fun. Now clothes for school, countless little errands, decisions, and the work of settling into the routine again engaged Mrs. Lee and the rest of them. Jelly and fruit canned at the farm was a great asset for the coming season. Grandma was ever so much better; but a good stout woman was now installed in the old home. Dick had really been of great help and Doris had learned to do many things. Amy Lou had been a "lamb" and had learned to read with Grandma. She was "five years old and reading in a primer!" To tell the truth, Betty thought Doris was very cross at present, but then she might still be resentful about her little flare-up at the last of her stay with Betty. Betty had apologized for her own share in it, but the fact was that Doris had been most to blame. They had parted friends, but Betty felt that her sister had certain reserves with her and was not warmly affectionate, though she had seemed glad enough to see her on first arrival. However, Doris would probably get over it. Betty thought that she'd better not pay any attention to any grumblings or cross speeches. Dear me--it was hard enough to keep patience over things at times. How did Mother ever do it? She must put most of her time and thought on having the family machinery run smoothly. And Betty was quite right, though a great purpose for one's children helps any father and mother through. A telephone message from Countess Coletti to Betty that evening was one feature of affairs. "Hello--oh--yes'm, this is Betty." Betty was wishing that she had not said "hello" _quite_ as if she were answering a call from Kathryn. Betty flushed with embarrassment as she listened to the first few words from Countess Coletti. "I am wondering, Miss Betty, if we stop for you with the car tomorrow morning, you will be willing to go with Lucia and me to interview the principal of Lyon High a little before school begins. I should like to have you go around with Lucia and I think I could get you excused from your classes." Betty had her doubts about that, but she did not express them. Perhaps Mr. Murchison's sister could manage it, but the public schools were not like that. They went on regardless of countesses and influential people in general, so far as the daily schedule was concerned; and Betty had had reason to know how particular her principal was about the regular program of every student. Still, as it was a little unusual--it would be fun to take Lucia in charge. Betty could imagine how eyebrows would lift at her and demure glances of her friends in classes of her own would meet her. All these thoughts rapidly ran through her mind as she listened to what further Countess Coletti had to say. Oh, then Lucia's credits were already in the hands of the principal. "I see, Countess Coletti," Betty's clear voice made reply. "I shall be very glad to do anything--oh, yes, I shall be ready to go with you early. Certainly. I'll find out everything as soon as I see Lucia's schedule, and meet her at lunch and--oh, well, that is as the principal says, I suppose. Yes, Countess Coletti. Good-bye." "My me!" Betty turned from the telephone to see Dick's grin. "What do you have to do now, Betty, act as nursemaid to the countess' daughter?" "Just about, Dick! No, I needn't say that, either. I imagine that Lucia has a lot of grit herself; though that wasn't my first impression. But anybody would feel lost in such a big school. I did, and I hadn't been to private school all my life, either." Betty went on into the living room and dining room from the hall where she had been using the telephone. Doris was busy with her lessons there at the big table, which was usually cleared of anything else for school books and papers. Any one who wanted real privacy could go to bedroom or den, as the case might be. Dick had a small set of shelves in his den, and the girls had a similar set in their bedroom. Doris did not look up as Betty sat down by her and took up her geometry, though Betty knew that she must have heard the conversation, or Betty's part of it, since the wide doors between dining room and the front room were open, as well as the hall entrance, never closed, for the good reason that it could not be. Dick was calling up one of the boys now, to make sure of an assignment. Presently he, too, was back at the table. "We're in high society now, Dorry," said he. "Didja hear Betty talking to the countess?" "Ye-ah," drawled Doris. "I think my mother is better than any countess, so we needn't get worked up about it." Betty drew a figure on her sheet of paper. Little Dory was jealous! It _was_ a shame. Here she had been to New York and had had all the fun! But Betty need not have felt self-reproachful. She had earned her trip to New York by her own pleasant spirit, much real effort that to some girls would have been very trying, and by overcoming some loneliness in times when company was lacking. Doris would have her turn, in a family where fairness was characteristic of its parents. But it was just as well for Betty to be thinking about her sister now, instead of herself. Morning came, and with it the new excitement. Dick, frankly interested, kept an eye out for the Murchison car, a beautiful thing in dark wine-color. "Gee!" cried Dick in a tone discreetly low, "that's a beauty! I'm going to have one just like it some day. There's your colored chauffeur, Sis, in uniform. Say, I didn't know that Dad was hobnobbing with the aristocrats!" "Hush, Dick," said Mrs. Lee, annoyed. "Mr. Murchison is a very wealthy gentleman and lives in accordance with his means. Are you ready, Betty? Please answer the bell, Dick. It is the chauffeur." "Give me an apron and cap, Mom," remarked the irrepressible Dick, "for the maid must answer the door." "You're wrong. Dick," said Doris, who was gathering up her books. "The butler should be at the door. See how elegant you can be, though I'm afraid they will think you rather young." But the bell had rung, and Dick ran, rather too hurriedly for dignity in his role of butler, if that suggestion by Doris was to be taken seriously. She was listening as Dick threw open the front door. "Is you-all ready foh goin' to school with Miss Lucy an' Loosha?" "I'll call Betty," said Dick. "Yes, she is ready." So the girl Betty called "Lu-_chee_-a," the chauffeur called _"Loosha_." "Miss Lucy said that she wanted to take _all_ the children to school, foh she thought there was some o' them that went to the Junior High School." "Please thank the countess," said Dick, as properly as if it had been his father. "We shall be very glad to come and we can be out as soon as we can gather up our books." The chauffeur went back to the car, while Dick hastily called Betty and Doris, though Doris had been curious enough to stay within hearing, and if the truth were told, Doris had taken extra care with her toilet that morning, in case she should happen within sight of Countess Coletti and Lucia, her daughter. "She wants us all to come, Mother," excitedly she reported. "Shall we?" "Certainly. It would be impolite to refuse. Yes, better wear your coat, though it is so warm this morning." "Shall you go out to the car and meet them, Mother?" asked Betty, doubtfully, though that is what would have happened in their old home, if any friend had driven up, or strangers, indeed, with such an invitation to the children. "No," replied Mrs. Lee. "Had the countess appeared, or asked to see me, I might; but they are all in a hurry. Don't waste a moment. It is very thoughtful for the countess to include you and Doris, Dick. Just be appreciative, polite and quiet. I can trust all of you to be that, I'm sure." But Countess Coletti might be trusted also, to make the children feel comfortable. She was smiling at the three with their books, a necessary accompaniment, alas, as Doris thought. "Good morning, Betty," she said, while Lucia smiled and nodded, leaving conversation to her mother. "You are good not to keep us waiting. These are your brother and sister, I'm sure. This is my daughter, Lucia Coletti. Now you may sit here, Betty, your sister there and the brother, too. Ready, Horace." Horace did not look around, but started the car and off they went in the fresh September morning, bright and clear. "It is Dick and Doris, Countess Coletti," said Betty, thinking that the names of the twins should be mentioned. The term "discretion" did not do justice to the attitude of the twins, almost too sober, Betty thought, but they _were_ dear children! Yet the experienced countess led the conversation, telling them of Lucia's troubles in arranging her schedule, some of them to be discussed with the principal that morning, and chatting of how pleasantly Lucia was impressed with her mother's old home and how good "the old town" looked to one who had been away as many years as she herself had passed abroad. "We never could seem to find a time," said she, "when it was convenient to come, though my brother and his family were over often." Betty wondered what family Mr. Murchison had. Her father probably did not know or he would have mentioned it. The handsome car and its occupants caused some notice among the early arrivals at the school. The chauffeur drove in and parked the car behind the building on one of the drives there. Betty showed the party how to reach the nearest entrance and led them up the stairs and through the halls to the office of the principal. He was affable but business-like. He hesitated when Countess Coletti asked that Betty be permitted to show Lucia about, though she asked most prettily and with no assumption that it must be done for her. "It would be such a favor," said she, "if Betty will not miss anything important." "Everything is important, Countess Coletti," smiled the principal, "but I think we shall arrange it for your daughter not to be lost. Here, Betty, is the schedule we have made out for Miss Coletti. See if you have any classes together?" With the principal, Betty, feeling rather important for a modest body like herself, worked out a program for the day. She would take Lucia to her first class, introduce her to the teacher and leave her there, stopping for her at the close of the period without losing much time, since the recitation rooms happened to be near. They had the same home room, which made it easy to begin the day together. Betty herself had not been there on the opening morning and had been forced to see her home room teacher later in the day, to find out many things. There were practically no recitations of any length, and periods were shortened for an assembly. Lunch, fortunately, would be prepared in the lunch rooms and the full day's schedule carried out, an unusual proceeding even for the third day, why, Betty did not know. "Your daughter, Madam, need not worry at all. In case she becomes confused, there is always the office. We are ready to rescue any pupil, and without reproof in these opening days. I hope that Miss Lucia will enjoy the new experience." With this the interview closed. Betty showed the countess how to reach her car, but with the ringing of the gongs, she and Lucia went to find their home room and report. It was a home room of girls, to be sure, but Betty felt a little self-conscious as she accompanied Lucia to the desk and introduced her to their home room teacher, not the dear Miss Heath, but a teacher to whom Betty had not happened to recite in her freshman year. Keen eyes appraised her and Lucia, who was not at all embarrassed. Lucia was accustomed to being stared at and to traveling around. As long as Betty kept her from being lost about places and duties, it was all right. What difference did it make to her what impression she was making? "Lucia Coletti," the teacher repeated, taking the card from Lucia and pronouncing the name correctly, as Betty had given it. She made a few notes on a paper at hand. "Is she a friend of yours, Betty Lee?" "Yes'm. That is, I'm showing her around because she is new to everything. She just came to New York on the _Statendam_ and has been to school in Switzerland." Miss Orme, who was accustomed to meet many Italian children in the city schools, revised her first impression made by the name, and looked again at this easily poised girl who had been to school in Switzerland. Lucia met her gaze without interest, politely waiting directions. "Lucia is the daughter of----" "Count Coletti, of Milan," suddenly said Lucia, to Betty's surprise. Betty had not intended to tell the teacher who Lucia was, then thought perhaps she'd better, for Lucia's sake, for her relatives, the Murchisons, were well-known in the city and it would be better, too, for Miss Orme to place the girl at once in her mind. But why did Lucia forestall the introduction as her mother's daughter? Perhaps that was it. Was there some idea of loyalty to her father, or was she just proud of it? "Oh, yes," laconically replied Miss Orme, who had, unfortunately, a rooted distaste for American women that married foreigners. "I think I have heard of your mother. Betty, there is a vacant seat across from you on the back row. Too bad you are both so late, but you can get from the other girls what has already been said about many of the details. Show Lucia to her seat, Betty." As Betty went down the aisle ahead of Lucia, Peggy Pollard caught her eye and coughed discreetly. Selma grinned up at her and Kathryn widened her big eyes purposely. This home room of sophomore girls was the limit! CHAPTER VII: LITTLE ADJUSTMENTS The next morning Selma joined Betty on the walk from the street-car to the school building. "Betty," said she, "I'm really in earnest about your being on the hockey team. I'm afraid not enough of the girls are going to take an interest. I mean the kind of girls that count. You are so quick and graceful about your swimming and good at everything you do, and I saw you play hockey once last year." "I haven't a quarter about me, I'm afraid," said Betty, very soberly, looking in her small purse. "A quarter--what for?" asked Selma before she sensed what Betty meant. "Oh, that's all right. You needn't pay me for the compliments, and I'm not saying it just to get you to be on the team. Miss Fox has charge of the hockey this year and she asked me to keep an eye out for good material. The team is pretty well made up, I guess, and she says that I should be captain, but that is as it may be, Betty. Please don't mention my speaking of it to you." "But I want a second team to play against, and a good one at that. I'd give a lot for the sophomores to beat the other classes at hockey." "Hurrah for the sophomores," remarked Betty. "I can't get used to our being sophomores, Selma, but isn't it nice not to be freshmen any longer?" "Yes, though we _were_ such unusually fine ones!" Selma chuckled. "We're a good deal of a mob yet, but not like the freshman bunch. Were we really like that last year?" "I suppose so. Well, Selma, I don't know what to say about the hockey proposition. I'm pretty sure that Mother thinks hockey too rough. Perhaps not exactly that, either; and I did like to play last year occasionally, just on the side. Possibly, if it is just as a sort of substitute, I might do it. I'm a full-fledged G. A. A. and ought to help out where I can, oughtn't I?" "It's your duty to be a good sophomore, too." "I remember how seriously I took everything last year," said Betty, "and it was sensible. But I'm going to join anything I like this year; and if it doesn't work, all you have to do is to stop." "Not to break up a team, though, Betty." "Oh, no. I didn't mean that, and I like to do anything pretty thoroughly, too. All right, I'll see about it." "'Lo, Betty," said some one else. Selma and Betty were mounting the steps of the school now, near the entrance, where pupils were going in and groups of others stood about. This was Mathilde Finn, who detached herself from one of the groups and came toward the two girls. "Bye," immediately said Selma, whisking into the building as some one pushed open the heavy doors before her. "Going to wait for Lucia Coletti?" asked Mathilde. "No; she knows how to get to the home room now," answered Betty. "Anything I can do for you?" Betty smiled pleasantly, though she intended to be a little reserved with Mathilde. From all she had heard, she did not have the greatest confidence in Mathilde's sincerity. But Betty was always glad to be on a friendly footing with other girls. She did "hate" disagreeable undercurrents, though one could not always avoid them. "You are a bit new yourself, aren't you?" Betty continued. "Oh, yes, but not like Lucia, and my work was all fixed up in plenty of time. I do feel strange in a public school and I can't say that I like it now; but if Lucia can stand it, I think I can. You don't have to know everybody, of course. Some of the boys and girls are too common--for words!" That speech grated on Betty. "Perhaps so," she answered, "but a lot of them are as fine as can be. Besides, we have to live in the world with everybody, don't we? And I haven't seen anybody here that wasn't nice--well, hardly. But the boys and girls that won't work or keep the rules get sent out." "Oh, I suppose they all behave well enough," carelessly replied Mathilde. "They have to. But look at their clothes, and the way they talk!" "I never dress up much for school myself," said Betty, who had a sound suspicion that the reason Mathilde was attaching herself to her this morning was her relation to Lucia Coletti. "And when it comes to language, do you know, some of the worst I've heard came from girls out of wealthy homes. So far as I'm concerned, give me the good old public schools, though I'd love to go to boarding school some time, just for the fun of it. Why, there's Lucia now!" Betty and Mathilde stopped in the middle of the big hall as Lucia Coletti came out of the principal's office. Her face lit up as she saw Betty and she hurried toward the girls. "This is--what you call luck--Betty. Good morning--and I think I met you, yesterday, Miss ----?" "It is Mathilde Finn, Lucia," said Betty, as Lucia looked doubtfully at Mathilde. "She has been at a private school, too, and is coming back to us now--a sophomore like the rest of us." Betty spoke cordially, as Betty would, and together the three made their way to their home room. But Mathilde's manner to Lucia amused her and when lunch time came and Dotty Bradshaw fell in with her, just behind Lucia, whom Mathilde had in tow, she could not help smiling at Dotty's comments. "Ha!" said Dotty in a dramatic whisper. "Finny is rushing the countess, I see. Look out, Betty. She'll cut you out with royalty." "Why should I mind, Dotty?" laughed Betty. "I like Lucia and I think that she's going to take hold of things as you'd scarcely expect a girl that's been used to everything to do. She's got a lot of those old Romans in her, I imagine, to say nothing of what she gets of good American pep, if not so old! Oh, Dotty, I've got such _loads_ to do I haven't time to think about whether I get cut out with _anybody_!" "Lessons getting on your nerves?" "Somewhatly!" "That's always the way at first. Cheer up. You're not interested, then, in hearing about the new sorority?" "Well, I might have a little _natural curiosity_." "I'll say! I'll tell you everything I know at the first chance." This was while the crowd was mounting the stairs to the lunch room. At the top of the stairs Betty saw Mathilde usher Lucia inside of the lunch room, though Lucia turned and looked inquiringly at Betty. Betty smiled and waved her hand, nodding approvingly as if to say "It's all right with me," and just then Kathryn appeared in the line behind Betty, having hurried to catch up. Dotty was by several girls beyond her in the line that was forming for the cafeteria procession; and Kathryn, having Betty's ear in spite of the rattle of dishes and the buzz, or more appropriately "roar" of conversation, pitched above other sounds, informed her that she had "a lot to tell her." "Tell it now," urged Betty. "Fat chance, as Chauncey says. I'll see you somewhere. Skip along, honey. I hope they've got plenty of good things left. I always prefer being called to first lunch." "How strange!" laughed Betty. "I certainly hate it when we are last to be called and all the best desserts and salads are gone. But can't you give me an _idea_?" Kathryn shook her head in the negative, concerned now with looking ahead to choose what she would have for lunch. Betty with a full tray looked around for Lucia and saw that she and Mathilde were together at a table which was rapidly filling up. Carolyn at another table waved at Betty and Kathryn, who hurried there to join her. But the hungry girls were most interested in the business at hand and Carolyn, after the first pangs of hunger was relieved, was started on athletics, lamenting the loss of the senior football men and relating what material she had heard was available for the year's team. Betty saw for the first time Ted Dorrance, who was not acting at all as a senior whose heart was broken should act. With a group of senior boys he was laughing and talking at a table not far away. Betty wondered how it happened that they had had lunch at the same time, and while her eyes were turned in that direction, Ted saw her and gave her a gay salute. Poor boy, perhaps he was just putting on all that fun and was really feeling terrible about Louise. No--perhaps they had made up! Lessons, lessons, lessons! How hard these first assignments seemed! Some of their teachers "had a heart," as Dotty said, and others hadn't the sign of one. Again they had to carry all their books around until lockers were assigned. Mathilde complained constantly, Betty thought; but Lucia, with a neat brief-case of leather, kept all her paraphernalia together and carried them around without a word. "Lucia Coletti is a good sport," said Dotty Bradshaw. Finally, toward the end of the week, Kathryn had a good opportunity to talk to Betty. It was on the street-car, but they had a back seat together and could talk in ordinary tones without being overheard. Both had errands down town, as it happened, and were to go down right after school to meet their mothers. "Here you've kept me in suspense all week, Kathryn," Betty accused her friend. "I suppose you've laid awake nights over it, Betty." "Oh, yes, of course. My dear, I _have_ laid awake a while over a lesson or two!" "I've had reason enough to, but not I. When my head strikes the pillow not even anything Mathilde or anybody could say, to say nothing of mere lessons, could keep me awake!" "By the way, is it clothes you're going to see about this afternoon, Kathryn?" "Yes. I'm going to get a hat and a dress, and _look_ at coats." "Here, too, Kathryn, but I'll wait to buy a coat till I see what you get, I think." Upon this there followed a discussion of styles and materials quite interesting to Betty, who did want to look like the rest but had had little experience so far in city shopping. Kathryn advised her a little about the best places to shop, where "things were expensive" and where one could get good values for a reasonable sum. They concluded to get the mothers together at some store and arranged the meeting place before any school matter was touched upon again. Then Kathryn began. "I could have told you that everything is all right about Peggy, but some way I wanted to have a good chance all by ourselves before I did. You know how we went out to Carolyn's that time. We had a good deal of fun over that lunch, and Peggy was just as much fun as she always is and I never acted any different from the way I always do. I just thought, if Peggy didn't like me and talked about me, I couldn't help it anyhow and there was no use in acting 'sore' about it. That is what my brother always says, Betty." "You needn't apologize, Gypsy. I have a brother, too." Kathryn laughed. "It's very convenient when you want to use slang to quote from your brother, isn't it?" "Very." "Well, it seems that Peggy had overheard you call me Gypsy, though how I don't know." "Oh, I'm sorry, Kathryn. I meant that for our little secret!" "I know it, but really I don't care. I rather like it now. You remember that we told Carolyn about it, at your house." "Yes." "Carolyn told me afterwards that she had it in mind when she asked us for lunch; and didn't Peggy call me 'Gypsy' as she passed me the sandwiches?" "No! Why, what did you think when she did that?" "I was startled, of course. She said, 'Gypsy, _have_ another sandwich!' and I looked up at her in amazement, though not a bit offended, you know, and she laughed. 'Who started that name for you?' she asked. 'You're looking so surprised that maybe you don't like it,' she went on. 'I just heard Betty Lee call you that one time and I thought it cute. I told Mathilde Finn just the other day that you looked like a gypsy queen or something awfully romantic.' "There it was, Betty, just the sweet way you thought about it and not the way Mathilde told me. You were right. I don't believe Peggy Pollard _would_ say mean things about a girl she knows as well as she does me, and maybe not about anybody, though you are _too_ trustful of your friends, Betty!" "Am I?" "Yes, I'm afraid so; but I think it's a good fault and I'm going to cultivate it." Kathryn slipped her hand through Betty's arm as she spoke. "Well, just then Carolyn spoke up. 'Mathilde Finn didn't say it that way when she repeated it to Kathryn,' she said." "'What do you mean, Carolyn?' Peggy asked. She looked just as surprised as could be. Then she whirled around to me. 'Kathryn, _what_ did Mathilde tell you?' "I sort of hesitated, you know. A body would. And Peggy asked me again. 'From what Carolyn says, I imagine that Mathilde has said something horrid,' she said. "Well, I just got the impression, Peggy, that you were criticising my looks and while I'm not posing as a beauty, it wasn't awfully pleasant to think that you would say what Mathilde said you did." "'Kathryn!' Peggy said. She looked sort of helpless, you know, as if she didn't know what to say and probably thought I wouldn't believe her. Then, I don't remember how it all came around, but Carolyn helped out and quoted what Peggy had just said and asked me to believe Peggy and I said I would and Peggy said a lot of things and I hated to have them think I wanted to be thought pretty and so I said so and I told just exactly what Mathilde had said and Peggy told as nearly as she could remember just exactly what she had said, and the girls all said that they didn't think me sensitive about my looks and knew that I just cared about having Peggy like me. So it turned out all right and it was Carolyn that did it after all. You can like Carolyn better than me any time, Betty!" Betty laughed and squeezed the arm in hers. "How we do change," said she. "But I told you all about how I feel about my dear friends. And you said '_all_ the girls.' Was any one there beside you and Peggy and Carolyn?" "Sure enough--I didn't tell you. I think from what Carolyn said she did mean to have just Peggy and me--and you, of course, if you could have come. But then, not being sure about Peggy after all, she thought perhaps she'd ask somebody else in your place. So on the car there were Dotty Bradshaw and Mary Emma Rowland and she asked them to come. They accepted after a little hesitation on account of being expected at home. But Carolyn said that they could telephone home from her house and that she would herself to let them know that it was all right, if they wanted her to. You know how hospitable Carolyn is, and her mother lets her do these things. I imagine that they knew it was the first of school and she would be wanting to see some of us. Anyhow, there was a special lunch for us, outdoors on the big porch. I'm sorry you missed it." "So am I. But under the circumstances I couldn't. And now that is all over and you haven't a worry have you?" "No. I'd a little rather Dotty hadn't heard what Mathilde said to me, for she almost despises Mathilde anyhow. But it can't be helped and everybody said they wouldn't say a word and would treat Mathilde 'the same as ever.' And you would have laughed to hear Dotty, when Carolyn used that expression." "'The same as ever?' she asked. 'Then that doesn't bind me except about this little trick of hers. _Sure_ I'll treat Mathilde the same as ever!'" Kathryn was laughing now. Betty looked thoughtfully at Kathryn. "Dotty speaks too quickly and sharply, I'm afraid. I felt real uncomfortable when she had that passage at arms with Mathilde that day. But Dotty is a sincere person and she may have some reason of her own about Mathilde." "I haven't a doubt. But I thought about you, Betty, when I said to the girls I'd rather not have it make any difference with the way they treated Mathilde. You're always so fair to everybody, and this wasn't so much after all." "It was the spirit it showed or you _thought_ it showed on Peggy's part that worried you, and that is important when it comes to a nice friend like Peggy; but I think you were wonderfully nice about it, and--thank you for your opinion of me. That's another thing for me to live up to!" "I don't think you need worry about that, Betty Lee. But to change the subject, you're going to go on the G. A. A. hike a week from Saturday, aren't you?" "Why, I don't know, Kathryn. I hadn't thought about it much. There's so much to do at home, and Saturday is the only day there, that I'm not sure I can. I ought to help Mother, for with three of us to get ready for fall and winter in school, to say nothing of Amy Louise, and meals now for everybody, Mother is just as rushed with work as _we_ imagine _we_ are in school." "We really are," insisted Kathryn. "I think your mother will want you to have some outdoors on Saturdays, and I know that you help some every day. So do you mind if I ask her about it, if we manage to have the mothers see each other down town?" "I don't mind a bit, and I think the G. A. A. hike will be great fun. Suppose Lucia Coletti will want to go?" Betty looked roguishly at Kathryn as she spoke. "And if Lucia, then our friend Mathilde, to be sure. Well, anyhow we must be sure to ask Lucia. She'll probably want to be a G. A. A. If she lives in Italy, she probably will know how to swim, and don't they walk and hike a lot in Switzerland?" Betty asked Kathryn why she was sure Lucia could swim if she lived in Italy and Kathryn replied that she might live on a hill-top for all she knew, but that rich foreigners always took trips to the water, "and isn't the Mediterranean right there?" Betty could not answer that it was not and so they dropped this subject, not forgetting the G. A. A. hike in prospect. CHAPTER VIII: THE G. A. A. BREAKFAST HIKE Dear me--the hosts of things to be decided during these first weeks of school! But wasn't it interesting? There was talk of a new sorority. There was the revelation of some that had existed before, _sub rosa_. Indeed everything was secret and the way the rules were substantially avoided without breaking the letter of the law was another astonishing feature. Betty Lee did not quite understand that yet. The sorority fever had not struck the little group of her especial friends in their freshman year. There had been some of the girls who were what the rest called "snooty" or "high hat," the terms in common parlance for a species of snobbery. But as "little freshmen" their assumptions made small impression on their associates of the freshman class. Prominent juniors had been paying some attention to Lucia Coletti and incidentally to Betty and Mathilde and Carolyn. Peggy and Kathryn seemed to be left out. Nothing had been said so far, but notice had been taken, no doubt. Betty was thoughtful. She had been thrown with Lucia first because she could be of service to her. Now no delicate withdrawal was possible because Lucia, naturally depending upon Betty for much information and liking Betty very much, a fact that Betty did not realize, turned to her for companionship whenever their work made it possible. Betty saw that her first impression of Lucia had not been entirely correct. To be sure, Lucia had been spoiled, as an independent American girl would view her upon first acquaintance, adding the feeling of rank to that of the superiority of wealth and opportunity. But in some respects Lucia was timid, and Betty had some idea now of how she had dreaded the new environment. Any timidity was hidden, however, behind a reserve which had a little dignity and which Betty told herself was a bit of the Count Coletti. Then again Lucia would be impulsive and in high spirits with Betty's friends and tell them little things about her old schools abroad, for she had been in several, owing to the travel of her parents. This was all very interesting and Betty was becoming fond of Lucia, though she was sure that Carolyn, Kathryn, and Peggy would always stand first. But Betty liked "lots of friends." How high school affairs were impressing themselves upon Lucia Coletti she did not say and the girls did not ask, though they could see that she was interested. She spoke English very well indeed and made excellent recitations in her different studies. To every one she was uniformly polite, but not even Betty was invited to her confidence, though it must be said that Betty, absorbed in putting through her own work, did not notice it. Among other things difficult to get started early, the G. A. A. hike was numbered. The heavy work of the opening weeks hindered the teachers who were in charge of athletics. Then _Jupiter Pluvius_ took a hand and there was a week of almost steady rain. But warm days in October with bright sunshine came along and at nearly the end of the month the day was "actually appointed," said Peggy. "It's a shame that we couldn't have had it when it was so nice and warm," said Mathilde, who was privately intending to offer Lucia a ride to the spot chosen for the breakfast. "But it would have been too warm for the hike," answered Lucia herself, who was a member of the Girls' Athletic Association by this time and on one of the committees. "I think that I shall enjoy that." "Won't it be too far for you?" asked Mathilde, who was lazy, and only "going in" for the easiest form of athletics she could find, though she was fond of games, which saved the day for her, and she liked the interpretive dancing, in which she was quite graceful. "Only five miles?" asked Lucia. "Why, we think nothing of that in----" Lucia broke off, for her mother had warned her not to compare anything to her life abroad. She made an excuse of speaking to Miss Fox, who had this expedition in charge, and moved away from Mathilde quite naturally. Lucia, however, was quite friendly with Mathilde. What girl would not like another who was flatteringly attentive and evidently impressed with her? Moreover, Mathilde was a fair, prettily-dressed girl, attractive enough when she chose to be. "Listen, Finny," said Dotty Bradshaw, coming up to Mathilde. "You can be on the soup committee if you like and ride out with us." "'Soup Committee!' I hope you are not going to have soup for breakfast!" "Don't be so literal, Finny. Of course we are not going to have soup or anything like it. Can you cook wieners?" "I should _say not_!" Mathilde started away in disgust. "Besides, I want to take the hike and get credit for it." "Haw, haw, haw," said Dotty in low tones to her friend Selma, who knew Mathilde almost as well as Dotty did. "When I get outdoors I shall indulge in 'laffcher,' I think. But wouldn't I have been sold if she had taken me up? It would just about have spoiled the fun the committee is going to have!" "Dotty, Dotty, Dotty!" reproved Selma; but a smile and dancing eyes showed that she did not blame the irrepressible Dotty too severely. This took place at a meeting of various committees on the Friday before the breakfast hike. Betty had been persuaded to be on the committee for refreshments, though she, too, would have liked to take the entire hike and earn the points for it. But it would be fun. Kathryn said that any girl who had really done any cooking was capable of bossing the entire affair and if Betty would be chairman of the committee, she would impart all her own valuable knowledge of what to cook and how on picnics. "Kathryn Allen, I've never been to a camp and all you other girls have. I simply can't be chairman!" This was Betty, in the corner of the big room where the refreshment committee was getting together to discuss arrangements. "Listen, Betty. The chairman _bosses_ the rest. _They_ do the work!" Betty laughed. "On that basis, then, Gypsy, I don't care, but I think one of you ought to be chairman just the same. Will Miss Fox know how much of everything we ought to have?" "Of course she will. She's got the names of everybody that signed up to go. I don't know whether we ought to allow for girls coming at the last minute, or bringing company, or allow the other way for those that think they'll go and won't." "Always better to have too much, than not enough," said Betty, thinking of one or two tight squeezes when her mother had had the missionary society and more came than usual. "Yet that is very wasteful, Betty." "Yes, Dotty, it is. I think _you_ ought to be chairman." "No, thanks. Some time I'll tell you how narrowly we escaped having another member on this committee." "You are a case, Dotty Bradshaw. What have you been doing now?" "Nothing much, Kathryn. Somebody call this meeting to order." "All right. Betty, you're chairman." "Honestly, I wasn't named chairman, girl. Ask Miss Fox whom she intended for chairman--_please_, Gypsy." "All right--to settle it." Kathryn dashed across the room, stopping behind Miss Fox and waiting for an opportunity to speak to her. There was a brief conference and Kathryn returned to tell Betty triumphantly that she was chairman. "Yes, of course," returned Betty. "I saw you fix it up with her. Did you tell her that I would be deeply disappointed if I didn't have the honor?" "Something like that," laughed Kathryn. "Now let's get down to business." -------- The morning of the hike was clear and sunny, when the sun finally decided to get up. Fifty girls were up first, getting ready. The "bunch" who hiked were to meet at the school, but the committee on refreshments was to drive with their supplies. Miss Fox had accepted the offer of Kathryn's brother to drive the Allen car out for them and to help arrange their temporary camp. Lucia Coletti, interested and anxious to help, had begged her uncle for the use of his car. "It will be ready for you to go to business," she said, "for it is only to take out boxes of food and perhaps a few rugs." "Why turn my car into a grocery delivery wagon?" teasingly Mr. Murchison asked Lucia. "Because the groceries will not deliver the things for us." "Very well, then, Lucia, if you can make your peace with the chauffeur." "Oh, Horace! He will do anything! But I will tell him to come back immediately." "Will there be no one to come back, nothing to bring?" "Oh, no--no--no, we all hike back, even those who ride out to do the breakfast." "I see; and the food will have been disposed of. See, Lucy, sister, how American your daughter is becoming? She talks of hikes and things." "I am only part American, Uncle," said Lucia, soberly and with emphasis. "I am also the daughter of Count Coletti!" Chauncey Allen, understanding that only Kathryn and Betty would be in their car, asked two of his friends to accompany him. When they appeared at the Allen house Kathryn wanted to know "how come," as Chauncey reported to Chet Dorrance later on. "I have to have somebody, don't I, to keep me in countenance before all those girls. Moreover, I want help in making the fires." "We girls are perfectly capable of making the fires." "Honestly, Kit, don't you like it?" "Yes, I really do, but I don't know whether it's proper or not, or whether Miss Fox will like it or not." "She knows I'm going to drive, don't she?" "Doesn't she, you mean. Yes. Oh, I suppose it's all right, if we can get all the things in." "Wait till you see us fix 'em!" Thus Kathryn and Betty had three escorts and a goodly amount of supplies. It was cold riding in the early morning, but the girls wore warm knickers and sweaters and drew over the blankets which the car was furnished. It was a jolly ride. Betty had scarcely seen all summer these boys with whom she had become acquainted at the freshman parties and other meetings of her first year at Lyon High. Kathryn's brother had been at a boys' camp. Chet had been away with his mother and brother, Ted, of the romantic disaster. The other boy was "Mickey" Carlin, whom Betty did not know so well; but Mickey was full of fun and contributed his share of life to the occasion. The five miles were quickly covered by machine and as the spot chosen was a picnic resort on the river, it was not difficult to dispose of the supplies which they had brought. They arrived at about the same time as Miss Fox and more of the committee in two other cars, and while they were unloading, here came the Murchison car and its colored chauffeur in uniform. Miss Fox was not only not annoyed at the presence of the boys but was glad to accept their services. "We need some camp-boys," said she laughingly. "It isn't going to take our hikers so long to cover five miles, though I told them to take their time and see whatever there was to see on the way." "Don't worry, Miss Fox," said Chauncey with a chuckle. "They'll wait till they hike back to see things, and believe me they'll have an appetite for breakfast!" "All right, Chauncey. I shouldn't be surprised but you're right. By the way, you are invited for breakfast with the other boys, and you might just consider yourselves added to the refreshment committee. Yes, girls, all the milk and stuff can be carried to those picnic tables under the shelter house. We'll mix the cocoa there and open up the buns. Careful to wipe off the tables and put papers under everything, girls. If we eat our peck o' dirt we'll do it without germs, I hope." Pans, stacks of buns, paper plates, pickles (so appropriate for a breakfast, Dotty said), eggs to be scrambled, bacon to be cooked, and great sacks of apples and bananas were sorted and arranged under the direction of Betty, who sprang to the fore when she saw that Miss Fox was going to leave it to her. Betty had learned that summer that orderly arrangement was half the battle in getting a meal. Quickly, from her little note-book, in which she had carefully written the names of the committee assigned to the various tasks, she told each one her duty and divided the supplies accordingly. Fun was held in abeyance for a little, till things were fairly started. Oh, it would work out all right, Betty told herself. The girls would select each a plate and visit "each pot and pan," in due order. The sun was up and it grew hot near the fires, but sweaters could be thrown aside. The cooks were adorned with a pointed head-dress of white with G. A. A. in blue letters printed upon it. Dotty called it the G. A. A. crown and fastened one around Betty's locks, saying that she was chief cook and bottle-washer and must have one whether she really cooked or not. "I'm floor-walker, Dotty, but I'm going to oversee the scrambled egg business, because if we have 'em at all they want to be good. I've practiced at home several days under Mother, so I'm going to do the mixing up. Gracious, did we bring the salt!" For a minute Betty looked blank, while Dotty consolingly remarked that the bacon would be salty enough anyhow. But the salt was discovered in one of the cars, a whole container of it, and Betty's moment of panic was over. This was to be a real breakfast, Dotty declared, and several little squirrels dashing up and down the trees nearby were doubtless hoping that they would be invited. CHAPTER IX: WITH LUCIA AND MATHILDE Meanwhile the hikers were having a good time of it. Scattered in little groups of two or three or more, they were steadily advancing over hill and dale in the beautiful country surrounding the city, striking through in a direction not so closely built up in suburbs, for the high school was one in an outlying suburb, where beautiful homes and large estates were the rule as soon as one passed beyond its center. The country was in its handsomest fall attire. Leaves of all colors attracted the girls who were interested in trees and learning to know them by their leaves, as well as those who, with no knowledge of this sort at all, could still appreciate the beauty of color with which the woods were alive. This hike, naturally, was not confined to sophomores, though that class had been charged with the duty of serving the breakfast this time; and a good breakfast it should be, thought the sophomores. Lucia Coletti had fallen into conversation with Carolyn Gwynn before the start and asked if she might walk along with her and Peggy Pollard, who was with Carolyn. "Indeed you may," said cordial Carolyn, looking admiringly at Lucia, for she was a slender, pretty figure in a costume that had seen use in Switzerland, it was evident, and was different from what the other girls wore in the style of its short coat, the knickers, stockings and strong shoes. She carried, moreover, an alpenstock, for which she apologized when she saw that the other girls did not carry them. "I should not have brought this, I think," she said, her dark eyes very serious. "Why not?" asked Carolyn. "I think that's great." "But you girls do not carry them. I suppose the hills are not very steep, but it seemed hilly when we were driving with my uncle." "It is. Sometimes we girls cut sticks to use on hikes or when we are camping in the mountains. Mother uses one all the time in the summer at our camp. We go to the mountains, you know." "So do we," said Lucia, apparently relieved over the idea of being different. She was beginning to care now. These were fine girls and this was a good school. Mathilde, late, came hurrying up from a car which had deposited her at the school. "Oh, here you are, Lucia. How charming you look! Do you do any mountain climbing in the Alps?" "Some," answered Lucia, more annoyed than pleased with the compliment. Already she sensed that these girls were not warmly attached to Mathilde. What was the trouble? It must be that Mathilde was too proud with them. She herself must not be so. Other girls noticed Lucia, though she was not known to them. She swung along gracefully and easily, accustomed to such trips, that is, to walking and climbing. Her alpenstock was brought into play in more than one little leap over the hilly way with its ravines, now more or less slippery with its damp leaves. The other girls who had thought to take Lucia more or less under their wing, were put to it to keep up with her, and Carolyn frankly laughed over that fact, when Lucia waited for them at the top of one high hill. "We thought that we'd be so good to you, Lucia, and show the stranger the way and help her over the worst places. Now here you are the champion hiker of us all!" "Oh, I ought not to do it, I think! Do you care? I forget, and I like to see how quickly I can reach a certain place." "Of course we do not care!" But there was one who did. Poor Mathilde had been quite forgotten by Lucia in her quick advance. Now, as the girls sat down to rest for five minutes or more, Mathilde came toiling up the hill, almost exhausted. Within she was cross at the girls, Lucia included. It certainly wasn't nice of them to leave her behind! And the girls were unconscious of offense, for they had started in a large group, many of whom had fallen behind or gone in a different direction to reach a given point. "I'm all out of practice walking," gasped Mathilde as she threw herself on the ground, "and I'm a little lost right here. I'm so used to the car, you know. I suppose we must be nearly there now." "No, indeed," said Peggy, who had her opinion of Mathilde but was sorry for her at this juncture. "We have come about half way, Mathilde; but there is an easier way, without so much climbing, if you'd rather take it. See that little dirt road down there? Well, if you'll follow that, it skirts the hills and you can't miss the way. Besides, there were several girls that wanted to come that haven't been well and can't climb the hills or aren't supposed to. You'll have company, I'm sure, for it is a bit longer, and I think they would walk more slowly." Mathilde, who had groaned aloud at the statement that they were only half way there, now glanced where Peggy pointed and felt that it was probably the only possible thing to do. Perhaps some car would come along, dirt road though it was. Somebody with a Ford would live on it. Her feet were nearly killing her and she knew they were blistered! She looked at Lucia, to find her looking off at the pretty view, uninterested in Mathilde's decision. But now she turned her head and looked at Mathilde kindly. "I would, if I were you, Mathilde. There's no use suffering when you haven't been walking much. You ought to take it more gradually. You might injure yourself if you overdo." Mathilde felt better at that speech. "You ought to know, Lucia, with all your experience in mountain climbing. I will take your advice, I think, and see you at the breakfast." With this Mathilde stiffly rose and looked at the thickets between her and the little road which wound below. "Can you make it, do you think?" asked Peggy. "Take it on the bias, Mathilde. Don't try to go straight down." "There isn't any good trail, Peggy, but it's no worse than some we've been through already. Going on yourself now?" Mathilde was thinking that she would not start first. They'd watch her go down, of course. "Yes. We might as well." Carolyn answered Mathilde, rising as she spoke, though without the effort which had characterized Mathilde's movement. Carolyn had been in many trails that summer, though that was because of opportunity as well as because of her own volition. "Come on, Mathilde. I'll go down half way with you. I know how hard it is to start after a body hasn't been hiking. After I was sick a while last summer--a year ago, I mean, I thought I'd never get limbered up." "Thanks, Carolyn," airily replied Mathilde. "I think I can go _down_ hill, at least!" And off she started, to be tripped by a treacherous root and fall ignominiously, rolling into some bushes which checked further descent. "Mercy, how she'll hate that!" exclaimed Peggy, starting toward Mathilde with both Carolyn and Lucia. Lucia reached Mathilde first and reached a hand to her as Mathilde, flushed and annoyed, sat up and brushed away leaves and dirt from hands and face. "No, I didn't bruise my face at all," she said in answer to Lucia's question. "My foot caught in a trailing vine, I think. That's what it felt like." "I'll just go down with you," said Lucia. "You need my old stock, Mathilde. It will swing us over bad places. Go ahead, girls, I'll join you around the next hill. You said over there, didn't you?" Lucia was pointing as she spoke. "Yes, Lucia," answered Carolyn, noting how Mathilde's face brightened. "All right, you go down with Mathilde and see if some of the other girls are coming along. Don't get lost yourself, though. We'll saunter along and you won't have much woods to get through over there." The girls watched Lucia and Mathilde as the light-footed Italian girl took Mathilde's arm and with a laugh started down hill, instinctively choosing the easiest descent. "This was a mean hill, Carolyn," said Peggy, "but how Mathilde hates it not to appear 'it' in any way. Have you noticed how she's really studying some and getting her lessons now?" "Yes," thoughtfully replied Carolyn. "Maybe she really does like Lucia and it isn't just wanting to stand in with a title. That was good of Lucia, wasn't it? She seemed so indifferent at first, but now she's interested in things." "Mathilde doesn't 'really like' Lucia much, Carolyn; but she ought to now. Isn't this the prettiest part of the trail--don't you think, so wild and lovely? You can't even see a house from here. Look at those girls across there. This was the best way to come. They're having a great time getting across that little branch of the run. Maybe the rain carried away that big log we used to cross on." Lucia appeared at the appointed place without her alpenstock. She had a few blossoms to show the girls and asked them what they were. "We have ever so many of the same trees and flowers that you do," she said, "but there are some of these fall wild flowers that I never heard of." The girls discussed the flowers and then asked for Mathilde. "Oh, Mathilde's in a good humor now," smiled Lucia. "A truck came along with two girls sitting behind and dangling over the rear. I left Mathilde sitting beside them, but as she seemed to like my cane, I let her take it. It will help her when she walks again. The truck was going only a little way. The girls were laughing and having a great time of it." The rest of the trip was made in good time by the three girls, joined by others at different points; and when they came into the temporary camp, with its fires and moving figures of the committee and boys, to say nothing of the fresh arrivals--though Carolyn, Peggy and Lucia were among the first, oh, what enticing odors of cocoa and of bacon frying met them. Betty, wearing her cotton crown with its "G. A. A." came running up for a moment or two with the girls, answering their questions with, "Oh, everything is going off wonderfully. As soon as the girls all get here we'll scramble the eggs and be ready. No, there isn't a thing for anybody to do, only to see that no girl is too timid to get all she ought to have to eat. Carolyn, you're great on looking up the girls with a timidity complex, so do your stuff, as Dick would say." "Note how Betty keeps on quoting from her brother," laughed Peggy. "It's very convenient," laughed Betty. "By the way, have you seen our boys? Do take Lucia over to where they are sometime when it seems appropriate, or drag them over to her, to meet her." "So your boys have to be dragged to meet me?" queried Lucia, but with a smile and a comical lifting of her brows. "I'm not so sure," said Betty, "but they are keeping in the background at present, for fear that Miss Fox's cordiality will wax cool." "I see. Well, don't let us keep you, Betty, but do come and sit by me when you eat your breakfast," said Lucia. "If any," added Betty. "I'm going to see that the great Sophomore Class of Lyon High serves enough to make this hike something to be remembered!" "Hear, hear!" cried Peggy. "It smells like a million dollars, Betty!" But it was not long before the fifty and a few more of the guest hikers were seated here and there and everywhere it was convenient or attractive. Mathilde was in good humor as she sat with a full plate right next to Lucia, contemplating with satisfaction her own new elk-skin shoes, laced high, in contrast with Lucia's similar footgear, much the worse for wear. Lucia did look pretty and romantic, she thought; but her own outfit was much more in the latest style, which for Mathilde was the criterion of worth, along with the impression of expense. "Oh, it wasn't any trouble to finish the hike," said she. "My fall only jolted me and the rest on that funny truck fixed me all right. And your alpenstock was a great help, Lucia. I shall have one myself if we go abroad next summer." "You could probably get the same thing in this country," said Lucia. Had Peggy been there she would have rolled her eyes at Carolyn, perhaps, at Mathilde's mention of going abroad, but Peggy was at some distance with another group and this was one of older girls for the most part, girls who had their eye on Lucia for their sorority. When Carolyn and Peggy saw the move on the part of the older girls, they withdrew, though it might not have been necessary, and were sitting on an uneven log with Dotty Bradshaw, Mary Emma Howland and Selma Rardon. They, too, noted the junior girls with Mathilde and Lucia, but made no comment. "Say, Carolyn," said Dotty in a low tone, "did you notice Louise Madison and a lot of the University girls at the little skit and pep meeting of the Dramatic Club the other night? I heard Louise say they came over to help root for old Lyon High. And there was Ted Dorrance, big as life, joking with them in the hall before it began. Have he and Louise made up, do you think? I heard that they had a terrible break-up this summer." "Oh, a body can hear 'most anything, Dotty. I'm glad Louise and the other girls haven't forgotten high school days. She's only a freshman at the University, of course; and that isn't as thrilling, I imagine, as being a senior at Lyon High." "It wouldn't be, would it?" thoughtfully returned Dotty, while Peggy, who was more interested than she would admit in Ted and Louise, considered Dotty's bit of news. But here came Betty with her plate piled full. "Is the last egg scrambled, Betty?" asked Dotty. "Come on, we've saved room enough for you on this log. We spread out, kind of, to keep it. It isn't as soft as the ground, but easier to sit on with a plate. I considered getting down with my plate and a cup full of chocolate and gave it up." "I will, too," assented Betty, carefully balancing her plate as she cautiously sat down on the big log and the others adjusted themselves after their move. "I'm lucky to have such a good place. You must have reserved your seat early." "We did. Look at Lucia with the juniors, Kiddie." "I noticed. I looked for her because she spoke of wanting to be with us." Betty said "us" instead of "me." "It is good for Lucia to get acquainted," she added, but Betty pursed up her lips as she made that remark. "Q. E. D. sororities," said Peggy apropos of the geometry which the sophomores were just beginning. "Yes," said Carolyn, "but the less said about them right now the better. By the way, Louise Madison is being rushed by the Kappa--oh, now I've forgotten the rest of it, but it's one of the best in the University." "Well, ask what Louise thinks of sororities," said Betty, "if you ever see her. Doesn't she come to see your sister, Carolyn?" "Yes." "Did Louise belong to a high school sorority, Carolyn?" asked Dotty. "No, she didn't but I never dared ask her why." "She _must_ have been asked," said Betty, "because she was so prominent in everything." "That isn't a sign. Look at that silly Rose--I can't think of her name right now. She wasn't in anything, but she was the High Mogul in her sorority." "Social stuff," said Peggy Pollard. "That is a good line, Betty. Don't think that scholarship is the only thing." Betty looked at Peggy to see if she were serious or joking, but saw that Peggy was serious. "Maybe you're right, Peggy. Perhaps doing the things you are expected to do in school isn't all there is. Still, I have a prejudice in favor of getting your lessons, or rather for girls that do it or do something else at any rate." "Social stuff keeps them very busy, Betty," said Peggy, laughing now. "And if you want to get married--well, just watch that kind of a girl." "Peggy's getting too sophisticated," said Carolyn. "That is what my sister would call it. But I'd like to combine the 'social line' with good sense and 'doing something' as Betty means it. About Louise, remember that with possibly one or two exceptions, sororities are new in Lyon High. Of course, I don't really know how many may have flourished without anybody's knowing a thing about it. There always are little cliques, I guess. But let's talk about Hallowe'en. How about a sophomore party that night, or a smaller one anyway?" "That would be great, Carolyn," said Dotty, "though I'm afraid we haven't time to get up a class party. Betty, can I get you another bun?" "No thanks. I've eaten two." "That is nothing. The rest of us had three. I insist. Hand me your plate, please. No one shall say that the chairman of the sophomore refreshment committee didn't have enough to eat. There are loads left and I see that Chet Dorrance is cooking some more bacon, just in time for Betty's last sandwich!" Without protest Betty handed her plate to Dotty. She was tired and "ought to have strength for the hike back," as Peggy suggested. And when Dotty came back, didn't the three boys come with her, to stand in front of the five upon the log and suggest a sophomore class yell. "It's too much mixed up, Chet," said Carolyn, "and we'll let the others tell how good the sophomore committee was. Aren't you a reporter for the Lyon paper, Chet? Write up Betty as chairman." "I will. Betty, may I hike home with the chairman and her friends?" "Of course, unless Chauncey wants you in the car." "What Chauncey wants is not the question, ladies, and there are almost no supplies to go back. I speak for a hot dog to eat on the way." "Make as many 'hot dogs' as you want, Chet," laughed Betty, taking a good bite from her own sandwich just brought. "You boys ought to have all you want for helping us out. Please see that Miss Fox is looked after." "Miss Fox has had every attention, and we hope that this is not the last time we go on a oust--I mean a picnic--with the G. A. A. girls." "Hear, hear," said Dotty, widely grinning. CHAPTER X: A STARTLING SITUATION In a number of G. A. A. girls as large as this it was natural that Betty Lee should have contact with a good many outside of her own class. Lucia looked her up and her new satellite, Mathilde, was not far from Lucia; but one junior and one senior girl remained in Lucia's neighborhood at the start of the hike home. Mathilde's fall and incidents of the hike out had been related to Betty while she ate her luncheon and were enlivened by Dotty's comments. Betty, however, was not disturbed by any of the little undercurrents. She wasn't jealous of anybody, didn't hate anybody, the sophomore part of the hike had been a success and the whole thing was great fun. Mathilde still carried Lucia's alpenstock on the way back and used it with great effect. She seemed in a happy mood and the only remark which might have been considered to carry a sting was one made when Betty waxed enthusiastic over hearing a meadow lark. "Oh, listen!" cried Betty. "The birds aren't all gone yet by any means, and if there isn't a dear old meadow lark singing in the sunshine!" Lucia looked interested and followed Betty's glance, trying to find the bird. But Mathilde laughed. "Oh, yes. Betty Lee's from the country and knows the birds!" Betty said nothing, but a junior girl remarked, "Well, then, let me stick to Betty on this hike. We study those things in the Girl Reserve camp. Are you a 'Girl Reserve,' Betty?" "Oh, yes. I joined last year, but I don't belong to the same group in high school that you do, of course." "No. We've been watching the fall migration and gathering some of the fall wild flowers for botany class, too." "I'd like to do that," said Lucia. Mathilde tossed her head and looked disgusted, saying something about there being such a "fad for nature study." "It's more than a fad," said Lucia. "It's good for you to get outdoors more, and then it helps your country to look after the birds and wild flowers. I don't know much about your American birds and flowers and trees, but I could learn, perhaps." "Oh, that would be lovely, Lucia!" cried Betty. "I don't know much, but I can tell you a little when we take the hikes. You'd soon get ahead of my small knowledge, though." "Girls," said the junior, "I'm going to have a party Hallowe'en night and I'd love to have you come. I'm getting it up rather suddenly, but there are a few sophomore girls that I want. Will you be one of them?" "Thank you," said Lucia. "I will ask Mother." "I'd be delighted," said Mathilde. "It's so good of you," smiled Betty. "I think I can come. Some of the girls were talking about a sophomore party, but I don't see how we could get up such a big affair on short notice." "I wouldn't try a class affair," pleasantly advised the junior. "I'll call you up, perhaps; but if I don't you will understand, I hope. I'm sending out some funny invitations and suppose you just give me your addresses now, though I _could_ look it up in the directory, of course." Addresses were scribbled on scraps of paper, which was all any of them could muster, it seemed. The invited guests were naturally wondering what they would be expected to wear, though Hallowe'en customs gave them a pretty good idea. "What sort of a party is it?" asked Mathilde, "a costume party?" "Yes. Wear anything you happen to have, and a mask, of course. We'll do the usual things, indoors and out if it isn't too freezing cold by that time. We've an attic and a basement and I'm going to use both for stunts." "How jolly!" Betty's face brightened with her happiest enthusiasm, and the junior, Marcella Waite, was glad that she had invited her, privately thinking Betty a "dear." Betty was wondering if Marcella was one of those who wanted Lucia in a sorority, according to the ideas of Dotty and the rest. Oh, wasn't life nice with so many mysteries and good friends and everything and plenty of things to do! She would probably meet a number of the older girls at this party. It would have been more than human not to be pleased at notice from the juniors. But of course it was probably on account of Lucia. She needn't plume _herself_ upon it. They had played a few games before starting back, but to walk back five miles and arrive in time for lunch, even a late one, precluded a long stay at the picnic grounds. Besides this was a _hike_. It was about ten-thirty when Betty received her invitation. The girls strolled along, not caring much whether they made any "record time" or not. This would be their last hike, they supposed, while the country was still so pretty. Chet, who had asked the privilege of "seeing Betty home" with much fun and nonsense, had gotten separated from her group and was seen in the distance with Carolyn and Peggy. Kathryn was nowhere in sight. And now they had reached that wild stretch through which the early hikers had come and where Carolyn, Peggy, Lucia and Mathilde had rested, on one of the hills. That one they avoided but crossed the little stream on stones recently provided by the hikers. Lightly they jumped from one to the other, balancing uncertainly on the log which was left by former waters, turned from its proper position, as Marcella said. "There must have been a big current here," said Marcella, "to move that old thing that's been here for years!" "There ought to be some flowers along the little stream, ought there not?" asked Lucia, whose English was often a bit formal. "I think those frosts were pretty bad on the wild flowers, Lucia," replied Marcella. But Lucia was strolling up stream along a low bank lined with bushes, and the other girls followed her. Betty heard another meadow lark and turned to follow with her eyes the course of a hawk that flew from a dead tree back from the stream. "That's a marsh hawk," she said, turning to Lucia, only to find Lucia rising with an exclamation from where she had been stooping close to Betty. She held up her hand, looking at it. "I've been bitten!" she exclaimed. "What sort of snakes do you have here, Betty?" "Oh--a lot of them, most of them harmless!" said Betty, startled, but not wanting to frighten Lucia, who was white, yet with her lips pressed together in perfect self-control. She whipped out her handkerchief hastily. "We must make a tourniquet at once. Let me wipe this off--and I'll suck out the poison, Lucia. I did once when Doris was bitten." Betty's memory went back to one awful experience alone in the woods with Doris. "You will not," firmly replied Lucia. "It is dangerous for you might have some broken spot in your mouth. Reach in my pocket, Betty. I carry stuff for this sort of thing. Mother told me to bring it." As she talked, Lucia, though white and trembling, was squeezing the wound, now bleeding a little, while Betty shakily was tying the handkerchief about Lucia's wrist, just above the scars and stooped for a stick to draw it tightly. Marcella, meantime, was at hand without a word and reached in Lucia's pocket instead of Betty. "Look out!" cried Lucia as when Betty stooped there was a rustle in the grass and something long and slim darted across the little path between the thickly lined stream and other bushes at this point. It all happened almost too quickly to describe. Betty recoiled, Marcella snatching the little stick from her hand and not losing a minute in tightening the bandage or tourniquet. "Lucia--I saw it! I think it's only a garter snake!" Betty gave one quick glance at Lucia, seeing that Lucia herself was pouring something from a tiny vial into the wound. The snake was lying under the fallen leaves, Betty thought, where a maple tree had been shedding its brown and golden foliage. There was a stone of good size at the very foot of the tree and this Betty seized, standing a moment to locate the snake if she could. She thought that she detected a slight movement under a pile of leaves and launched the stone, stepping back immediately after to pick up a branch, thick and broken, that also lay fairly near. But the stick was not needed then. The stone, to Betty's own surprise, had hit the mark. There was a great whipping of leaves for a few moments. In spite of weeds and other growth Betty could see the pattern on the little snake, not so long after all--oh, thanks be--it was a garter snake! Betty had dreaded its being either a rattler or a copperhead. There were what the boys called vipers, too, she had heard. How sensible of Lucia to have come prepared! "You've got it, Betty," said Marcella with excitement. "It's only a garter snake, Lucia--I'm sure. How do you feel?" "All right," said Lucia, though her pale face did not bear testimony to her words. "I ought to have used my knife to open up the place a little. You do it, Marcella! No, you'd hate to hurt me, wouldn't you?" Bracing up with her words, Lucia drew a little pearl-handled knife from her other pocket and carefully enlarged the punctures made by the snake. She paid not a bit of attention to Betty or the struggles of the snake caught by the stone. Betty, who had seen Dick kill snakes but had always felt rather sorry for the snake and had never killed one herself, was bracing herself to finish what she had begun. But when she cleared away the leaves with her stick and could see the results of her throw, she saw that the stone had crushed the snake's head and that the demise would not take long. Nothing more was necessary and she turned from the painful sight to Lucia, who had succeeded in what she had attempted. My, but Lucia was brave! "I can't be sure, girls, that that was the snake that bit me," said Lucia, "so I'll just do everything, just as if it were something very poisonous. There isn't any of the venom that's very good to get into your system, I imagine. Can we sit down somewhere?" The girls helped Lucia to a spot safe and clear where the hill began to rise. None of the others were in sight, though it had been only a few minutes since they had separated from several of them. Mathilde, to be sure, was there, but useless. "You feel all wobbly, I know, Lucia," said Betty, her arm around Lucia, who sat without a word, though her brows were drawn together in a frown. "Yes, yes. It is painful. Betty, you could loosen the tourniquet now, I'm sure, and suppose you tie it again a little higher up." "Oh, I wish we had some way of getting you home," said Marcella. "I'll watch and hail somebody. Lean over on Betty, Lucia." Marcella was afraid that Lucia was going to faint. But that did not happen. "I do feel a bit sick, Marcella, but I never fainted in my life and I'll not begin now. I can walk home. It isn't so much, but not being sure what sort of a bite it is, I've had to hurt myself more, you see. I'd rather look for flowers and birds, Betty, than for snakes. I thought I saw a flower under the leaves and stooped for it--and found a snake instead!" "Oh, it's just too bad--your first hike and everything!" Betty was loosening the tourniquet and making ready to put it on again. Marcella had run around the hill. Presently two girls made their appearance and Marcella came back. "We'll make our way over to the road, Lucia. I've got a guard stationed to stop any automobile that looks as if it were being driven by anybody safe--nobody that would kidnap us for ransom, I mean. Come on, if you think you can walk as far as the road." "I could walk all the way home, Marcella," said Lucia, smiling for the first time. "There is nothing the matter with me but a scare. Wait till I take a look at that snake!" By this time Betty dared push the stone off the snake's head, and they all regarded it. They all agreed that it was a "big garter snake," though Lucia remarked that she could tell better about its belonging to the dangerous group if she could have seen the shape of the head. "But it's shapeless now, poor thing," said Betty. "You did a bad thing for yourself, snakey, when you bit Lucia!" "It was only protecting itself," said Lucia. "What was that medicine, Lucia?" "I don't know how Mother fixed it, but I heard her ask Uncle if he kept any permanganate of potash crystals, and when he said no, she sent to the drug store. She wrapped this bottle in cotton and told me not to lose it. I had full instructions what to do if I got bitten by a--rattler, I believe. Mother makes a lot of fuss over me!" Lucia closed her remark rather apologetically, but the other girls were far from any critical thought. The Countess Coletti had "fussed" to some purpose this time. If it had been a diamond-backed rattlesnake! And perhaps it wasn't the garter snake that had bitten Lucia. Mathilde now kept bringing that up with little sympathetic remarks like, "It is such a shame, Lucia! I do hope that it will prove to be nothing serious. I don't think that it _could_ have been a rattlesnake, do you, Betty?" Mathilde had screamed and run to a safe distance before she knew what it was all about. Cautiously she had approached to see what had happened and ran again as Betty started after the snake. Again she had tried to come up and be sympathetic, but could not stand it to see the wound. "I faint so easily, girls," she had said, weakly, when the knife came out. "I'll have to go away." "Well if there's any fainting to be done," Marcella had said, "don't do it here!" But the girls scarcely thought of Mathilde at all until it was all over and she sat down by Lucia on the hillside. Alas for Mathilde, and she had wanted to join the sorority to which Marcella belonged! Yet Mathilde had not been trained to courage or helpfulness and was not altogether to blame for her inefficiency on this occasion. It had been a difficult situation, when speed was a necessary element and knowing what to do another. "I looked out for the stick," said Mathilde, handing the alpenstock to Lucia, who took it with a smile. "I'm glad you did," she replied courteously. "No, Betty, with this I'll need no help. I'm getting along famously now and don't feel sick any more. Come on." They made their way to the little dirt road and walked slowly toward the city, relieving the guard, as Marcella put it. The other girls hurried on, promising to send back any conveyance that they might come across, provided it were possible to engage it. "Don't take the trouble," urged Lucia. But when they had walked about a mile further, Lucia was not sorry when the Allen car with Chauncey and Kathryn came speeding toward them. Without a word Lucia climbed in, smiling her welcome. Marcella, Mathilde and Betty followed, Betty asking Kathryn how it happened. "One of the girls went to a house and telephoned," replied Kathryn. "Chauncey had just gotten home after taking the things Miss Fox wanted brought back to wherever she wanted 'em. He picked me up on the way--some of us were just getting into town, and so we're here. Now tell me, are you all right, Lucia?" "Yes; just tired from being scared. I wonder why the girl didn't telephone for our car." "Afraid of scaring your mother, she said," Kathryn replied. "We'll take you right up home." "I want Betty, too, please," said Lucia. "Will you come?" "Of course I'll come," said Betty, though wondering how she would get a chance to telephone her mother. It was Betty's first near look at the beautiful Murchison place when Chauncey drove in and stopped at its impressive front, but Betty had other thoughts and dreaded the coming interview with the countess. Perhaps she would not be at home, however, and that would be worse. A butler admitted the two girls, though Lucia did not ring and hurried through the hall and up the stairs. "I need you as a shock absorber," said Lucia in a low tone, a half smile twisting her lips, and Betty made a low response. But Betty thought that she would not enjoy being a shock absorber and felt none too comfortable. Still, she thought to herself, the important thing was to make sure that Lucia was "all right." It was an uncomfortable few minutes for sober Betty when Lucia entered a large and beautifully furnished sitting-room upstairs and found the countess there. Briefly Lucia told Countess Coletti what had happened and said that she had followed directions. "The girls were lovely, Mother, and I brought Betty along to tell you better how the snake looked." The countess rose in some excitement and went directly to a low table on which the telephone apparatus stood. She tapped her foot impatiently while she waited for the operator to put her in touch with a doctor, whose presence was requested and the reason told him. Then there followed a busy few minutes of directions to Lucia and maids or persons of some sort, and when Lucia was ordered to her room, Betty rose from her chair to go. "Mother, can't Betty stay to lunch with me?" asked Lucia, protesting. "I asked her to." "Oh, but," began Betty, but the countess turned to Betty, whom she had scarcely noticed, with a charming smile. "Another time, Lucia. Thank you, Betty Lee, for everything. Now I must see to Lucia," And Betty understood that she was dismissed. That smile would make everything seem all right, thought Betty, as she was courteously bowed out by a solemn butler. "I imagine that Countess Coletti tries that on the count times when she is having her own way! But she can certainly do things!" So ran Betty's thoughts, for Betty was learning to be an observing little person, though ashamed of herself when her observations were the least unfriendly. No car but the street-car waited for Betty, but she took one after quite a walk and went home to tell her mother and the rest all about the "latest excitement" and to enjoy a delayed lunch. CHAPTER XI: HALLOWE'EN SURPRISES It was Hallowe'en, so much more thrilling in the city than in the small place which Betty Lee formerly called home. In the different suburbs, like villages themselves, children were already appearing on the street in costumes and masks, although it was scarcely dark. Many of them carried baskets, for in gypsy fashion, perhaps, they were accustomed to receive contributions from the persons whose bells they rang. Mrs. Lee did not like the custom and would not allow Dick or Doris to "beg," as she called it. "Have all the fun you want in costume," she said, "but don't ask for charity!" Mr. Lee made no mention of the fact that he intended to trail the children a little to see that they were not carried away by the freedom of the night, but he told his wife that Policeman Leary would be "on the job" and that he was an easy-going soul when children were concerned. Mrs. Lee was not so sure that easy-going would do on Hallowe'en, but her husband explained. "He will not stand for any destruction of property, particularly in this neighborhood, but he's not likely to arrest children or be hard on them." From the standpoint of Dick, Doris and Betty, everything was lovely. Even little Amy Lou was permitted to dress up and as she made an adorable little gypsy, with a fetching mask balanced on her small nose, Doris was rather proud to lead her forth. "We'll bring you right back if you get fussy, though," warned Dick, "and I have to go with the boys pretty soon." "Oh, Dickie, I won't fuss, honest! And Dorry will take care of me, won't you Dorry?" "Yes, for a while, anyhow, as long as you ought to stay out. I wish you were going to be at home, Betty!" "I don't," frankly replied Betty, who was in front of the mirror seeing how she looked in the small black mask, from whose openings her eyes twinkled. "But you will have lots of fun, and if you give Amy Lou a grand little outing, she'll be angelic when she comes in; for Mother's going to have a little Hallowe'en party for her, all by herself, with a great surprise!" As Betty spoke, she looked down at the tiny gypsy, very solemn and important now. Amy Lou smiled up, however, with a smile much like that with which her older sister was regarding her. "Give me a name, Betty! Give me a name!" she demanded, "a gypsy name!" "Oh, you're the Queen of the gypsies, the Princess Maria Sophia Cleopatra Amy Lou." "All right," shouted Amy Lou, running out of the bedroom to follow Doris, who was ready to start. Betty's costume was not one as hastily fabricated as those of the other children for her mother, realizing that she was to mingle with other boys and girls who would be well costumed, had gone to considerable trouble to make her "little girl" pretty. Betty was Titania of the fairies and was airily dressed in white with "spangles" appropriately attached, Roman pearls around her young neck, several tinkling bracelets on her arms and a few tiny silver bells so disposed that they sounded a little as she walked. And now her mother brought a warm wrap for her shoulders and the long, shrouding domino that she was to wear over all. What fun! There followed the ride to the party in Mr. Lee's car and a merry good-bye to him as she joined the company of shrouded figures or funnily costumed ones that were descending from automobiles, or entering the gates, or being ushered in at the door of the house. My, it was going to be a large party, but Marcella had told her at school that she had decided not to have it confined to juniors at all. "I owe such a lot of the girls, and so I'm going to have--everybody!" It was not quite that, to be sure, but the upstairs rooms were full where wraps were being laid aside. How funny not to know a soul to speak to! But Carolyn had told her what her costume would be and she had confided what hers would be. Perhaps Carolyn knew about some of the others. "Oh, aren't you sweet!" squealed somebody in a high, assumed voice. "Look, girls, here's the queen of the fairies. Now, who is she? Gilt hair, cute chin and a dimple or two!" Betty laughed at the description. So she had gilt hair, had she? That hair had been arranged as she never wore it before. She did hope that she wouldn't be found out right away; yet this girl was a tall one and nobody she knew, she imagined. But she picked up her fairy wand, laid aside while she removed her wraps, and waved it regally toward the speaker. She, too, tried to disguise her voice as she said, "The fairy queen bestows honors and gifts for tonight!" At that a slim little person in a gay gypsy costume ran up, holding out her palm. "Cross my palm with a nickel, Titania, and I'll tell you a fortune, for even the fairies don't know everything!" The gypsy's voice was pitched low and rang a little hollow; but surely Betty knew that hand and arm, all covered with rings, beads and glittering gold or brass! "Oh, it's you, Gypsy, isn't it?" she whispered in the gypsy's ear. "I might know that you would be a real gypsy tonight! You look darling!" "Then I didn't fool you a little bit! I hope I have better luck with other people. Was it my voice?" "No, your hand, Gypsy. And did you know me right off?" "No, honey, not till you said 'Gypsy' just now. Nobody else calls me that much--yet." "Yet is a good word, Kathryn. After tonight you may be called that more. Let's go around together, then, the Gypsy Queen and the Fairy Queen, that is, I'm _supposed_ to be it." Together Kathryn Allen and Betty Lee descended the stairs where their feet sank into a soft carpet. Below, on either side of the hall, large rooms stretched out, opening in to the hall with its pillars and draperies. "What a lovely home," said Betty. "Yes, isn't it. I've never been here before. And aren't the Hallowe'en decorations cute?" Arm in arm the girls entered at the right, where a sort of receiving line seemed to be. And there was Marcella, without her mask, yet covered with a domino which concealed her costume. "Hello, girls," she greeted them. "I'm sorry not to be able to speak your names, but I think you need no introduction for I can guess what you are without any trouble. Titania, greetings. By what name shall I call your friend?" "Allow me to present the Gypsy Queen, Miss Waite," said Betty with mock formality. "Happy to meet you. Titania, let me introduce the Sultan of Turkey and the Pirate of Penzance." Two tall lads stood just beyond Marcella. Betty shook hands with a richly dressed "Sultan" and a wildly equipped pirate, who looked very handsome and bent over Betty's hand like some cavalier of old. Betty wondered if these boys were guests or just on a sort of receiving committee. If the pirate were one of the boys in school, he must be a senior or one of the older junior boys she was sure. Two boys, who had been chatting with some others, turned back to be introduced to Betty and Kathryn by the pirate and Betty understood that they, too, properly belonged in the receiving line. All were masked except Marcella, who wanted to meet her guests in her proper person. "The thing to do next," said one of the girls, "is to go through the main rooms, see the decorations, visit the tent and have your fortune told, go and bob for apples or do some of the other stunts, whatever you can get in before the masked dancing begins. We're going to have the old-fashioned square dances just as soon as everybody is here. But of course, you're to talk to the other girls and boys and try to find out who they are--oh, you'll see what to do. Marcella has somebody to tell you." Kathryn and Betty, however, did not feel like fortunes yet. They looked all around for Carolyn, who evidently had not arrived, and had an amusing conversation with a rollicking clown, who turned out to be, so they thought, Chet Dorrance; but he would not acknowledge it when Kathryn said that she "guessed it was Chet." Betty hoped that Ted was there among some of the tall figures. He probably knew Marcella. "It's a good thing we've been having the funny old dances in 'gym,' isn't it?" asked Kathryn. "Do you suppose the boys know 'em?" "They can learn. I imagine we'll all be told what to do. Besides, nobody has to dance that doesn't want to." Carolyn came and found the girls, though she was claimed almost immediately by another clown, very spotty as to his ruffled and bulging suit and wearing at first a mask which covered his entire face, but that proved too hot. He had an ordinary mask in his pocket, he told Carolyn, who encouraged him to put it on. "Get into a corner and whisk off that hot mask," she advised. "I'll turn my back to you and hand you the little one." "You won't give me away if you happen to see?" "Of course not. I will _keep your secret_ till we unmask!" she added, in lofty tones, then giggled. Meantime, Betty decided that she would have her fortune told. Kathryn said that she would do it, too, and see what the other gypsy looked like. The tent was a flimsy affair, as one put up in a drawing room would necessarily be. The fortune-teller was one of the older girls, who did it very cleverly. Her costume was not like Kathryn's, but very gay with sashes and ribbons, beads and jewelry of all sorts. Her long earrings glittered and the wide gold bracelets that she wore jingled as they were struck by other loose narrow ones. "I see that you will have to make a great choice," she said to Betty, as Betty stretched forth her capable little hand and the gypsy pored over it, or looked at as much of Betty's face as she could see. "You have gifts. You might have a career. You are musical and there are some practical lines in your hand, too. Your life line is good--yes, I see a long life for you. You are rather creative." "What is the great choice?" asked Betty. "Oh, yes. It's the usual choice between marriage and a career." "Couldn't I have both?" "It doesn't work," laughed the gypsy, forgetting her pose. "I mean to say that you may have several serious love affairs and you may choose to marry. When you take your mirror tonight and your candle and look in the mirror, repeat this charm; for it will drive away the goblins and witches and other evil spirits and you may really see the one you are to love best!" The gypsy handed Betty a piece of paper, cut from a gay Hallowe'en strip of some sort. It was folded and the gypsy warned her not to open it until just before she "performed the fatal rite." "It will lose its power if you do," said she. "No, friend gypsy, let me see what the fates have for you. Oh, yes. That's a nice hand, good lines, some mentality, not too much, some gifts; you will marry and there will be several, one, two, three children, a long life--but beware a dark woman who will try to come between you and the man you love!" "She isn't so good," laughed Kathryn after she and Betty left the tent, "but she was jolly all right. If it is a dark woman, it can't be you, Betty, so we'll remain friends, I see." "I suppose there's some arrangements for the mirror stunt," said Betty. "Oh, there's the music--let's see where it is. Why, Gypsy, Marcella has a real orchestra--or a number of the pieces anyhow. Listen! They're tuning up!" The fun of the old-fashioned dances began. The Pirate of Penzance made straight for Betty, who wondered more than ever who he could be. He was evidently speaking in his natural voice, but she had never heard it before, at least it was not at all familiar. Marcella must know him very well, Betty thought, for she noticed a private confab between the two. Her pirate was very graceful, she thought, and his costume, with its dark red and dark blue, and gay sash with its array of knives, was a good one. The knives he laid aside for the dances, but assumed them again when it was announced that the company would now proceed to the basement where witches and goblins were holding their annual frolic. "Be very careful," announced the Pirate of Penzance, "and the witches will be friendly." Down the stairs to the large basement with its concrete floor, tripped the company. Except for the part devoted to the furnaces, the place was decorated and the only light came from large pumpkins, amusingly cut and containing the customary candles. A hollow-voiced witch in a long black robe stood at the door and odd little goblins and black cats and other appropriate Hallowe'en figures hung from the low ceiling of the cellars. Betty had not seen the place to bob for apples, mentioned by the girl of the receiving line, but here she found it, and groups of boys and girls separated to perform the various Hallowe'en stunts provided. The Pirate of Penzance had held Betty's arm coming down stairs, but now, with the girl she thought was Marcella--indeed it _must_ be--he was guiding this one or that one and helping to start the fun. _Could_ it be Ted Dorrance? He was tall enough, but no; he was good-looking but his chin was different and his mouth firmer some way; and if it were Ted, he had stained his skin darker, that was all. But Betty had little time to think. She was doing things with the rest, with boys and girls whose identity she did not know. Neither Kathryn nor Carolyn were in sight, though the light was dim enough in this spooky place, and they might be around. And now her turn came to go into the "hole in the wall," a jog of some sort in the solid masonry, before which a black curtain fell. By the light from a widely grinning pumpkin Betty read the charm which was supposed to keep her from baleful influences: "O Witches and Goblins, by this little light, Please send me the face of my true love tonight!" "Say it out loud," prompted a voice behind Betty. The black witch stood there. "All right. Do I light my candle first?" "Yes." The witch, who wanted to laugh herself and chuckled a little now over something Betty wondered about, held out a match. Betty scratched the match on the rough stone of the basement's big partition. It went out and so did a second one. There was a little draught somewhere, that made the curtain shake a little. "Don't let the third one go out," warned the witch, now solemn and speaking with a deep voice. "When the third one fails, the bad luck hails!" "How awful!" cried Betty, giggling as she struck the third match. But she held her hand so that the little flame was sheltered from the draught and the candle was lit successfully. "Better watch the flame while you go behind the curtain," suggested the witch in almost human tones, "and don't set anything on fire. Here's the mirror." Darkness met Betty as she passed beyond the curtain. She felt like examining the place, especially when she heard a door softly close. It seemed right by her--oh, her candle went out! Oh, but it was spooky. Well, she'd brace up, say her little charm and pretend when she went out that it had been all right. "O Witches and Goblins, by this little light, Please send me the face of my true love tonight!" Betty's voice was a little unsteady. It wasn't any fun to be in this unknown spot all in the dark. That thick curtain behind her didn't let in a bit of light. She'd wait just the appropriate moment when she would be supposed to look in the mirror and then _wouldn't_ she skip out! But in that little moment a match struck close by her and while she could not help a low exclamation, her candle was lit for her and a voice whispered, "Good work. You didn't squeal or anything. I was here just for fun, but I didn't blow your candle out. I shut the door that had sprung open. See?" "Oh!" gasped Betty, looking at the brown hands that lit the candle. "Now you shall see somebody, if it isn't your own true love," whispered the voice. "Look in your mirror, Titania!" Betty looked. She saw the dark costume of the Pirate of Penzance, whose amused face, _without the mask_, smiled at her from the mirror. "Oh!" she gasped again. "Now let me see _you_ without the mask," whispered the lips in the mirror. Betty handed her candle to the pirate and obediently took off her mask, smiling up with confidence into the "nice face" that the supposed pirate carried. "Thanks," said he, "Good-bye." The pirate blew out the candle this time and Betty heard the door near at hand softly close. He had gone, and Betty lost no time in appearing beyond the curtain. The witch looked suspiciously at her and Betty was glad that the light was dim in the basement. She kept away from the rays of the pumpkin. "Didn't your light go out?" asked the witch. "I was talking to the next masker but I saw no light for a moment through the crack by the curtain." "Yes, but--there was a match there--so I--well, I looked in the mirror all right and, of course, I saw my true love!" "Fine," said the girl to test her luck next. "Hurry up and give me a match, please. That whole bunch that's bobbing for apples is coming here next." Betty was glad that there was opportunity for no more questioning, such as "where did the match come from?" Why, what a funny time! The Pirate of Penzance was nobody she had ever seen before. He must be some friend of Marcella's who knew all about the place, basement and all. And wasn't it nice of him to do that? He was quite clear that he wasn't her "true love," though he looked older, older than Ted even, and perhaps he was engaged to somebody. Of course! He was some University student, engaged to some senior who was here. No, if she had been here, he wouldn't have paid so much attention to Betty and danced with her so much. Well, then, he was just helping Marcella with her party and having a lot of fun on the side. By this time Betty was used to mingling with the unknown, guessing at who they were and joking with any one at all as it happened. She thought she knew a few of the juniors, whom she had known as sophomores last year. Then there was some of her own class she was pretty sure, boys that would be invited to equalize the numbers of boys and girls, and she knew what girls of her class had been invited. Size, however, was no help, for even if juniors were supposed to be older and to be still "growing," some of the juniors were shorter than some of the sophomores. Carolyn Gwynne was going up from the basement as Betty reached the stairs. "Oh, Betty, I mean Titania," she cried, lowering her voice. "I guess nobody heard that. Excuse me. Did you go in to look in the mirror and did they have the big mirror up then?" "No. I mean I went in to see my true love in a glass, but I was given a little hand mirror." "Well, when I went in they had a square mirror propped on a sort of ledge in front of me. But the next girl had just gotten inside when she dropped her candle and squealed terribly and I suppose she reached out to grab something and down came the mirror and smashed like everything! "She came out all scared to pieces and the witch started to tell her it was bad luck all in fun, but the girl cried and Marcella came running to tell her that the mirror didn't matter and there wasn't any such thing as good and bad luck really." "Which girl was it?" "She took off her mask, but I didn't know her. It was some junior girl, I think. Marcella took her upstairs. Why, she is in a colonial costume, Martha Washington or Dolly Madison or something like that." "I don't believe Martha and Dolly would dress alike, Carolyn," laughed Betty. "Let's go and sit down somewhere. I think the orchestra's going to play again. So many of the crowd have come up from 'witchdom' now. It was sort of spooky downstairs, but such fun." "Wasn't it. Did you see anything in your mirror, Betty?" "Oh, of course," laughed Betty, who wasn't going to tell. Not even Carolyn, or Kathryn were to know about that little interchange between Titania, queen of the fairies, and a Pirate of Penzance! Betty was conscious of some inward excitement later, when the little orchestra played familiar and lively tunes and the invitation to supper was given. What exclamations and little squeals and giggles and happy laughter there were when the unmasking took place at the tables. "I knew all the time it was you!" "Oh, you fooled me perfectly! I hadn't an idea!" "I thought it was you, and then you had changed your voice so that I was not sure." "You gave yourself away when you used that funny expression about Jean. I'd heard you say that before." "Yes, and when you wrinkled up your forehead I knew _you_!" Such were some of the merry expressions. Betty was quite impressed; but she looked all around, as best she could without seeming to look, to see if she could see the Pirate of Penzance. But he was nowhere to be seen and much else engrossed her attention, her pretty place card, the little Hallowe'en souvenir at each plate, the good supper, light but savory, and the general jollity. Betty had scarcely given a thought to Lucia, except to wonder if a pretty Italian peasant could be Lucia. But she found herself at the same table with Lucia, who was in a beautiful costume as the Queen of Sheba. Real jewels flashed on her neck and arms and Betty wondered how she dared wear them. "Are you all over your being bitten by the snake, Lucia?" someone asked. "Oh, yes. I want to forget it. It didn't make me sick at all, though Mother kept me at home from school for several days. She wasn't sure what sort of a snake it was, you see, so she had everything attended to. I'm going on hikes and everything just the same, though I'll not try to pick a flower without looking. That serpent ought to have been in winter quarters and wasn't." "Are you going in for athletics?" "Some of it. I'm going to swim, like Betty Lee, and then I ride, though I may not enter their course here. I play hockey on the ice, but I don't know about it here. You have regular class teams, don't you, and have to be elected in some way before you can be on one?" "Yes, in a way you're chosen." "Well, I'm not an applicant for anything." Lucia smiled but tossed her head up a little proudly, and a look was exchanged between two of the sophomores. If Lucia played hockey in Switzerland, she might not be a bad person to have on the team. Perhaps she could be persuaded to "try out" for it. They would get her to play on a "scrub team" some time for fun. But what was that junior saying? "What is a mere hockey team to the Queen of Sheba?" CHAPTER XII: BEATING THE JUNIORS WITH LUCIA Life went on in such a rush! It always did, but that was half the fun now, Betty thought. At home little was demanded of her except the regular little duties, given to each of the children and expected more by their father than their mother, though for her benefit. Athletics started off with a boom, pep meetings, the new football team on the platform, the organization of the girls' teams, all sorts of try-outs and some scheming. Alas, the seniors who had been on last year's champion football team left such a hole that it was hard to fill with material good enough to make a winning team. And oh, how sad it was when a series of defeats made the championship out of the question for Lyon High. At least they must beat the Eagles, and the coach tried to prepare them for that almost final game. But no! Betty, who sat beside Louise Madison, loyal enough to see the great game of the year by her beloved high school, and they shook their heads sadly at each other as the time passed first with no score at all on either side for the first half, then with the Lions unable to "hold them" and the Eagles scoring both by forward passes and "straight football." It was awful, Louise said, but "Maybe the Lions have it coming to them," said Louise. "And it isn't good for a high school to get too cocky. We've got about all the cups there are--so let the Eagle scream this time!" It was so romantic! Here was Ted again, coming around to talk to Louise, and Louise, more flirtatious and self-conscious than she had been before University days, being just as charming as she could. But Ted paid just as much attention to Betty and was as gallant as ever to both of the girls. Lucia, also, came in for her share of attention, as she sat next to Betty in the big stadium and heard all the comments with the greatest interest or amusement as the case may be. "Oh, your football is so exciting," she said. "It makes me think of the bull fights in Spain!" "Yes, and you used to have thumbs down in your Roman theatres, too," mischievously added Ted. "We have a big picture of the Coliseum at home," said Peggy, behind Lucia, and Lucia turned to give Peggy a glance of amusement. "We had lions, then," she added. "Lions, rah!" said Ted Dorrance, but the tiresome last plays were on now. Time was nearly up and there was no hope for the Lions, even if they should score. Lyon High rooters began to rise, wearily, and gather up rugs, cushions or newspapers to take their departure. This game took place just a week before the final hockey matches between the classes. Lucia and Mathilde had "made" the hockey team. Betty had been hurt a little in the try-out, and Peggy insisted that Mathilde did it on purpose, but Betty refused to believe it and played happily on what they themselves called the "scrub team," the team which played with its own team to prepare them for the contest, also to have able material on hand in case it was necessary or best to put in substitutes. Betty was always keen about whatever game she played, but she really cared for excellence in its proper sense only in swimming. "Don't worry, Kathryn," she said to Gypsy. "Whether Mathilde intended that or not doesn't matter, I'll watch after this and somebody has to be on the second team, so why shouldn't it be I? Moreover, I had everything to learn about hockey, after all, and I think Mathilde has played." "She said she has, but I don't believe it. There's favoritism. Mathilde for some reason stands in with one of the athletic teachers and I saw her talking with the others that day. I'm not going to tell you who she is, though. Do you mind?" "I'd rather not know, though of course I'm curious. Tell me after the match!" But all things considered, Betty began to want to do well. "Let's beat the first team, girls," she said to her girls just before the last practice game, and beat the first team they did, though scolded for it. "Now don't let the fact that the second team beat you discourage you at all, girls," said the athletic teacher who had watched the game. "It was a close game and let it make you all the more careful against the other teams in your class contest. I'm not favoring one team more than another; but I want to encourage every one to do its very best." "The freshman team hasn't had enough practice," said Carolyn in the gym before the games. The girls were putting on their customary equipment and donning sweaters, for it was cold though clear outside, with the ground hard, yet free from snow. Unless it rained, the climate in which Lyon High rejoiced was good for outdoor sports almost until Christmas. "So I think that the freshmen will be out of it and the juniors and sophomores play against each other at the last. The seniors are too sure and they have some weak material. I've been watching their practice games." Carolyn was not playing, but "terribly interested," she said. Many sophomore rooters were on hand when the games were played, and sure enough, it was the juniors against the sophomores at the last. Mathilde was hit by one of the hockey sticks early in the games and Betty took her place, much to Mathilde's discomfiture. Her "hated rival" played along with the daughter of a countess, whose friendship Mathilde so much wanted to have for herself, and only for herself. "Good, Betty," said Lucia, when Betty was put in. "I'm sorry for Mathilde, but she makes so many wild plays and isn't quick enough. Now let's beat the juniors all to pieces, as you girls say!" Fast and furiously went the game. The juniors expected to win, yet they were never taken unaware. It was a fair and excellent game, the athletic directors said, yet the sophomores did win and Lucia threw her arms around Betty after it was over. "I'm going to tell my uncle how you played, Betty!" she exclaimed. "I wanted Mother to come and see me do something, but she wouldn't. She only hoped I wouldn't get hurt and it wouldn't turn out like the hike! How's that for a mother that came over here on purpose to make an American out of me?" "Did she, honestly, Lucia," asked Betty, hugging Lucia in return. "Of course she did and I like it now, only I shall always want my father, too." "Well, you write him that you were 'the noblest Roman of them all,' according to me, and I _know_!" "I will, Betty," and Lucia's smile was a happy one. "Come on," said she, "let's go and comfort poor Mathilde." "That is dear of you, Lucia, and I would, only it would look too much like crowing over her because I was put in in her place. Besides, she'd be happier anyway for you to think of her--by yourself." Lucia's dark eyes surveyed Betty thoughtfully. "You always think of everything, Betty. How do you do it? I like you, Betty Lee!" and Lucia turned to find Mathilde, who was limping away with a small group of sophomores. "You're pretty nice, yourself, Lucia," Betty sent after her, and Lucia waved a deprecatory hand. CHAPTER XIII: LIGHT ON THE SORORITY QUESTION Betty had to decide what she would do about "sororities." She had discussed them frankly with a few of the girls, those she knew well, perfectly sincere girls and her good friends. Outside of that little circle she had been careful what she said. She had been included with Lucia, Mathilde, Carolyn and Peggy in attentions from the juniors of the Kappa Upsilons. That there was a small addition to that "chapter" in process of being made among the sophomores she knew. If the other girls joined, especially Carolyn, would it make a difference in their friendship? Yet Kathryn, while she had been invited to Marcella's party, that glorious Hallowe'en party, had received no further attention. Perhaps it was a matter of numbers. Now Marcella had come right out and asked her what she thought of Kappa Upsilon and whether she had any objection to a high school sorority that "really complied with the rules you know." Fortunately the question came at the close of school when Betty was rushing home to let her mother go somewhere without Amy Louise. Betty was going to get the dinner that night. "Why, Marcella, I think anything that you belong to would have to be all right," she answered. "I've got to _rush_, Marcella, to catch that car!" and Betty scampered as fast as she could, noting from Marcella's smile and nod that she understood. More than one important conversation was sometimes interrupted because one of the participants had to hurry to orchestra practice or a Dramatic Club meeting or a meeting of the _Lions' Roar_ reporters or editors, or merely to catch a car home, as in the present instance. All the way home, the people in the car were as shadows to Betty as she sat squeezed in between a fat lady and one of the senior girls until the car reached her stop. She vaguely recalled answering a few remarks from the senior girl, whom she did not know, but her mind was chiefly concerned about what she should do. She nearly put sugar instead of salt into the potatoes when she mashed them, and when she finally took up the supper and was sitting in her mother's place, fixing Amy Lou's milk, she answered a question from her father, with such a blank, "What, sir?" that Dick looked up from his plate to say rudely, "What's eating you Betty?" and Doris said "Are you mad at anybody?" Betty waked up immediately and came back to the present scene. "Oh, no, Doris! I've just been thinking about something." "Betty has great powers of concentration," said Mr. Lee, with a twinkle in his eyes, "but look out; it's dangerously near absent-mindedness." "So it is, Daddy. I've got a funny little problem to solve, that's all. I'm sorry I was so absorbed. But the twins were telling you all about their affairs anyhow----" "When last you heard anything," laughed Dick. "We hadn't said a word for at least a full minute and a half!" "It was Amy Lou, then," suggested Betty. "I didn't do anything," said Amy Lou, getting ready to put up an injured lip. "Mercy no, darling. You're all right. It's old Betty that isn't much good as a mother substitute. Isn't that so?" But Amy Lou was drinking her milk now and when she put down her tumbler she said, rather gaspingly, "I love Mother and I love Betty, too. She made the dessert just like Grandma." After dinner Doris and Dick did the dishes, by previous arrangement, and Betty went to her lessons, while Mr. Lee had his customary little visit with his youngest daughter before her bedtime. That was to be a little later than usual this time. But Betty could not study very well. It was hard to settle to anything someway and when Amy Lou's father was putting her to bed, the telephone rang. Dick answered it and called Betty, who had been alone back in her bedroom. It was Carolyn Gwynne. "'Lo, Betty. Betty I've got a problem I can't answer." "Have you, what is it?" "I had an invitation this afternoon and I sort of suspect you had, too. Did you?" "Why--I don't know. I'm not sure just what you mean. Perhaps I would have had one if I hadn't had to rush for a car and get home. Mother was invited out for dinner and I cooked ours." "Oh, did you? I wish I knew how! Well, I just have to see you some way. Could you leave for just a little while if I drove over for you!" "I'll ask. I've lessons well enough up, I suppose. I got most of them at school, and if you're thinking of the same thing I am, I'd surely like to talk it over with you. Hold the wire a moment." Betty tiptoed back, hoping that Amy Lou hadn't gotten to the stage when it was best not to rouse her from her sleepiness. But she heard her childish conversation with her father and went near the door. "Father, excuse me, but Carolyn wants to know if I can drive over with her if she comes for me. We have--something to decide and it's--important." "Is she driving, this late?" "Oh, no. She wouldn't be allowed. She will be driven." "Very well, then, but do not stay late." "No. I have my lessons pretty well, Father." Betty reported the favorable answer and it was not long before she and Carolyn were in secret conference in Carolyn's pretty room. Carolyn put Betty in the gay _chaise lounge_ that was her own, drew up a big chair for herself and established a little "end table" between them. On this reposed a box of taffies and a plate of apples. "My, such preparations!" laughed Betty. "Don't you like 'em?" twinkled Carolyn. "Indeed I do! I'm so thankful to be invited over, for I couldn't study or do anything else," and Betty gave Carolyn a history of her preoccupation while she tried to cook dinner and serve it. "Tell me why you were preoccupied, Betty," urged Carolyn. "Oh, _you_ tell what your problem is." "_Please_," said Carolyn, and Betty "weakly yielded," as she announced before she told. "It's just because you're nicer than I am," said Carolyn, "but I have a reason." "You may not think what I have to tell you is much, but it was Marcella's manner and I saw that she wanted to talk to me," said Betty, who went on to give an account of what Marcella had said. Carolyn listened with interest. "Yes, that was it. It was one of the other girls that talked to me, though. But she told me that some of my special friends were being asked, or would be asked to join the Kappa Upsilons. It _would_ be fun, Betty!" "Yes, it would; but there's a lot of things to be considered. In the first place it _is_, really, a high school sorority. The girls don't even pretend that it isn't, or practically the same thing. How do they get around it, Carolyn?" "By having people outside of high school belong to it and claiming that it is just a society and not a high school affair." "I see. I've been trying out Mother and Father on high school sororities and all I can get out of them is surprise that I should mention it at all. 'How can they have sororities if they are forbidden?' asks my dear mother!" "Yes--my father the same--but Mother knows. She just laughs. I didn't tell her I'd been bid today. Well, now, listen, Betty. We agree that it would be fun. So it would. That's that. It sounds well to be a Kappa Upsilon and we can go around if we like and be as snooty as any of them. But they've dropped Kathryn since the party, for one thing. She did not mention it, though of course she has noticed it, but when I asked her about something that I was in on she didn't know a thing about it and looked at me as _funny_--I don't think it was nice of them, to pay attention and then drop a person like a hot cake." "No. That isn't like Marcella Waite, though." "Marcella is a fine girl, but there are two or three that are different. Oh, they're nice enough. A body could have them for friends, but they take up little things. Kathryn may have said something that wasn't according to their notion. Kathryn is pretty independent, you know." "So am I," said Betty. "Yes, but with a little difference, and then you are prominent now in athletics. They all expect you to win something in the girls' swimming meet and you are going to make the basketball team." "Am I?" laughed Betty, "how nice!" Carolyn laughed too, but went on. "So you are as good as asked, Betty. Now the question is, what are we going to do about it? I want to and I don't want to--and oh, I must tell you what Louise Madison says. She is over here once in a while, you know, and I was talking to her about sororities. "She said, 'Why don't you wait till you go to the University and join some sororities that amount to something and are real sororities, national and all that?' "Then my sister said that the girls were afraid that they might not get bid to one in the University, that a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush and that some of them thought a girl was more likely to be asked into a sonority in the University if she had belonged to a high school sorority." "Does Louise belong to a sorority over there?" "Yes, and my sister, too, but they were talking about some of their friends that didn't get in and how unhappy they were. That's the worst of it. Louise was asked by my sister's sorority." "Was Louise in a high school sorority?" "No--she said that she wouldn't be. There wasn't any one started that she wanted to join when she was a freshman or sophomore and then she got into so much responsibility in the G. A. A. and cared for athletics so much more, I guess. But Louise didn't say a word about herself. I got all about her through Letty. Letitia didn't go to high school much. She was sick some and it was better for her to go to private school. My Dad's the one that insisted on _my_ going to Lyon High." "I'm certainly glad that you did," said Betty, with emphasis. "I'm glad to hear all this, Carolyn, and Louise's idea. There's another thing. I can't see that it makes much difference on our 'social position,' outside of just a few girls that we like, like Marcella, because there's such a _mob_ of folks in this big high school. The sororities _can't_ have so much influence, outside of their own little group, and we could just as easily have our own friends. There are such _loads_ of nice girls in the Girl Reserves, for instance, and in the swimming and games who cares what sorority a girl belongs to, or knows, for that matter!" "Oh, they work for their own, Betty. You'd be surprised at the things _some_ of the girls will do to be represented in prominent affairs." "Does it get them anywhere?" "Sometimes." Betty thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the arms of the _chaise lounge_ and Carolyn offered the box of taffies. "Do you know who are going in with the Kappa Upsilons?" asked Betty, talking off the oiled paper from her candy. "Carolyn," she said, by way of parenthesis, "if I eat this, I'll not be able to talk!" "That's all right," said Carolyn, removing the paper from her piece. "Perhaps we need to do some _thinking_!" "Yes--but I've thought and thought. What I need to do is deciding." "Help me decide, too." "I wouldn't dare take the responsibility." "It makes a lot of difference what _you_ do, Betty. I'll not care so much to be in it unless you are." "Oh, Carolyn!" "It's so, Betty Lee! But you asked me who were being asked or who were going in, which isn't quite the same thing. I think Peggy Pollard will, and Lucia has said she would. They are crazy to get her into it--the daughter of a count and countess!" "Yes, but Lucia is good enough to be asked on her own account, and she can be pardoned, perhaps, for being 'snooty' in social matters." "I don't see why!" "I mean because of the way she has been brought up. Don't you suppose if you'd had family and wealth drilled into you and all that way of living it would make you different?" "Yes--I imagine it would. Lucia's been everywhere." It was, indeed, difficult to talk now, since the taffies were being more than sampled. But by degrees a few more thoughts on sororities were exchanged. "Suppose we sleep over it," suggested Betty. "I've got to make a list, I think, of arguments for and against. The biggest argument _for_ is Marcella and how good it is of them to want us. A person hates to refuse and seem not to appreciate being asked. And then you run the chance of their unfriendliness, too." "Yes," said Carolyn, with a frown; "but I don't believe Marcella Waite would be that way. Do you think so?" "I hope not. I had the best time at her party!" "So did I. Oh, by the way, Mathilde is invited and there isn't any chance of her not accepting. Julia--I may as well tell you who asked me--Julia Hickok said that Mathilde is so fond of Lucia Coletti and that they think she, Mathilde, will make a very loyal sorority sister." Betty gave Carolyn a sober glance. "Lucia could handle Mathilde, if necessary," she replied. "Lucia is a girl of some force, Father says. But on which side of the arguments for and against shall we put Mathilde's being in the sorority?" Carolyn smiled. "It wouldn't make so much difference to me. I could get along with 'Finney'--I'm not like Dotty." "I think you could get along with anybody, Carolyn, you are such a dear. But there it is. I think 'getting along' with sorority sisters that one did not choose for intimate friends would hinder me in my 'great ambitions' in other lines. But I've simply got to sleep on it, Carolyn." "Probably I'd better, too, but we haven't much time, Betty. I told Julia I'd tell her in the morning. I had to ask what Mother and Father thought. She laughed at me for a goose, then told me that I mustn't make that an excuse. I told her that I thought they would let me do what I wanted to do, but that I ought to tell them at least. I hope that she didn't take that as a promise. Away from Julia and talking it over with you makes me not so enthusiastic. Call me up in the morning, Betty, if you've decided before you go to school." "I will have decided all right," said Betty. "It's a thing you can't put off. I'll decide, if I have to draw cuts!" CHAPTER XIV: THE DECISION Carolyn rode home in the Gwynne car with Betty, but they talked of other things, especially the coming season of basketball. Betty declared that she did not play a good game and Carolyn said that she played as well as the other sophomores and that moreover she was swift and graceful about everything just as she was in swimming. "Go in for it, Betty; please do." "I'll think about it," promised Betty. "It's so that most of our hockey team want to play basketball, too." Taffies, no matter how toothsome, are not the best preparation for a sound night's sleep; but Betty was too sleepy to give sororities any further thought that night and the only effect of the taffy was in giving her a dream in which she and Carolyn were being initiated into Kappa Upsilon, while Kathryn stood by watching them. In the morning she woke with a pretty good idea of what she was going to do. It was not necessary to marshal the arguments for and against. "I'm not going into a thing that leaves out a lot of my special friends," she said to herself as she dressed. "Lyon High is too big for it to make any difference to me. The question of sororities in college can wait. I may go away to school or be in the University here. Carolyn's so sweet it won't make any difference if she does go into it; and I like Kathryn so much; and if Peggy changes, I can't help it." Peggy, however, was a big pull toward the sorority for Carolyn, she knew. She almost wished she did not have to call up Carolyn. She didn't want to use any influence with her. It wouldn't be fair. Perhaps by this time Carolyn wanted awfully to do it and her decision would be a sort of wet blanket. Still, she had promised to tell her before they went to school. Betty hurried with her dressing and breakfast, helping a little as usual and to her relief, while she was still at the table, the telephone rang. Carolyn was calling her, she thought. Doris answered it this time, but she called Betty. "It's Carolyn," she said. "It must be something important for her to call you at breakfast time." Betty only smiled as she hopped up and ran to the front hall. "Yes, Carolyn?" "Betty, Peggy called up last night and she is going to join and is crazy to have me do it!" "Well, Carolyn, why not, if you want to?" "I told old Peggy that I was trying to make up my mind but I didn't mention you at all. I thought you'd rather not. She did, though, and said they wanted to have you. Lucia, too, had asked them if they had asked you, with the idea that it would be a lot more attractive to her if they did!" "That was very nice of Lucia." "Well, Betty--have you decided?" "Yes, Carolyn." "That doesn't sound as if you were going to do it. If I know you, you would have said something enthusiastic about Peggy and Lucia. Dare I ask you _what_ you have decided?" Betty's little chuckle went over the wires to Carolyn. "I am putting off telling you till the last minute, you see, _because_ of what you are saying about Peggy and Lucia and how you may feel yourself about it. Please don't be influenced by what I do or don't do. That sounds conceited, doesn't it? But really I'm not a bit about it. You just consulted me and seemed to care what I thought about it, you know!" "For pity's sake, Betty, don't apologize! And I can't wait a minute longer to know!" "All right, then," said Betty, with no chuckle this time. "I knew when I woke up that I wasn't going to join. All the reasons against it win, Carolyn." "Well, I just about knew how you would decide. I've got to think it over between now and the time I get to school. I didn't know at all when I woke up what I was going to do. Peggy's enthusiasm last night shook me." "Why shouldn't it? You've known Peggy for a long time. And don't think that your belonging to any sorority will make me think any less of you. That will be just _one little organization_ that we aren't in together. There are plenty of societies in Lyon High, Carolyn." "Yes. All right, Betty. I've got to think it out myself, just like you. See you at lunch." Receivers were hung up. The discussion was over. Now Betty was to think of her own relation to these girls, particularly of what she should say to Marcella. It was not likely that Carolyn would mention her knowledge of Betty's decision. But Betty was glad to put off the evil hour and when she met Kathryn as she descended from the street car and walked up to the school entrance with her, she knew that she was safe, though she saw Marcella in the hall, gave her a smiling bow and saw Marcella thoughtfully regard her and Kathryn. But the Kappa Upsilons were having quite a time with their "pledges." It wasn't possible to invite all of any little group of friends. It must be said that Betty's thoughts outside of lessons that day were more concerned with basketball than with sorority. Carolyn's ideas started that line of thought. But Mathilde would work against her--oh well, things would turn out as they would. It was after school when Marcella Waite spoke again to Betty. "Just a minute, Betty Lee. Are you rushing off to catch a car this time?" "No, indeed. I've all the time in the world--not even anything of the G. A. A. this afternoon." "Then perhaps you can come along with me and some of the other girls and have dinner down town. Lucia is going, and perhaps we can get Carolyn and Peggy." "I couldn't do that, Marcella, but thank you so much for asking me. I have to go home." "Oh, I could take you home to dress. The car is out here this time. But I'll not urge you if you have other things on hand for tonight. I think you know what I want to see you about. You said something sweet about Kappa Upsilon yesterday, so I've been hoping that you would be quite ready to say yes about joining us. What do you think?" "Do you mean that you are asking me to join?" "Just that." "It is so good of you, Marcella. I did think about it for I thought that you would scarcely have said that to me if you hadn't meant something of the kind. And it would look so good to be in anything that you are in. I've enjoyed knowing you so much!" Betty was sober and earnest, with her eyes somewhat troubled as she looked straight at Marcella, standing aside from the walk a little, away from the hurrying pupils. "But when it comes to joining any high school sorority you know that there are a lot of things to think about." "Not so important as you think. It is just a lot of fun for the most part." "I know, and that part of it is lovely. But I decided this morning that it wasn't best and if I _should_ be asked by any of them not to do it." "That is final, then?" asked Marcella, more business-like than offended. "Yes. It has to be, though I can't tell you how I appreciate it to be chosen by the Kappa Upsilons." "That is all right, Betty Lee. I'm sorry, though, and I think you'll regret it--not that we'll do anything to make you regret it, you understand." "My, no! I can't imagine _your_ doing anything mean, Marcella." "Thanks for your good opinion. By the way, my brother was home the other day and asked what had become of the little girl that was Titania at my Hallowe'en party." "Did I meet him? Your brother?" "Why, of course, but--that's so--perhaps you didn't know who he was. He had to make a train and could not stay for the unmasking or the refreshments, except to eat something back in the kitchen! He was the 'Pirate of Penzance.'" "Oh!" exclaimed Betty, rather overwhelmed. She certainly did remember the "Pirate of Penzance!" What a pity that she had not known before! No, her decision would have been the same! "Doesn't your brother live at home?" she asked. "Oh yes; but he is at college in the East. He just happened to be at home, unexpectedly, so I worked him in to help out and I thought he looked splendid in that costume I got up for him." "He surely did." "It was a pity you shouldn't have seen him unmasked, though. He's quite handsome at times, though I'm probably prejudiced." "I don't think you should say that. Besides, it's a good thing to be proud of your brothers and sisters." "I have two brothers," said Marcella, "and this one is the younger one. He's a sophomore this year. Well, Betty, I'm sorry. But don't feel uncomfortable about it. I see that you do, and sororities don't like to be turned down, either. But it isn't so bad if you have just decided against high school sororities. I suppose your parents have had some influence against them most likely--I must run!" Marcella hurried away, to Betty's relief this time. She had meant to make it easy for Betty, though, and Betty was grateful. Marcella was a fine girl. And oh, the Pirate of Penzance, whose memories had some glamour of romance, was her brother! How silly it had been of her not to find that out before. But Betty Lee, while not lacking in initiative, was timid about some things. She had not wanted to seem curious or too much interested in any boy. She had asked, indeed, if Carolyn knew who the Pirate of Penzance could have been, but Carolyn had not known. Kathryn had joked her about his choosing her for a partner, but Kathryn had wondered who he was, and to ask Marcella was a thing Betty would not do. So it happened that until this moment Betty had no least idea of whom she had met in that dark "hole in the wall." So it was a pity that she had not seen him unmasked? Very vividly that smiling face in the mirror, lit only by the dim candle-light, kept Betty company in her thoughts on the way home. Evening was not quite so good a time for courage as morning. Betty suffered the natural reaction from a decision which definitely cut off any prospect of being in tempting sorority atmosphere, so heralded by girls of some schools; and any secret society has fascinations of its own. She knew that she had been sensible, but she had no word from Carolyn and felt a sinking at her heart when she thought that Carolyn, influenced by Peggy's joining and the sweet urging of Marcella, had probably gone into the Kappa Upsilon sorority. When she thought of Mathilde, however, she had a different feeling. Imagine being intimate with a girl like that! Mathilde was not only spoiled but rough at times, physically, if not in language, in spite of all her airs and superior assumptions. But Kappa Upsilons might not find that out. It did make more of a difference than she thought it would about Carolyn, but--oh well--it was done. She would probably do the same thing if she still had to decide. Her father asked her to play with Doris a simple melody arranged for the violin, whose piano accompaniment Doris managed very nicely, Betty thought; and with the violin tucked under her chin she felt comforted. There were "lots of happy times" that had nothing to do with school or sororities or being on teams or keeping on the honor roll--even! But Doris, who, like the rest of the junior high girls, was interested in Lyon High doings and heard plenty of gossip about sorority affairs and the rushing recently done, asked Betty outright if she had been asked to join any of the sororities. Betty hesitated, as she looked through some sheet music and put something new before Doris to try. "We don't talk about those things, Doris," she said. "Why not?" "Just--because." "You could tell at home, if you'd been asked and were going to join." "If I were going to join," repeated Betty, soberly. "What is this?" asked their father. "The high school students are not allowed to have sororities, Doris." "They have 'em just the same, Papa. I'm going to join one, that is if I get asked." "Indeed?" and Mr. Lee lifted his brows. "You're not likely to be asked," said Betty, "if you're that frank about wanting to get in." Doris paid no attention to Betty's remark, but addressed her father. "Oh, now, Papa, they get around it all right! I've heard all about it." "How you know more than I did is a wonder, Doris," said Betty. "There must be some one of your friends that knows the ins and outs." "There is. She has a sister who is a senior." "How about it, Betty?" asked Mr. Lee, interested. "Have you been approached on the subject?" "Yes, sir. I was asked to join a good one, nice girls anyhow, but I decided not to go into any. I'll wait till I get into college, if I go, and if anybody wants me." Mr. Lee gave a nod of satisfaction and turned back to his book. "There is a reason for there being no sororities in high schools," said he. "In the smaller schools particularly it makes trouble." But Doris was at once alive with interest. "_Tell_ me, Betty! Which one?" "Really, Dorry, I'd like to tell you; but it wouldn't be nice to do it now. You might forget and say something about it. Will you be satisfied if I say that I will tell you some time?" "I suppose I'll have to be." "Aw, she'd be saying, 'My sister was asked to join one of the sororities!'" Dick's tone was as much like a girl's as a boy whose voice was beginning to change could manage. "I _will not_!" vehemently Doris asserted. "That will do, children," said Mrs. Lee. "This is Betty's affair. She probably feels uncomfortable enough to refuse an attractive invitation." Mother knew, bless her! Perhaps she had been through the same thing. Then there came a ring at the telephone and Betty flew. "Somebody's calling up Betty!" said Doris, rather pettishly, though she did not close her ears to Betty's side of the conversation. "Oh, Carolyn!" said Betty, and then there was a silence on her part for a little. "You 'almost did?' Maybe you should have done it, Carolyn. Sure you'll be happy over it?" Another long silence on Betty's part. "It is good of you to tell me all about it. Yes, Marcella is the greatest attraction. I hope--what is that? Yes." "Marcella Waite, Dick," said Doris in a low tone. "It's the Kappa Upsilons! I knew it!" "Doris," said Mrs. Lee, pleasantly but firmly, "whatever you may know or guess, I trust your sense of what is fitting to keep your ideas to yourself." "All right, Mamma--but I can't help hearing what the other kids talk about." "The other children, you mean." "Yes'm." Mrs. Lee sighed, laying aside some mending for a magazine. This school-grounds language! But perhaps, if they heard correct and cultured speech at home it would do some good. CHAPTER XV: CLASS CHAMPIONSHIP GAMES School went on the next day much as usual. Betty met Marcella in the hall and received a friendly smile, though Marcella was preoccupied. As the next few weeks went by, Betty almost forgot how important the sorority matter had seemed. They did not see as much of Peggy, that was all. And it was probable that Carolyn and Betty did not confide such intimate affairs to Peggy as before. It made a difference to feel things might be passed on to others with whom Peggy was now intimate. The girls wondered how she "stood" Mathilde, but Peggy never mentioned Mathilde. The weeks sped on with the customary tests and the welcome Holiday season. Betty did not see anything of her old friends, Janet and Sue, who could not visit her at any time suggested. But they all went to the farm on Christmas, for Grandma was well and longing for them to come once more. There was plenty of snow there and hills for sledding. Dick tried to make some skis, without remarkable success, but Doris and Betty enjoyed trying them. The spread of white, snow-covered fields, the freedom from the city's noise and traffic and the great open fires of the old farmhouse were a joy to everybody. But Mr. Lee made plans about how a furnace could be put in for Grandmother, since she refused to leave the home place. That should be done before another winter. The children had brought their various reports to show Grandmother, who asked Betty, "Still on the honor roll in spite of athletics?" "Yes'm," said Betty, with an engaging smile. "You see, hikes and swimming and practice games are in the nature of recreation. I go home and rest and eat good meals and then I can get my lessons all right." "Aw, Betty is just smart, Grandma," said Dick. "Couldn't all of them do it." And Betty, surprised at this brotherly tribute, made Dick a sweeping bow. Betty was on the regular class basketball team now. There were about two hundred girls who had "gone out" for basketball on the call for the inter-class contest teams, though the contest would not start until February. But the teams were organized before Christmas and Betty was chosen captain. How that had happened she claimed not to know and was really surprised, for she thought that one of the athletic teachers had been influenced by Mathilde and did not like her. But Betty had played good hockey and in basketball practice games she was light, active, showed powers of leadership, and best of all, could make baskets, an important ability in basketball, it would seem! In consequence she found herself in command of the Sophomore Jumping-Jacks, a name for which Betty was not responsible. But some one had watched them and declared that several of the girls were "regular jumping-jacks" when it came to lifting the ball to and through a basket. Some one who overheard called them the Jumping-Jacks and the name stuck till the girls considered it "cute" enough to be adopted. The "squad" was a large one, with a number of girls who played nearly as well as those on what was considered the "team." There were a few jealousies to be handled, as Betty well knew. How she had made the position of captain she scarcely knew yet. Carolyn told her that she was the "dark horse," as she said her father called it in politics. "Sort of a compromise?" queried Betty, who had not even sought to be captain and dreaded it. "Yes. Everybody knew you weren't after it, and there was such a mess this time, sorting out for the first and second team. So you're it. Now see that we beat everybody. I'm only playing basketball on your account, Betty." "Don't you really like it?" "Yes, but I don't enjoy a big contest. I'll do my best, though, to make my part of the second team so good that I'll get called in to help out the first squad." "Good for you. If I have anything to say, you'll get a chance to play with me!" Kathryn was on the first team and a good player. She was as quick as Betty and with her practiced on the floor to make long shots from different angles. "It sometimes saves the day Betty," said Kathryn. "Do you remember last year how Freddy Fisher had a chance to put the ball through that basket from 'way across the floor! We certainly have missed Freddy this year, haven't we? But Ted Dorrance is playing basketball and he's good." "Is that so? He wasn't on the football squad." "No. His mother draws a line on football and said she'd take him out of school, or send him away somewhere to school if he played. But he's grand in basketball. Didn't you see that write-up of him in the _Roar_ last week?" "I missed getting that number, Kathryn. Have you a copy?" "Yes. I'll show it to you." "What is his speciality?" asked Betty, thinking of the tall boy she admired so much. "Well, in the first game he made some under the basket shots that were just in time to make the score. It beat the other team. It's a shame you didn't see the account of the game. It's all in the paper." "All I knew was that we beat," said Betty. "I didn't even see the evening paper at home. That was the night I was studying for a test and forgot everything else. It was my only chance, for we were doing things all day Saturday." "Ted has a new girl, Betty, they say." "Really--who?" "Oh, one of the junior girls that he is taking all around to the parties and everything. He had her out here at the school for the minstrel show the other night. That was real funny. Did you go?" "No. I can't go to everything and I just _have_ to go to the musical things. Mother and I went to the Symphony Concert the last time." "It's funny Chet didn't ask you. He's been hanging around so much of late, Betty." Kathryn gave Betty a roguish glance as she decided that they had practiced enough and sat down to change her shoes, donning the ones fit for the street. Betty, too, took off her gym shoes for the same purpose. The gym was almost empty now, for it was after school hours. "Oh, Mother wouldn't let me go out at night with the boys yet," answered Betty. "It's all right for parties and picnics and things like that, it seems, but not for shows and things. Mothers are funny; but I have a very nice one and I suppose she knows why she lets me do some things and says no about others." "My mother says that she hasn't the least idea what to do with me about anything in 'these days,' but she hopes to take care of me, if she has my 'co-operation.'" Betty laughed at this. "Our poor mothers! Well, I rather guess it's up to us to co-operate then. Why, if you won't tell, Chet did ask me and I couldn't go with him, but he wasn't mad at all. Mother just told me to put the blame on her, so I did, explaining, you know. Then I felt as I told you about choosing the things I can go to myself." "Chet is a pretty good sort of a boy, of course. Chauncey said the other day he thought he'd cut him out with you, Betty, and I told him to go and do it." Kathryn slipped a foot into a shoe and stood up laughing. "I'd like you real well as a sister, though I didn't go so far as to say that to Chauncey." "I should _hope not_!" said Betty, with emphasis. "It's none of it as serious as all that, Kathryn, but I don't mind being liked and being invited, do you?" "What girl does? But I don't want a real 'case' yet." "Mercy, no! And Mother says I mustn't accept invitations from boys that I don't know anything about, no matter how nice they seem here. There are some drawbacks to numbers after all." "Yes, but you can usually tell about boys and girls, too, and it's easy enough to find out about them. Dad says that he is a 'social democrat,' but I notice that he is terribly particular about my company." "We have such a lot of things going on at school that it is easy enough to make friends and be with boys and girls you like without bothering about dates any more important than meeting your 'boy friend,' as Dick calls it, at the picnic or at the ball game. Carolyn's parties are always such fun. I want to have one the spring vacation, though that seems a long way off, doesn't it!" "I'm having one in two weeks, on Friday night, Betty, so save that date, please. I'll have a time getting ready for it during school, so please come early and help me, will you?" "Of course I will. It will be fun. What do you want me to do?" "I'll tell you in plenty of time. I want it a _real_ party and I'm going to invite Lucia, of course, so it must make a good impression on our lady from the Italian nobility." "Lucia won't be critical, Kathryn. She said that she liked you. You were 'so sincere.'" "Did she? I like Lucia, too, though some things made me a little tired at first." "Just think of the handicap, Kathryn, of not being born an American!" Betty was grinning, but she really felt that Lucia had not had a fair chance to be like a girl who was born in the "land of the free." This was a phase that had crept out with Lucia a time or two in her contact with other girls and had amused that daughter of the Caesars as much as a few of her ways amused the American girls. But they were meeting on common ground in the school room and in the case of the few girls of whom Lucia was becoming fond, friendly adjustments were easy to make. The matter of being acquainted with boys was natural enough in a large high school, and a large residence district as good as that from which Lyon High drew most of its attendance supplied children of some of the city's best citizens. It was not very likely that boys attracted to Betty and Kathryn would not have a good background, to say the least. Many of them they had known all through their freshman year. What Betty did not know was that Chet Dorrance was at present going out of his way just to pass Betty in the hall, whether he had an opportunity to speak to her or not. In a class or two in which both recited, he never stared directly at her, but one corner of his eye knew where Betty was and what she was doing. It was his first attack and very acute, Ted would have said. Chet, however, was good at concealing his feelings and would not have had the boys guess how much he liked Betty. Of course, they teased him a little for "hanging around," but Chet, with apparent candor, said that he liked "that bunch of girls" and didn't care who knew it. "You have to have a little social life," said he. "It's a poor sophomore that can't take a girl out once in a while." If it had been Ted, Chet's brother, now, Betty might have been thrilled a little at the frequent meetings and all the excuses that Chet made to speak to her about this or that. But Betty was demurely responsive, or pleasant, interested in what Chet had to say, but not including him in any of her dreams. Chet wasn't the Prince Charming by any means. Yet Chet would be that to some one, doubtless, one of these days. The names of the basketball squads were posted, that of the freshmen having more extras than those of the other classes. The sophomores now had only a few more than the two "teams." Betty found that she was a good deal more excited over the coming contests than she had expected to be, since so much responsibility for whipping the sophomore team into shape rested upon her. Dates of games to be played in the girls' gym were also posted, another spur to excellence. Kathryn postponed her party because of the necessity for strenuous practice, but said that she would have one to celebrate, when the sophomores "beat the championship game." Betty told her that too much confidence was a "hoo-doo," but Kathryn told her that determination to beat was "one of the greatest assets" a team could have. Betty, Kathryn and Carolyn had a front seat at the first game of the contest, played between the seniors and freshmen. It would have been hard to say which were the more excited, the busy players or the rooters who were girls expecting to meet the two classes they were watching, in a future game. "Watch that freshman guarding, Betty. She's rough. We'll look out for her and see that nothing is done that isn't seen! Say--that was a good play! Did you _see that_?" Betty was watching too closely to say a word. If she could get the tactics, provided there were any special ones, or the important characteristics of the senior girls, it would help, she thought. She early dismissed the freshmen as opponents. They were playing a good game in the main, but not a winning game. They needed practice and more "team-work." This game was on a Tuesday afternoon, after school. The next day the seniors were to play against the juniors, and the girls of all the teams, as far as possible, were urged by their captains to be present. The score of seniors versus freshmen was only eleven to six and the freshmen were jubilant over having kept the seniors from scoring as heavily as they had expected. But Betty saw that senior mistakes would be corrected. She still thought that her greatest effort would be in the game against the seniors. Still, some had said that the juniors were playing excellent games. On Wednesday the gym was again full of interested girls who gave their class cheers and cheered for the enemy. The sophomores rooted chiefly for the seniors, but to their great surprise, the juniors won! "Well!" cried Betty. "I'm not a prophet, and that is that!" "I'm glad we don't meet the juniors or seniors first," said Lucia Coletti, who sat next to Betty this time. Lucia was not playing basketball, but she was interested sufficiently to identify herself with her class and attend the games. "Tomorrow we play against the freshmen, don't we?" she asked. "Yes, and what did Miss Orme do but give us a test, a last hour test, mind you, just before the game. I told her, but she looked at me in perfect disgust. 'Do you think we should dismiss school on account of the games?' she asked." Betty sighed. "Oh, well, you'll be less excited for something else to think about. Perhaps it will not be hard." "And perhaps it will, Lucia. Be glad you aren't in her class. But that is a good idea about thinking of something else. I'm gone if I worry. And I've been getting that work so far. I'll just take it all as sport. But I do want my team to play well." "They'll beat the freshmen, I think, though those freshmen aren't to be despised." "Indeed they aren't." Betty was pretty well keyed up before her first game of the class competition, but Betty never lost her self-control. She set her lips and went through the rather difficult written test as well as she could. The air grew close, and it was with a thrill of actually joyous expectation that Betty hurried to the gym as the time approached, and joked with the freshman captain whom she met on the way. She could breathe in the gym! "We're going to 'lick' the sophomores," jovially the freshman captain informed her. "Don't be too sure. We're out to win," cheerily answered Betty. She gathered her girls together and told them of some points she had noted about the freshman playing and they entered the game with confidence, though warned not to be too sure. The "rough" freshman was taken out after some too apparent fouls due to her performances, and the final score was eighteen to three in favor of the sophomores. They had won their first game at least, Betty said. "Now send up the score, girls, as high as you can with every game. No telling what we can do if we try!" The inter-class games continued, with some intervals due to other important school events, for three weeks. Classes were given more than one opportunity to better their score against other classes. But finally it narrowed down to a contest between the juniors and sophomores, Betty finding the sophomore record making her "famous," as Kathryn said. Senior luck held part of the time only, but that class never had done as well in basketball as in other things, Carolyn told Betty. The championship game was to be played in the boys' gym, which was larger, and the boys were allowed to attend. Betty, her cheeks pink from excitement, saw that her mother with Amy Lou had a good seat. "Look out, Amy Lou, and don't get hit with the ball!" and Betty left them to disappear into the regions of the girls' gym, where the teams were getting ready. Dick and Doris were there and all the girls of the G. A. A. who could come, to say nothing of various boys, particularly those of the sophomore and junior classes. "Forget the crowd, girls, and whether your nose gets shiny or not," advised Betty. "You're a graceful lot anyhow and usually succeed in avoiding a terrible scramble. But remember that we _have to beat_ those juniors!" Betty was distrustful of Mathilde, who had gotten on the first team by no wish of hers. She would be playing against Marcella and the other juniors of Kappa Upsilon and Betty thought, though she could not be sure, that she surprised a message between Mathilde and one of the junior players at the other game they played with that class. Mathilde's play had been a failure. Could it have been that she _wanted_ to give the game to the junior captain, her sorority sister? Betty told her worries to no one but Kathryn. She did not want to worry Carolyn, who could not imagine that any one would be as mean as that and was too unsuspicious to see anything but the most flagrant acts. "I'll keep an eye out, Betty," said Kathryn. "Mathilde doesn't care for the sophomores or anything but that old sorority, and she doesn't like your being captain, though I hate to tell you that." "Don't worry. I know it. We'll just keep awake and I'm glad to say that it's Miss Fox who's keeping an eye out this time, besides the referee. But it's going to be a fast game and no telling what may happen." First with applause, then with silence, the little audience in the gym greeted the two teams as they came out, without the preliminary stunts that sometimes marked school affairs, and started right in. Amy Louise stood straight up when she saw for the first time the big ball, tossed from one to another, going across the floor, in the hands of Betty's girls, to be popped into the proper basket. That was after the "tip-off," as a freshman girl told Mrs. Lee. She knew few of the correct expressions, but enough to indicate results. "The point is to put the ball through their own basket, Mrs. Lee and they 'make the goal' and 'score.'" But there was little opportunity to explain. As had been predicted, the game was a fast one. The sophomores had the advantage at the first and scored several times. Then the juniors succeeded in keeping the sophomores from scoring, put up a clever defense of their own, carried the ball with bewildering speed from one to another and passed the score of the sophomores with their own. The sophomores came back with a series of successful plays after disaster temporarily visited the juniors; and Kathryn covered herself with glory by making the long shot, for which she had been practicing, and saved the day in a bad situation which had occurred. Advantage now on this side and now on that, the first two quarters ended with an equal score. "If we can do that, Betty," whispered Kathryn, "we stand a good chance to beat." But Betty was too engrossed to heed. Miss Fox was talking to Mathilde, who was answering loudly. The referee was called to the conference. Then Miss Fox came to Betty, who was watching. "I--we--are taking Mathilde out, Betty. She is not guilty of any foul, but we think that she purposely lost an advantage. I'm not going to risk it. Put in Mary Emma Howland for the rest of the game. If the juniors beat us they want to do it fairly." Mary Emma was only too glad to play. The other girls wondered a little, but the game was too engrossing, when again they were in the midst of it, to care who was playing. Betty gave Mary Emma a few instructions, but Mary Emma was one of the best on the second team and had been hoping for a chance to play the Championship game. Mathilde was very angry, as Betty could see. She came up to Betty and said, "You put Foxy up to that, I know!" "I didn't even see what you did, or didn't do, Mathilde," replied Betty, but she turned away. It would not do to get into a discussion now. Again the contest waxed hard and fast, each side to put the ball through their own basket, each side to keep the other from doing the like. It took quick thinking and quick action and keeping the rules. Betty had an opportunity at showing what she could do in scoring, getting away from her guard and making two beautiful "shots" from unfavorable angles. The juniors felt that it would be a disgrace to let the sophomores beat the contest and began to grow excited. Betty never was more cool within, though physically she was warm from the action. It wouldn't be so terrible to be beaten by juniors--but oh, how good to beat them--even Marcella, who was playing a good game. But personal relations were forgotten on the floor. Marcella was kept from sending the ball through the junior basket and Mary Emma starred as guard in that occasion. The quarters,--the halves--passed, and the pistol shot rang out for the close of the game with the score even. No one was satisfied, of course, but many were the compliments for the playing of both teams. Few fouls, clean playing, fast playing, enough baskets, the comments declared. "It's so stupid when nobody can score," said one. "These girls managed to do it some way in spite of good interference." Twenty-five to twenty-five the score stood, said Marcella caught up with Betty as they went back to the girls' gym to change costumes again. "The _idea_ that you beat us, Betty," said Marcella with a smile. "I just declared that you never would!" "Why, we didn't beat you!" cried Betty. "You might as well. We couldn't beat _you_, anyhow, which was terrible! I think we were a little better in our guarding, but you overcame that disadvantage by those long shots that we did not dream you could make. You and Kathryn are stars, Betty. I'm sorry we did not get you in Kappa Upsilon. What was the trouble with Mathilde, Betty?" "I don't know, Marcella. You'll have to ask Miss Fox or the referee. I didn't see anything." "I imagine you have an idea, though," said Marcella. "Well all hail to the Jingery Jumping Jacks! The Lucky Leapers are forced to give them credit, though we don't want to do it." "Aren't you a great jollier, Marcella Waite! I'm glad it's over, but I'd rather somebody would beat. Still, there are things to be said in favor of a tie, provided a body couldn't win the championship outright. Oh, do you suppose they'll make us play another game?" "Let _us_ have another chance, you mean," winked Marcella. "No, the big excitement is over and they'll not do it, though I'd love to." "The sophomore team will be ready," said Betty, "though just now I'm for a good dip in the pool and a square meal at home!" "Sensible idea. You make me hungry at the thought. Oh, Mathilde! Wait!" Betty watched Marcella follow Mathilde, who neither turned around nor waited, but hurried into the other gym. CHAPTER XVI: A PARTY AND A REAL "DATE" It was early in March when the inter-class basketball contests ended with the championship game that resulted in a tie. Kathryn's party was given on a Friday night, when a western blizzard had occurred and the rest of the country was surprised by a heavy snow. Memories of the bob-sleds at the Dorrance home during their freshman year came back to more than Betty Lee of the "old crowd." Chet Dorrance had the best of excuses to make arrangements with Betty for a snow date, as he called it, and she promised to go with him and the rest on the next day after school. "Make it a regular date, Betty," said he, "for we'll have something doing whenever we have enough snow." Betty was delighted with the snow, but made no "long distance" engagements. There had not been "a decent snow all winter," everybody claimed, and great was the enthusiasm. Great drifts edged the walks at Kathryn's and Betty came early to help, as she had promised. She, Chauncey and Kathryn had a brilliant idea and made a big snow man on the front porch, where he would be well lit up by the porch light at the arrival of the company. "We'll have to have something or other outdoors," declared Chauncey, who went around behind the house to reconnoiter. Kathryn and Betty, who were flying around inside, tried to think as they filled pretty little dishes with bonbons and finished the decorations. "It's Chauncey's birthday," said Kathryn, "but he wouldn't let me tell a soul. I don't think the other boys know. They surely would wash his face for him in the snow if they did!" "I'll not betray him," laughed Betty. "But why not have a snow fight? Listen, Gypsy. Those high piles of snow along the walk you know, why not use them and make a fort or two?" Chauncey came in with the same idea, except that he thought the best place was in the back where snow had drifted in certain hollows. "It'll spoil everybody's good clothes, though," said he. "Do you suppose the girls will come in those thin things they wear?" "Not tonight, Chauncey, because I told some of them that we'd probably do something outdoors, and the rest will have a pretty good suspicion that we will." Kathryn's party included some of the older boys and girls to whom she was indebted. Lucia, as the stranger in their midst and a good friend, was invited. Marcella and Peggy were the only other representatives of the Kappa Upsilons. Ted Dorrance was there and the junior girl to whom he was supposed to have transferred his affections since Louise Madison began to have social relations with the University men. "Hello, Betty Lee," said he. "I haven't seen you except at a distance for some time. Congratulations for not letting the junior team beat you in basketball. Those girls ought to feel crushed." "But don't," added Betty. "Congratulations yourself on your own basketball record. I was so surprised when I heard you were on the team. I haven't missed a game that was played here if I could help it. You've become a star." "According to the _Lyon's Roar_," answered Ted, in derision. "They're hard up for somebody to write up as a star if they have to take me!" "Your modesty is very becoming," demurely remarked Betty, as an older girl might have done, and Ted looked again. This was a cute girl, this little sophomore. He remembered her coming to Lyon High for the first last year. Chet had her in his crowd. How would it do to take her somewhere some time? In consequence of these impulsive thoughts, in the course of the evening's fun Betty found Ted Dorrance beside her several times and once he asked her if she "had a date" for the next Symphony Concert. "Why, no, though Mother and I go to some of them," said Betty, not dreaming that Ted meant to ask her. But she was mortified at the thought of what she considered her "dumbness," when he asked her to go with him on that coming Saturday night. "Oh!" she said. "Why--Mother never lets me go to anything down in the city with anybody; but I think she would let me go with you." "I hope she will," smiled Ted. "Let me know, Betty." "I will tomorrow," said Betty, feeling uncomfortable, as girls do, for fear the boys will think them too childish. But Betty had confidence in her mother and she knew well that the ban would be off when she grew older. Oh, how _wonderful_ to be going somewhere with Ted Dorrance! She looked so happy, though full of fun, as she helped Kathryn serve, that more than one boy looked her way and thought that Betty Lee was a "pretty girl." Then they all put on wraps and as a final spurt of fun went out for a battle of _soft_ snowballs, by the girls' direction. No fort was made, for it was too late when the indoor fun was finished, but great plans were made for the following afternoon and evening, to take advantage of the winter's one great opportunity. And the snow man remained, to melt in a day or two into a messy heap on the porch; and an early robin cocked his head at the sight, as he stopped for the crumbs from the cake Kathryn had stuffed in the gaping mouth of the snow man. "Let's give him a cooky," Kathryn had said, as she and Betty laughed at Chauncey's last artistic efforts. Indeed, the birds were arriving all through March and April. It was baseball now, not basketball, though Betty did not play. She was devoted to the swimming in particular and was getting ready to take part in the events of a girls' high school swimming meet, in which the swimmers from the different high schools would compete for excellence and points. "No," she said to Miss Fox. "Hockey and basketball were enough. I'm out for swimming, and that is all I can do, Miss Fox, if I get my lessons. Oh, of course hikes and all the points I can make when I'm not needed at home." "I like to hear you say that, Betty. Too many girls don't want to help at all at home." "I don't do enough," Betty replied--"but I have a dear family and we go out together in the machine a lot." Going out with Ted was a great event, for Mrs. Lee said that she might, "though this is not to be taken as a regular break in our ideas," Betty's mother was careful to add. "I don't care, Mother," said Betty, "only I wish I didn't have to say that my mother doesn't like to have me do it." "You can make your own excuses, Betty." "Of course. But if the boys think you don't want to go with them it makes them mad and you won't get asked again." "And that would be terrible," laughed her mother, who had little fear but that Betty would have enough "dates" to keep her happy. "Yes, it would," Betty answered, but a little smile crept about her lips. "How would it do just to say that you are allowed very few engagements, especially at night?" "I might work out something else. You should have seen--or heard--how _dumb_ it sounded, what I said to Ted!" "There he is, my daughter," said Mrs. Lee as the bell rang. Betty looked in the glass, patted a refractory lock, and walked sedately through the hall and into the front room, where Ted, all correct, in a new top-coat, and carrying hat and gloves, waited, having been admitted by Dick. Ted rose and shook hands, as Betty entered, but said that he was late and that if she would put on her wraps he "thought they'd better start." Mrs. Lee came in then and Betty ran back for her wraps, thankful that they were new, this year, and that her gloves were everything that could be desired. She had worn her prettiest dress and hoped that Ted, who was accustomed to taking out girls, would find nothing lacking in her _ensemble_. "Betty's beginning rather young," said Mr. Lee thoughtfully, coming in from the garage where he had been putting in his car. "That is a good car young Dorrance is driving. Do you suppose it is his own?" "Very likely, though I do not know, either." "There were some others, so I imagine it is a 'theatre party.'" "All the better--but I'd like to keep Betty from all that till she is older. I shall, too. She is obedient and sensible. We shall have this the exception rather than the rule." "I'm glad to leave it to you, Mother," replied Mr. Lee. "I'll warrant," laughed his wife. Betty need not have worried about Ted's superior knowledge of the ways of society. He was only a high school boy after all, and though Mrs. Dorrance had been left a widow with plenty of means, she was a woman of culture and of a certain both practical and realistic sense when it came to social affairs. Real things that mattered and not foolish forms of convention governed her and provided for her boys a certain freedom, while asking of them the ordinary courtesies and consideration of gentlemen. Another senior boy and a senior girl were in the car, Betty found, and she was glad to settle beside the senior girl in the back seat while Ted and his old friend Harry sat in front. The "theatre party" was a very modest one, for Betty was not led to a box. But they had good seats, well in front in the balcony, and Betty enjoyed all the little attentions that Ted knew so well how to give, though as a matter of course. The playing of the orchestra happened to be just what Betty liked best, not so much of the musical fireworks, but the lovelier selections from the classics. Even Ted was forgotten during one number till as she leaned back with a little sigh after it was over he said, "You liked that as much as I did, didn't you? Do you do much with your violin now?" "Scarcely a bit," she whispered, "but I love to hear it. How did you know I played?" "A little bird told me," said Ted. CHAPTER XVII: "JUST LIKE A FISH" "Look at Betty!" cried Kathryn, who was not taking part in the swimming meet, but was a part of the audience. "Isn't she graceful? What a dive! Betty's a regular fish for the water!" "She went into the water like a bird _catching_ a fish," replied Carolyn, who had memories of a northern lake in summer. "Yes; but she says she likes the water and feels at home in it. She is a natural swimmer, I suppose, if there is such a thing." The seats around the pool were full of spectators, some mothers as well as girls from the different high schools concerned in the meet. Others leaned forward, all interest, from the balcony above, among them Mrs. Lee and Amy Lou. Betty had located her mother before the meet proper began and welcomed her with a smiling salute from a distance. To Amy Lou, who waved wildly at her older sister, she gave a separate salute, and blew her a kiss. Betty looked happy and unworried, a trim little figure in her tight, dark blue bathing suit. A group of sophomore girls were equipped with Lyon High banners and sat together on one side of the pool, ready to root for their own school and their own class swimmers as well. When Betty came out for the diving events, they cheered for her. Amy Lou was frightened and squealed out a little when Betty made a "back" dive that was greeted with general applause. Mrs. Lee held her breath for a minute, afraid that Betty would hit the diving board and gave a sigh of relief when that did not happen. Carolyn, who sat beside Mrs. Lee, turned to her enthusiastically to say, "Wasn't that _splendid_? Betty is getting better and better!" "I hope she won't do that again, though," said Betty's mother. "Oh, that's perfectly safe for Betty, Mrs. Lee. They wouldn't let her try it if she weren't used to it and Betty can just do almost anything. Besides, it isn't as close to the board when she does it as it looks. If you were right up at that end you'd see." "I see. I have heard Betty talk about all this so much, but I must say that all the remarks about this and that sort of a stroke and the different kinds of diving have rather gone over my head. I've not been able to get to the little meets the girls have had. This is delightful, the big pool and all the excitement. No wonder the girls like it, but Betty did not seem to be excited over it or care about taking first place. I wonder why?" "Betty's pretty level-headed," laughed Carolyn. "She's getting ready to do big things in her next two years, you see, big things for the G. A. A. So she isn't going to get all worked up now. I shouldn't wonder if she did get the best record for the diving, though. Those other girls weren't half so good on that event, though that senior girl from North High is a wonder in swimming. Wait till those speed tests--or events--come off and watch her. Without her cap Betty'd be a goldfish, Kathryn!" Mrs. Lee consulted her program. It was a help to see everything down, in black and white. Here was a certain sort of a stroke, and she could see it being done. "Amy Lou," said she, "watch how they do it. Some day you will be doing that perhaps." "Oh, yes," soberly said Amy Lou, watching the next group of contestants come in from out behind the curtains and stand in readiness. "I'm going to be a G. A. A." "The whole association, Amy Lou?" asked Kathryn, who liked to tease a little. Amy Lou smiled a little. She didn't mind Kathryn, who was always remembering her in some little way. "Yes," said she. "I can swim now a little, up at Grandma's, can't I Mamma?" "Yes, dear--but watch and keep still. The girls are going to start." Amy Lou had stopped jumping at the pistol shot and now leaned over with the rest, though she had to stand up to do it, to see the slim young bodies cleave the clear water of the pool, swim the length of it, turn, pushing their toes against the concrete wall of the pool and start for the other end. The diving included "front, back and running," the program said. Then there were a "twenty-yard back stroke for speed, a twenty-yard side stroke for speed and a twenty-yard free style for speed," and Carolyn explained that "free style" meant "do it any way you want to--just get there!" "Will Betty try to win on speed?" asked Mrs. Lee. "I doubt it. Betty's working on trying to do everything just right, and grace and ease in the water, and keeping your head, I guess, from what I hear her say. You see, you have to do your breathing a certain way, though that doesn't seem to be any trouble to Betty." "It looks painful to me," said Mrs. Lee. "Watch Betty and you won't think so." "They turn sideways and swallow the air, don't they?" said Amy Lou. "Just about," laughed Carolyn. "Here comes Betty again, Amy Lou." Amy Lou joined in the Lyon High yell this time, to the great amusement of Carolyn and Betty, but they did not let the child see their smiles and Mrs. Lee did not make any objection. What was Amy Lou's small voice in the general uproar? No one girl was permitted to take part in any large number of events, thought there had not been this time too great a number of contestants who wanted to enter for the meet. Betty was not tired and after the first diving event did not feel excited. There were only a few more people looking on, and the cheers were a part of it all. This was noted as "Push off and coast across pool for speed" and to Betty's surprise she was first across the pool. Later there was a "relay" event, in which Betty did well, her best, but was not first. That ended her part in the meet and she was satisfied. She took her shower and dressed without watching the rest, though Carolyn exclaimed afterward when she found that Betty had "missed the rest," and at an inter-school contest. "Well," said Betty, "why sit around in a wet bathing suit? I knew I could get dressed in time to hear the final results announced. Of course, I was crazy for Lyon High to win the meet, but even with my blanket around me I was a little chilly and I'd promised Mother that I'd not take an unnecessary risks of cold. I did hate to miss one event, but I'd seen such a lot of swimming." Yet Betty had won some points for her school and she was, indeed, back where she could hear the announcement after the final event and to join in the wild cheering of feminine voices which marked the announcement that Lyon High had won the meet by a narrow margin. It was well that it was so, for there had been some good swimming done by all the schools. "Going to take the life-saving tests, Betty?" asked Lucia Coletti, who chanced to be by Betty as the crowd left the pool and the building. "No, not now, Lucia. Next year is time enough. I _might_ get ready for it, but I'm just learning a lot of things and trying the endurance stunts a little. Perhaps I'll swim across to Italy one of these days." Lucia laughed. "That's what I'd like to do right now, though I prefer going on a steamer. I'm homesick to see my father," she added. "Will you be going over this summer?" queried Betty, though casually, for Betty was not one to be curious. "No. Mother says not," replied Lucia, and Betty did not ask whether or not the count would come to America. There was some trouble there, Betty supposed. It did not always work when an American girl married a foreigner. But how dreadful for Lucia who loved both parents, of course, if you were separated! Why didn't people think about their children a little instead of themselves? "Betty," said Lucia, "Mother is going to entertain for me this spring and you are the first one I want to invite. I haven't had you over at all." "But I haven't had you either," said Betty. "We just couldn't manage parties some way this year with all that has been going on at school and Mother so busy and Father working so hard, too. You were the stranger to be invited." Lucia slipped her hand inside of Betty's bent arm and patted it. "But I know perfectly well that it was Mother's place to show some attention to your father and mother. But Mother has been considerably upset--about some of our affairs. She's been in the social columns of the papers all right, but she's not done any of the entertaining herself." It was rather an odd place for any confidences, Betty thought, but Lucia was likely to say things when she wanted to do it. No one could hear, however, as they went out of the open doors and ran down the steps together. Lucia nodded good night and then went to where the Murchison car waited for her. Betty waited a few moments for her mother and Amy Lou to join her, but they took the street car home, sleepy as Amy Lou was by this time. For Dick and Doris, to their great disappointment, were showing signs of sore throat and measles was making a few absences at the junior high school. Mrs. Lee was hopeful that the sore throats were only the results of an early hike that the twins had taken together; and she had been sent off to the meet by her husband with the announcement that he was quite able to act as nurse and see that they took their medicine. Fortunately the measles did not materialize, but Doris had missed seeing the meet and Dick had missed something else. Both missed school for a few days, which loss had its compensations. It was true that neither Betty nor her mother had known just what to do about paying any attention to the countess. The countess had not met her mother and had not said anything to her father about liking to have his wife call. The Countess Coletti had, of course, many friends of former days among the wealthy members of what was called society in the city. For this group Mrs. Lee had neither means, time nor any real interest, though no one was more likely to have friends. It was easy to make them, in the church, or in the other relations which living naturally brought about. "We belong to a different 'aristocracy,' Betty," said Mrs. Lee. "We, too, can have a certain influence in the community, a good one, I hope, and a little circle of pleasant friends. One is always running across kindred spirits." "Carolyn and Kathryn are my chief ones," laughed Betty. These remarks were made on the way home from the meet, when in a seat together, Amy Lou half asleep on their laps, they discussed what Lucia had said. "Of course you will not repeat to any of the girls Lucia's reference to the countess and her being 'upset' about some of her affairs. It is important to your father that nothing we do is a mistake in reference to that family. We have made no mistake in waiting for them to take the initiative. It was a little odd for Lucia to be so frank, but she has her worries, too, no doubt, and felt that she could trust you as a confidante." "She can," replied Betty. "I wonder what sort of a party it will be? All the sorority will be there, of course, and probably ever so many girls that I do not know. Lucia has some friends in the private schools, but she likes Lyon High now and wouldn't leave it for any other school. You should have heard her tell me about how some of the girls tried to get her away. 'No, no, no,' she said, in that rapid Italian way she has, 'I like this big school and everything they do. I've been in a private school. I shall have my high school diploma to show my father!' I imagine the count, then, doesn't object so much to Lucia's going to school over here." "His troubles are in another line, I presume." "Well, whatever their troubles are, I'm glad Lucia came. She's _very_ interesting." So declared Betty. CHAPTER XVIII: THE COUNTESS ENTERTAINS Spring affairs came on with their hikes, their different activities, their work and their fun, till Betty almost forgot what Lucia had said to her, in the interest of other things. She saw very little of Lucia now, for the sorority seemed to take up Lucia's time, so far as her associations were concerned. Betty was working hard on her studies. She had passed her mid-years with credit and now she was keeping up the standard for the second semester. It was not so hard as the freshman year's work, yet there were more distractions as she increasingly took part in the school's activities. However, there was no basketball. She made progress in swimming, took a little part in other athletic affairs, earned points and hoped that she would win "something or other" on honor night, that last function and climax of the G. A. A. The girls had wanted her to play baseball, but she "said them nay" as she stated at home. And in her free time she took up serious practice upon her violin, as well as regular lessons again. Saturdays she saved for picnics and hikes, except a few hours devoted to study. Mrs. Lee had a little maid come in now to help at home, though Doris and Betty still had very light tasks, chiefly in looking after their own room and keeping things in order. School was exacting and the girls needed their time if they stood well in their studies, Mrs. Lee said. There was some discussion between the parents as to whether it was not outside affairs that took the girls' time and strength, but inasmuch as more of it was in the line of healthful activity than of late parties, the decision was to let the girls, particularly Betty, just now, "have their chance" and their good times. The little maid needed the work, moreover, and it gave Mrs. Lee the freedom she needed to leave Amy Lou and get away from cares. Betty was "crazy" to get into the junior orchestra another year. Ted, who had been somewhat of an attraction, to be sure, would not be in the senior orchestra, but Betty liked the idea, with or without any interesting boy. He had not invited Betty to accompany him again to any school or city entertainment, but he had asked her to a picnic with a few chosen friends and she had had a wonderful time, she reported to the girls. However, Ted said that Chet and some of the other boys had said "Hands off" about Betty Lee. So Ted put it, and while he reported it jokingly, Betty had an idea that it would make a difference. Well, it was better than being invited and dropped without a reason, and no boy should think that she wanted his attentions! And of course Ted was very much interested in this other girl. They both would be in the University next year. Betty felt more grown up when she was with an older boy like Ted and enjoyed the feeling. The junior girls and some of the senior girls knew Betty and were quite inclined to be chummy, at least when thrown with Betty at any gathering. The sophomores had a picnic, to which Chet invited Betty and one of the girls whom Betty did not know so well, remarked: "Well, the Dorrance boys keep you in the family, don't they?" "Oh, no," lightly answered Betty, who did not like the remark, but did not know how to answer it. Betty did not like to resent what was probably not meant to be annoying. From certain indications she was pretty sure that Chet _had_ resented Ted's taking her out and that Ted had promised Chet not to interfere. So the time flew, till in the lovely Maytime Mrs. Lee was invited by the Countess Coletti to an afternoon tea at the Murchison home, and Betty was reminded of Lucia's remarks. The countess was "being nice to Mother" now, and Mrs. Lee reported a large gathering of charming ladies, some of them not so attractive or cultured, but many of them simple and interesting with the results of many opportunities for travel and reading, study and pleasure. "The countess herself is very delightful as a hostess, Betty," said Mrs. Lee. "I feel sure that if she entertains for Lucia it will be a gathering planned in every detail." The series of teas and other entertainment at the Murchison home was followed "at last" by the arrival of invitations for Lucia's friends, invitations with a "crest!" For the _Countess Coletti_ was entertaining for her daughter. "Oh, dear, why aren't I Lucia's friend and a little older?" sighed Doris, whimsically, examining the pretty invitation. "I'd always keep this, Betty, but if you don't care for it, let me have it." "You can borrow it any time you want it, but it has to go among the archives, Dorry. I'm sorry you can't go; but it's very likely, if we stay here and Father is in the same business, that you can go there some time." "But that isn't now," said Doris, strictly adhering to fact. Betty wondered whether it was a girls' party or whether the boys would be invited, but as she saw several invitations displayed among the boys at school, her unuttered question was answered. It seemed to be taken for granted that the countess did not expect the young gentlemen to bring the young ladies, though Chet said, "see you at the party, Betty. I hope I'm your partner at supper." Budd Leroy, also, who had shown recent signs of being interested in Betty Lee, made a similar remark about meeting her at Lucia's, though he did not suggest himself as her partner. "Do you suppose the countess will wear her 'tie-airy?'" Budd added. "Do countesses have tiaras?" asked Betty. "I hope whatever she has she will wear it. What is the use of being a countess if you can't have some sign of it?" "Sure Mike," said slangy Budd, who was to be very correct in his speech in the high society atmosphere at the Murchison home a few nights later. Betty felt very fine indeed, when the Murchison car came for her. Lucia had told her that day at school that it would. "We're taking care of my sorority and your little crowd, Betty, which is my crowd, too, though they don't seem to know it since I joined the sorority. I didn't think it would make that difference." "Do you really care about the girls, Lucia?" "Of course I do." "Then I'll tell them, if you don't mind." "Tell away," said this Italian-American girl with a laugh. So here were both Carolyn and Kathryn in the car with Peggy and another of the sorority girls. There was plenty of room for them to keep their fluffy dresses from being mussed and with great anticipations they arrived at the large place which Lucia now called home. Mr. Murchison was a widower of some two years' standing. This accounted for the fact that the recent visit had been the first that Mrs. Lee had made there. There was no entertaining done until his sister, the countess, came home. Mr. Murchison had explained the situation to Mr. Lee early in their acquaintance and entertained Mr. Lee and other men friends at his club down town. There was an old, old grandmother, Betty had heard, but Lucia never talked about the household and Betty, of course, never inquired. There were no class or sorority decorations here. The great rooms, of an old-fashioned type with their high ceilings, heavy woodwork, dark and carved, were fragrant with the odor of roses, which were Lucia's favorite flowers. The walls bore some fine originals from the brush of famous artists and Betty felt that she would like to wander through the rooms just to look at them. But human relations were more interesting yet. The countess did wear her tiara. Perhaps Lucia had suggested that the girls would like it. At any rate here was near-royalty with its jewels. Lucia was in pink, very becoming to her style, and wore pink corals, necklace and bracelets. But Lucia, in the language of society, was a sub-deb and must not be too gorgeous yet. Handsome books were in the library. Vases, tapestry, and rugs, exquisite ornaments, not in too great a profusion, indicated the wealth and taste that had collected them. Poor Mr. Murchison, thought Betty, to think he had to lose the wife that helped him make this home. But there again, Betty was mistaken, for it was the Murchison wealth and taste, including that of the Countess Coletti, that had made the old home what it was. Mr. Murchison received with the Countess and Lucia. Betty had thought that possibly the sorority president would be asked to receive with Lucia. But no, it was merely the family, distinguished enough to be sure. Mr. Murchison had not forgotten Betty and met her with a kindly grace. "You are particularly welcome, Miss Lee," said he. "I have not forgotten how you and your father looked after Lucia and my sister for me." The first comers were a bit overwhelmed with the elegance of everything, but the countess was cordial and easy and as the rooms filled up with familiar faces, the general stiffness disappeared. Ted Dorrance was there and a number of juniors, Marcella, of course, and her friends of both junior and senior classes. Some older boys Betty did not know at all, as well as girls, airy and assured, that Betty thought must be from the private schools of which Lucia had spoken. But they were pretty and clever and with charming manners. Betty was glad to meet some of them. Mathilde was in her element, so far as her feelings was concerned, Betty saw; but she felt sorry for her, for she was so evidently not of the elect, so far as those other girls were concerned. Chet and the boys that she knew came around, with Carolyn, Kathryn and the other girls. Lucia mingled with them all and the countess did not retire, as mothers have some times been known to do. Even Mr. Murchison stayed until games and some dancing were started. Then he disappeared. And Lucia, too, had an orchestra to discourse sweet music, either for dancing or games or, later, for supper. But who should be her partner for a funny game of which Betty had never heard before, but Marcella's brother, the Pirate of Penzance! "I believe, I'm quite sure, indeed, that this is the fair Titania," said he, as Marcella introduced him to Betty and told him that he was supposed to be Betty's partner "for these games," said Marcella. "Do you know how to play this?" asked Lawrence Waite. "No, I don't," replied Betty, as Marcella left them. "Then come on," said Lawrence. "I know a secluded and not too secluded spot. Let's talk. They'll let me do it because I'm not in school with the rest of you, and already I know Lucia very well." Lawrence Waite, known as Larry, explained to Betty, as he escorted her to just such a spot as she had read about in the grown-up books. Well, what of it? Wasn't she past sixteen? Why should she not have a handsome young man seating her in the conservatory by a fountain? It turned out to be some sort of a treasure hunt; but when Ted rushed by and called, "Come on, Larry, get into the game after treasure," Larry waved a careless hand and said, "I've found her." Ted laughed, appreciating the point and Betty naturally dimpled with amusement, but Larry turned to her again, smiling, but not altogether in fun. "Really, Miss Lee, I have wanted to meet you since that Hallowe'en at our house." "It has been sometime, Mr. Waite," suggested Betty demurely. "Yes, but I've been away at college except at the Christmas vacation. I'm home on a rush trip now. Father wanted me to come, a business matter in which I could help him. I wanted to ask you if you minded that little affair. I was around looking for things for Marcella, and I took a chance of frightening you, I know, when I lit that candle; but I had recognized you, that is, as Titania, and I had to make a train and wanted to see what you really looked like. You were very good to take off your mask." "It was just great fun, Mr. Waite. I should think I didn't mind! It would have been very stupid just to have your candle go out and not to have a single thing happen, not even to look into the mirror." Larry had half a mind to mention one more thing that he had been tempted to have happen when he saw Betty's face under that shining hair, but he decided that it was not best. She might think it just his line, and she was too sweet anyhow and too young for any suggestion of a stolen kiss. Pray heaven she went through high school and college as above anything doubtful as she was now! Larry had asked his sister what sort of a girl Betty Lee was, for Larry Waite was really interested. "It was fun for both of us, then. I told at college that I had looked over a girl's shoulder in a mirror at Hallowe'en and the fellows said, 'Beware, Larry.'" "I'm not a bit dangerous," laughed Betty, though pleased. Betty was modern enough not to be entirely unsophisticated and she did think that this was what the girls called his "line." But it was a jolly one, anyhow. She could safely have a good time with Marcella's brother. He reminded her how as Titania and the Pirate of Penzance they had tripped "the light fantastic" together and now, as her especial cavalier through the games and at supper, he really took her some distance on the path of pleasant acquaintance. There was no more on the personal line but they were as one on athletics and many other features of school life. Betty was fascinated at his tales of college life and thought it must be great fun to be away at school. Larry was quite popular with all the girls, Betty saw, and she wondered how Marcella had happened to assign him to her for the supper, for Betty was too modest still to guess that he had made the arrangement with Marcella, who was planning the arrangements with Lucia and the countess. If any one had expected any Italian dishes at supper she was doomed to disappointment. Perhaps the countess was as glad to return to American food and cooking as are many travelers. At any rate it was the customary late evening supper, dainty and appetizing. Lights, conversation, gay dresses, young faces, much laughter--Betty never _would_ forget it she declared to Doris the next morning as she described it in detail to her sister. "Everybody and everything were lovely, Dorry. I wish you could have been with me. And the Countess Coletti is a peach!" with which conclusion Betty hopped out of bed and began to dress. "Isn't it a pity," sighed Doris, "that life can't be parties all the time? And think of it, Betty; school is almost out and next year you'll be a junior!" "That is so," thoughtfully replied Betty, but she was thinking just then of the "Pirate of Penzance." 
34749	----	Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD [Illustration: BOBBY WON BY A CLEAN TWO YARDS] THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD OR THE CHAMPIONS OF THE SCHOOL LEAGUE by GERTRUDE W. MORRISON Author of The Girls of Central High, The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna, etc. ILLUSTRATED THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. AKRON, OHIO -- NEW YORK MADE IN U. S. A. Copyright, 1914 by GROSSET & DUNLAP Table of Contents - CHAPTER I--THE GIRL ON THE STONE FENCE - CHAPTER II--HIDE AND SEEK - CHAPTER III--THE GYPSY CAMP - CHAPTER IV--THE GYPSY QUEEN - CHAPTER V--THE SITUATION LOOKS SERIOUS - CHAPTER VI--PRESSING HOSPITALITY - CHAPTER VII--THE YELLOW KERCHIEF AGAIN - CHAPTER VIII--THE GIRL IN THE STORM - CHAPTER IX--THE GYPSIES AGAIN - CHAPTER X--EVE'S ADVENTURE - CHAPTER XI--BOBBY IS INTERESTED - CHAPTER XII--THE RACES - CHAPTER XIII--WHAT MARGIT SAID - CHAPTER XIV--ANOTHER FLITTING - CHAPTER XV--ANOTHER RIVALRY ON THE FIELD - CHAPTER XVI--FIVE IN A TOWER - CHAPTER XVII--EVE TAKES A RISK - CHAPTER XVIII--THE CONSCIENCE OF PRETTYMAN SWEET - CHAPTER XIX--MARGIT AND MISS CARRINGTON MEET - CHAPTER XX--INTER-CLASS RIVALRY - CHAPTER XXI--MARGIT'S MYSTERY - CHAPTER XXII--LOU POTTER SCORES ONE - CHAPTER XXIII--THE FIELD DAY - CHAPTER XXIV--MARGIT PAYS A DEBT - CHAPTER XXV--THE WINNING POINTS CHAPTER I--THE GIRL ON THE STONE FENCE The roads were muddy, but the uplands and the winding sheep-paths across them had dried out under the caressing rays of the Spring sun and, with the budding things of so many delicate shades of green, the groves and pastures--all nature, indeed--were garbed in loveliness. The group of girls had toiled up the ascent to an overhanging rock on the summit of a long ridge. Below--in view from this spot for some rods--wound the brown ribbon of road which they had been following until the upland paths invited their feet to firmer tread. There were seven of the girls and every one of the seven--in her way--was attractive. But the briskest, and most eager, and most energetic, was really the smaller--a black-eyed, be-curled, laughing miss who seemed bubbling over with high spirits. "Sit down--do, Bobby! It makes me simply _ache_ to see you flitting around like a robin. And I'm tired to death!" begged one girl, who had dropped in weariness on the huge, gray rock. "How can you expect to dance half the night, Jess Morse, and then start off on a regular walking 'tower?'" demanded the girl addressed. "_I_ didn't go to Mabel Boyd's party last night. As Gee Gee says, 'I conserved my energies.'" "I don't believe anything ever tires you, Bobs," said the girl who sat next to Jess--a vigorous, good looking maid with a very direct gaze, who was attractively gowned in a brown walking dress. "You are next door to perpetual motion." "How'd you know who I was next door to?" laughed Clara Hargrew, whom her friends insisted on calling "Bobby" because her father, Tom Hargrew, had nicknamed her that when she was little, desiring a boy in the family when only girls had been vouchsafed to him. "And it is a fact that that French family who have moved into the little house next us are just as lively as fleas. They could be called 'perpetual motion,' all right. "And oh, say!" cried the lively Bobby, "we had the greatest joke the other night on Lil Pendleton. You know, she thinks she's some French scholar--and she _does_ speak high school French pretty glibly----" "How's that, young lady?" interposed the girl in brown. "Put away your hammer. Do you _dare_ knock anything taught in Central High?" "That's all right, Mother Wit," drawled Bobby Hargrew. "But any brand of French that one learns out of a book is bound to sound queer in the ears of the Parisian born--believe me! And these Sourat people are the real thing." "But what about Lily Pendleton?" demanded one of the two girls who were dressed exactly alike and looked so much alike that one might have been the mirrored reflection of the other. "Why," replied Bobby, thus urged by one of the Lockwood twins, "Lil had some of us over to her house the other evening, and she is forever getting new people around her--like her mother, you know. Mrs. Pendleton has the very _queerest_ folk to some of her afternoons-long-haired pianists, and long-haired Anarchists, and once she had a short-haired pugilist--only he was reformed, I believe, and called himself a physical instructor, or a piano-mover, or something----" "Stop, stop!" cried Jess Morse, making a grab at Bobby. "You're running on like Tennyson's brook. You're a born gossip." "You're another! Don't you want to hear about these Sourats?" "I don't think any of us will hear the end of your story if you don't stick to the text a little better, Bobby," remarked a quiet, graceful girl, who stood upright, gazing off over the hillside and wooded valley below, to the misty outlines of the city so far away. "Then keep 'em still, will you, Nell?" demanded Bobby, of the last speaker. "Listen: The Sourats were invited with the rest of us over to Lily's, and Lil sang us some songs in American French. Afterward I heard Hester Grimes ask the young man, Andrea Sourat, if the songs did not make him homesick, and with his very politest bow, he said: "'No, Mademoiselle! Only seek.' "I don't suppose the poor fellow knew how it sounded in English, but it certainly was an awful slap at Lil," giggled Bobby. "Well, I wish they wouldn't give us languages at High," sighed Nellie Agnew, Dr. Arthur Agnew's daughter, when the laugh had subsided, and still looking off over the prospect. "I know my German is dreadful." "Let's petition to do away with Latin and Greek, too," suggested Bobby, who was always deficient in those studies. "'Dead languages'--what's the good of 'em if they are deceased, anyway? I've got a good mind to ask Old Dimple a question next time." "What's the question, Bobby?" asked Jess, lazily. "Why, if they're 'dead languages,' who killed 'em? He ought to have a monument, whoever he was--and if he'd only buried them good and deep he might have had _two_ monuments." "If you gave a little more time to studying books and less time to studying mischief----" began the girl in brown, when suddenly Nellie startled them all by exclaiming: "Look there! See that girl down there? What do you suppose she is doing?" Some of them jumped up to look over the edge of the rock on which they rested; but Jess Morse refused to be aroused. "What's the girl doing?" she drawled. "It's got to be something awfully funny to get me on my feet again----" "Hush!" commanded the girl in brown. "Can she hear us, 'way down there, Laura Belding?" asked Nellie Agnew, anxiously. "See here! Something's chasing her--eh?" The girl who had attracted their attention was quite unknown to any of the walking party. And she was, at first sight, an odd-looking person. She wore no hat, and her black hair streamed behind her in a wild tangle as she ran along the muddy road. She had a vivid yellow handkerchief tied loosely about her throat, and her skirt was green--a combination of colors bound to attract attention at a distance. When the girls first saw this fugitive--for such she seemed to be--she was running from the thick covert of pine and spruce which masked the road to the west, and now she leaped upon the stone fence which bordered the upper edge of the highway as far as the spectators above could trace its course. The stone wall was old, and broken in places. It must have offered very insecure footing; but the oddly dressed girl ran along it with the confidence of a chipmunk. "Did you ever see anything like that?" gasped Bobby. "I'd like to have her balance." "And her feet!" agreed Jess, struggling to her knees the better to see the running girl. "She's bound to fall!" gasped Nellie. "Not she!" said Eve Sitz, the largest and quietest girl of the group. "Those Gypsies run like dogs and are just as sure-footed as--as chamois," added the Swiss girl, harking back to a childhood memory of her own mountainous country. "A Gypsy!" asked Bobby, in a hushed voice. "You don't mean it?" "She's dressed like one," said Eve. "And see how brown she is," added Laura Belding, otherwise "Mother Wit." "There! she almost fell," gasped one of the twins who stood now, with arms entwined, looking at the flying girl with nervous expectancy. It did not seem as though she could run the length of the stone fence without coming to grief. But it was a quick journey. With a flying leap the girl in the green skirt and yellow scarf disappeared in a clump of brush which masked the wall at its easterly end, just where the road dipped toward the noisy brook which curved around that shoulder of the ridge and, later, fell over a ledge into a broad pool--the murmur of the cascade being faintly audible to the spectators on the summit of the ridge. "She's gone!" spoke Bobby, finally, breaking the silence. "But who's that coming after her?" demanded Nellie, looking back toward the West. "There! down in the shadow of the trees. Isn't that a figure moving, too?" CHAPTER II--HIDE AND SEEK "It's a man!" Dora Lockwood said it so tragically that Bobby was highly amused. "My goodness me!" she chortled. "You said that with all the horrified emphasis of a spinster lady." "It _is_ a man--isn't it?" whispered the other twin. "I--I guess so," Laura Belding said, slowly. "It is," declared Jess. "And he's a tough looking character." "And he is acting quite as oddly as the girl did," remarked Bobby. "What do you suppose it means?" "He's a Gypsy, too, I believe," put in Eve Sitz, suddenly. "Say! this is getting melodramatic," laughed Laura Belding. "Just like 'The Gypsy's Warning,' or something quite as hair-raising, eh?" agreed Bobby. "There! he's coming out," gasped Jess. The man appeared for half a minute in the clearer space of the open road. He was staring all about, up and down the road, along the edge of the woods, and even into the air. The seven girls were behind the fringe of bushes that edged the huge rock, and he could not see them. "What an evil-faced fellow he is!" whispered Dora Lockwood. "And see the big gold rings in his ears," added her twin, Dorothy. "Do you suppose he is really after that girl?" observed Laura, thoughtfully. "Whether he is, or not, it's none of our business, I suppose," returned Jess, who was Mother Wit's closest chum. "I'm not so sure of that." "My goodness! if they're Gypsies, we don't want to have anything to do with them," exclaimed Dorothy. "Oh, the Romany people aren't so bad," said Eve Sitz, easily. "They have customs of their own, and live a different life from we folk----" "Or 'us folk?'" suggested Nellie, smiling. "From other folk, anyway!" returned the big girl, cheerfully. "They come through this section every Spring--and sometimes later in the year, too. We have often had them at the house," she added, for Eve's father had a large farm, and from that farm the seven girls had started on this long walk early in the morning. It was the Easter vacation at Central High and these friends were all members of the junior class. Centerport, the spires and tall buildings of which they could now see in the distance, was a wealthy and lively city of some hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, situated on the southern shore of Lake Luna, a body of water of considerable size. At either end of the lake was another large town--namely Lumberport and Keyport. In each of these latter cities was a well conducted high school, and in Centerport there were three--the East and West Highs, and Central High, the newest and largest. For a year now the girls of all these five high schools had been deeply interested in athletics, including the games usually played upon the Girls' Branch Athletic League grounds--canoeing, rowing, ski running, and lastly, but not least in value according to the estimation of their instructors, walking. Usually the physical instructor of Central High, Mrs. Case, accompanied her pupils on their walking tours; but this vacation the seven friends who now stood upon the summit of this big, gray rock, had determined to indulge in a long walk by themselves, and they had come over to Eve Sitz's house the night before so as to get an early start on the mountain road to Fielding, twenty miles away. From that place they would take the train back to Centerport, and Eve was to remain all night with Laura at the Belding home. These girls, although of strongly marked and contrasting characters, were intimate friends. They had been enthusiastic members of the girls' athletic association from its establishment; and they had, individually and together, taken an important part in the athletic activities of Central High. For instance, in the first volume of this series, entitled, "The Girls of Central High; Or, Rivals for All Honors," Laura Belding was able to interest one of the wealthiest men of Centerport, Colonel Richard Swayne, in the girls' athletic association, then newly formed, so that he gave a large sum of money toward a proper athletic field and gymnasium building for their sole use. In "The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna; Or, the Crew That Won," the second story of the series, the girls were mainly centering their attention upon aquatic sports; and the Lockwood twins--Dora and Dorothy--were particularly active in this branch of athletics. They won honorable mention if not the prize in the canoe event, and were likewise members of the Central High girls' crew that won the cup in the contest of eight-oared shells. The third volume of the series, named "The Girls of Central High at Basketball; Or, The Great Gymnasium Mystery," particularly related the fortunes of the representative basketball team of Central High, and of which each girl now gathered here on the ridge was a member. Not long previous to this day in the Spring vacation when the seven were tramping toward Fielding, Jess Morse had made a great hit with her school friends and instructors, as well. She had written a play, which was performed by members of the girls' secret society of the school and some of their boy friends, and so good was it that it not only won a prize of two hundred dollars for which many of the girls of Central High had competed, but it attracted the attention of a professional theatrical producer, who had made a contract with Mrs. Morse, Jess's mother, for the use of the play in a revised form upon the professional stage. The details of all this are to be found in the fourth volume of the series, entitled, "The Girls of Central High on the Stage; Or, The Play That Took the Prize." "There! the fellow's going back," said Jess Morse, suddenly calling attention to the dark man on the road below. "If he was after the girl he has given up the chase. I am glad of that," added her chum. "But where did the girl go?" demanded Bobby Hargrew, craning her neck to peer toward the bushes on the easterly side of the rock. "There she is!" ejaculated Dora Lockwood, grabbing Bobby by the arm. She pointed down the side of the ridge, where the rough pasture land dropped to the verge of the brook. The other girls came running and gazed in the direction she pointed out. The green skirt and the yellow scarf appeared. The girl was wading in the stream, and she passed swiftly along, seen by the spectators at every opening in the fringe of trees and brush that bordered the brook. "In the water at this time of the year!" gasped Jess. "And in her shoes and stockings! She wouldn't have had time to stop to take them off and get so far up stream," declared Bobby, almost dancing up and down in her eagerness. "What do you suppose it means?" cried Nellie. "She is running away from the man, I guess," admitted Laura, slowly. "And trying to hide her trail," added Eve. "Hide her trail! Is this the Indian country? Are the Gypsies savages?" demanded Nellie. "Has she got to run along the top of a stone fence and then take to a running stream to throw off pursuit?" "That is her hope, I expect," Laura said. "But _why?_" cried Bobby. "You can't tell me that even Gypsies are as keen on a trail as all that----" "Hark!" commanded Laura. "Listen." "It's dogs," spoke Bobby, in a moment. "O--o--o--o! sounds like a wolf," shuddered Dora. "It is worse," said Eve Sitz, her face flushing. "That is the bay of a bloodhound. I remember that we saw one of the great, lop-eared animals in leash when that party of Romanys went past our place last week." "You don't mean that, Eve?" Jess cried. "A bloodhound?" "And they have put him on the trail of that girl--sure as you live!" declared the farmer's daughter, with decision. CHAPTER III--THE GYPSY CAMP "Why! I think this is outrageous," said Nellie Agnew. "We ought to find a constable and have such a thing stopped. Think of chasing that poor girl with a mad dog----" "I guess he isn't mad," ventured Eve, soberly. Bobby laughed. "Even if he's only vexed I wouldn't want a bloodhound tearing after me over these hills." "You know what I mean," persisted Nellie, still wrathfully. "It is a desperate shame! The dog will hurt her----" "No, no!" said Eve. "It is trained. And the man has it in leash----" "Hush! here they are!" warned Laura, and the girls hid themselves behind the fringe of bushes. The dog gave tongue just as it came in sight, and the sound sent a shiver over the watchers. The baying of a bloodhound is a very terrifying sound indeed. With the dogs were three men--one of them the same the girls of Central High had seen before. The other two were fully as rough-looking. "I hope they don't find her!" exclaimed Bobby. "They'll find you if you don't keep still," warned Jess. But it appeared to the girls that the Gypsies were having considerable difficulty in following the trail of the girl who had fled along the top of the old stone wall. The dog searched from side to side of the road. He leaped the wall, dragging one of the men after him, and ran about the lower field. That she had traversed the stone fence, like a fox, never seemed to enter the men's minds, nor the dog's either. For some time the party of hunters were in sight; but finally they went off in an easterly direction along the road, passing over the brook in which the strange girl had left her "water trail," and the girls of Central High believed that the fugitive was safe--for the time being, at least. "I wish we knew where she was going," said Nellie. "I'd help her, for one." "Me, too," agreed Bobby Hargrew. "If she should get as far as our house, mother would take her in," said Eve, in her placid way. "But the Romany folk are peculiar people, and they have laws of their own and do not like to be brought under those of other countries." "Why, they're just tramps, aren't they? Sort of sublimated tramps, perhaps," said Jess. "Not the real Gypsies," said Laura. "They are very jealous, I have read, of their customs, their laws, and their language. They claim descent in direct line from early Egyptian times. The name of Stanley alone, which is common with them, dates back to William the Conqueror." "Well, come on!" sighed Jess. "We don't care anything about the Gypsies, and we can't help that girl--just now. If we tried to follow her up stream we would only give those men the idea of the direction in which we went. Let's get on, or we'll never get to Fielding." "All right," agreed Laura. "Forward, march!" sang out Bobby. "How's the way, Eve? Right down this hill?" "Keep parallel with the road. We'll strike another path later," said the Swiss girl, who had rambled all over these hills with her brother. "Oh, these shoes!" groaned Jess. "I told you so," exclaimed Laura. "Bah! what good does it do to repeat _that?_" snapped her chum. "I hate those old mud-scows of mine that Mrs. Case makes me wear when she goes walking with us." "Well, you certainly wore a fine pair to-day," scoffed Bobby. "I guess it doesn't do to do what Mrs. Case advises against." "Not if we want to make points for Central High," said Laura, laughing. "That's so! Where would Jess be to-day if this was a regular scheduled walk, to count for our school in June?" cried Dora. "Now, rub it in! rub it in!" exclaimed Jess. "Don't you suppose I know I've been a chump without you all telling me so?" "I do believe it will rain," burst out Dorothy, suddenly. "Doesn't that look like a rain-cloud to you, Laura?" "Pooh!" said Eve. "Don't be afraid of a little April shower. It won't drown us, that's sure." "That's all right," agreed Dora, the other twin. "But we don't want to get soaked. If it should start to rain, is there any shelter near?" "The Gypsy camp, maybe," laughed Bobby, and then went on ahead, singing: "'April showers bring May flowers And sometimes more than that; For the unexpected downpour Often ruins the Easter hat.' "Say, girls, we _would_ be in a mess if it should start to rain hard." "And that cloud looks threatening," admitted Nellie Agnew. "I believe I felt a drop then," gasped Dora. "What's the matter, Chicken Little?" laughed Laura. "Is the sky falling?" "You can laugh! Maybe it will be a regular flood," said Jess, ruefully. "By the way, what caused the flood?" asked Bobby, soberly. "Folks were so wicked--all but Noah," replied Dora. "No," said Bobby. "It's one of Bobby's 'burns,'" declared Jess. "What _did_ cause the flood, then?" "It rained," said the irrepressible one. "Come on under this tree, girls!" cried Eve, striding ahead down the hill. "It will only be a passing shower." They ran for cover, and the broad branching limbs of the huge cedar Eve had selected faithfully covered them as the brief spring shower went drumming by. Meanwhile Laura was saying, more thoughtfully: "We've got to give our best attention to the inter-class and inter-school athletics when school opens again, girls, if we want Central High to stand first at the end of the year. You know we are being beaten right along by the East High and Keyport Just think! Central High only Number 3 in points that count when the June field day comes. We can't stand for that, can we?" "I should say not!" cried Bobby. "But we beat 'em last year on the water." "And we stand first in basketball," added Dora Lockwood. "But the fact remains we haven't got the championship of the League cinched by any manner of means," returned Laura. "Eve is going to win, I believe, in the shot-putting contests. Mrs. Case says that is on the doubtful list of girls' athletics. But throwing weights isn't going to hurt Eve, or Hester Grimes, that's sure. And look at that girl at Vassar! She put the shot thirty-two feet and three-quarters of an inch when she was only sixteen. Eve can do almost as well." "I don't know about that, Mother Wit," said the big girl, laughing. "But I'll do my best." "And your best will beat them all, I believe." "She'll beat Magdeline Spink, of Lumberport, I know," cried Bobby. "And _she_ did all the big 'throws' last year--baseball, basketball, putting the shot, and all of 'em." "I hope you are right, Bobby," returned the country girl, smiling. She was proud of her strength and physique. Her outdoor life since she was a little child, and what she had inherited from a long line of peasant ancestors was coming into play now for the benefit of Central High's athletic score. "Now, don't sit down there on the damp ground, Jess. You'll get a case of rheumatism--and a bad case, too." "Oh, I hope not!" cried Jess, jumping up. "I shouldn't know what to do for it." "You'd have to take mud baths," giggled Dorothy. "That road below is in fine shape for that purpose, then," said Jess, looking through the pouring rain at the puddles in the roadway. "You'd have to wear flannels," said Dora. "Hah!" cried Bobby. "That's it. Flannels are a sure cure. You know, "'Although it caused within his home A very serious schism, He still insisted flannel-cakes Were good for rheumatism.'" "Go on!" exclaimed Jess, laughing. "You sound like 'Alice in Wonderland.'" "Say, rather, 'Bobby in Blunderland,'" added Laura. "But to get back to athletics----" "'To return to our muttons,'" quoth Bobby, unrepressed. "We have a chance to win the championship--our school has--if we can bring the relay teams up to the mark, and win the jumping events. It is on field and track that we have got to gain the points. No doubt of that." "Then our track teams need strengthening--much," said Nellie Agnew, thoughtfully. "I should say so!" exclaimed Bobby. "I could put on one of Lil Pendleton's peg-top skirts and beat most of the junior runners right now!" "If it's as bad as that, we have all got to go into the track athletics, and pull up our score," declared Laura. "Hurrah!" cried Dorothy, suddenly. "It's stopped raining." "That little shower didn't even wet under the bushes," said Eve, with satisfaction. "Let's get along, then, before another comes and washes us away," said Bobby. "Straight ahead, Evangeline?" "Yes. Right down to that dead oak you see on the lower hillside." "Good! A mark is set before me, and if my luck holds good I'll reach it. But why prate of 'luck'? Is there such a thing?" "Give it up. What's the answer?" asked Dora Lockwood, directly behind her. "Luck is a foolish thing--or a belief in it is," complained Bobby. "List to my tale of woe: "Why wear a rabbit foot for luck Or nail a horseshoe on the sill? For if upon the ice you slip You'll surely get a spill. "Why cross your fingers in the dark To keep the witches from your track, When if, in getting out of bed, You step upon a tack?" "Don't sing us any more doggerel, but lead on!" commanded Laura. Bobby was first at the dead tree. There she stopped, not for breath, but because, below her, in a sheltered hollow, where a spring drifted away across a grassy lawn, there was an encampment. She held up her hand and motioned for silence. There were three large, covered wagons such is Gypsies usually drive. A dozen horses were tethered where the young grass was particularly lush. A fire over which a big kettle of some savory stew bubbled, burned in the midst of the encampment. There were two gaudily painted canvas tents staked on the green, too, although from the opened doors of the wagons it was evident that the Gypsies, at this time of year, mainly lived within their vehicles. "Oh!" exclaimed Bobby, when the other girls were crowding about her, and looking as hard as she was at the camp. "This is what the girl we saw, ran away from." CHAPTER IV--THE GYPSY QUEEN "Isn't that romantic?" cried Jess, under her breath. "Wouldn't you like to live in the open like that, Laura?" "Sometimes. Then again I might want a steam-heated house," laughed Mother Wit. "And see that darling little baby!" gasped Nellie Agnew, as a little fellow in gay apparel ran out of one of the tents. A young woman followed him. She had black hair, and very black eyes, and wore a necklace, and earrings, and bracelets galore. When she ran after the crowing little one the tinkling of these ornaments was audible to the group of girls on the hillside. This gaily dressed woman caught up the laughing child, and as she turned her gaze went over his head and struck full upon the seven girls. She set the little boy down quietly, said something to him, and he ran to cover like a frightened chicken. She spoke another word--aloud--and two men and three other women appeared from the wagons, or tents. They all gazed up at the half-frightened girls. "Come down, pretty young ladies," said the gaily bedecked Gypsy woman, in a wheedling tone. "We will not harm you. If you cross our palms with silver we may be able to tell you something pleasant." She spoke English well enough; but her address mainly was a formula used; to attract trade. "What'll we do?" gasped Dorothy Lockwood, clinging to her twin's hand. "Keep your courage, Dorry," said her sister. "Don't let them see we're afraid of them," Nellie advised, but in a shaking voice. "And why should we be afraid?" asked Laura, quite calmly. "Oh, I've seen that woman before," said Eve. "She's one of the Vareys. They are English Gypsies, like the Stanleys. She was at our place last summer." She started down the steep hillside into the camp. The first Gypsy woman said something in the Romany dialect to the others, and the men drifted away, only the woman awaiting the coming of the girls of Central High. As the seven friends approached they saw that the Varey woman was very handsome, in her bold, dark way. Silver ornaments were entwined in her coarse, blue-black hair; her dress, though garish in color, was neat and of rich material. The bangle, bracelets, necklace and all were either of silver or gold--no sham about them, as Laura Belding very well knew, her father being a jeweler and she knowing something about good jewelry. "She's queen of the tribe," whispered Eve to Laura. "And her husband, Jim Varey, is leader of this clan. He is a horse trader, and sells oilcloth and tinware, while the women sell baskets, and the like, and pick up a quarter now and then telling fortunes." "Oh, Eve!" whispered Jess, behind, "did you ever have your fortune told?" "Yes. It's silly," replied Eve, flushing. "It would be lots of fun," said Bobby, quite as eager as Jess. "Let's all do it," urged Nellie. "If we give them a little money they probably will not molest us." "They wouldn't dare trouble us, anyway," said Eve. "And why should they?" But the other girls, who were not so well acquainted with the Romany people, felt that the adventure in the Gypsy camp promised much excitement. In a minute they were all on the greensward in front of the tent of the Gypsy queen. "Cross the poor Gypsy's palm with silver," whined Grace Varey, in a wheedling tone, "and each of you shall learn what the future has in store for you." "Suppose you can't tell us anything pleasant?" said Bobby Hargrew, boldly. "Then we'd rather not know it." "But such pretty little ladies are bound to have pretty fortunes," replied the Romany woman. "Come! for a shilling--two shillings, in your American money--I will tell you each what you want to know most." "You will?" "Yes, indeed, for but two shillings in your American money." "She means a quarter," said Eve. "You try it first, Mother Wit," urged Nellie, nudging Laura. At the words Grace Varey looked sharply at Laura Belding's earnest face and thoughtful gray eyes. Instantly she said: "You do not fear. You lead these others. You have a quick mind and you invent things. You are usually first in everything; but power does not spoil you. You win love as well as admiration--there is a difference. You have parents and at least one brother. You have no sister. There is a----" She shut her eyes for a moment, and hesitated. "There is a black person--a woman--who has something to do with you----" "Beware of the 'black man coming with a bundle,'" hissed Bobby, giggling. "Hush!" exclaimed Jess. "She means Mammy Jinny, Laura's old nurse." Grace Varey had turned swiftly to the scoffing Bobby, and she pointed at her with an accusing finger. "You do not believe," she said, quickly. "You are light and thoughtless. You have been spoiled by a doting father. You have no mother--poor child! You are very frivolous and light-hearted; but a great sorrow is coming into your life soon. Into your school life, I believe. It is connected with one of your teachers--a woman. Beware!" Now, this was very melodramatic; but Bobby, for some reason, could not laugh at it. The woman was too much in earnest. Suddenly Grace Varey's manner changed, and she whined: "Cross the poor Gypsy's palm with silver, and she will tell you more. Only two shillings, little lady," and she urged Laura toward the tent. "All right," said Mother Wit. "If the rest of you are game, I am. But don't back out afterward." "Not if she is genuine," said Jess, laughing. Bobby hadn't a word to say; for the moment she was quelled. But all that the woman had said could be easily explained by the science of deduction--which is merely observation raised to the _nth_ power. Mother Wit went into the tent and found it a rather gloomy place. There was a folding table and two divans, besides some dingy hangings. It was evidently arranged for the purpose of fortune telling and nothing else. "Sit down, lady," said the Gypsy queen. "Let me see your hand. Do you believe in the reading of character by the lines of the hand?" "I do not know whether I do or not," replied Laura, calmly. The woman laughed lightly. She peered at the lines of Laura's palm for a moment, and then said: "You believe nothing without investigation. For so young a person you are very cautious, and you have much good sense. You are sharp and intelligent. And you are gentle-hearted. In short, your friends love you very dearly, and you are very faithful to them. Is it not so?" "You flatter me," said Laura, quietly. She noted that the woman was no longer holding her hand by the fingers; that she had shifted her own hand to Laura's wrist, and that two of the queen's fingers were resting lightly on her pulse--just as Dr. Agnew held a patient's hand when he counted the throbbing of his heart. "Oh, I know," went on the Gypsy, in her whining, sing-song way. "You would be faithful in every event. If you had a secret you could keep it--surely. For instance," she added, without changing her tone or raising her voice, "if you had seen the girl with the yellow handkerchief and green skirt, and the little, puckered blue scar high up--near the right temple--you would not tell where she was--which direction she had gone." _That_ was why the woman was feeling her pulse! Laura knew her heart jumped at the question. She might control her features; but the woman's question had startled her, and that sudden heart-throb had told the shrewd queen what she wished to know. She smiled lazily, in the dim light, upon the girl before her. She knew that Laura Belding and her friends had seen the fugitive from the Gypsy camp. CHAPTER V--THE SITUATION LOOKS SERIOUS Laura Belding was as quick to think as she was to act. She remained perfectly calm after the woman's question--calm outwardly, at least. Now she spoke: "You have spoken a very true thing now. If I had seen such a girl I should not tell you. And this has nothing to do with my own fortune. I have paid you to tell me something about my future--which you seem to know so well." This spurring phrase put the woman on her mettle. She flushed slowly under her dark skin. "You are a heretic--you do not believe," she said. "I must be shown before I believe," returned Laura, confidently. "Then what comes to you in the future will only prove the case," laughed the Gypsy queen. "You do not believe in palmistry," and she tossed the hand from her lightly. "Neither do you," said Laura, bluntly. "You did not hold my hand then to enable you to read my palm, but for another purpose." "You are a shrewd lady," said the Gypsy. "I read character in other ways than by palmistry--it is true." She looked at Laura for some seconds very earnestly. Of course, Mother Wit did not believe this Gypsy had any occult power; but her deep black eyes were wonderfully compelling, and it might be that there was something in "mind reading." "You have an intention now that, if followed to its conclusion, will bring you trouble, young lady. Just what that intention may be, or what trouble it may bring, I cannot say exactly," declared the woman, slowly and impressively. "But it deals with a person you have never seen but once--I believe, recently. It seems that you may think you are helping her----" "That is not prophesying," said Laura, quickly, and interrupting the Gypsy queen. "I shall scarcely think your information worth what I have paid you if you do not do better than that." "What do you mean?" demanded the woman, hastily, and with a flush coming into her cheek again. "You know very well that you are warning me not to assist the girl who has run away from this camp," Mother Wit said, boldly. "Ha! Then you _did_ see her?" cried the Gypsy. "You know I did. You played a trick on me to find out. You are not telling my fortune, but you are endeavoring to find out, through me, about the girl who has run away. And I tell you right now, you will not learn anything further from me--or from the other girls." The Gypsy queen gazed at her with lowering brows; but Laura Belding neither "shivered nor shook." "You are quite courageous--for a girl," observed the woman, at last. "I may be, or not. But I am intelligent enough to know when I am being fooled. Unless you have something of importance to tell me I shall conclude that this fortune-telling seance is ended," and Laura rose from her seat. "Wait," said the woman, in a low voice. "I will tell you one thing. You may not consider it worth your attention now, little lady; but it will prove so in the end. _Do not cross the Romany folk--it is bad luck!_" "And I do not believe in 'luck,'" rejoined Laura, smiling. She was determined not to let the woman see that she was at all frightened. Surely these people would not dare detain, or injure, seven girls. "An unbeliever!" muttered the Gypsy woman. "We can tell nothing to an unbeliever." "And having got _from_ her all you are likely to get," said Laura, coolly, "your prophecies are ended, are they?" Queen Grace waved her hand toward the tent flap. "Send in one of your companions," she said. "Any one of them. I am angry with you, and when passion controls me I can see nothing, little lady." But Laura Belding went forth, fully determined that none of her friends should waste their money upon the chance that the Gypsy queen might see into the future for them. "It's wicked, anyway," decided Mother Wit. "If God thought it best for us to know what the future had in store for us, he would have put it within the power of every person to know what was coming. Professional palmists, and fortune-tellers of all sorts, are merely wicked persons who wish to get foolish people's money!" She found the six other girls grouped in the middle of the camp, trying to understand one of the women, who was talking to them, and evidently not a little frightened. "Oh, Laura! How did it go?" demanded Jess, running to her. "Very bad. She is a fraud," whispered Mother Wit. "And look out! they think we have seen the girl who ran away and they will try to pump us about her." "That's what I thought," declared Jess. "Know all about your past and future, Laura?" asked Bobby Hargrew. "Dear me! it makes me shiver to think of it," said Nellie. "Does she stir a cauldron, and call on the spirits of the earth and air?" "She calls on nothing but her own shrewd sense," replied Laura, shortly. "And she can tell you really nothing. Take my advice, girls, and don't try it." "Oh!" cried the disappointed Bobby "I did so hope she could tell me--more." "Don't you believe a thing she told you about trouble coming to you at school," said Eve, quietly. "You needn't worry about that, Bobs," drawled Dora Lockwood. "You know you are always getting into trouble with Gee Gee." "Maybe she could tell me how to circumvent her," sighed Bobby. "You'll never get the best of Miss Grace Carrington," said Jess, decidedly; "so give up all hope of _that_." "Let the little lady try it--do," whined one of the women. "She can learn much, perhaps. Because one fails, that is no reason why another should not succeed." "I'd like to try it," said Bobby, earnestly. Laura whispered: "What they want to find out is if we saw the girl who has run away from them, and if we know where she is. Be careful." "Are you sure?" "Positive," Laura replied. "She caught me with her questions. She knows I saw the girl. I told her nothing else." The queen came to the opening of the tent and beckoned to Bobby. She seemed to know instinctively which girl was anxious to try her arts. "Oh, Bobby," whispered Dorothy. "Maybe you'd better not--as Laura says." "I want to see for myself," said the other girl, doggedly. And she moved toward the Gypsy's tent. Laura gathered the other girls about her. One of the women was so near that she could overhear anything said louder than a whisper. "I want to get away from here at once," said Laura, quietly. "Let us buy any little things they may have for sale, and go on our way. We can get away better now when there are only two men in the camp than we can when those other three--and the bloodhound--get back." "Oh, mercy me!" gasped Jess. "I had forgotten about the bloodhound." "Hush!" murmured Laura. "Don't let that woman hear you." But it was evident that the Gypsy woman had heard. She uttered a sentence or two in Romany and the two men whom the girls had seen before at the camp appeared. They did not come near, but sat by the roadside that passed through the hollow, and filled their pipes and smoked. It was quite evident that they were on guard. "We are prisoners!" whispered Nellie, seizing Eve's arm. "Sh!" admonished Laura again. "Don't let them see that you're afraid. That will only make them the bolder." But all of the six girls outside the Gypsy's tent were more than a little disturbed. The situation did seem serious. CHAPTER VI--PRESSING HOSPITALITY The other woman had been stirring the great pot of stew. It certainly _did_ throw off a delicious odor. Each girl carried a lunch box and they had been about to hunt a pretty spot, near a spring, and satisfy their appetites. Now the woman at the cauldron, who looked a deal like an old witch, turned and waved her spoon, grinned, and said something to the half-frightened visitors. The younger Gypsy woman interpreted: "She says you can have some dinner, if you will stay." "My goodness!" whispered Dora. "I could not eat any of that stuff." "Some of the Gypsies are good cooks--and that smells delicious," Eve said. Laura shook her head, but tried to speak kindly. "We could not stop long enough to eat with you," she said. "We must go just as soon as the other girl comes out." "Better think twice of it, little lady," said the Gypsy woman. "When you eat the bread and salt of the Romany folk they remain your friends." "And chase you with bloodhounds if you try to get away," spoke Nellie, unguardedly. It was an unfortunate remark. The woman must have heard it. She turned and spoke to the men again. They rose and stood ready to oppose the departure of the girls of Central High. Even Laura and Eve felt their courage waver at this. The latter knew that there were no farms near--no inhabited dwellings. The nearest family must be at least two miles away. And this road was lonely at best--and this time of year, when the farmers were just beginning to get their plows into the ground, everybody was busy and there would not be much driving on any of the ridge roads. "What can we do?" moaned Dorothy Lockwood. "Will they dare keep us here, Eve?" demanded her twin. At this strained point in the proceedings there was a sudden excitement among the Gypsies. One of the men started up the road in an easterly direction. The girls looked in some worriment of mind to see what was to happen. "They've caught the girl!" muttered Jess. "No, But the dog's coming back," said Laura. There appeared almost at once the three men who had hunted with the bloodhound--and the hound himself. He was more ferocious-looking close to than at a distance. The six girls shrank together when he passed them, his great dewlaps slobbering and dripping, and his red eyes glancing sullenly from side to side. The Gypsies laughed when they saw fear so plainly displayed in the countenances of the six girls. The bloodhound was fastened to one of the wagon wheels, and then the Romany folk paid no particular attention to their visitors. It was plain that they considered the girls would not go far when they saw that the dog could be unleashed and set upon their trail. Nellie Agnew began to cry, but Laura was growing angry. "Just wait till Bobby comes out of that tent. I'm going to start right off along the road----" "You won't ever dare to!" gasped Dora. "Yes, I will. They won't dare set a dog like that on us----" Just then the little boy they had first seen ran out of the other tent. He was evidently aiming for his father, who was a low-browed man with huge hoops of gold in his ears, and a ferocious mustache. But the little one had to pass the dog. He saw him, gave a shriek of delight, and ran straight at the huge and savage-looking creature! The girls were, for an instant, greatly startled. Then they were amazed to see the little fellow roll the bloodhound over and laugh and shriek in delight--while the dog nuzzled the baby and seemed to like the play. "My goodness!" cried Jess. "That dog's nothing but a bluff!" "I believe you," said Laura. "I've heard of a dog's bark being worse than his bite; but in this case his appearance is a whole lot worse than his real nature. I guess they just keep him for his fearful looks and his ability to trail anything." "Girls included," murmured Dora. "I don't want him trailing me." The Gypsies had tried to call the little boy away from the huge dog. But they knew that the appearance of the hound would no longer strike terror to the hearts of their visitors. Indeed, Laura, who was naturally unafraid of dogs, as she was of horses, went over to the big, ugly-looking brute, and patted his head. He raised up and looked at her, and his bloodshot eyes _did_ have a fearful appearance; but he lapped her hand with his soft tongue--and _that_ bogey was laid! "Just as soon as Bobby comes out, we'll go, girls," said Laura, confidently. "They won't dare lay a finger on us." At that moment Bobby burst from the fortune-teller's tent. She presented a wonderful and a shocking sight to her friends, for usually they saw her laughing. She was in tears and she ran to Laura and clung to her in a frightened way. "Oh! oh!" she cried. "I want to get away from this horrid place. Do let's go, Mother Wit! Please do!" "What's the matter with you, Bobby?" demanded Jess, nervously. "You give me the creeps." "These hateful people----" began Dora Lockwood, when the Gypsy queen appeared at the tent entrance. Her eyes sparkled and her handsome face was flushed. She called something in a low, clear voice, and the men, who had gathered in a knot at one side, started toward her. One of them unfastened the dog again and held the end of the chain. The queen was talking excitedly in their own tongue to the others. Laura shook Bobby a little and said, shrewdly: "I guess she got out of you what she wanted to know, eh?" Bobby only sobbed. "Did you tell her what direction that girl was going--that she was wading up stream?" "Oh, yes! I did!" gasped Bobby. "She made me." "Well, it can't be helped. It's really none of our business," said Laura. "But if they try to stop us from going away now, we've got to scatter and run. They can't hold us all very well, and one of us will surely find some house----" "They won't dare stop us," said Eve, decidedly. At that moment Nell held up her hand. "Hark!" she exclaimed. "What is that?" The rattling of a heavy wagon coming down the road from the east was audible. Eve instantly ran out to the edge of the road. One of the Gypsies uttered a shrill, warning cry, and the men turned to intercept the girls. But into view came the heads of a team of bay horses, and then a farm-wagon, with a bewhiskered man in high boots on the seat, driving the team. "Hullo! Whoa!" exclaimed the farmer, when he saw Eve. "I declare I Is that you, Evie?" "Why, Mr. Crook! how glad I am to see you," said the Swiss girl. "What have you got in the wagon? Just a few bags? Then you can give us a lift, can't you? We are tired walking." "Sure I can, Miss Evie," replied the farmer. "What are you girls doin' with these 'Gyptians? Gettin' your fortunes told?" "Oh, we just stopped here for a minute," said Eve, carelessly. The Gypsies had hesitated to approach closer. The men began to slip away, one after the other. "Pile in, girls," said the farmer, hospitably. "I'm going five or six miles on this road. Bound for Fielding?" "Yes, we are," replied Eve, as her friends gratefully clambered into the end of the wagon. "Oh, dear me!" whispered Jess. "What luck this is! I believe those folks would have tried to keep us." "I don't know about that," returned her chum. "But the woman certainly managed to frighten Bobby most thoroughly." Bobby had hushed her sobs. But even when the wagon had started again and the Gypsy camp was out of sight, she was not willing to talk about what the Varey woman had told her. CHAPTER VII--THE YELLOW KERCHIEF AGAIN School opened the next Monday and the girls of Central High took up their tasks "for the last heat" of the year, as Jess Morse expressed it. "And I'm glad," she told her chum, Laura Belding, "Just think! next Fall we'll be seniors." "Wishing your life away," laughed Laura. "We were awfully glad to be juniors, I remember." "Sure. But we'll boss the school next fall," said Jess. "We've done very well for juniors, especially in athletics," observed Laura. "Why, practically, our bunch has dominated athletics for a year, now. We made the eight-oared shell in our sophomore year." "True. And the champion basketball team, too." "And Eve is going to qualify for the broad jump as well as the shot-put, I verily believe," said Laura. "I'm glad I found that girl and got her to come to Central High instead of going to Keyport." "She was a lucky find," admitted Jess. "And she wasn't much afraid of those Gypsies last week--did you notice?" "Of course she wasn't. She told me this morning that the constable over there looked for the camp, but the Romany folk had moved on." "I wonder if they caught that girl in the yellow kerchief," said Jess, thoughtfully. "Don't know. But they managed to scare Bobby pretty thoroughly," said Laura. "I never did see Bobby Hargrew quite so impressed." Jess smiled. "She seemed to know something about you, too, Laura--that Gypsy queen. She knew you had a negro mammy at home." "I don't know how she guessed that," admitted Laura. "But I believe all that fortune telling is foolishness. If she came to the house and told Mammy Jinny half what she did us, Mammy would be scared to death. We had a good laugh on the dear old thing yesterday. She's had a cold for several days and mother insisted upon calling Dr. Agnew in to see her. You know how Nellie's father is--always joking and the like; and he enjoys puzzling Mammy Jinny. So when he had examined her he said: "'Mammy, the trouble is in your thorax, larynx and epiglottis.' "'Ma soul an' body, Doctor!' exclaimed Mammy, turning gray. 'An' I only t'ought I had a so' t'roat.'" "But Mammy does like to use long words herself," chuckled Jess. "She will remember those words and spring them on you some time. Remember when her nephew had the rheumatism?" "Of course," Laura replied. "We asked her if it was the inflammatory kind and she said: "'Sho' it's exclamatory rheumatism. He yells all de time.'" "But I _do_ wonder," said Jess, again, "if the Gypsies caught that girl. She must have wanted badly to get away from them to have run the risk of being chased by a bloodhound." "And she was smart, too," Laura agreed. "Running on that wall and wading in the stream threw the dog off the scent." "If one of us had done such a thing as that when the water was so cold we would have got our 'never-get-over,'" declared Jess. "I believe you. And a lot of us girls are 'tender-feet,' as Chet says, at this time of year. We have been in the house too much. I tell you, Jess, we've got to get 'em out in the field just as soon as it's dry enough. Bill Jackway is working on the track and Mrs. Case says she thinks we can start outdoor relay practice and quarter-mile running on Saturday--if it's pleasant." "That's what we have got to practice up on, too, if we want to win the points we need to put Central High at the top of the list," agreed her chum. "I should say!" The moment they were freed from the regular lessons of the day Laura and Jess and their particular friends made for the handsome gym, building and athletic field that Colonel Richard Swayne had made possible for them. Bobby Hargrew was very much down in the mouth, for she had gone up against Miss Carrington at several points and the martinet had been very severe with the irrepressible. "I tell you what," growled Bobby, "I believe that little brother of Alice Long hit it off about right when it comes to teachers." "How is that?" asked Laura. "Why, he came home after going to school a few days last Fall, and says he: 'I don't think teachers know much, anyway. They keep asking you questions all the time.'" "I agree with you there," Jess said. "And such useless questions! Why, if you answered them literally half the time you'd be swamped in demerits. For instance, did you notice that one to-day: 'Why did Hannibal cross the Alps?' I felt just like answering: 'For the same reason the chicken crossed the road!'" The girls got into their gym. suits in a hurry and then played passball for a while, and, when well warmed up, went out on the field. Mrs. Case appeared and tried some of the younger ones out in relay running, while several of the bigger ones, including Eve, tried the broad jump, and Laura, and Jess, and more of the juniors trotted around the cinder path. Central High had to develop a first-class sprinter to win that event at the June tourney, and, as Laura said, "it was a question where the lightning would strike." Every girl who _would_ run--even down to the freshies--was to be tried out. As for the relay races, that was a matter of general interest. To-day Mrs. Case's whistle blew in half an hour, and every girl oh the field lined up for a "shuttle relay"--half of them on one line and half on the other, fifty yards apart. At the sound of the whistle Number 1 girl shot off across the running space and touched Number 2, the latter dashing back to touch Number 3, and so on until the last girl crossed the line at the finish. This is a splendid form of relay-racing, for it keeps the girls on the alert, and the distance is not too great for any girl, who has a physician's approval, to run. Mrs. Case, however, was extremely careful--as was Dr. Agnew, the medical inspector--as to the condition of the girls before they entered upon any very serious training. The afternoons of this first week of school were spent in working out the girls gradually, the instructor learning what they really could do. Nor were any of the girls allowed to work on the track, or in the gym., two days in succession. But Saturday afternoon was devoted to real work and the making up of the relay teams for practice during the spring. It chanced to be a glorious day, too, and the field was well attended. Bobby Hargrew was faithfully practicing for the quarter-mile sprint. She was as fast as anybody in the junior class, and for once was really putting her mind to the work. "If Gee Gee doesn't hamper me too much with conditions and extra work, maybe I can be of some help to the school," spoke Miss Bobby. "But I can see plainly she's got it in for me." "That's what the Gypsy fortune-teller told you," returned Jess. "Didn't she warn you to beware of one of your teachers--and a woman?" Bobby's light-hearted chatter was stilled and she paled as Jess reminded her of the Gypsy woman. "Pooh!" Laura quickly said. "There is nothing in that foolishness." Bobby had utterly refused to tell them what Grace Varey, the Gypsy queen, had told her in the tent. "She could easily see that Bobby was full of good spirits and that she must always be in difficulties with her teachers--and of course it was safe to guess that she would have trouble with a female teacher. I wouldn't give a minute's thought to such foolishness." But Bobby would not be led to say anything farther, and was very quiet for a time. She was with Laura and the other juniors, however, over by the gate, when Nell Agnew made her great discovery. The girls had been playing captain's ball on one of the courts, and they were all warm and tired. Wrapped in their blanket coats, on which Mrs. Case insisted at this time of the year, they were resting on the bench which faced the gateway, and the gate was open. "My goodness me!" gasped the doctor's daughter, suddenly, "isn't that the same girl?" "Huh?" asked Bobby. "Isn't what the same girl? You're as lucid as mud, Nell." "Out there! Quick, Laura--don't you see her?" Laura Belding craned her neck to see outside the yard. Across the street a girl was passing slowly. They could not see her face, and she was wrapped in a long cloak--or waterproof garment. "Look at that yellow handkerchief!" exclaimed Jess. "I saw it--and I saw her face," said Nellie. "That's like the girl we saw up there on the ridge," admitted Laura, slowly. "The Gypsy girl!" exclaimed Jess, in excitement. "It _was_ she. I saw her face," repeated Nell. "Now, what do you know about that?" cried Jess. "Why, she must have gotten away from those people, after all. I'm glad of it." Bobby said never a word, but she stared after the yellow kerchief, which showed plainly above the collar of the mantle the strange girl wore. And while her mates discussed with interest the appearance in town of the fugitive from the Gypsy camp, Bobby was only thoughtful. CHAPTER VIII--THE GIRL IN THE STORM Now, Bobby Hargrew was not naturally a secretive girl. Far from it. Her mates noted, however, that of late she had grown quieter. Ever since their adventure with the Gypsies she had seemed distraught at times, and not at all like her usual merry, light-hearted self. "That horrid Gypsy woman told her something that scared her," Jess Morse said to Laura Belding. "I didn't think Bobby would be so easily gulled." "Those people know how to make things seem awful real, I expect," returned her chum, thoughtfully. "If I had not been on my guard, and had the woman not tried to learn something from me, instead of attempting to mystify me, I expect I would have fallen under her spell." "Nonsense!" laughed Jess. "Well, it seems Bobby was impressed," said Laura. "I should say she was. And whatever the woman told her, it is something that is supposed to happen in the future. Bobby is looking forward to it with terror." "I wish I knew what it was." "But Bobs won't take you into her confidence," sighed Jess. "No. I've sounded her. And it is no mere trouble that she expects in school. It is something more serious than Miss Carrington's severity," Laura rejoined. Clara Hargrew probably had more friends among the girls of Central High than any other girl on the Hill; yet she had not one "crush." She was "hail-fellow-well-met" with all her schoolmates, and never paired off with any particular girl. She had nobody in whom she would naturally confide--not even at home. For there had been no mother in the Hargrew home for several years. Mr. Hargrew idolized Bobby, who was the oldest of his three girls; but a father can never be like a mother to a girl. Her two sisters were small--the youngest only six years old. The housekeeper and nurse looked out for the little girls; but Bobby was answerable to nobody but her father, and he was a very easy-going man indeed. He was proud of Bobby, and of her smartness and whimsicality; and about everything she did was right in his eyes. The fact that his oldest daughter had been a good deal of a tomboy never troubled the groceryman in the least. "She was as good as any boy," he often laughingly said, and it was he who had nicknamed her "Bobby." But the girl was just now at the age and stage of growth when she needed a mother's advice and companionship more than any other time in her life. And she felt woefully alone these days. She was usually the life of the house when she was indoors, and the little girls, Elsie and Mabel, loved to have her as their playmate. In the evenings, too, she was used to being much with her father. But of late Mr. Hargrew had been going out one or two evenings each week--a new practice for him--and on these evenings when her father was absent, Bobby was so gloomy that it was not long before the little girls complained. "You're sick, child," declared Mrs. Ballister, the old lady who had been with them since long before Mrs. Hargrew died. "No, I'm not," declared Bobby. "Then you've done something that's settin' heavy on your conscience," declared the old lady, nodding. "Nothing else would make you so quiet, Clara." And Bobby felt too miserable to "answer back," and swallowed the accusation without comment. It was early in the week following the Saturday on which the girls had seen the fugitive from the Gypsy camp passing the athletic field. Soon after the mid-day recess a sudden spring thunder storm came up, the sky darkened, the air grew thick, and sharp lightning played across the clouds before the threatened downpour. Some of the girls were so frightened that they ran in from the recreation ground before the gong rang. The heavens were overcast and the trees before the schoolhouse began to writhe in the rising wind. The first heavy drops were falling when Bobby, who had been excused by Miss Carrington to do an errand during the recess, turned the corner and faced the sudden blast. It swooped down upon her with surprising power, whirled her around, flung her against the fence, and then, in rebounding, she found herself in another person's arms. "Oh, dear me! Excuse me--do!" gasped Bobby, blinded for the moment and clinging to the person with whom she had collided. "I--I didn't mean to run you down." At that instant there was a blinding flash followed by a roll of thunder that seemed to march clear across the sky. Bobby felt this girl whom she clung to shrink and tremble at the sound. Now, Bobby herself was not particularly afraid of thunder and lightning, and she immediately grew braver. "Come on!" she said. "We'll get wet here. Let's run into the boys' vestibule--that's nearest." The boys' yard was empty; indeed, the afternoon session had been called to order now in all the classrooms. Bobby and the strange girl ran, half blindly, into the graveled yard and up the steps. Just as they entered the vestibule the downpour came. The flood descended and had they been out in it half a minute longer the fugitives would have been saturated. "Just in time!" cried Bobby, attempting to open the inner door. "Oh! I can't go in there," stammered the strange girl. "Nor I guess I can't, either," said Bobby, half laughing, half breathless. "It's locked--and the wind is blowing the rain right into this vestibule. Come on! Let's shut this outside door." The half of the two-leaved door of the vestibule which had been open was heavy; but Bobby's companion proved to be a strong and rugged girl, and together they managed to close it. Then, with the rain and wind shut out, although the roar of the elements was still loud in their ears, the two girls were able to examine each other. And instantly Bobby Hargrew forgot all about the thunder, and lightning, and rain. She stared at the girl cowering in the corner, who winced every time the lightning played across the sky, and closed her eyes with her palms to the reverberation of the thunder. The girl was perhaps a couple of years older Bobby herself. She was dark and had a tangle of black hair which was dressed indifferently. A woolen cap was drawn down almost to her ears. She was rather scrubbily dressed, and nothing that she wore looked very clean or very new. The waist she had on was cut low at the neck--so low that the girl had tied loosely around her throat a soft, yellow muffler. Although the old brown cloak she wore hid her green skirt, Bobby knew that the girl before her was the one she and her friends had seen escaping from the Gypsy camp nearly a fortnight before. The girl who had been unafraid of pursuit by the bloodhound, and had run upon stone fences and waded in an ice-cold mountain brook to hide her trail, now cowered in the vestibule of the schoolhouse, in a nervous tremor because of the thunderstorm. "My! but you _are_ scared of lightning, aren't you?" exclaimed Bobby, after a minute, and when the noise of the elements had somewhat ceased. "I--I always am," gasped the girl. "The lightning won't hurt you--at least, the lightning you _see_ will never hurt you, my father says," added Bobby. "The danger is all past by the time you see the flash of it." "But I can't help being frightened," replied the girl. "No. I suppose not. And I guess you are brave enough about other things to make up, eh?" The girl looked up at her, but was evidently puzzled. She glanced through the glass doors of the building into the corridor. "Is this the school building?" she asked, quickly. "Yes. But this is the boys' entrance, so I don't want to ring. I'd get scolded for coming here," said Bobby. "Oh, don't ring!" exclaimed the girl, putting a timid hand upon Bobby's arm. "This is the big school, isn't it?" "It's the biggest in town. It's Central High," said Bobby, proudly. "You go here to school, of course?" asked the girl, somewhat wistfully. "Yes. I'm a junior." The other shook her head. The grading of the school was evidently not understood by the Gypsy girl. "Say! do you have many teachers in this school?" she asked. "Yes. There's enough of them," replied Bobby, grumblingly. "Women, too?" "Yes. Some women." "Who are they?" asked the girl, quickly. "What's their names?" The thunder was rolling away now, but the rain was still beating down in such volume that the girls could not venture forth. Bobby would have gotten wet in running around to the girls' entrance. "Why," she said, studying the Gypsy's face in a puzzled way. "There's Miss Gould." "Gould? That's not her whole name, is it?" asked this curious girl. "Miss Marjorie Gould." "Say it slow--say the letters," commanded the Gypsy girl. Bobby, much amazed, began: "M-a-r-j-o-r-i-e G-o-u-l-d." The strange girl shook her head. Bobby saw that she had been counting the letters of Miss Gould's name on her fingers, and she asked: "Don't you read English?" "No. I'm Austrian. I know some German. A woman taught me. But I never went to school--never to a school like this," said the Gypsy girl, with a sigh. "Who are you?" asked Bobby, deeply interested. "You--you can call me Margit--Margit Salgo, from Austria." Now, this puzzled Bobby Hargrew more than ever, for she knew that the Gypsies the girl had been with were English. Yet she was afraid of frightening the girl by telling her what she already knew about her. And immediately the Gypsy girl asked her another question: "Spell me some of their other names, will you?" "Whose other names?" "The lady teachers," replied Margit, her black eyes flashing eagerly. "Why--why, there's Mrs. Case," stammered Bobby. "How do you spell the letters?" "R-o-s-e C-a-s-e," said Bobby, slowly. "No! no!" exclaimed Margit. "Not enough. Too short." "But don't you know the name of the woman you are looking for?" "I didn't say I was looking for anybody," said Margit, with suspicion. "I am just curious." "And you can't repeat the name?" "I never heard it repeated. I only know how many letters there are. I saw it on a card. I counted the letters," said the girl, with a shrewd light in her eyes. "Now! haven't you any more lady teachers here?" "There's Gee Gee!" exclaimed Bobby, with half a chuckle, amused at the thought of Miss Carrington being mixed up in any manner with this half-wild Gypsy girl. "Too short," said the other, shaking her head decidedly. "Oh, her real name is long enough. It's Grace G. Carrington." "Spell it out," commanded Margit Salgo, eagerly. Bobby did so, but the girl shook her head. "Not enough letters," she declared. "Why--there are sixteen letters to Miss Carrington's name," said Bobby, wonderingly. "How many are there to the name you are hunting for?" "Two more," said Margit, promptly. "Eighteen?" "Yes. Now, don't you tell anybody what I say. That's a good girl," urged the other. "You're not afraid of me, are you?" asked Bobby, in wonder. "I'm afraid of everybody," muttered the girl. "You've--you've run away from somebody?" ventured Bobby, fearing to startle the fugitive by telling her just how much she _did_ know. "Never you mind about me. Thank you for what you've told me. I--I guess the worst of it's over now, and I'll go," said Margit, and she tugged at the knob of the outer door. The rain was still falling fast; but the thunder only muttered in the distance and the electric display had entirely passed. "Wait!" cried Bobby, earnestly. "Maybe I can help you some more." "No. I don't need anybody to help me. I can take care of myself," replied the Gypsy girl, sullenly. She mastered the door-latch, pulled the door open, and ran out into the rain. In half a minute she was flying up the street, and not until she was out of sight did Bobby remember something that might be of great importance in explaining the mystery. "Why, Miss Carrington always writes her name 'Grace _Gee_ Carrington,'" exclaimed Bobby. "There's the eighteen letters that the girl is looking for. I never thought of that!" CHAPTER IX--THE GYPSIES AGAIN When the rain stopped, Bobby went around to the other entrance and reported herself to Miss Carrington. That teacher always doubted Bobby's excuses, and this time she shook her head over the girl's tardiness. "You told me you had plenty of time to do your errand within the limit of the recess, Miss Hargrew," said Gee Gee. "Do better next time, please." "She always acts as though she thought I had an India rubber imagination," muttered Bobby, to her nearest seatmate, "and that I was always stretching it." "Miss Hargrew, please refrain from communicating in lesson time!" snapped the ever-watchful teacher. "Dear me!" murmured Bobby. "She's got me again. I _do_ have the worst luck." And then she wondered what Miss Carrington knew about the strange Gypsy girl, or what Margit knew about Gee Gee. "I'd like to get better acquainted with that girl," thought Bobby. "There is a mystery about her--and Gee Gee is in it." But she said nothing to any of the other juniors, judging it best to keep her own counsel. Meanwhile she kept a keen lookout for the girl to appear about the school building again. Several days passed, however, and Bobby saw nothing of her. Meanwhile the girls who were earnest in the work of putting Central High ahead in the inter-school athletic competition worked hard on the field and under Mrs. Case's eye in the gymnasium. Bobby was really doing her best on the track. Never had she settled down to such thorough work in any branch of athletics as she had in this effort to make a record for the quarter-mile. Central High needed the points that a champion sprinter could win, just as the school needed the points putting the shot, and the broad jump, would add to its record. Bobby, the year before, had acted as coxswain of the eight-oared crew; and she had played all season on the big basketball team--the champion nine. But this running was different work. Now she had no teammates to encourage her, or to keep her up to the mark. It was just what she could do for the school by herself. "Just by your lonesome, Bobby," Laura Belding told her. "To win the quarter-mile will mean two whole points in June. Think of that! And you can do it." "I don't know," returned the other girl, in some despondency. "Gee Gee'll likely get something on me before the June meet, and then where'll we be?" "But you don't _have_ to do things to make Miss Carrington give you demerits." "Bah! I don't have to do anything at all to get demerits. She's just expecting me to do something all the time, and she 'jumps' me without giving me a chance. Any other girl in the school can cut up much worse than I do and never get a sour look; but I--oh, dear!" "You see what it is to have a reputation for mischief," said Laura, half inclined to laugh. "Can't you cut out the frolic for this one term? Cure yourself of practical joking and 'joshing' poor Miss Carrington." "Great Cæsar!" ejaculated Bobby. "How could I ever do it?" Nevertheless, with all her reckless talk, she was really trying her very best to keep out of difficulties in school, and on the other hand to make the best time possible on the cinder track. Mrs. Case began to try her out now and then, and held the watch on her. Bobby wanted to know how fast she made the quarter; but the instructor put up her watch with a smile and a head-shake. "That I sha'n't tell you, Miss Hargrew. Not yet. You do your best; that's what you are to do. If you fall back, or I see you losing form, you'll hear about it soon enough." One morning before school-time Bobby heard Mrs. Ballister scolding at the back door. The old housekeeper did not often scold the maid, for she was a dear old lady and, as Bobby herself said, "as mild-tempered as a lamb." But she heard her say: "Be off with you! We've nothing for you. Scalawags like you shouldn't prosper--filling a girl's silly head full of more silliness. Go on at once!" Somehow Bobby had a premonition of what the trouble was about. She ran out upon the side porch and saw two Gypsy women coming around the path from the fear of the house. They were the two who had been at Queen Grace Varey's camp that day on the ridge when the girls of Central High had had their adventure. "Here is a little lady," whined the old woman. "She will buy of us," lifting up her baskets. "No, no," said Bobby, shaking her head vigorously. The other woman recognized her and touched the arm of her companion warningly. "Surely the little lady will not be unkind to the poor Romany," she whined. "She does not forget what Queen Grace told her?" "I want to forget it," declared Bobby, with flushed face. "I have nothing for you. Go away--do!" "Ah-ha, little lady!" chuckled the woman, with a leer. "You are mistress here now--and you can send us away. But remember! Your father will bring home another mistress before mid-summer." The two women laughed harshly, and turned away, going slowly out of the yard. Bobby remained upon the porch until she had winked back the tears--and bitter tears they were, indeed--and so went slowly in to breakfast. "Those horrid 'Gyptians," Mrs. Ballister was saying. "I caught them out there trying to tell Sally's fortune. They'd make her believe she was going to fall heir to a fortune, or get a husband, or something, and then we'd lose the best kitchen girl we ever had." But Bobby felt too serious to smile at the old lady's sputtering. Despite what Laura Belding said, there _must_ be something in the fortunes the Gypsy queen told! How did she know so much about _her?_ Bobby asked herself. She knew that Bobby had no mother and that she was sure to get into trouble with her teachers. And now the prophecy she had made that her father would bring home a new wife before mid-summer rankled in Bobby Hargrew's mind like a barbed arrow. For Bobby loved her father very dearly, and had been for years his confidante. It had long been agreed between them that she was going to be his partner in the grocery business, just as though she had been born a boy. And as soon as the little girls were big enough they were to go away to boarding school, Mrs. Ballister should be relieved of the responsibility of the house, and Bobby was going to be the real mistress of the Hargrew home. And suppose, instead of all these things Father Tom should bring home a new mother to reign over them? The thought was ever in Bobby's mind these days. Not that she had any reason to fear the coming of a step-mother. The only girl at Central High whom she knew that had a step-mother loved her very dearly and made as much of her as though she had been two real mothers. Sue Blakesley had been without a mother long enough to appreciate even a substitute. But Bobby and Mr. Hargrew had been such close friends and comrades that the girl was jealous of such a possibility as anybody coming into her father's life who could take her place in any degree. She worried over the Gypsy's prophecy continually; she wet her pillow at night with bitter tears because of it, and it sobered and changed her to her schoolmates, as we have seen. It was a very serious and imminent trouble indeed to the warm-hearted, impulsive girl. On her way to school that morning she chanced to turn the corner into Whiffle Street just as a dark-browed, shuffling fellow crossed from the other side and trailed along ahead of her toward the schoolhouse. Bobby knew that black face, and the huge gold hoops in his ears, at once. It was the husband of the Gypsy queen. "Oh, I wonder if the whole encampment is in town hunting for that poor girl, Margit?" thought Bobby. "They are such strange, wicked folk. And look at him--why, that's Gee Gee!" The lady ahead on the walk, behind whom the Gypsy was walking so stealthily, was none other than Miss Carrington herself. Instantly Bobby's thought flashed to the mysterious inquiries of the girl, Margit Salgo, about the teacher at Central High. Bobby involuntarily quickened her steps. She was afraid of these Gypsies; but she was curious, too. The whole block was deserted, it seemed, save for herself, Gee Gee, and the man. Suddenly he hastened his long stride and overtook the teacher. Bobby knew that the fellow accosted Miss Carrington. The lady halted, and shrank a little. But she did not scream, or otherwise betray fear. "No, lady. Ah'm no beggar. Ma nyme's Jim Varey an' ah'm honest man, so I be. Ah come out o' Leeds, in Yorkshire, an' we be travelin', me an' mine. Wait, lady! Ah've summat tae show ye." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a card. He held this card so that Miss Carrington could read what was printed, or written, on it. And she did so, as was evident to Bobby, for she started back a little and uttered a murmured exclamation. "Ah sees ye knaw ye'r awn nyme, lidy," said Jim Varey, shrewdly. "Yer the lady we're lookin' for, mayhap. 'Tis private business----" "I can have no business with you, man," exclaimed Miss Carrington. "Why, you're a Gypsy!" "Aye. I'm Gypsy. An' so was ma fawther an' mither, an' their fawthers an' mithers before 'em. We'm proud of the Romany blood. An' more'n 'us, lady, has mixed with the Romany--an' in other climes aside Yorkshire. But all Romany is one, wherever vound. Ye knaw that, lidy." "I don't know what you mean! I don't know what you are talking about! What do you want of me?" cried Miss Carrington, quite wildly. The man drew closer. Bobby was really frightened, too. She opened her own mouth to shriek for help. But the Gypsy did not touch the teacher. Instead, he said in a low, but perfectly clear, voice, so that Bobby heard it plainly: "I would speak to you, lidy, of the child of Belas Salgo." Miss Carrington uttered a stifled shriek. Bobby sprang forward, finding her own voice now, and using it to good purpose, too. A door banged, and a gentleman ran out of his house and down to the gate, where the Gypsy had stopped Miss Carrington. It chanced to be Franklin Sharp, the principal of Central High. Jim Varey saw him coming, glanced swiftly around, evidently considered the time and place unfavorable for further troubling the teacher, and so broke into a run and disappeared. Mr. Sharp caught Gee Gee before she fell. But she did not utterly lose consciousness. Bobby had caught her hand and clung to it. The girl heard Gee Gee murmur: "There was no child! There was no child! Oh! Poor Anne! Poor Anne!" "Let us take her into the house," said Mr. Sharp, kindly. "That ruffian has scared her, I believe. Could you identify him, do you think, Miss Hargrew?" "Yes, sir," declared Bobby, tremblingly. But Miss Carrington cried: "Oh, no! Oh, no! Don't go after him--do nothing to him." And she continued to cry and moan while they took her into the house and put her in the care of Mrs. Sharp. That forenoon Gee Gee did not appear before her classes at Central High. But she was present at the afternoon session and Bobby thought her quite as stern and hard as ever. Nor did the teacher say a word to the girl about the Gypsy, or mention the occasion in any way. CHAPTER X--EVE'S ADVENTURE Eve Sitz had plenty to do out of school hours when she was at home. Nobody could afford to be idle at the Sitz farm. But she found time, too, to put on an old skirt, gym. shoes, and a sweater, and go down behind the barn to practice her broad jump and to throw a baseball at the high board fence behind the sheepfold. She grew expert indeed in ball throwing, and occasionally when Otto, her brother, caught her at this exercise, he marvelled that his sister could throw the horsehide farther and straighter than he. "Dot beats it all, mein cracious!" gasped Otto, who was older than Eve by several years, had never been to school in this new country, and was one who would never be able to speak English without a strong accent. "How a girl can t'row a pall like dot. I neffer!" "You wait till June, Otto," replied his sister, in German. "If you come to the big field the day of the Centerport High Schools, you will see that girls can do quite well in athletics. You know how we can row, and you saw us play basketball. Wait till you see the Central High girls on track and field!" "A lot of foolishness," croaked Otto. "You go to the school to learn to be smart, no?" "No," replied Eve, laughing at him. "I am smart in the first place, or I would not go. And don't I help mother just as much--and milk--and feed the pigs and chickens--and all that? Wait till you see me put the shot. I am going to win a whole point for the school if I am champion shot-putter." "Ach! It is beyond me," declared Otto, walking off to attend to his work. The family--plain Swiss folk as they were--thought Eve quite mad over these "foolish athletics." They had no such things in the schools at home--in the old country. Yet Father and Mother Sitz were secretly proud of their big and handsome daughter. She was growing up "American." That was something to be achieved. They had come of peasant stock, and hoped that their girl, at least, would mix with a more highly educated class of young folk in this new country. So, if Eve thought that the tasks which usually fell to her nights and mornings, and on Saturdays, were not sufficient to keep her in what she called "condition," her parents made no objection to her throwing baseballs, or jumping, or taking long walks, or riding on the old gray mare's back over the North pasture. And it was upon one of these rides that she fell upon her second adventure that Spring with the Gypsies--or, at least, with one of the tribe. It occurred on the Saturday morning following Miss Carrington's meeting with Jim Varey, husband of the Gypsy queen. Of course, Bobby Hargrew had said nothing about this mysterious connection of the martinet teacher with the roving band of "Egyptians"; it was not her secret, and although Bobby might be an innocent gossip, she was no tale-bearer. Eve finished her morning's work, "pegged" the baseball at the target she had marked with a brush on the sheep fold fence, managing to scare all the woolly muttons out of at least half of their senses, and then grabbed up a bridle and ran down to the pasture bars and whistled for the mare. The old horse came cantering across the field. Eve never failed to have a lump of sugar in her pocket, and the old girl nuzzled around for it and would not be content until she had munched it. Meanwhile Eve slipped on the bridle and sprang upon the creature's back. Hester Grimes, and Lily Pendleton, and some of the wealthier girls who went to Central High, rode horseback in the parks. They went to a riding school and cantered around a tanbark ring, and then rode, very demurely, two and two, upon old broken-kneed hacks through the bridle-paths. Mrs. Case approved of horseback exercise for girls, either astride or side-saddle, as they pleased; but she certainly would have held her breath in fear had she seen Eve Sitz career down the rocky pasture upon her mount on this keen-aired morning. It had rained over night and the bushes were still dripping. Every time a sharp hoof of the unshod mare tore up a clod as she cantered, Eve got the scent of the wet earth in her nostrils, and drank it in with long and deep inhalations. She rode the mare with a loose rein and let her take her head. They dashed down the hill and through the narrow path that crossed a piece of Mr. Sitz's swamp land. Here the dogwood was budding and a few Judas-trees displayed a purple blush, as though a colored mist hung about them. In a few days the bushes would burst forth in full flower. Eve rode fast along the swamp path. It was narrow, and to have ventured three yards upon either side would have been to sink, horse and all, into the quagmire. This was a waste piece of the farm that her father hoped to drain at some time, but now it was only a covert for birds and frogs. But suddenly, as the girl rode fast, she thought she heard a cry. She half checked her mount; but the sound was not repeated. A minute later the gray mare was through the marsh-piece and out upon the field beyond. Eve intended circling around by Peveril Pond and so reach home again by another path; yet the mysterious cry she had heard back there in the swamp-piece kept returning to her mind. Suppose it had been a real cry--a human cry--a cry for help? The thought came back to her again and again. She was in sight of the pond, when she could stand it no longer, but pulled the mare about. "Come, old girl! We've got to be sure of this," cried Eve. "Back you go!" Her mount cantered back again. They reached the edge of the swamp and Eve pulled the mare down to a walk. Stepping daintily, the steed followed the narrow path through the over-bushed swamp. One could not see a dozen feet on either hand, so tall were the bushes, and so thick--not even at the height Eve rode. She halted her horse and called aloud: "Ahoy! Hullo! Who called?" No answer--for half a minute. The farmer's daughter shouted again. Then she heard it again--a half-stifled cry--a cry that ended in a choking gasp and which chilled the blood in her veins and made her hold her own breath for a moment. Was it an actual voice calling for help that had answered her? Or had she imagined the cry? She held in the anxious horse, and waited. Again the muffled shriek reached her ears. Somebody was caught in the quagmire--in the quicksand. It was off to the left, and not many yards from the path. CHAPTER XI--BOBBY IS INTERESTED Indeed, one could not have ventured many feet from the path at this season of the year, when the heavy Spring rains had filled the swamp, without sinking into the mire. Eve knew this very well, and it was with fast-beating heart that she slipped from her horse, tied the bridle-rein to a sapling, and ventured cautiously in the direction of the half-choked cries. "I'm coming! Where are you?" she called. The cry for help came for a third time. Eve parted the bushes before her, and then shrank back. She had been about to put her foot upon a bit of shaking moss which, when she disturbed the branches of the bush, sank completely out of sight in the black mire. Another step might have proved her own undoing! But on the other side of this dimpling pool of mire a willow tree of the "weeping" variety stood with its roots deep in the swamp. And clinging to a drooping branch of this tree were two sun-browned hands--muscular, but small. "A woman!" gasped Eve. Then, the next moment, she added: "A girl!" And a girl it was--a girl no older than herself. The victim was all but shoulder deep in the mire. She was clinging desperately to the branch of the tree. Her face was half hidden by the twigs and leaves, and by her own disarranged hair, which hung in black elf-locks about it. But even in that moment of surprise and fear, Eve identified her. It was the girl who had been a fugitive from the Gypsy camp. The identity of the person in peril did not claim Eve's attention for half a moment, however. It was her necessity, and the fact that she must be rescued immediately that spurred the farm girl to action. "Hold on! I'll save you!" she shouted, and even as she spoke she saw the girl slip down a hand's breadth deeper into the ooze. If she was to save the victim Eve must indeed work rapidly, and to the purpose. She saw how the girl had come into her evil plight. Beside the tree ran a narrow strip of grassy hummock. It looked sound, but Eve well knew that all such places were treacherous. The Gypsy girl had trusted to it, venturing off the regular and beaten path. She had slipped, or the edge of the hummock had caved in with her. Only by chance had she caught at the branch of the willow and so stayed her descent into the bottomless morass. Fleet of foot, Eve sprang back to the bridle-path where the mare was tied. She wanted the only thing which, in this emergency, could be of help to her--and to the girl sinking in the mire. There was no time to go for help. There was no fence near where she could obtain rails, even. Nor did she have anything with which to cut down saplings to aid the girl. Quickly her nimble fingers unbound the leather bridle from the tree. Then she unbuckled the reins and removed them entirely, letting the mare go free if she would. But the wise old horse stood and watched her, without offering to run away. "That's right! Stand still, old girl!" exclaimed Eve Sitz. "I'll want you mighty bad in a minute, or two, perhaps." She sprang upon the tussock on which the victim of the accident had evidently been before her. But she was cautious. She came to the place where the poor girl clung to the tree branch. Those twigs were slowly slipping through her cramped fingers. In a few seconds she would slip entirely from her hold. Already she was too far gone to speak, and her eyes were closed. It was no use calling again. Eve bent forward and with a little prayer for help, cast the loop of the strong rein over the victim's head and shoulders. As she did so the girl's hands slipped entirely from the tree branch. Eve screamed. But she threw herself back, too, as the weight of the sinking girl came upon the bridle-rein. Eve easily held her up. She could sink no farther. But the question that troubled the farmer's daughter was: Could she draw the unconscious girl out of the mire? But Eve was the heavier of the two, and far stronger. The Gypsy girl could run and leap like a hare--as she had proven the day the girls of Central High had seen her escaping from the encampment of her Romany companions. But she had not been strong enough to scramble out of the mud when she had once fallen into it. Now Eve, sure that the bridle-rein would hold, flung herself back and dragged the girl up. She came out upon the narrow tussock slowly, but surely. Eve wrapped the lines about her wrists and tugged with all her weight and strength; and she was not many seconds in accomplishing the rescue. The unfortunate girl lay helpless on the edge of the morass. She was a mass of mud, and her eyes were still closed. Eve seized her under the arms and dragged her across the trembling hummock to firmer ground. Once Eve herself stepped over the edge of the solid ground and plunged--knee-deep--into the mire. But she recovered herself and quickly brought her burden, breathless though she herself was, to the bridle-path. The old gray mare looked upon the muddy figure on the ground with ears pricked forward. But Eve spoke softly to her, and the creature stood still, as though she knew her help was needed. Eve did not trouble to put on the rein again. When she got her breath she raised the girl, who was still only half conscious, in her arms, and managed to get her on the horse. "You've got to carry double; but you can go just as slow as you want to, old girl!" Eve exclaimed, as she leaped upon the mare herself, sitting behind the other girl, and holding her on. Then she spoke again to the mare, and the latter picked her way carefully over the narrow path and so to the North pasture. In fifteen minutes Eve had the strange girl at the farmhouse, where her kind-hearted mother helped put the visitor to bed. They were true Samaritans in that house. They reserved all questioning until after the needy had been aided. Eve went to town that afternoon, for she was due for practice at the athletic field, full of this adventure. The strange girl had not said a word about herself save that she had been traveling through the marsh early that morning and had mistaken the path. Eve had told her mother her suspicions as to who the girl was, and it was plain that the young Gypsy would be unfit for travel for some days. The Sitzes would try to find out something about her condition and why she was striving to escape from her companions. "But, it's plain why she left town so hurriedly," declared Jess Morse, one of those to whom Eve told her story. "I've seen those Gypsy women in town myself this week. I saw the queen--Grace Varey, did you say her name is?" "That's the name she gave us last year," said Eve. "Well, I saw her only this morning. The Gypsies have come to town to search for that girl. She knows it and was escaping into the country when she got into that swamp. My! It was lucky you rode that way, Eve." But it was Bobby Hargrew who showed the most interest in the affairs of the mysterious Gypsy girl. She asked Eve a hundred questions about her and finally admitted that she had reasons for wishing to know all about her that she did not feel free to divulge. "I tell you honestly, Eve, I wish you'd let me go home with you so that I can see that girl before Monday morning," said Bobby, bluntly. "Well, why not?" returned the farm girl, laughing. "You'd be welcome, Clara." "I'll telephone father at the store and run home and pack a bag and meet you at the station," announced Bobby, greatly excited. "Why, we'll be more than pleased," urged Eve. "I'd like to know what the matter is with that girl, too. If you find out, will you tell me?" and she laughed again. "If it's only _my_ secret I'll tell you in a minute," promised Bobby. But in her heart she believed that it would prove to be partly Miss Carrington's secret, and she could not speak of _her_ affairs, that was sure. CHAPTER XII--THE RACES Bobby, as she said, "fished" for this invitation and got it while the girls were dressing in the gym. building, before the try-out work on the field that Saturday afternoon. Eve went to her broad jump, while Bobby lined up with a lot of the would-be sprinters from all four classes, to try their speed from the fifty-yard dash up to the quarter-mile. Only the very best of the candidates were allowed to try the longer races, and they had all to go to Dr. Agnew's office first. The doctor spent the most of every Saturday afternoon at the gym. building, and he doled out good advice to the girls while he prodded them, and listened to their heart and lung action, and otherwise discovered if they were "fit." Laura had been delegated by Mrs. Case to watch the sprinters, and most of them were quickly sent to the courts to play tennis, or basketball, or some other game, and the cinder track was soon devoted to those only who were earnestly endeavoring to develop their speed as runners--and who had some small chance, at least, to make a good record. Bobby tried the first short dash, and then the third. There was some crowding on the track and she could not do her best--nor did she wish to. As long as she made a good enough showing to be advised to wait for the finals, she was content, and so was Laura. "Hold yourself in," advised Mother Wit, smiling on her. "If you spend your best wind trying to beat these others at first you'll be lost when it comes to the quarter-mile, and be retired." So Bobby bided her time until the quarter-mile was called. There were but six contestants. It was the longest trial of speed that Mrs. Case would allow on the track. The Girls' Branch Athletic League gave but a doubtful approval, at most, to the quarter-mile trial. The six were "set" on the line and Laura, watch in hand, waited for the arrow to touch the mark, her hand raised. "Go!" she shouted, and the girls sprang away, each doing her very best from the start. For the quarter-mile run leaves little space for jockeying. It is soon over, and the contestant who gets off ahead is quite frequently the winner. The six girls were not so unevenly matched; and they started well on a line. For the first few yards they kept together. But then the pace began to tell. For fifty yards, say, they were matched to a degree; then it was plain that only two of them had the "sand" to keep up that killing pace for long. Bobby and one other forged ahead. Breast to breast, their arms working in unison, their stride equal, the two girls passed ahead of the others and shot along the track with unabated swiftness. The girls behind were panting, and falling back. One wavered and dropped out entirely when she had run but a furlong. The others clung to the track, however, doing their very best to record a fair time, at least. They had learned under Mrs. Case to play the game out, no matter how badly they seemed to be beaten. Bobby and the girl with her felt the strain growing, however. Unless the runner is experienced, the dogged perseverance of a close opponent is likely to rattle one at the last moment. As the two came down the stretch and the watching girls began to cheer and "root" for their favorite contestant, the runners felt their nerve going. A misstep now would cause the loss of the race to one, or to the other. Bobby tried not to see the girls along the track, or to think of the one pounding away beside her. She was breathing with comparative ease herself; but the sound of the other girl's breathing pumped in her ears, louder and louder! And how loudly her footbeats were, too! Could she only get away from those sounds--leave them behind her--clear the rushing air about her of those noises! There was the line stretched across the track. She knew it was there because Laura stood with it in her hand. If she could only breast that ribbon first! Somewhere--it seemed to be a cry from the air right over her head--a shrill voice kept repeating: "Come on! Come on, Bobs!" And Bobby called up that reserve strength that Mrs. Case had talked so much about in her little lectures to the girls, and sprang ahead of her rival. She was unconscious of the fact that she was ahead. It seemed to her that the other girl was still clinging to her. She could hear the footsteps and the heavy breathing. But suddenly she was aware that it was her own feet spurning the cinders that she heard--and her own breathing. She was winning! And then the tape snapped across her chest and Jess and Eve Sitz, who had run over to watch the finish of the race, caught her in their arms. "Splendid! Bully for you, Bobs!" cried Jess. "Why, there isn't any other quarter-mile runner in Central High. You take the palm!" And not until then did Bob understand that the girl she thought she had run so closely was a hallucination. The second runner was yards behind her at the finish! They bore Bobby into the gym. building and Mrs. Case insisted upon Dr. Agnew's seeing her again almost immediately. The physician was still in the building, and he came when called. The physical instructor was examining the time card Laura and her assistants had made out. She would not divulge their time to the runners, and the time keepers were sworn to secrecy; but everybody knew that Bobby Hargrew had made a good showing. "There's nothing the matter with that little girl," said the doctor, confidently. "Only, these sudden strains are not valuable. Yes, once, by the way, is all right. As long as one does not go beyond that reserve strength that your instructor harps upon," and he laughed. Bobby was naturally proud over her achievement, for she knew that she had run a very fast quarter. She was only sorry that she could not know herself just how fast she was. But that was a secret Mrs. Case kept from her. "The worst possible thing for a runner in training to know is how fast, or how slow, he is," she often declared, "Do your best each time; that is your business." So Bobby got into her street clothes and, having telephoned to her father as she had promised Eve Sitz, she ran home to pack her bag. On the way she passed by the house where Miss Carrington boarded. Gee Gee had two rooms in a wing of the old Boyce house, in which the Widow Boyce kept lodgers. Her front room had long, French windows which swung outward like doors upon the porch. And as Bobby ran by she saw a man come down from this porch, as though he had been listening at the windows, and hurry around the corner of the house and behind the thick hedge of the kitchen garden. "That was the Gypsy--Jim Varey," Bobby thought, hesitating before the house. "What is he haunting Gee Gee for? Ought she to know that he is hanging around?" But the girl hesitated about going in and speaking to the teacher. Gee Gee, she considered, was really her arch-enemy. Why should she try to shield her from any trouble? And, too, Miss Carrington might not thank her for interfering in her private affairs. So Bobby ran on home and told Mrs. Ballister where she was going, huddled a few things into her bag, kissed "the kids," as she termed her sisters, and ran off for the station, there to meet Eve for the 5:14 train to Keyport. And while she waited who should appear but that black-faced man with the gold hoops in his ears--Jim Varey! The Gypsy saw her--Bobby knew he did. But he paid her no attention, slinking into the men's room and not appearing again until Eve arrived and the two girls went aboard the train. Then Bobby saw him once more. "Do you see that fellow, Eve?" she demanded, whispering into the bigger girl's ear. "What fellow?" "There! he's gone," said Bobby, with a sigh. "I feared he was following us." "Whom do you mean?" queried Eve, rather surprised by her manner. "Jim Varey, the Gypsy." "Why! is he about?" asked Eve. "You mean the husband of Queen Grace? Well, he's a bad egg, he is! I hope he won't dog us to the house, for he might learn then where that poor girl is hiding." When they were in the car Bobby stuck her head out of the window to look along the platform. She did not see Jim Varey in the crowd; but she might better have kept in her head--for he saw her. CHAPTER XIII--WHAT MARGIT SAID The two girls settled back into their seats, each having one to herself, for the car was not filled. Bobby was soon laughing and joking in her usual way. "If I ride backward like this, will I get to the same place you do, Eve?" she asked. "What a ridiculous question!" exclaimed Eve. "I don't know. One of the 'squabs' was going around yesterday asking everybody a much more foolish one." "What was that?" "Why, what was the largest island in the world before Australia was discovered?" queried Bobby, giggling. "Why--why--Newfoundland, perhaps?" "Nope." "Madagascar?" "No," said Bobby, shaking her head. "England and Scotland together?" "Huh! You couldn't divide them very well," jeered Bobby. "But that's not the answer." "What _was_ the biggest island, then? I give, it up," said Eve. "Why, Australia, of course," chuckled Bobby. "It was there all the time, even if it wasn't discovered. Don't you see?" And so she passed the time without betraying the fact that she had a very serious reason for wishing to see and talk with Margit Salgo. When the girls left the train they had no idea that Jim Varey got out of the smoking car on the wrong side from the station and hid in the bushes. When the girls started across the fields toward the Sitz place, the Gypsy dogged them. In half an hour Eve and her guest reached the house, never suspecting that they had been the subject of attention. Bobby was welcome at the farmhouse. She had been there several times before and from Farmer Sitz down they enjoyed the whimsical, irrepressible girl. The expectation that she would be "good fun" put Bobby on her mettle, despite the fact that, secretly, she did not feel cheerful. Margit Salgo was better and seemed content enough to occupy the comfortable bed in the room next Eve's own. She knew Bobby immediately, and looked a bit disturbed. But Bobby gave her to understand that she had told nobody about what the Gypsy girl had said the day they were caught together in the rain. "But to-night, when the other folks are abed, I want you to tell Eve and me what you care to about yourself, Margit," said Bobby, when the others were out of the room. "Perhaps we can help you. All we girls are interested in you, for, you see, at least seven of us saw you that day when you ran away from your friends." "No friends of mine! no friends of mine!" gasped the girl, half in fear. "All right. You tell us all about it this evening," whispered Bobby and then whisked out to help Eve with her duties. Not that she was of much help when she followed Eve out to the clean and modern barn where Eve had her own six cows to milk, while Otto or the hired man milked the rest of the herd. But she _was_ amusing. "Goodness me!" was Bobby's first comment, when she came into the shed and saw the row of mild-eyed cattle standing in their stalls. "What a lot of cows--and every one of them chewing gum! Can you beat it?" "What do you suppose Miss Carrington would say to a row of girls who chewed their cud as seriously as these bossies?" laughed Eve. Bobby arched her brows, screwed up her mouth, and replied, in a stilted manner: "'Young ladies! I _am_ surprised. Do my eyes deceive me? Do you consider it polite to wag your jaws like that in public? Fie, for shame!' And much more to the same purpose," added Bobby, laughing. "Oh, Gee Gee and her lessons in politeness make me tired. She's so polite herself that she'd even return a telephone call! Hullo! what's this?" "A bridle," said Eve, as Bobby took it down from its hook. "Oh! Sure! You see, I'm a regular green-horn when it comes to country things. Of course, that's the bit. But say! _how_ do you ever get it into the horse's mouth? _I'd_ have to wait for him to yawn, I expect," and she laughed. She was great fun at supper, too, to the delight of the family. Otto, with his queer notions of the English language, made Bobby very gay; and the young man complained of his difficulties with the English language just for the sake of encouraging Bobby to correct his speech. Finally she made up one of her little doggerel verses for him, to Otto's great delight: "Otto saw a sausage in a pan, He smelled a smelt a-frying; He saw the sheep that had been dyed Look not the least like dying. "He saw a hen sit on an egg, Although she had been set; Heard Eve complain of being dry Though plainly she was wet. "He looked upon the window pane, Quite sure no pain it had; Then sighed, and shook his head, and said: 'Dot English, she iss pad!'" Good Mrs. Sitz had not allowed Margit to get out of bed, but Eve and Bobby took supper in to the Gypsy girl on a tray. She protested that she was not an invalid, and after Otto and the old folks had gone to bed, Margit, well wrapped in shawls and a comforter, came out to sit in a big chair before Eve's fire. "I am not like you girls," she said, wistfully. "You go to school and learn things out of books, eh? Well, I never went to school. And then, this big America is so different from my country. You do not understand." "I guess I can understand something of what you mean," observed Eve, soberly. "You see, _we_ came from Europe, too." "Not from Hungary--Austria-Hungary?" cried Margit Salgo, with excitement. "No, no. From Switzerland," replied Eve, smiling. "And I was very small when we came, so I do not remember much about it." "But I came only last year," explained Margit. "And I was given to the Vareys----" "Goodness me! Don't talk that way," interrupted Bobby. "It sounds just as though you were _owned_ by those Gypsies." "Well, it is so," said Margit. "I am a Gypsy, too. My father was Belas Salgo. He was a musician--a wonderful musician, I believe. But he was a Gypsy. And all the Romany are kin, in some way. These Vareys are English Gypsies. They are kind enough to me. But I sure believe they hide from me _who I am_." "What do you mean by that?" asked Eve, in surprise, although Bobby said not a word, but listened, eagerly. "Only my father, you see, was a Gypsy. My mother----" "Who was she?" asked Bobby, suddenly. "I--I do not know. But she was not of those people--no. I am sure of that. She died when I was very little. I went about in many lands with my father. Then he died--very suddenly. Gypsy friends took me for a while, but they all said I belonged over here--in America. So they sent me here finally." "Your mother was American, then, perhaps?" said Eve, shrewdly. "That may be it. But these Vareys care nothing about my finding any relatives, save for one thing," said Margit, shaking her head, gloomily. "What is that?" asked Bobby. "If there is money. They believe my mother's people might be rich, or something of the kind. Then they would make them pay to get hold of me. But suppose my mother's people do not want me?" slowly added the fugitive, sadly. "You are quite sure this is the idea the Vareys have?" asked Bobby. "Oh, yes. I heard them talking. Then I saw a--a card with a name written on it. They said, when they were looking at the card, '_She_ will know all about it. It is to her we must go.' So I know it was a woman's name." "But how did you know--or suspect--that the name was that of any teacher in our school?" demanded Bobby, much to Eve's surprise. "Ah! I learned much--here a word, there a word--by listening. I knew we were coming to Centerport for the purpose of getting speech with this woman whose name had been given them by the Hungarian people who brought me over here to America." "But mercy on us!" cried Eve, in vast amazement. "What name is it?" "She can't explain, for she cannot pronounce it," said Bobby, instantly. "Grace, or Jim Varey, never spoke the name aloud," said Margit, shaking her head. "But I know there are eighteen letters in the name. I counted them." "And what teacher at Central High has eighteen letters in her name?" murmured Eve, staring at Bobby. Bobby took a pencil and wrote Miss Carrington's full name slowly on a piece of paper. She put it before the Gypsy girl. "Is _that_ the name?" she asked. "When we spoke together before I had forgotten that Miss Carrington always spells her middle name out in full when she writes it at all." "Miss Carrington!" gasped Eve, and, like Bobby, looked in the Gypsy girl's face questioningly. CHAPTER XIV--ANOTHER FLITTING "Is she nice?" asked Margit Salgo, eagerly, looking at the two Central High girls. "Bless us!" muttered Bobby. "She is a very well educated lady," said Eve, seriously. "I cannot tell whether you would like her. But--but do you really believe that she knows anything about you, Margit?" "I do not know how much she knows of _me_," said the Gypsy girl, quickly. "But of my mother's people she knows. That I am sure. She--she holds the key, you would say, to the matter. It is through her, I am sure, that the Vareys expect to get money for me." "To sell you to Miss Carrington?" gasped Eve. "I do not know," replied the Gypsy girl, shaking her head. "But there is money to be made out of me, I know. And Queen Grace is--is very eager to get money." "She's avaricious, is she?" said Eve, thoughtfully. But Bobby Hargrew's mind was fixed upon another phase of the subject. She took Margit's hand and asked, softly: "What was your mother's name, dear?" "Why--Madam Salgo." "But her first name--her intimate name? What did your father call her? Do you not remember?" Margit waited a moment and then nodded. "I understand," she said. "It was 'Annake.'" "Anne?" "Ah, yes--in your harsh English tongue," returned Margit. "But why do you ask?" Bobby was not willing to tell her that--then. "At any rate, Margit," Eve told her, soothingly, "you will stay here with us just as long as you like." The girl had narrated her flight from Centerport when she saw the Gypsies in that town and knew they would hunt her down. "And we girls will help you find your friends." "This Miss Carrington," spoke Margit, eagerly. "She knows. I must meet her. But do you not tell her anything about me. Let me meet and judge her for myself." "Don't you think we'd better tell her something about you?" asked Eve, thoughtfully. "Perhaps she might not want to know me," replied the Gypsy girl, anxiously. "Who am I? A Romany! All you other people look down on the Romany folk." "Well, you are only part Gypsy," said the practical Evangeline. "And your father was an educated man--a great musician, you say." "Surely!" "Then I wouldn't class myself with people who would chase me with a bloodhound, and only wanted to make money out of me," said Eve, sensibly. "Ah! but all the Romany folk are not like, the Vareys," returned Margit. Eve would not allow the girl to talk until late, for her experience in the swamp had been most exhausting. They bundled her into bed, and laid all her poor clothing--which Mrs. Sitz had washed and ironed with her own hands--on the chair beside her. Bobby had one more question to ask the Gypsy girl before she went to sleep, and she asked that in secret. "How did that Varey woman--that Gypsy queen--know so much about me, and about Laura Belding, and our affairs?" "Did she?" returned Margit, sleepily. "She is a sharp one! But, then, the Vareys have worked through this part of the country for years and years. That is why I was given to them, I think. Perhaps Grace Varey has been to Centerport many times--I do not know. We Romany folk pick up all sorts of information--yes!" Bobby stole into bed beside Eve. She could not sleep for some time; but finally her eyes closed and--for some hours, or some minutes, she never knew which--she slept. Then, a dog's howling broke her rest. Bobby sat up and listened. The dog's mournful howling sounded nearer. Some dog about the Sitz premises answered with several savage barks. But, as nothing followed, the city girl dropped back upon her pillows again. The night noises of the country, however, disturbed her. She could not sleep soundly. Once she thought she heard voices--and so clearly that it seemed as though they must be in the bedroom. But it was still dark. Nobody could be astir, she told herself, at such a dark hour. A rooster crowed, and then several others followed. She fell asleep again slowly counting the chanticleers. And then--suddenly, it seemed--Eve was shaking her and calling in her ear: "Oh, Bobby! Bobby! Wake up--do! What do you suppose has happened?" It was broad daylight. Eve was more than half dressed and the door between their room and that occupied by the Gypsy girl was open. "What's the matter?" gasped Bobby. "She's gone!" wailed Eve. "Who's gone?" and Bobby leaped out of bed. "That girl. Out of the window. She's run away!" Bobby ran to look into the room. The window sash was up and the blinds wide open. The girls had slept on the ground floor, and alone in this wing of the rambling old farmhouse. "What did she run away for?" demanded Bobby, slowly. "She could have _walked_ away, had she wanted to, couldn't she? Nobody would have stopped her." "But she's gone!" cried Eve. "So I see," Bobby admitted, grimly. "She didn't go of her own free will, you can just bet!" "I didn't think of that," cried Eve, running to the window. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and even farmer folk remain an hour longer in bed on that day. The sun, which had just risen, revealed the hillside fields and pastures clearly. There was not an object in sight which suggested the missing girl's escape, saving just beneath the window. There several planks had been laid upon the soft earth, to make a walk to the hard path. This had been done by those who had come after Margit Salgo, so as to leave no footprints. Eve finished dressing in a hurry and ran to tell her parents and Otto. Mr. and Mrs. Sitz slept at the other end of the house, and Otto and the hired man on the floor above. Whoever had kidnapped the girl--for such it seemed to be--had worked very circumspectly. The watchdog, chained by his hutch, had been caught and a strong rubber band fastened about his jaws so that he could not bark. This had evidently been the first work of the marauders. Then they had gone about taking out the girl coolly enough. There were few footprints anywhere. And in the roadway they found where a wagon had been turned around. In this wagon, it was likely, Margit had been carried away, and it had started along the road in the direction of Centerport. "They have got her again," sighed Bobby. "And goodness only knows what they will do with her, or where they will hide her away." "Perhaps we will never see the poor girl again," ventured Eve. But Bobby did not believe that. She knew now, for sure, that Margit Salgo was in some manner closely connected with the private affairs of Miss Carrington. She was sure that both the Gypsies and Margit would appear near the high school again. CHAPTER XV--ANOTHER RIVALRY ON THE FIELD Eve Sitz had no rival at Central High when it came to putting the shot; but there were plenty of girls who essayed the broad jump--and some did almost if not quite as well as Eve. Notably Lou Potter, a senior who practiced assiduously and who had many friends who believed she would, in the end, best the Swiss girl. "The meet is a long way off yet," said one of Lou's friends to Laura Belding. "That girl you juniors are boosting isn't the only 'hope' of Central High." "Whom do you mean?" returned Mother Wit. "That girl whose name sounds like a glass of vichy--what is it? Eve----" "And what about Eve Sitz?" demanded Bobby, who chanced to arrive in time to hear the senior's remark. "And here's another fresh one," said the senior, eyeing Bobby coolly. "Thinks she is going to grab off the quarter-mile." "You make me tired!" returned Bobby, promptly. "Is that what you call loyalty to the school? If you've got another girl faster than I am, trot her out. I won't stand in her light." "Nor will Eve interfere with any girl who can beat her in jumping, or put the shot farther," declared Laura, quickly. "Oh, yes! That's all very pretty talk. But Mrs. Case is favoring you. She is favoring the whole junior class. _We_ weren't doing all the athletic stunts last year when we were juniors--no, indeed!" "Well, whose fault is it if the junior class stands better in after-hour athletics than the senior?" demanded Bobby, laughing. "And you pushed yourselves into the basketball team even before you were juniors," declared the other girl, angrily. "Come, now!" returned Laura, warmly. "That's not fair at all. If any of you seniors had shown any desire to play the game to win, Mrs. Case would have put you on the first team--you know that. But your class, as a whole, would rather dance, and go to parties, and attend the theatre, and all that. You know very well that Mrs. Case has often called our attention to the fact that late hours takes the vitality out of us, and makes success in the gym. and on the field impossible." "Thanks for your lecture, Mother Witless!" snapped the other girl. "But I don't care for it. And let me tell you that Lou Potter is going to make your soda-water champion look cheap." "Dear me!" exclaimed Bobby, as the older girl turned away. "Do you suppose we'll be as high and mighty as all that when we get to be seniors, Laura?" "I hope not--not even if we get to be patriarchs," laughed Mother Wit. "But Miss Potter is making a good jump, just the same, Bobby. Eve isn't going to have it all her own way." "Why, Eve'll beat her easily," declared Bobby, with confidence. Eve Sitz did not find it so easy to score ahead of all her rivals, however. And Lou Potter's record steadily grew better. Eve knew that she was doing her very best right along, whereas the senior was creeping up, creeping up--showing almost as good a record as Eve, and still forging on. Magdeline Spink, of Lumberport, held the championship for putting the shot, and Eve knew that she had surpassed her score. In the broad jump it was almost as difficult for the contestants to learn their exact record as it was for the sprinters to learn theirs. If Mrs. Case measured the distance she kept the record secret. Some of the seniors, especially those who were backing Lou Potter, began to make trouble in the meetings of the athletic committee, too. Heretofore no point had been made of the fact that the after-hour athletics were dominated by the junior class of Central High. That it was the fault of the present class of seniors if they were not in control of the League, did not now appeal to the disaffected. Some of the junior and sophomore girls who, as Bobby said, were inclined to "toady" to members of the first class, took up cudgels for the seniors, too. Notably Lily Pendleton, who was forever aping the manners of her elders and always liked to associate with more mature girls. And so, when there was friction in the committee meetings, Lily usually sided with the senior members. "Why don't you stick by your classmates, Lil?" demanded the hot-tempered Bobby, one afternoon, when the committee had been discussing plans for the June meet. It had already been decided that the inter-school field day exercises should be held on the grounds of Central High, that being by far the best field. "Have I got to stick by you whether you're right, or not, Bob Hargrew?" demanded Lily. "But we're right--of course." "I don't think so. The seniors should have their say. We'll want to boss when _we_ are seniors." "They haven't shown much interest in the scoring of Central High in athletic matters until lately," Jess Morse said, quickly. "Why should they want to come in now and run it all?" "They have the right," declared Lily. "Don't see it--do you, Laura?" cried Bobby. "If they only wouldn't try to go against Mrs. Case's wishes so frequently," sighed Mother Wit, who would have conceded much for peace. "They don't propose to be bossed by the teachers all the time," declared Lily. "And they're right." Now, this attitude would have appealed to Bobby Hargrew a few months before. But she had learned a good bit of late. "There is no use in our trying to run athletics in opposition to Mrs. Case--or Mr. Sharp," she said. "Or Gee Gee; eh, Bobby?" added Hester Grimes, slily. As the girls crowded out of the committee room some of the boys were grouped at the corridor's end, plainly waiting for their appearance. Chet Belding and Launcelot Darby, his chum, were waiting for Laura and Jess. That was a frequent occurrence. No boy ever waited for the fly-away Bobby; but there was with the two chums a tall, thin youth dressed in the most astonishing clothes that ever appeared in the corridors of a high school. "Oh me, oh my!" cried Bobby, under her breath. "There's Purt Sweet--and he looks like a negro minstrel." "My goodness me! He _is_ dressed to kill, isn't he?" giggled Jess. For Prettyman Sweet, the sartorial example of Central High, was more than usually gay upon this occasion. And he was not waiting there by chance, it was plain. "See! Lily is trotting off with him," laughed Bobby. "They must have patched up a truce. Oh! and look at that collar!" and the wicked Bobby leaned far over the banister and sang gaily: "He wore a collar extra high, He wore a purple vest; He wore his father's patience out-- But why tell all the rest?" "That saucy child!" exclaimed Lily, looking back. "She ought to be whipped." "You never can get even with her, doncher know," drawled Purt, shaking his head. "Weally, I'd much like to try it; but I don't know what to do." "And the rest of those girls, laughing, too," snapped Lily. "Jess Morse and Laura are just as bad." "Well, weally----" "Oh, if you had half the pluck of a rabbit," scolded Lily, "you'd do something to get square." Now, Lil Pendleton wronged Pretty Sweet. He was not particularly brave, it was true; but he would have done a good deal to "get even" with Bobby Hargrew for her sharp tongue. He had been the butt of her jokes for a long time and---- Well, it is said even the worm will turn. The following afternoon a sudden thunder shower kept some of the girls in the school building after most of the pupils had departed. It was a part of the junior class, and Bobby, as well as Laura and Jess, were among those kept by Miss Carrington after the regular session closed. "I believe she knew we were due at the athletic field this afternoon," grumbled Bobby, as they stood waiting at the foot of the tower stairs for the shower to pass. "What good would it have done us to be at the gym. now?" laughed Laura. "This shower has spoiled open air work for the afternoon." "Bobby doesn't believe Gee Gee ever gives us extra tasks because we deserve them," said Jess. "It _did_ seem as though Miss Carrington was particularly harsh to-day," murmured Eve. "That's so! She was as cross as two sticks," declared Bobby. "I believe something is troubling Miss Carrington's mind," said Nellie Agnew. "Have you noticed how thin she is getting--and that she starts nervously at every little thing?" "She was scared when the thunder began--I was glad of it," declared Bobby. "Bad girl!" admonished Laura. "It's her conscience," ventured Bobby. Eve looked at her and shook her head. "Oh, I'm not going to say _why_ I think her conscience troubles her," laughed Bobby. Nellie was looking out of the window. "I say, girls! it's breaking away, I do believe. And I think there's a rainbow--yes! there's a part of it." "It is a very small part you see, Nell," laughed Eve. "Let's go up into the tower," suggested Jess. "We can see it all from there." "Let's," agreed Bobby. "That's forbidden, you know," said Laura, slowly. "Oh, dear, Laura! Don't be such a mollycoddle! Nobody's really told us girls not to go into the tower. And we won't do any damage----" "Maybe the door is locked," observed Nellie, doubtfully. But Bobby ran to the solid oak door and tried it. Although there was a key in the lock, the door opened at once to her turning of the knob. "Come on!" exclaimed Bobby. "You're a lot of scare-cats!" "I admire your language, Bobs," laughed Jess, following her. The others went, too. Of course it was forbidden territory, and why shouldn't they want to go? That was only human nature. Besides, as they climbed the stairs, through the narrow windows they caught glimpses of the rainbow and the clouds, now breaking up into great beds of vari-colored mist. "Hurry up!" cried Bobby, in the lead. "It's just wonderful up here." They had left the door at the foot of the long, winding flight open. But scarcely had they disappeared when another figure appeared in the corridor which they had left. Purt Sweet, too, had been kept after school by Professor Dimp. The youth saw the girls ascend the stair. The chance was too obvious to neglect. Although usually taking Bobby's jokes and the others' laughter good-naturedly, he had been spurred by Lily Pendleton's remarks to a desire to "get square." And here was opportunity before him. Purt hurried forward, softly closed the door behind the girls, and turned the key in the lock. CHAPTER XVI--FIVE IN A TOWER But the girls climbing the stairs to see the rainbow had no idea that anybody below was playing a trick on them. After school was dismissed and the pupils left the building, and the teachers were gone, there was nobody but old John, the janitor, on the premises. From any other floor he could be summoned by alarm bells. But there were no push-buttons in the tower. Therefore, when Purt Sweet turned the key, and stole away from the door at the bottom of the tower stairs, he had imprisoned the five girls as effectually as though they were in the tower of some ancient castle. The five went up the stairs, however, without any suspicion that they were prisoners. "Come on! come on!" urged Bobby, who mounted much quicker than the others. "Oh, this is glorious!" They came out into a square room, through which the air blew freshly. The rain had evidently blown into the place during the shower, for it lay in puddles on the stone floor. The windows had no panes--indeed, they were merely narrow slits in the stone wall, like loop-holes in old fortresses. "Dear me!" cried Jess. "How small the people look in the park--do you see? Just like ants." "Some of 'em are uncles, not 'ants,'" laughed Bobby. "Punning again!" exclaimed Nell. "You should be punished for that, Bobby." "Huh! that's worse than mine," declared Bobby. "Look at that sky!" cried Laura. "It is very beautiful," agreed Eve, quietly. "Look at those clouds yonder--a great, pink bed of down!" murmured Jess. "And this arch of color," said Laura, seriously. "I suppose that is just what Noah saw. How poetic to call it the Bow of Promise!" The girls enjoyed looking at the wild colorings of the clouds and the beautiful bow. A half an hour elapsed before they proposed descending. As they went down the stairs, Bobby still in the lead, she stopped suddenly with a little cry. "What's the matter now, Bobs?" demanded Jess. "Oh! don't you see it?" cried the other girl. "It's a spider." "He won't eat you," said Jess. "Go on." "I know he won't. I declare! he's spinning a web." At that moment she came to the bottom of the stairway. "Guess the draught pulled the door shut," she exclaimed. "Hullo!" She tried the knob, but the door would not open. "Why, what's the matter, Bobby?" cried Laura. "That is not a spring lock." "Huh! I guess not," returned Bobby. "But somebody's sprung it on us, just the same." "What do you mean?" demanded Nellie Agnew. "The door's locked," declared Laura, reaching the bottom step and trying the knob herself. "You bet it is," said Bobby. "It's a joke!" gasped Eve. "I should hope so," returned Laura. "If they were in earnest it would be bad for us. John will leave the building soon, and how will we attract anybody to release us?" "Oh, Laura!" cried Nell. "Nobody would be so mean." "It may be," said Eve, thoughtfully, "that somebody went past, saw the door open, and closed and locked it with no idea that we were in the tower." "Well!" exclaimed Bobby, at that. "We're in a nice fix--yes?" "Who would have done it?" wailed Nellie Agnew. "Maybe the janitor himself," observed Laura, thoughtfully. "My goodness! but you're the cheerful girl," returned Bobby. "Do you want to scare us to death right at the start, Mother Wit?" "We might as well admit the seriousness of the situation," said Laura. "I can't imagine that anybody would shut us up here for a joke." "Some of the boys?" suggested Eve. "That Short and Long is full of mischief," added Nell. "Chet would wring his neck for a thing like this," declared Jess, with confidence. "I don't care who did it, or what it was done for," said Bobby, finally. "The fact remains: The door is locked!" "That is the truest thing you ever said, Bobby," sighed Jess. "Come on back to the tower room. Do you suppose we can call loud enough to attract the attention of people on the street?" "Not in a thousand years," groaned Bobby. "Oh, we won't have to remain here that long," said Laura, cheerfully. "Hope not," growled Bobby. "I'm getting hungry." "That won't do you any good," said Jess. "It's useless to have an appetite when there is nothing in sight to satisfy it--just as useless as the holes in a porous plaster." "Who says the holes in a porous plaster are useless?" demanded Bobby, quickly. "They're not." "What are they for, then?" asked Eve, mildly. "Why, to let the pain out, of course," declared Bobby, boldly. "I wish there were some holes here that would let _us_ out," sighed Nellie Agnew. "Don't lose heart, Nell!" advised Laura. "There never was a situation that didn't offer some release. We'll find a way of escape." "Sure!" scoffed Bobby. "Any of us can crawl out through one of these slits in the wall." "And then what?" demanded Jess. "Why, jump!" cried Bobby. "There'll be nothing to stop you." "Don't talk so recklessly," said Mother Wit. "This is really a very serious problem. Mother will be very anxious about me if I don't come home by six." "It's an hour and a half to that yet," said Nellie, looking at her watch. Bobby was striving to squeeze through one of the open windows in the tower and look down upon the street. But it was nonsense to expect anybody on the walk to see them up there in the tower. "And we could shriek our heads off without attracting a bit of attention," declared Nellie, half crying. "What _shall_ we do, Laura?" "Keep cool," advised Laura. "Why lose all our courage because we are locked into this tower? We will be found." "Maybe," spoke Bobby, gloomily. "You have become a regular croaker," declared Jess. "I'm ashamed of you, Bobs." "That's all right!" cried Bobby. "But hunger is an awful thing to suffer." "Ha! you make me laugh," cried Eve. "Just think of me! If I don't catch that 5:14 train I'll not get supper till nine o'clock." "But what a supper it will be when you _do_ get it!" exclaimed Bobby. "Oh, girls! when I was at Eve's house last week they had thirteen vegetables for supper, besides two kinds of cold meat, and preserves and pickles. Talk about the poor farmer! Why the sort of supper Eve's folks have every night would cost city folks two dollars a plate." "I am afraid you are stretching your imagination, Bobby," laughed Eve. "Never! They've got bins and bins of vegetables--and rows and rows of ham in the meat house--and bar'ls and bar'ls of salt pork! Listen here," cried the whimsical Bobby, who had a doggerel rhyme for every occasion. "This is just what Eve Sitz hears whenever she goes down into the cellar in the winter. She can't deny it!" And she sang: "Potato gazed with frightened eyes, King corn lent mournful ear, The beet a blushing red did turn, The celery blanched with fear, The bean hid trembling in its pod, The trees began to bark, And on the beaten turnpike road The stones for warmth did spark, The brooklet babbled in its sleep Because the night was cold; The onion weeps within its bed Because the year is old." "You are so ridiculous," said Eve. "Nobody believes the rigamaroles you say." "All right!" returned Bobby, highly offended. "But you're bound to believe one thing--that's sure." "What is that?" queried Nellie. "That we're up in this tower, with the door locked--and I believe that John, the janitor, goes home about this time to supper!" "Oh, oh!" cried Nellie. "Don't say _that_. However will we get away?" "Let's bang on the door!" exclaimed Jess. So they thumped upon the thick oak door--Bobby even kicked it viciously; and they shouted until they were hoarse. But nobody heard, and nobody came. The only person who knew they were locked into the tower was a mile away from Central High by that time--and, anyway, he dared not tell of what he had done, nor did he dare go back to release the girls from their imprisonment. CHAPTER XVII--EVE TAKES A RISK "Now, Nell!" declared Mother Wit, emphatically, "there isn't the least use in your crying. Tears will not get us down from this tower." "You--you can be just as--as brave as you want to be," sobbed Nellie Agnew. "I--want--to--go--home!" "For goodness-gracious sake! Who doesn't?" snapped Bobby. "But, just as Laura says, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth won't help us the tiniest bit!" "What will help us, I'd like to know?" grumbled Jess Morse. "Put on your thinking cap, Mother Wit," cried Bobby. "Dear me!" said Eve, drawing in her head. "It _is_ a long way from the ground--and that's a fact." "It's a good, long jump," chuckled Bobby. "Let's write calls for help on pieces of paper and drop them down," suggested Laura. "With the wind blowing the way it is, the papers would fly up, instead of down," scoffed her chum. "We'll weight 'em," said Laura. "It would be like throwing over a bottle into the sea, telling how we are cast away on a desert island," said Bobby. "And this is worse than any desert island I ever heard about. Say, girls! how do you suppose our boots will taste?" "What nonsense!" said Nellie, wiping her eyes. "We sha'n't be hungry enough to begin on our shoes for a long time yet. But how scared our folks will be when we don't come home to supper." "And the sun's going down," mourned Jess. "Why, girls," said Laura, thoughtfully, "it will be after dark before our folks begin to miss us much. And then they won't see us up here, that's sure!" "I'm going to climb out of one of these windows and wave something," cried her chum. "Surely somebody will see me." "And think you're just playing up here," commented Nellie, who was fast losing all hope. "My goodness!" exclaimed Jess. "They must think, then, that I have selected a crazy place to play in," and she removed her jacket and began to crawl out through one of the windows of the tower. "Be careful, dear!" warned Laura. "Yes, do look out where you step," said Bobby, grabbing Jess's skirt with a firm grip. "It's a long way down to the street." "If we only had some means of making a light up here," said Laura, in a worried tone. "Then, after dark, people _would_ be attracted by our plight." "I haven't a match--have you?" demanded Bobby. "Of course not. Girls never do carry useful things in their pockets. Unless _you_ do, Bobby." "I've got about everything in my pocket but a match," declared the smaller girl. "I have a good mind to drop this old coat," called Jess, from outside. "And it would catch on something half-way down the tower, perhaps, and then you'd never see it again," Bobby said. "Well, what _shall_ we do?" demanded Jess, wriggling back into the tower room and dragging her jacket after her. "Nobody will even look up. I expect we'd look like pigeons up here to them." "Oh, dear!" gasped Bobby. "I do wish some pigeons _would_ fly up here. They do sometimes, you know." "What good would they do us?" demanded Nellie. "Couldn't we kill and eat them?" replied Bobby. "Nothing like having bright ideas when you are cast away on a desert tower." "Your ideas may be bright enough," laughed Laura; "but I wouldn't care to eat pigeons raw." "You may be glad to before we get down from here," returned Bobby, gloomily. "Now that's ridiculous," said Mother Wit, briskly. "Don't _you_ begin to lose heart, Miss Hargrew." "I've as good a right as the next one," growled Bobby. "Speaking of pigeons," observed Jess, ruminatively, "Chet's carriers sometimes come up here when he lets them out. I've seen them." "My goodness me!" ejaculated Mother Wit. "Wouldn't that be fine?" "Wouldn't what be fine?" queried Nellie, wiping her eyes. "If some of Chet's carriers would just fly up here. They know me. I've handled them lots of times. And we might send a note back telling Chet where we are." "And he'd find it tied under the pigeon's wing in about a week," scoffed Bobby. "What _are_ we going to do, girls?" demanded Nellie. "And it's chilly up here, too." Jess pulled on her jacket again. "We can go down on the stairway, where it is warmer," she said. "It is very annoying," wailed the doctor's daughter, "to have you girls take the matter so calmly. Why, the whole town will be searching for us by midnight." "I hope so!" ejaculated Bobby. "Let's all shout together. Somebody ought to hear us," Eve said. "That is impossible," objected Jess. "Sound doesn't travel downward--much. Not when there is a sharp wind blowing, as it is now. It's a good deal farther to the ground than it appears." "That's like what our old girl, Nora, said about the distance to Liverpool. When she came to us, she came direct from the immigrant ship," laughed Bobby. "And she was telling about the weary way across the 'say.' 'How far is it, Nora?' one of the children asked her. "'It's fower thousan' mile,' declared Nora, 'to Liverpool.' "But the kiddies wouldn't have that. They looked it up in the geography, and told her she was wrong--it was only three thousand. "'Sure, that's flatways,' says Nora. 'But I been over it, an' wid the ups an' the downs, sure I _know_ 'tis another thousand!" "Dear me, Bobby," complained Nellie. "I believe you'd joke if you were going to be hanged!" "Do you think so?" asked Bobby, seriously. "Much obliged. That's a good reputation to have, whether I deserve it or not." "Good for you, Bobs!" laughed Jess. "You keep still, old croaker!" she added, shaking Nellie Agnew. "Let's look on the cheerful side of it. Every cloud has a silver lining." "If you can see any silver lining to _this_ cloud, I'd like you to show it to me, Miss!" exclaimed Nellie, with some warmth. Eve was going from window to window, thrusting her head and shoulders out of each, and examining the sides of the tower carefully. Laura asked what she was doing. "Why, dear, on this side is the roof of the school building," said Eve, thoughtfully. "It isn't so far below us." "It's much too far for us to jump," returned Mother Wit. "True," said Eve, smiling. "But see here." "I can't climb out of the same window you are at," complained Laura. "Go to the next one, then, and I'll point it out to you." Laura did so. Sitting sideways on the sills the girls could thrust the upper part of their bodies out and obtain an unobstructed view of this entire wall of the tower. "See that wire?" exclaimed Eve, eagerly. Just below the level of the windows which pierced the upper story of the tower a heavy stay-wire was fastened to a staple set in the masonry. At some time the school building had been dressed with flags and bunting and this heavy wire had never been removed. It was fastened at the other end to a ring in the roof of the main building. "I see it, Evangeline," admitted Mother Wit, with something like fear in her voice. "You wouldn't do it!" "I believe I can," declared the country girl. "Why--why--it would take a trapeze performer!" "Well, Mrs. Case has had us working on the ladders and the parallel bars until we ought to be pretty fair on a trapeze," said Eve, laughing a little. "Oh, Eve! I wouldn't try it," cried Laura. "You see," said the other, steadily, "if I can get out of the window here, and two of you can steady me, I can drop down upon that wire----" "But suppose you should fall to the roof!" "I won't fall. That is not what I am aiming to do, at least." "It is too reckless a thing to try," cried Laura. "Now, wait. Nobody will see us up here. If we have to stay all night some of the girls will be sick. You know that. Now, if I can once get to that wire, I know I can work my way down it to the roof." "You'll slide--and cut your hands all to pieces." "No, I won't. I've a pair of thick gloves in my pocket," declared Eve. "I am going to try it, Mother Wit." "Oh, I don't believe you had better!" Eve slid back into the tower-room, Laura following her. The bigger girl slipped out of her coat and took off her hat immediately. "Hullo!" said Bobby. "Don't you want your slippers, too? You're in for the night, are you?" But Eve was finding her gloves and these she drew on. Even Nellie began to get interested then. "What _are_ you going to do now?" she cried. Laura explained quickly. Nellie began to cry again, and even Bobby looked troubled. "It isn't worth the risk, is it?" she asked. "Somebody will find us some time." "That's just it," Eve returned. "We don't know when that _some time_ will be. I can slide down that wire, get in by the roof opening, and unlock this door that shuts us up here. Of course, the key will be in the lock. If it isn't, and there is nobody in the building, I can telephone for help." "Say, that's great!" spoke Jess. "If you can only do it safely, Eve." "Oh, I'll do it," declared the country girl, confidently, and the next moment she began climbing out through the window nearest to the wire. Laura and Jess held her around the waist; then, as she slid out, farther and farther, they clung to her shoulders. But Eve had to leave her arms free and suddenly she panted: "Let me go! I've got to drop and grab the wire. That's the only way." Laura and her chum looked at each other in doubt and fear. It did seem as though, if they let go of the girl, she must fall to the foot of the tower! CHAPTER XVIII--THE CONSCIENCE OF PRETTYMAN SWEET Prettyman Sweet would never have played such a contemptible trick on Bobby Hargrew and her comrades had he not been goaded to it by Lily Pendleton. Purt had what the girls called "a dreadful crush" on Lily, and she had made fun of him because he took Bobby's jokes so tamely. "If you had a spark of pluck you'd get square with that Hargrew girl," Lily Pendleton had told him, and Purt thought that he was getting square with Bobby and her friends when he turned the key in the lock at the foot of the tower stairs. At first as he ran out of the school building into the rain that was still falling a little, his only fear was that he had been seen by somebody. But once away from the school building he began to giggle over the joke he had played on the girls. "They won't laugh at me so much next time," he thought. And then he remembered, with something of a shock, that he could not afford to tell anybody about what he had done. If he owned up to having locked the girls into the tower, he knew very well what would happen to him. If Chet Belding, or Lance Darby, did not get hold of him, one of the other boys would most certainly take him to task for the trick. And Purt Sweet was no fighter. He wouldn't get much fun out of the trick he had played on the girls, after all! Now he wished he had not done it. What was the fun, when he had to keep it a secret? So Purt continued on this way home with lagging feet. And every yard, the possibilities that might follow his trick grew plainer in his mind. He saw, as he went on, that instead of having done something to create a laugh, he might have been guilty of an act that would start a whole lot' of trouble. He knew, as well as did the girls shut up in the tower, that old John, the janitor, would go home to supper soon. And at this time of year, when there were no fires to see to, except the hot water heater, the old man might not come back at all. For, as far as Purt knew, there were no meetings in the building that evening. At least, he had heard none announced. The girls were likely to be left in the tower until the next day, while their friends were searching the city for them. Purt went into the square, from which point he could gaze up at the tower. But it was so far away, and so tall, that he could see nothing at the narrow slits of windows up there at the top. "If--if those girls waved a handkerchief out of the openings, nobody could see it down here," thought the conscience-stricken youth. He had never been up in the tower himself, for it was forbidden territory. So he did not know how wide the windows were. It just struck home to Master Purt Sweet that the girls would be unable to signal their situation to anybody. But he had reached home before these thoughts so troubled him that he felt as though he _must_ undo what he had done. Perhaps John had not gone home yet. He might still be able to get into the building, creep upstairs, unlock the door of the tower, and then run out before the girls could catch and identify him. For Purt had a very strong desire not to be suspected in this matter. Chet Belding would take up cudgels for his sister in a minute; and Chet would, Purt was sure, thrash him most soundly! Any of the teachers would have a pass-key to the building. Purt remembered that fact, too. Could he prevail upon one of them to lend him a key so that he could go into the building? Of course, he must have some good excuse, and he feared to appear before Professor Dimp with any such request unless he could back it with sound reason. And Mr. Sharp was entirely out of the question. Purt knew that the principal of Central. High would see right through him instantly. As for the lady teachers, Purt was more afraid of them than of Mr. Dimp and the principal. As it grew dark the boy sat cowering in his room at home, from the window of which he could see dimly the outlines of the schoolhouse tower, and he wept a few tears. He would have given a good deal had he not turned the key in that lock! Purt didn't feel that he could appear at the dinner table; so he gave an excuse to his mother's maid, and went out again. Perhaps somebody had discovered the girls up in the tower and released them. He walked up Whiffle Street and saw Chet Belding hanging over the front gate. "Hullo, Purt!" exclaimed the big fellow. "What's doing?" "No--nothing," stammered Purt. "Well, don't be so scared about it. What's got you now?" "No--nothing," stammered Purt again. "Haven't seen Lance, have you?" "No." "Nor the girls?" The question scared Purt Sweet through and through. But he plucked up courage to ask: "How should I know anything about them? Hasn't your sister come home yet?" "No. Down to that gym., I expect. Say, these girls are getting altogether too athletic. Didn't see Jess, either, did you?" Purt shook his head and went on. He was afraid to stop longer with Chet--afraid that the latter would learn something about what he had done. It did seem to the culprit as though knowledge of the trick played on Laura Belding and her friends stuck out all over him. It was deep dusk now. Purt came within a block of the school building and looked slily about the corners, as though he were bent on mischief, instead of desirous of undoing the mischief he had already done. Had old John gone home yet? Would all the lower doors of Central High be locked? These were the questions that puzzled him. Purt ran into the side gate of the boys' recreation ground and fumbled at the basement door, by which he knew the janitor usually left. It was locked; yet, as he rattled the knob, he thought he heard an answering sound within. He scuttled away to the corner and there waited to watch the door. Nobody came out. After half a minute of uncertainty the lad crept on to the boys' entrance. The outside doors were closed and locked. He ran around to the street and entered the girls' yard. The outer vestibule door was opened here and he ventured in, creeping along in the darkness and fumbling for the doorknob. And just then Purt Sweet got the scare of his life. A strong hand clasped his wrist and a sharp voice demanded: "What do you want here? Are you waiting for those girls, too?" "Oh, dear me!" gasped Prettyman Sweet, his knees trembling. "_Now_ I'm in a fix, sure enough!" CHAPTER XIX--MARGIT AND MISS CARRINGTON MEET It was several seconds before Purt realized just what manner of person had seized him by the arm in the vestibule at the girls' entrance of Central High. It was so dark that Purt only knew it was a girl. "Who--who are you?" he stammered. "Oh! It's only a boy," said the girl, in a tone of disgust. "What do you want here?" "I--I was trying to get in," murmured Purt. "What for? Isn't this the girls' entrance? They told me it was." Then Purt knew that she did not belong at Central High. Indeed, she was a different kind of girl from any the youth had ever met. "Who are you, and what do _you_ want?" asked Purt, plucking up courage. "I guess you don't go to Central High." "I never went to any school--not like this, anyway." "But what do you want here? I--I left something in the building and wanted to get back and find it," stammered Purt. "I was waiting to see those girls," said the stranger. "What girls?" demanded the boy, in a panic again. "Some that I know. I waited and watched down by that place where they play----" "The athletic field?" suggested Purt. "Perhaps. And I asked another girl. She said they had not come down from the school yet. They were kept in. So I came up here----" "Who were the girls you want to see?" "One is named Evangeline, and she-comes from Switzerland. I am Austrian myself. And there is another girl--a little girl who always laughs. Her name is like a boy's name." "Bobby Hargrew," said Purt, with a stifled groan. "And neither of those girls have come out of the building yet?" "No," said the girl. "I have watched and waited for more than an hour." Purt rattled the knob of the inner door desperately; but it was locked and evidently there was nobody within to hear him. "They must be away upstairs and cannot hear you," said the strange girl. And _that_ scared Purt, too. It seemed to him that this girl must know just what he had done to those girls whom she was waiting for. He started to leave the vestibule. "Hold on! Isn't there any other door we can get in by?" asked the stranger. "I'm--I'm going to try the main entrance. Perhaps that is unlocked," Purt replied. "I'll go with you," volunteered the other, and followed him down the steps. Purt wanted to get rid of her, whoever she was. He wished now that he hadn't come back to the schoolhouse. He had read somewhere that criminals are driven by some mysterious power to haunt the scenes of their crimes. And it must be a fact, Purt told himself, for he had certainly been foolish to come back here to Central High--and go without his supper. He decided to slip out of the girls' yard and run away. But when he reached the street there was the strange girl right at his elbow. And he remembered that she had a grip as firm as Chet Belding's own. So nothing would do but try the front entrance. Of course, he knew it was ridiculous to go to that door. Even by day it was kept locked and visitors had to ring; only the teachers had pass-keys. But they went in at the main gate and mounted the steps of the portico. It was indeed black under here, for the street lights were too far away to cast any of their radiance into the place. Purt fumbled around, found the doorknob, and tried it. To his amazement it turned in his hand and the door swung open into the dark corridor. "They're here, then," whispered the girl. "Where do you suppose they are?" she continued. Now Purt had very good reason for believing that he knew just where the girls were whom this stranger wished to see; but he only said, gruffly: "I'm sure I don't know. I don't believe they're in the building now." "Oh, yes, they are. They have not come out. There are several beside those I named. So I was told at the athletic field." "Well, I don't know anything about them!" denied Purt, hurriedly. "I--I just want to go up for my book----" He shook himself free and ran for the front stairway. He knew his way in the dark and hoped to leave the girl behind. Once let him reach the foot of the tower stairs, he would unlock the door, fling it open so that the prisoners would hear him above, and then dart down the boys' stairway and so out of the school building again. But before he reached the top of the first flight he heard the patter of the strange girl's footsteps beside him. Through the long windows enough light filtered to show him her figure. And she ran better than he did, and without panting. Purt was scared now worse than he had been before. "She'll tell them who unlocked the door," he thought, "and so they'll know right away who imprisoned them in the first place. Then Laura will tell her brother and Chet will thrash me--I know he will!" The lad was almost ready to cry now. It seemed to him as though every step he took got him deeper and deeper into trouble. He dashed up the other flight two steps at a time; but the girl kept on equal terms with him. What good wind she had! She could beat many of the girls of Central High in running, that was sure. "I don't know what has become of Eve Sitz and that other girl you want to see," exclaimed Purt, stopping suddenly. "And I don't see why you are sticking so close to me." "You know your way around this building; I don't," declared the girl, shortly. "I can't help you find them----" "You seem afraid of something," remarked the girl, shrewdly. "What's the matter with you?" "Well, I go to school here," complained Purt. "You don't. You'll get into trouble, coming into the building at night." "I guess you're afraid of getting into trouble yourself," returned the other, quite unshaken. "Well, if one of the teachers is here and finds us----" "I'll tell them just what I came for. Will you?" demanded the girl, quickly, and thrusting her face into Purt's so as to see him better. She had him there! Purt knew it--and he knew _she_ knew it. This strange girl was laughing softly to herself in the darkness. "Go on--if you're going anywhere," said she, after a minute. "I believe you know where those girls are. I want to see that Evangeline and that Hargrew girl. You show me." "I--I don't know!" wailed Purt, under his breath. Then he was sure he heard somebody's step. It was in one of the classrooms opening into this corridor. At the sound, spurred by sudden terror, the boy leaped away. He was half-way down the corridor. Around the corner was the door of the tower. And then, just as he dashed past a door on his right, it opened. A broad band of light streamed out, and to Purt's ears came the quick demand: "What's this? Who are you?" "It's Gee Gee!" thought the boy, but he never stopped. In a moment he realized that Miss Carrington had not addressed her question to him, but to the girl. He ran on, as softly as possible, and rounded the corner, knowing that the strange girl had been caught by the teacher, who repeated her demand in a louder and more emphatic tone. "Who are you? What are you doing here in the schoolhouse?" Then Miss Carrington saw that the girl was not one of her scholars--indeed, no girl of Central High was ever dressed so gaily, unless it was at a masquerade. "For goodness sake, child!" exclaimed the teacher, still more sharply. "Come in here and explain yourself." She drew her inside the classroom and closed the door. In the full light the strange girl was revealed in a purple velvet skirt, a green bodice, a yellow silk scarf, or handkerchief, around her neck, and with a net, on which steel beads were sewed, over her hair. With her dark complexion and high color she was indeed a striking figure as she stood there, hands on her hips, and panting slightly as she gazed back bravely into Miss Carrington's spectacled eyes. "For goodness sake, child!" repeated the teacher. "Who and what are you?" "My name is Margit Salgo," said the Gypsy girl, watching Miss Carrington, with her sharp black eyes. "Salgo?" whispered the teacher, and for a moment the girl thought that Miss Carrington would sink into the nearest chair. Then she drew herself up and, although her pallor remained, her eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. "I suppose you are here to tell me your father was Belas Salgo?" demanded the lady, harshly. "I don't know who you are, Madam," said the Gypsy girl. "Are you the lady whom the Vareys say knows all about me?" "Who are the Vareys?" returned Miss Carrington, quickly. "They are English Gypsies. I was placed in their care when my father's friends brought me to this country. They have held me prisoner but I have got away from them----" "I do not understand you--I do not understand you," insisted Miss Carrington, weakly. And now she did grope her way to a seat. "Are you the teacher here whose name has in it eighteen letters?" asked the girl, anxiously. "I do not read your English, although I speak it. I learn to speak languages easily--it is a gift. My father had it." "True," murmured Miss Carrington. "Belas Salgo was a wonderful linguist." "Does your name have the eighteen letters?" pursued Margit, eagerly. She repeated her story about the card on which was printed, or written, the name of the lady whom the Vareys had come to Centerport to see. Miss Carrington listened more quietly, and finally bowed. "Yes. I am the lady. I am Miss Carrington," she admitted. "That is what those girls called you," muttered Margit, but the teacher did not hear. "You claim to be Belas Salgo's daughter?" repeated Miss Carrington, at last. "I am his daughter. I cannot remember my mother--much. But my father I remember very well. Why, I traveled everywhere with him! All over southern Europe we went. And to Algiers, and the other north coast cities. He played everywhere about the Mediterranean until he died. And then," said the girl, simply, "I lost all happiness--and I was brought to this great, cold country." Miss Carrington had listened with her head resting on her hand and her eyes watching the girl from behind her glasses. Now she said: "Well, I do not believe you are Belas Salgo's child--not the Belas Salgo I have good reason to remember. No. But I will take you home with me and we will talk this matter over. "I was correcting some examination papers," she added, going to the desk and turning out the student lamp. "But they may go until another time," and with a sigh she put on her hat and cloak, and taking the Gypsy girl's hand led her out of the school building, the darkened corridors of which she knew so well. CHAPTER XX--INTER-CLASS RIVALRY If Eve Sitz had been outside of the schoolhouse tower, being held by the girls all of this time, she must certainly have been by now at the point of exhaustion, and so must they. But Eve had dropped just right, had caught the wire with her gloved hands just as she had expected to, and then swung down and hung from the steel strand for a few seconds to get her breath. Nellie and Bobby, leaning out of neighboring windows, cheered her on. "Hurrah, girls!" declared the irrepressible. "She's going to do it. There she goes--hand under hand!" "Oh, if she doesn't slip," wailed Nellie. "She's not going to slip," cried Bobby. "Hurrah! She's on the roof." Once on the main building Eve did not waste time. She ran to the door, which she knew would be open, and so darted down the stairs to the corridor out of which the tower stairway opened. There was the key in the lock as they had expected, and in a few moments she was calling the other four girls down. "My goodness!" exclaimed Nellie, kissing Eve when she reached the foot of the stairs. "Aren't you just the brave, brave girl! And whatever should we have done without you?" "I guess one of the others would have done the same had I not first thought of it," returned Eve, modestly. "Hush!" exclaimed Laura, suddenly. "I hear somebody." A door opened below, and then somebody came up stairs. The girls crowded back into the corner and waited. "I know that step," whispered Jess. "Fee, fi, fo, fum!" murmured Bobby. "And well may you say it is your 'foe,' Bobby," giggled Jess. "It's Miss Carrington." "Never!" gasped Nell. "Yes, it is. I am sure," agreed Laura. "Oh, dear! if she catches us here we'll have to tell where we have been and all about it," groaned Eve. "And demerits to work off to-morrow," moaned Bobby. "Back into the stairway and keep still," whispered Laura. They all crowded back. Miss Carrington came along the gloomy corridor and entered a classroom. She did not turn the corner. "Good! Now let's creep down and make our escape," whispered Bobby. "But not by the front door. She came in that way." "But the other doors will be locked--both the boys' and ours," urged Jess. "I know the way out through the basement," spoke Bobby, with determination. "I can open John's door. Come on." So, at the very moment Prettyman Sweet tried the basement door, the girls on whom he had played his trick were about to come out. Purt was scared and ran away. Later, when he escaped from Margit, the Gypsy girl, and ran to the foot of the tower stairs, Purt was scared again. He found the door open and the girls gone. Who could have released them? He slunk home in the darkness, taking the back alleys instead of Whiffle Street, and the next day he scarcely dared go to school for fear the girls had found out who played the trick on them. But Laura and her mates all thought that either John, the janitor, or one of the teachers had chanced to close the tower door and lock it. And, as they had been where they were forbidden to go, they said very little about their fright and anxiety. But Eve was quite a heroine among them. The girl from the farm was a deal more muscular than most of her mates; perhaps no girl at Central High could have climbed out of that tower window and worked her way down the wire in just that manner. And Eve was showing herself, as time went on, to be the best girl at the broad jump and at putting the twelve-pound shot, too. Lou Potter, of the senior class, did well; but after a time she seemed to have reached her limit in both the jumping and shot-putting. Then it was that Eve took a spurt and went ahead. She left all other competitors but Lou far behind. Mrs. Case did not approve of inter-class competition in athletics; but the managing committee of the June meet had made such competition necessary to a degree. The upper classes of Central High had to choose their champions, and those champions in the foot races, from the 100-yard dash to the quarter-mile, had to compete the first week in June to arrange which should represent the school on the big day. In other trials it was the same--broad jump, shot-putting, relay race teams, and all the rest. There was developed in the freshman class a sprinter who almost bested Bobby Hargrew at first; but the freshmen had little, after all, to do when the big day came. The main contestants for athletic honors were bound to be drawn from the junior and sophomore classes. It was a fact that the present senior class of Central High had not been as imbued with the spirit of after-hour athletics, or with loyalty to the school, as had the younger classes. And the seniors had awakened too late to the importance of leaving a good record in athletics behind them when they were graduated. There was not a girl in the class the equal of Mary O'Rourke, or Celia Prime, who had been graduated the year before. Lou Potter, however, had many supporters, not alone among her own class. The freshies and sophs of course were jealous of the prominence of the juniors in athletics, so they centered their loyalty upon Lou. Eve could do nothing that Lou Potter couldn't do! That was the cry, and the feeling ran quite high for a while. Besides, another thing came to make Eve rather unpopular with a certain class of girls. "Touch Day"--that famous occasion when candidates for membership in the M. O. R.'s were chosen--came in May, and Eve was one of the lucky girls to receive the magic "touch." The fact that she had not been attending Central High a year aroused bitter feeling, although Eve was a junior in good standing. "Say!" cried Bobby Hargrew, "if they had kicked about _me_ being an M. O. R. there would have been some sense in it. For I never really thought I'd arrive at such an honor." For Bobby had really been drawn as a member of the secret society, and she never ceased to be surprised at the fact. But this school year--especially since early spring--Bobby Hargrew had been much changed. Not that she was not cheerful, and full of fun; but she had settled down to better work in her classes, and there was a steadiness about her that had been missing in the old Bobby Hargrew. They were talking this change over one evening around the Belding dinner table. "Bobby wouldn't be herself if she got too strait-laced," remarked Chetwood. "That's the main good thing about her--the ginger in her." "Chetwood!" exclaimed his mother, admonishingly. "You speak of the girl as though she were a horse--or a dog. 'Ginger' indeed!" "Well, Little Mum," said her big son. "That's exactly what I mean. She's no namby-pamby, Miss Sissy kind of a girl; but a good fellow----" "I cannot allow you to talk that way about one of your young lady friends," declared Mrs. Belding, with heat. "I am surprised, Chetwood." Mr. Belding began to chuckle, and she turned on him now with some exasperation. "James!" she said, warmly. "I believe you support these children in their careless use of English, and in their other crimes against the niceties of our existence. Chet is as boisterous and rough as--as a street boy. And Laura uses most shocking language at times, I declare." "Oh, Mother Mine! why drag me into it?" laughed Laura, while her father added: "Isn't 'crimes' a rather strong word in this instance, Mother?" "I do not care!" cried the good lady, much disturbed. "Chetwood uses language that I know my mother would never have allowed at Her table. And Laura is so taken up with these dreadful athletics that she cares nothing for the things which used to interest me when I was a girl. She really doesn't like to pour tea for me Wednesday afternoons." "I admit it," said Laura, _sotto voce_. "Do you blame her?" added Chet, grumblingly. "Thank goodness! I was brought up differently," declared Mrs. Belding, sternly. "We girls were not allowed to do such awful things-even in private--as you do, Laura, in your gymnasium----" "Hear! hear!" cried Father Belding, finally rapping on the table with the handle of his knife. "I must say a word here. Mother, you are too hard on the young folks." "No I am not, James," said the good lady, bridling. "You force me to say something that may hurt your feelings; but I believe you have forgotten it. You complain of Laura's athletics and gymnasium work. Don't you see that it is an escape valve for the overflow of animal spirits that the girls of our generation, Mother, missed?" "I deny that the girls of _my_ day possessed such 'animal spirits,' as you call them," declared Mrs. Belding, vehemently. "You force me," said Mr. Belding, gravely, yet with a twinkle in his eyes, "to prove my case. Children! did I ever tell you about the first view I had of your dear mother?" "No, Pop! Tell us," urged Chet, who kept on eating despite his interest in the discussion. "Mr. Belding!" gasped his wife, suddenly. "What are you----" "Sorry, my dear; you force me to it," said her husband, with continued gravity. "But the first sight I ever had of your mother, children, was when she was six or seven years old. I was working for old Mr. Cummings, whose business I finally bought out, and I came to your mother's house on an errand." "James!" cried Mrs. Belding. "I cannot allow you to tell that foolish thing. It--it is disgraceful." "It is indeed," admitted her husband, nodding. "But if you and your school girl friends had been as much devoted to athletics as Laura and her little friends, I doubt if you would have needed the front stairs bannisters as an escape valve for your animal spirits. "For, children," added Mr. Belding, as his wife, her face very rosy, got up to come around the table to him, "my first view of your mother was her coming down stairs at express train speed, a-straddle of the bannisters!" Mrs. Belding reached him then, and any further particulars of this "disgraceful" story, were smothered promptly. But Laura and Chet enjoyed immensely the fact that--once upon a time, at least--there had been some little element of tomboyishness in their mother's character. CHAPTER XXI--MARGIT'S MYSTERY To the amazement of the girls of Central High--particularly those seven who had been on the early Spring tramp to Fielding and had first seen the Gypsy girl when she ran away from Queen Grace Varey and the other Romany folk--Margit Salgo, as she called herself, appeared suddenly in the class rooms of the school. And, to complete their bewilderment, she appeared as the attendant of Miss Carrington! Margit spoke little to any of the other girls. She came to Eve and Bobby and told them how she had been made to leave the farmhouse by the Vareys, who had come after her in the night; but how she had finally got away from them, and her connection with Miss Carrington, she would not explain, although Bobby was very curious. "Well, doesn't that beat all!" ejaculated Bobby, to Eve Sitz. "And we thought we might be able to help Margit. She seems to have helped herself, all right." "I am glad, if she is now in good hands; but I do not understand it," rejoined Eve. "Say! there can't be any mistake about her wanting to get to Miss Carrington before. Now she's got to Gee Gee, all right. Guess there's nothing to be said by outside parties, eh?" "Well, we can wonder--eh?" "Oh, there's no law against it. Take it out in wondering. You can be sure that Gee Gee will be as mum as an oyster." "But where is Queen Grace--and the others?" added Eve. "That's so," Bobby returned. "If Miss Carrington hasn't settled with the Romanies and given them what they wanted, you can make sure that they will take a hand in the matter again." Margit, however, seemed to have cut loose from the Gypsies altogether. When she appeared at Central High with the teacher she was dressed like any other girl coming from a well-to-do home. Her Gypsy garb had been discarded. Margit sat by herself and she had special lessons. She did not recite with the other girls, nor did she have much to say to any of them, save to Eve and Bobby. Even Mother Wit was not very successful in scraping an acquaintance with the Austro-Hungarian. Indeed, when one of the girls tried to talk with her, Margit answered in German; or, if the girl was taking German and could understand the spoken language pretty well, Margit used the outlandish dialect of the Romany folk, and that settled it. Either she did not wish to make acquaintances, or she had been warned by Miss Carrington not to satisfy the curiosity of the girls of Central High about herself. Of course nobody dared to question Gee Gee. If Mr. Sharp understood the reason for the new girl's presence he gave no sign--ignored her entirely, in fact. So the girls were vastly excited about Margit Salgo, her presence at Central High, where she came from, and--particularly--what relationship she bore to Gee Gee. One day the teacher was particularly short-tempered and found reason for taking Bobby Hargrew to task over some trivial fault. "I am amazed, Miss Hargrew, that so light-minded a girl as you ever won your way into the M. O. R. chapter. I do not see, Miss, but that you are just as mischievous as ever. Neither time nor place changes you." She said it very spitefully, and some of the other girls laughed. But suddenly Margit popped up and said something vigorously in German--speaking so quickly that the other girls did not understand her; but Gee Gee evidently understood. Her face flamed and she glared at the Gypsy girl in a way that would have quelled any other in the room. But Margit did not wither under her glance. She stared back, her head up and shoulders squared; and it was plain by her attitude that she defied Gee Gee. Bobby was as amazed as the others. Margit had taken her part against the teacher. And for the moment it seemed as though there would be a serious breach between Gee Gee and her protégé. However, the incident effectually called Gee Gee's attention away from Bobby, and the latter heard nothing more of _her_ fault. But it seemed that the connection between the teacher and Margit Salgo was not founded upon _love_. There was some other reason than affection that made Gee Gee care for the half-wild Gypsy girl. Some of the others whispered that Gee Gee must have done some awful thing, and Margit knew it and so held the teacher in her power. But that, of course, was a silly explanation of the mystery. It was plain, too, that the teacher would not let Margit out of her sight on the street. They came and went to school together, walking side by side. At the place where Miss Carrington had boarded so long, nobody ever saw Margit in the yard, but Miss Carrington was with her. One might have thought the girl a prisoner. Bobby was hurrying over to Laura's house with her books, one morning, wishing for a little help in one of the problems to be discussed that day, and she started through the grounds surrounding the Widow Boyce's house, from the back street. Suddenly she saw a man crouching in the shrubbery. Weeks before she had seen a man spying about the house, and believed him to be one of the Gypsies. Now Bobby halted and spied on the Peeping Tom himself. In a moment she saw that it was the man with the gold rings in his ears whom Eve had told her was Jim Varey, the husband of the Gypsy Queen. He was lurking there for no good purpose, that was sure. Having carried Margit off from Farmer Sitz's house in the middle of the night, the Gypsies would doubtless attempt to steal the girl away from Gee Gee, as well. The school teacher had evidently not settled with the Romany folk. They had not yet got money through the girl, as Margit had said they hoped to do. Bobby turned back toward the street, intending to look for a policeman, or for some neighbor; but as she did so she heard wheels grating against the curb, and there stood a covered wagon, with two sleek horses attached, and another Gypsy man driving them. The man on the seat of the wagon whistled, and Jim Varey raised his hand as a signal. Then the latter darted around the corner of the house toward the front. These maneuvers were only too plain to Bobby. There was not time to look for a policeman--and, in any case, an officer was hard to find in the Hill section of Centerport. Bobby ran along the hedge, stooping so as not to be seen by the man on the wagon seat, and came around to the front of the house from the direction opposite that which Jim Varey had taken. Just as she reached the front porch there was a wild scream from Miss Carrington, and Bobby saw the man leap from the far end of the porch with Margit in his arms. Margit did not scream; she only beat the man about the head and--perhaps--left the marks of her nails in his dark face. It was plain that she was being carried away from Gee Gee against her will. She had no desire to go back to the Gypsies. Now, Miss Carrington could not run. She had been brought up in no athletic school, that was sure. She followed the kidnapper clumsily enough, and he would have gotten well away in the covered wagon with the girl, had it remained to Gee Gee to intervene. But Bobby screamed, dropped her books, and went at the fellow as though she were playing football. She "tackled low," seizing with both arms about the knees, and Jim Varey, screeching and threatening, fell forward on the sward--and Margit escaped from his arms. "Oh!" gasped the girl. "Quick! get into the house!" cried Bobby, bounding to her feet. Margit whisked past her, and past Miss Carrington, and fled indoors as she was advised. Jim Varey leaped up and confronted the little girl who had overturned him. His fists were clenched and he gabbled in the Romany tongue a string of what were evidently threats and vituperation. "Now, it isn't me you want to carry off," said Bobby, bravely. "I wouldn't be any good to you. Get away, now, for I see Mr. Sharp coming down the street." Which was true enough--although the school principal was still a long way off. Jim Varey seemed to see the wisdom of the girl's remarks, however, for he turned and fled. The next minute they heard the heavy wagon being driven furiously away from the garden gate, and Bobby turned to find Gee Gee, sitting very faint and white, upon the porch steps. CHAPTER XXII--LOU POTTER SCORES ONE "Has he gone?" gasped Gee Gee, weakly. "They've driven off, Miss Carrington. Margit is in no danger now," said Bobby, eyeing the teacher curiously. "You--you know about it, too, do you?" murmured the teacher. "I guess I know something about it," replied Bobby, promptly. "We girls saw Margit up there in the hills when she ran away from the Gypsies the first time. And I was over to Eve Sitz's the night the Vareys stole Margit away again. I'd see the police if I were you, Miss Carrington." "The police--yes!" returned the lady. "It will all have to be dragged into publicity, I suppose." Bobby didn't know what to say, for she did not understand Gee Gee's present character, anyway! Nobody before had ever seen Miss Grace Gee Carrington so disturbed in her mind. Bobby saw the front door open again, and Margit appeared on the porch. "Come in! Come in! It's all right now," said the Gypsy girl. "There is nothing to fear from them now---- Ah! who is this?" Bobby turned quickly and saw a little, stooped old man, turning in at the gate. Miss Carrington saw him, too, and she came to her feet in a moment. The color came back into her face and she began to look very grim again--more like her usual self. "Morning! morning!" cackled the old gentleman, nodding at the school teacher, but looking hard at Bobby. And the latter recognized him as Eben Chumley, a queer, miserly old man who owned a great deal of property on the Hill. "Good morning, Mr. Chumley," said Miss Carrington, quietly. "Now, don't tell me _this_ is the gal," said Mr. Chumley, pointing a long finger at Bobby. "For that's Tom Hargrew's young 'un--I know her well enough." "_This_ is the girl I wish you to see and talk with, Mr. Chumley," said Miss Carrington, beckoning Margit forward. Then she added, in her severest tone: "Miss Hargrew! you are excused." "Well, the mean cat!" muttered Bobby, as she went out of the yard. "I had no intention of listening to their private affairs. But she might at least have thanked me for tumbling over that Gypsy." Margit came to her, however, that morning, and thanked her warmly. "You're a brave girl, Miss Hargrew," she said. "And I think that Jim Varey will let me alone hereafter. At least, he had better keep his distance." And so it seemed, for thereafter, when Miss Carrington and her charge walked to and from school, a policeman strolled behind them. The girls--especially those of the junior class, however--were almost eaten up with curiosity. Luckily, as June approached, they had something else to think about out of regular recitation hours. The rivalry on the athletic field became very keen indeed. Mrs. Case did her best to impress upon the girls' minds that a spirit of rivalry between classes would perhaps injure the chances of the school at large at the final meet. "Loyalty to Central High!" was her battle cry. But all of the girls--especially a certain portion of the seniors--forgot the "good of the greater number" in the petty class differences. Lou Potter, the senior, was backed strongly for first place in putting the shot and for the broad jump. Nobody but Mrs. Case, indeed, knew just how Lou and Eve Sitz stood in those two events. The Saturday afternoon came when Mrs. Case was to try out the girls with the highest scores in the various events to be featured on the Big Day. Relay teams from each class had been gradually made up, and now these were to compete for the honor of representing Central High at the meet. The Junior Four was made up of Laura Belding, Jess Morse, and Dora and Dorothy Lockwood, with Bobby Hargrew as substitute. They were not only all fast, but they were quick-witted. A relay race isn't altogether won with one's feet. The seniors averaged taller girls, and heavier. The sophomores were nearer the weight and size of Laura and her mates; and of course, it was scarcely to be expected that the freshman four would stand a chance at all. When the three heats were run off, however, the freshmen proved better than the seniors once, and surpassed the sophomores in two of the heats. The juniors won all three heats in fast time. "Those squabs are coming on to be jimdandies!" declared Bobby, enthusiastically. "They're going to be just such another class in athletics as ours." "And of course," remarked Lou Potter, who overheard her, "the junior class of Central High is just the most wonderful crowd of girls that was ever brought together." "Now you've said it," admitted Bobby, with satisfaction. "But I never did expect to hear a senior say that about us!" Mrs. Case came over and her presence halted further bickering. But the rivalry of the two upper classes rankled. Bobby took the hundred-yard dash from all competitors. Later she easily beat all the other entries in the quarter-mile race. Interest centered after that in the broad jump and the shot-putting contest. Eve was in her usual good form and equalled, in her three trials, her best previous record. Just what that record had been the girls as a body did not know; but on this occasion the distance was made public. Eve had bested all competitors by a full inch and a half. Her nearest rival was Lou Potter. "Favoritism!" was the cry among the seniors, but they were very careful not to allow their physical instructor hear it. In truth, Mrs. Case, as she always had been, was opposed to inter-class trials on the field or track. It lowered the standard of loyalty to the school as a whole, and was frequently the cause of bickerings and heart-burnings, as in this present case. But she was bound by the rules of a committee in which she had but one vote. She was glad to learn, however, that other instructors in other schools were having the same trouble. The Girls' Branch Athletic League is truly against rivalry between classes of the same school. In putting the shot the same unfortunate feeling arose between backers of Lou Potter and Evangeline Sitz. Eve carried the day; she put the twelve-pound shot far ahead of her rival. But the seniors were not satisfied. Their class would make a poor showing indeed at the meet. "I'd just like to get square with that Swiss doll!" exclaimed Lou Potter, as she turned out of the gate of the athletic field, after it was all over and Mrs. Case had announced who would be the representatives of the school in each department of athletics, at the June meet. "She is a foreigner, anyway. Laura Belding got her to come to this school. She'd much better have gone to Keyport, where she belongs," cried one of Lou's classmates. They could not see that Eve's presence at Central High was likely to give the school at least two points in athletics; that Keyport might have won had the country girl attended the Keyport High, as she had first intended. "There she goes now--aiming for the railroad station," said Lou Potter. "I wish something would keep her from getting to the field on the day of the meet." It was this mean thought in her mind, perhaps, that made Miss Potter notice Eve particularly as she followed behind the country girl. Lou's friends separated from her, but her way led toward the railroad station, too. And before that was reached Miss Potter suddenly became aware of the fact that a woman and a man were following Eve Sitz. She saw them first standing at a corner, and whispering, and pointing after Eve. They were dark-faced people, foreign-looking, and the man wore hoops of gold in his ears. "There are a lot of those Gypsies around this Spring," was Lou's first thought. "Hullo! those people are watching that Sitz girl." She became curious, as she saw the Gypsies dog Eve's footsteps for block after block. Whether they wished to speak to the big girl, or were just watching her, Lou could not tell. She was a bold girl herself, and not at all afraid of the Romany folk. When Eve disappeared into the railroad station and the man and woman remained outside, Lou walked up to them. "What are you following that girl for?" she asked, and when Queen Grace and her husband would have denied it, Lou made her reason for asking plain. "If you don't like her, neither do I. I'd like to have her out of the way for at least one day--one day next week," and she named the day of the Athletic Meet. "This is a plot to trap us," growled Jim Varey to his wife. But the Gypsy Queen was, as we have seen, a very shrewd student of human nature. She could see just how bad a heart Lou Potter had. Queen Grace possessed no occult power. No so-called fortune-teller has. They are all wicked people, and liars. But she had long made a study of the worst side of human nature. She saw that Lou Potter was ripe for mischief. She talked to her softly and insinuatingly, putting Jim out of the way. Then she agreed to meet the senior again and learn just what she wished done to Eve Sitz. For the Gypsy Queen saw a chance to make a few dollars and, as Margit Salgo had said, the woman was very avaricious. She and her husband had been following Eve idly enough. They dared not approach Margit while she was under the protection of Miss Carrington and the police; but they laid to Eve a part of the blame for the Gypsy girl's escape from their hands before they had made any money out of her. Lou Potter went away from her conference with the Gypsies very much delighted. "I guess we'll show them that the seniors have something to say about athletics at Central High," she muttered, over and over again. "I reckon I've scored one on Miss Eve Sitz, too!" CHAPTER XXIII--THE FIELD DAY There was a tall, gaunt, gray man who came to the Widow Boyce's to see Miss Carrington on certain occasions. He always carried a blue bag, stuffed with papers and books, and it was well known by the neighbors that he was Miss Carrington's lawyer. There was nothing suggestive of romance about Aaron MacCullough; but like all old attorneys he had dabbled in many, many romances. There were a score of old families of Centerport who had entrusted their cupboard secrets to Mr. MacCullough. He came in one evening, with his blue bag, and sat down in Gee Gee's sitting room. The Central High teacher was quite as dry in appearance, and as grim as the lawyer himself. She sat on one side of the table, and he on the other, and the papers which he first examined and read aloud he passed to her, and she scrutinized them through her spectacles. "So," she said, at length, "these correspondents of yours in Buda-Pesth seem to know all about Salgo's affairs, do they?" "It is notorious, Miss Carrington," said the old man, nodding. "There can be no mistake. Belas Salgo was a strange man. All geniuses, perhaps, are strange----" "He was a wicked foreigner!" declared Miss Carrington, sharply. "Wicked in your eyes, perhaps. He married and carried away with him your dearest friend." "My cousin Anne--yes," said she, slowly. "She had been in my care. She was musical. She went mad over the man--and he no better than a Gypsy." "Gypsy blood he confessed to--yes," said the lawyer, shaking his head. "But he could make wonderful music. I remember hearing him once in this very town." "Oh, he charmed everybody--but me," said Miss Carrington, vigorously. "And he would have charmed me, perhaps, with his fiddle if Anne had not gone mad over him. I knew how it would be for her--misery and trouble!" "We do not know that," said the old gentleman, shaking his head. "Her few years with Belas Salgo were happy enough, by all account." "But she never wrote to me!" cried the Central High teacher. "Nor she never wrote to her father's partner, Mr. Chumley. Eben Chumley, by the way, is for denying the identity of this girl, Margit?" "Well! so was I," admitted Miss Carrington. "Though heaven knows it was for another reason! I did not think poor Anne would have had a daughter and never written me a word about it." "Ahem!" said Mr. MacCullough, clearing his throat significantly, "your last word to her, I understand, was a harsh one?" "Ah! But I never meant it. She must have known I never meant it," exclaimed Miss Carrington, her voice trembling. The old lawyer shook his head. "We never do mean the harsh words," he murmured. "However," he added, after a moment's silence. "The fact remains that this girl, Margit Salgo, is assuredly the daughter of Belas Salgo and Anne Carrington. The money--what there was of it--left in the hands of Eben Chumley by his partner, Anne's father, belongs to the child, and Eben must be made to disgorge." "It will hurt Chumley dreadfully to give up the money," said Gee Gee, quickly. "How much is there?" "Less than a thousand dollars. You know, Chumley & Carrington were in the real estate business in only a small way, back in those days. With interest, and all, it will be but a modest fortune." "I suppose those Gypsies thought the child was a great heiress," said the teacher. "That is probable. They undoubtedly think so now. It is my advice that you allow me to go to the police and explain the matter fully. Let them gather in this Jim Varey, and the others, and tell them just how little the sum is that is coming to Margit Salgo. It is about enough for her education--and that's all." Miss Carrington nodded. "Nevertheless," she said, with finality, "she is Cousin Anne's child. I shall make her education and future keeping my affair. I have not worked, and taught, all these years for nothing, Mr. MacCullough." "Quite true--quite true," admitted the old man, briskly. "And if you wish to adopt the girl----" "I intend to do so," announced Gee Gee. "Then there is nobody to gainsay you, I am certain," declared the lawyer, rising. "I congratulate the child upon falling in with so good a guardian, Miss Carrington. And--perhaps--you are to be congratulated, too," he added to himself as he left her sitting grimly by the table. For more than Lawyer MacCullough noted the change that was gradually coming over the martinet teacher of Central High. Whether it was the influence of Margit's presence, or not, it was true that Miss Carrington was not half so harsh as she used to be. "Change of heart--she's sure to die, I'm afraid," announced Bobby Hargrew, one day, when Gee Gee had failed to seize the opportunity to berate that young lady for a certain fault. But later, Miss Carrington put herself out to speak to Bobby on the street, and upon matters not connected with the school work. "Clara, I never properly thanked you for taking my ward's part the other morning when that dreadful man attacked her," said Miss Carrington, quietly. "But I am grateful, nevertheless." "Your ward!" gasped Bobby, her curiosity and wonder passing all bounds of politeness. "Oh, Miss Carrington! is she really related to you?" "Margit? Not in the least--at least, no relation that the law would allow. For that reason I propose to adopt her. She will be known as Margaret Carrington--and I hope, Miss Clara, that you and the other girls of Central High will be kind to her." Bobby smiled. "I think Margit will take care of herself, Miss Carrington, if we don't treat her right. But I know all the girls will be glad to have her join." "Thank you. She is foreign to your ways, as yet," pursued the teacher, a little doubtfully. "From what she says, she is much interested in Mrs. Case's classes--in the physical culture classes, and the like. I--I expect you will introduce her at the gymnasium, Miss Clara?" "Of course!" exclaimed Bobby, half stunned. "Why--why Margit's the surest-footed girl I ever saw. You ought to see her running that day along the top of the stone wall!" "Er--I presume that such unseemly conduct will not be necessary if Margaret becomes a votary of athletics as taught the young ladies of Central High," returned Miss Carringtan, stiffly. "Just the same," Bobby said, in talking over the matter with Laura and the rest of the girls, afterwards, "just the same, Margit Salgo will be a splendid addition to our fighting force some day. Why, she's got biceps like a boy, and she says she can swim, and skate, and ride. We're going to have another A-1 champion for Central High in Margit Salgo some day!" It must be confessed that, about this time, many of the Central High girls gave more thought to athletic matters than they did to their lessons. Still, the unbending rule that only those who kept up with their studies would have a part in the after-hour athletic contests was a solvent for any serious trouble. The day of the meet was at hand. The athletic teams of the five high schools--three of Centerport and one each from Lumberport and Keyport--were to meet on the Central High field. There were several important trophies, as well as the usual league pins for the winners, and interest in the field day--not alone among the girls themselves--ran high. Laura Belding and her mates had figured out very carefully just what events Central High was sure to win, and how many of the "uncertain" points were needed to clinch the championship. They felt sure of the hundred-yard dash; as far as they could learn no girl in any of the five schools had developed the speed of Bobby Hargrew over that short course. The two hundred and twenty-yard dash and the quarter-mile run were doubtful, despite Bobby's splendid showing in the latter. The hurdle races were doubtful, too, as well as the shuttle and potato relays. In the high and broad jumps, as well as the shot-putting, there was serious doubt. The best Laura could figure, Central High would go into the contest needing four points more than they were _sure_ of winning. Those four points might be supplied by Bobby in the quarter-mile run, one of the chief events of the day, and Eve Sitz in the broad jump and putting the shot. "You girls have got to do your very best--don't forget that!" Laura told them, as they separated the night before the meet. "Central High just about leans her whole weight on you." It was on Friday and the whole school was excused at noon; but those taking part in the events of the day were not obliged to report until one o'clock--and then only to the committee at the gymnasium building. The crowds from Lumberport and from Keyport came in chartered steamers. They marched into the field just before one o'clock, and the classes from the East and West Highs followed them a few minutes later. The girls in their light dresses, and with the flags fluttering, were a pretty sight. Of course, the grandstand was rapidly filling with adult spectators, and with the boys, when the girls of Central High came in. There was some marching and counter-marching, before all were seated. Already some of the girls, in their gymnasium clothes, began to appear on the courts for warming-up practice. Suddenly Bobby Hargrew burst into a knot of Central High girls gathered around Mrs. Case, on the main floor of the gym. building, and fairly shouted: "Where is she?" "Where's who?" asked Laura, curiously. "Is this one of your jokes? Who are you looking for?" "Where's Eve? Who's seen Eve Sitz?" repeated Bobby, anxiously. "Why, I think you'll find her around somewhere. What's the matter? Got to see her right this moment, Bobby?" Bobby's tone of tragic despair stopped the joking at last, however, as she cried: "She's not reported. She isn't here. Nobody's seen her. She hasn't come into town, as far as I can find out. And certain sure she hasn't come into this building--and it's one o'clock now!" "Why, Clara! what do you mean?" asked the physical instructor of Central High. "It is not possible that Evangeline Sitz would fail to appear at such a time as this?" "And with so much depending on her?" shrieked Jess Morse. "Impossible!" "Something has happened to her," said Laura, aghast. "Has nobody seen her?" demanded Mrs. Case. Nobody had. "I'll run to father's office and telephone," suggested Nellie Agnew. "They have a telephone at the Sitz farm, haven't they?" "Of course," rejoined Laura. "Do run, Nell!" The group, mostly made up of juniors, was horror-stricken by the fact that one of the most dependable of the girls was missing. But a senior who stood near said, scoffingly: "Oh, I guess that girl won't be missed. We've got Lou Potter to put right in her place--in both the shot-put and the broad jump. And the chance belonged to Lou, anyway. Now she'll get her rights, perhaps." CHAPTER XXIV--MARGIT PAYS A DEBT "Did you hear what that girl said, Laura?" demanded Bobby, in a whisper, clinging to the arm of Mother Wit. "It sounded as though she knew something about Eve's absence." "No. Just jealousy," returned Laura. "I--don't--know---- Here's Nell!" exclaimed the smaller girl, eagerly. The doctor's daughter ran up, very much excited. "Otto was on the 'phone," she said. "He says that Eve left for town in time to catch the nine-twenty-seven. Why, she should have been here two hours ago!" "What do you suppose has happened?" wailed Jess. "I will see the committee at once," said Mrs. Case, quietly. "Of course, if Evangeline does not report in time, we shall have to put in a substitute." "Oh, Mrs. Case!" cried Bobby. "_Don't_ put in that Lou Potter!" "What, Clara? Is that your loyalty to Central High?" demanded the athletic instructor, sternly. "Well, she's been so mean----" "But if she is the next best girl we have in training, and Eve does not appear, would you cripple Central High's chances for a petty feud like this?" Mrs. Case spoke warmly and Bobby fell back abashed. But all the juniors were amazed and troubled by the emergency which had so suddenly arisen. The attitude of some seniors surprised Eve's friends, too. They were seen to gather in groups, and giggle and whisper, and when the troubled juniors passed these seniors made remarks which suggested that they knew more about Eve's absence than her own friends. Especially was Lou Potter in high feather over something. She sneered at Laura Belding, when the latter went about asking everybody if they had seen or heard of Eve that morning. Time approached for the early events of the afternoon, and the relay teams were called out for the first event. About that time Margit Salgo, who had been moving about in the crowd of Central High competitors, suddenly broke away from a group, of whom Lou Potter was the center, and ran hurriedly for the exit. At the gate the ticket-taker had just allowed Mr. and Mrs. Belding to enter and Margit saw Chet--whom she now knew very well--beside their automobile outside. "Chetwood!" she gasped, running out to him. "There has something happened that will make Central High lose to-day--it is a plot--it is a meanness----" She broke into German, as she did when she was excited, and Chet literally "threw up his hands." "Hold your horses, Miss Margaret," he begged. "I can't follow you when you talk like that. My German's lame in both feet, anyway--like the son of Jonathan." "I do not know your Jonathan," she cried, when Chet, grinning, interrupted: "You're weak in your Scripture, then. But what about it? What's happened?" "They have got Eve Sitz!" declared Margit, tragically. "Who's got her?" "I do not know for sure. I only suspect," declared the girl. "But quick! drive where I shall say. We may be in time." "Do you mean to say that Eve hasn't got here yet?" "I do." "Yet she's already left home?" "Oh, yes, indeed!" "And she's an important figure in to-day's events, I understand," quoth Master Chet. "You think you know where she is?" "Oh, yes!" cried Margit. "Hop in, then. Tell me where to go, and we'll get there if a policeman doesn't hold us up on the way." Margit whispered in his ear. Chet looked surprised; then nodded and helped her into the seat beside him. In a minute they were out of the crowd of other autos and were speeding down Whiffle Street and into Market. When they struck the main thoroughfare the young fellow had to drive the car more circumspectly; but he made such time that more than one traffic officer held up a warning hand and shook his head at them. "Sure you know where you want to go, Margaret?" Chet asked his companion once, as they dodged around a truck and turned off into a long and narrow side street where the class of tenements on either hand were of the cheaper quality. "Yes," nodded the girl. "I should know. I was there myself." "Oh! that's where the Gyps, have their encampment in town?" exclaimed Chet. "Yes." "And you think Eve has been caught by the same people who held you?" "Yes. I believe so." "Then take it from me, Margaret," declared Chet, decidedly, "a policeman goes into the house with us. I don't take any chances with those people." She nodded again and a few moments later she told him to stop before a certain number. This was, indeed, a crowded and mean section of the town. "I thought Romany folk lived in the open air and were bold and free--and all that?" said Chet, in disgust, as he stopped the engine and prepared to get out after removing certain plugs so that the car could not be started during their absence. "In town they live like other poor people. They camp in a cheap flat. But they would not remain here long if they did not hope to get hold of me," replied Margit, quietly. "Hullo! You're running right into trouble, perhaps," said Chet, doubtfully. "What if I am? That girl, Eve, was good to me. And those other girls are my friends. We will get her free so that she may get to the athletic field in time. What?" "I guess it _is_ what," admitted Chet, to himself. Then he saw an officer and beckoned to the man. A few words explained their need. "Ha! I was told to keep an eye on those folk. I know 'em," said the policeman. "And this is the girl who was with them before?" and he stared curiously at Margit Salgo. They went quickly into the house and up to the floor that the girl remembered very well indeed. She pointed out the door of the flat and Chet rapped upon it. The officer kept in the shadow. The door opened a trifle, after the second knock, and a voice whispered some word which Chet could not understand. Instantly Margit hissed a reply--it was in Romany. The door opened a bit wider. Somebody inside saw the girl; but Chet was seen, too. "What did Ah tell 'ee?" demanded Jim Varey's gruff voice. "This is a business tae bring trouble tae us, says I--and I was right." Before he had ceased speaking the policeman sprang forward and with knee and shoulder forced the door wide open. He had drawn his club. "Keep still--all you here! If you give me trouble I'll arrest all of you instead of this man and his wife," and he seized Jim by the shoulder. "Where's the girl?" cried Chet. "Eve! Eve Sitz! Are you here?" There was an answering cry from back in some other room. Margit darted past the struggling people in the kitchen and opened a door beyond. "Here I am!" cried Eve Sitz. The country girl was tied to a chair, but not tightly enough to cramp her limbs. Nor had she been really ill-treated. "Run down," said the officer to Chet, "and blow this whistle. Tell my partner, when he comes, to send for the wagon. We'll give these folks a ride." "Oh, but I must get to the field, Chetwood!" cried Eve, in despair. "They told me Margit was here and needed me, and I came right from the train. I don't know what it means----" Chet had darted down the stairs and he soon came back with the other policeman. The officers agreed that the boy and two girls need not accompany them to the station; the Gypsy Queen and her husband, with the other Romany folk at home in the flat, could be held until later in the day for somebody to appear against them. And that somebody was Miss Carrington's lawyer, Aaron MacCullough. Eve had no more trouble with the Gypsies--nor did Margit. Mr. MacCullough took the opportunity of showing the roaming folk that they could make little out of Margit or her friends, and then the Centerport police warned them out of town. Meanwhile Chet, with the two girls, got into the automobile, and started back toward the Central High athletic field. It was already two o'clock, and on the program of the day the event of the broad jump would be called in less than half an hour! CHAPTER XXV--THE WINNING POINTS That first relay race, in which the Junior Four of Central High took part, passed like a night-mare for Laura Belding and her companions. Every one of them was worried about Eve's disappearance--so worried that they came perilously near not doing their very best. But the rooters for their school got off with a splendid chorus when the girls came on the field, and with all that enthusiasm Laura and her comrades could not fail "to pull off some brilliant running," as Bobby slangily expressed it. And they did so. The four won the point for Central High, and next in line was the one hundred-yard dash. Bobby, as fresh as a lark, came to the scratch and prepared to do her very best against the representatives from the four other high schools. There was a girl from Lumberport whom she had been told to look out for. But Bobby proposed to "look out" for nobody on this short dash. The girl who got off in the best form was almost sure to win. And that girl was Bobby. At the word she shot away like an arrow, and a roar of approval burst from the seats occupied by the boys of Central High. "C--e--n, Central High! C--e--n--t--r--a--l, Central High! C--e--n--t--r--a--l--h--i--g--h, Central High! Ziz--z--z--z---- Boom!" Bobby seemed to be fairly borne along on that yell. She started ahead and she kept ahead. Like a flash she went down the track and breasted the tape quicker than it takes to tell it. "Bobby Hargrew! She's all right!" sang the girls of Central High on the benches. Then girls and boys joined in, and finally the other schools added their cheers to the paean of praise that sent Bobby back to the gym. building with a delightful glow at her heart. "Good for you, Bobs!" cried Jess, who stood in the sun in her blanket coat. "That's another of the points we need. Why, we're going to wipe up the field with them." "But where's Eve?" panted Bobby. "Has anybody seen her?" "No. She didn't come. She's left us in the lurch----" "Not intentionally, I am sure," declared Bobby, quickly. "Well, Mrs. Case is going to put Lou in for the broad jump if Eve doesn't show up. And that miserable senior is as perky about it as she can be. There she is yonder, all ready for the event, although it's not due for an hour yet," added Jess. The field was next cleared for folk dancing, taking part in which were most of the freshman and sophomore classes of all five schools. This attracted the adult spectators more than it did the girls themselves; the latter's keenest interest was centered in the all-absorbing athletic events. One of the juniors kept watch at the entrance to the field, and sent in word now and then that nothing had been heard or seen of Eve Sitz. Laura and her other friends did not know that Margit had gone away with Chet fielding to hunt for the missing girl. "If she doesn't come pretty soon all will be lost!" groaned Nellie Agnew as the field cleared after the folk dancing. "Maybe Lou can carry the points for us," suggested Dora Lockwood, doubtfully. "Never in this world!" cried Bobby. "Nor does Mrs. Case believe it. But it's the best she can do," said Jess. "There! after this event comes the broad jump." "See that nasty Lou Potter!" complained Bobby. "She's standing there, grinning just like a Chessy-cat----" "Hold on, Bobby, hold on!" exclaimed Nellie Agnew, admonishingly. "Remember!" "Remember what?" snapped Bobby. "'Loyalty to Central High!' That's the battle cry." "And right Nell is, Bobs," interposed Jess. "We've got to give that girl the finest kind of a send-off when she goes into the field. Hearten her up! Never mind how mean we think her, remember she represents Central High, and the old school needs the points." "Quite true, girls," said Laura. "When Lou goes out to jump, pass the word to the boys to give her an ovation." And just then there was some shouting at the gate, the crowd opened, and a figure dashed through wildly and made for the gym. "It's Eve! It's Eve!" shouted Bobby, fairly dancing up and down. Margit Salgo was right behind the country girl. She hurried with her to the dressing rooms, and before the broad jump was called, Eve appeared, cool, smiling, and quite like her usual self. "Mrs. Case! I protest!" declared Lou Potter, standing before the physical instructor of Central High, as Eve approached. "This is my chance. I demand the right to make this jump." But the instructor only smiled and shook her head. "Evangeline is in plenty of time," she said. "You are merely a substitute, Miss Potter. Are you ready, Eve? Then, take your place with the other contestants. You are Number 3." News of Eve's nick o' time appearance had been circulated by Chet Belding when he joined the Central High boys. When it came the girl's turn to jump she received an ovation that startled the echoes. And Eve did not disappoint her friends. She carried off the honors of the broad jump by two inches over every other competitor, beating the record established two years before. Bobby did equally as well in the quarter-mile race. That was a trial of greater endurance than her winning dash, but she came along ahead of all the other sprinters, and won by a clean two yards. Then Eve went into the field again and beat the famous Magdeline Spink, of Lumberport, putting the shot, by ten and a quarter inches--making a remarkable score for Central High, and establishing a record for following classes to attempt to beat for some years to come. Of course, the girls as a whole did not know for sure that any of the seniors had had anything to do with Eve's being abducted to the Varey flat; but because Lou Potter, and others, had been so positive that Eve would not appear, the juniors could not help feeling suspicious. Had it not been for Laura Belding, ever the peace-maker, friction might have resulted that would have lasted through the remainder of the term and spoiled the graduation exercises for Central High that year. "We can afford to let the matter rest as it is," said Mother Wit, to her junior class friends. "Central High won--we got the winning points--and we stand at the head of our school athletic league. We can be satisfied with our score. "As far as these seniors go---- Well, the bad ones are not the entire class. And, anyway, they will soon be graduated and we shall have no more trouble from them. Let them be an example to us----" "An example!" cried the irrepressible Bobby. "I guess you mean a horrible example." "Perhaps. At least, let us remember, when we are seniors, not to do as they have done," concluded Mother Wit. "If I'm any prophet," said Jess. "We won't be like them." "Well, you are no prophet!" cried Bobby. "And don't talk to me any more about prophets and fortune-tellers." "Oh-ho!" mocked Nellie. "Bobby no longer believes in the Gypsy Queen!" "I believe in nothing of the kind. I was a dreadfully foolish girl to pay any attention to that wicked woman. You see, she was wrong. I got into no trouble this term with Gee Gee, after all." But Bobby said nothing to her friends about the greater fear that she had had for weeks--the fear that her father might bring home a new wife. She knew now that that had been merely a spiteful guess of the Gypsy Queen, who knew Mr. Hargrew's circumstances, and thought it safe to warn his daughter that he might marry again. "The wicked old witch--that's what she is!" thought Bobby. "Father Tom would never do that. I am going to be his housekeeper as well as his partner." And nothing in the future could ever make Bobby Hargrew doubt her father's word. The girls of Central High--especially the juniors--carried off greater honors after that Field Day; but never did they win trophies that gave them more satisfaction than these. Eve was sure to make a name for herself in the league in the future; and Bobby had developed into quite a sprinter. Laura Belding looked forward in the next year to developing other girls into all-round athletes who would win points for Central High. And indeed, they all--girls and instructors alike--looked forward to immense benefit as well as pleasure to be derived from the future athletic activities of the Girls of Central High. THE END 
37673	----	NED WILDING'S DISAPPEARANCE Or The Darewell Chums in the City BY ALLEN CHAPMAN AUTHOR OF "BART STIRLING'S ROAD TO SUCCESS," "WORKING HARD TO WIN," "BOUND TO SUCCEED," "THE YOUNG STOREKEEPER," "NAT BORDEN'S FIND," ETC. [Illustration: _The_ GOLDSMITH _Publishing Co._ CLEVELAND OHIO MADE IN U.S.A.] COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE NEW GUN 1 II. PREPARING FOR A HUNT 8 III. OFF IN THE WOODS 15 IV. THE FIRST TURKEY 19 V. THE BLIZZARD 23 VI. A LONELY CABIN 30 VII. HOME FOR THANKSGIVING 38 VIII. GETTING SQUARE WITH SANDY 45 IX. SANTA CLAUS IN SCHOOL 52 X. WRECK OF THE TOWER 61 XI. NED GETS A LETTER 69 XII. NED STARTS OFF 77 XIII. STARTLING NEWS 85 XIV. NED'S BUSINESS VENTURE 94 XV. IN TROUBLE 103 XVI. ADRIFT IN NEW YORK 111 XVII. THE CHUMS ARRIVE 120 XVIII. HUNTING FOR NED 125 XIX. DOWN THE ROPE 132 XX. IN THE LODGING HOUSE 143 XXI. NED FLEES AGAIN 149 XXII. OUT IN THE STORM 159 XXIII. NED'S PREDICAMENT 168 XXIV. A QUEER IDENTIFICATION 175 XXV. NED SHOVELS SNOW 187 XXVI. CASSIDY CATCHES NED 197 XXVII. BAFFLED AGAIN 216 XXVIII. NED A PRISONER 222 XXIX. NED IS FOUND--CONCLUSION 229 NED WILDING'S DISAPPEARANCE CHAPTER I THE NEW GUN The Keene household was suddenly aroused from peacefulness, one quiet afternoon, by a loud thud as if something had fallen. It was followed by a report like an explosion. Then, from Bart's room, sounded a series of yells. "Wow! Ouch! Jimminities!" "He's hurt!" exclaimed his sister Alice, as she ran toward her brother's room. As she entered she saw him running about the apartment, which was filled with smoke, holding one hand in the other. Drops of blood were coming from his fingers. "What's the matter? Are you hurt?" asked Alice. "Oh, Bart, are you really hurt?" "Am I hurt? Do you think I'm doing this for fun? Where's mother?" "She's gone out. I'm the only one home." "Get a rag or something, will you please Alice?" and Bart danced around on one leg, holding the other limb out so stiffly that he knocked over several chairs. "Is your leg hurt too, Bart?" "No, it's only my three fingers." "But you stuck one leg out so I thought that was injured also." "I'd stick 'em both out if it would only ease this pain any! Maybe my fingers will have to come off!" "Oh, Bart! What did it?" "My new gun. I went to lay it down on the table and it fell to the floor and went off. Did you hear it?" "I couldn't very well help it. Did the bullet go through your hand?" "It doesn't shoot bullets. It shoots shot, and I guess it only grazed a few fingers. Most of the shot went into the wall," and Bart gazed at a dark spot on the wall-paper, and then looked at his injured hand. "I didn't think it would go off so easily," he added. "Oh, those horrid guns!" exclaimed the girl. "I just knew when papa let you send for it--" "Say, Alice, if you ever intend to be a trained nurse you'd better get to work on me before I faint!" cried Bart. "Now don't talk any more, that's a good girl. Get a rag before I bleed to death." "Oh, Bart, I'm so sorry! Of course I'll fix you up. Wait until I get my book," and Alice, whose ambition was to be a nurse and wear a blue and white striped uniform, hurried to her room and came back with a little book. On the cover was a red cross, and the inscription, "First Aid to the Injured." "What kind of a wound is it, Bart?" Alice asked, rapidly turning the leaves of the volume. "How should I know? It's a painful wound, if that's what you mean." "Oh, no! Is it incised or lacerated or a contused one? Because you see I have to give it different kind of treatment if it's an incised wound than I would if it's a lacerated one." "Oh, give me any kind of treatment!" and Bart began to dance around again. "The shot grazed my fingers, that's all I know!" "I guess that's a lacerated wound," Alice replied a little doubtfully, as she took a look at her brother's bleeding hand. Then she turned to the page of the book that treated of lacerated hurts and read: "'These wounds have ragged edges and the skin is torn and bruised.'" "That's me all right," interrupted Bart. "'They result from force so applied as to tear rather than cut the tissues cleanly,'" the girl read on. "Oh, I'm cut all right," put in Bart. "Hurry up Alice, stick some court plaster on and let it go at that." "Why, Bart Keene! I'm ashamed of you! The idea of me putting such a common remedy as court plaster on a wound! Why, you'd get bloodpoison and other dreadful things! I must treat this just as I expect to treat other wounds when I get to be a trained nurse." "You'll never get to be one at this rate," Bart cut in. "'They are caused by railway and machinery accidents,'" Alice read on, "'by falling timbers, stones and brick. Such wounds are frequently followed by shock.'" "Well, this wasn't a railroad accident, nor one caused by falling bricks or timber," Bart retorted. "I guess it will come under the head of machinery. A gun's machinery, I s'pose. But I can testify to the shock. Wow!" and, as a sudden spasm of pain seized him, he snatched his hand from the grasp of his sister and again began dancing around on one leg. "Hold still! How can I treat the wound if you jerk around that way?" demanded Alice. "Treat the wound! You aren't treating any wound!" retorted Bart. "I could treat ten wounds in that time! All you're doing is talk! If Fenn Masterson or Ned Wilding was here they'd have a rag around this long ago." "Yes, and it would probably be full of germs and other things and you'd be dead of lock-jaw," said Alice calmly. "Now Bart, come here. I know what kind of a wound it is, and I must see how to fix it," and once more securing her brother's hand for examination, she began to leaf over the book. "'Treatment,'" she read. "'Cleanse the wound thoroughly with warm water, lay a wet cloth over it and bandage lightly. If symptoms of shock are present they must receive careful attention. See page twenty-two.'" "Never mind the shock, just get a rag on these fingers before I lose all the blood I've got and we'll talk shock afterward," interrupted Bart. Then Alice, laying aside her book, brought some warm water in a basin, and some soft cloths, and soon had Bart's hand tied up in a sling. "You've got enough rags on here to make my hand look as big as my head," objected the boy, as he gazed at the bandage his sister had adjusted. "You don't want to catch cold in it," she replied. "It is very chilly to-day. I think we're going to have more snow." "Ought to have some, with Thanksgiving here in about a week," replied Bart. "How did you get hurt?" asked his sister again. "I was examining my new shotgun. It just came--Hark! Who's that calling?" "Oh, some of the boys I s'pose," and Alice went to the window and looked down to the street, whence came a series of shrill whistles. "Raise the window and I'll yell to 'em to come up," said Bart. "Don't you come near this window," commanded Alice. "You forget you're under treatment. If you should catch cold in that hand it might be terrible! I'll call the boys. You go back in that corner." Then, as Bart meekly obeyed, Alice raised the sash and called: "Come up, boys! Bart is hurt and can't come down!" "They'll think I'm in bed," her brother objected. A few seconds later there sounded the noise of several feet on the stairs. A moment afterward three lads hurried into the room. They had just come from school, but Bart had not attended the afternoon session. "Hello Frank!" cried Bart. "Howdy, Stumpy? How are you, Ned?" "What's the matter?" asked Ned, noticing the bandage on Bart's hand. "Oh, hurt myself with the gun. Went off before I was ready." "The gun!" exclaimed Frank. "Got a new gun?" asked Fenn. "Let's see it," demanded Ned. "Here she is," exclaimed Bart, and then, forgetting his sore hand, he took from the corner a fine shotgun. "It's a beauty," he went on. "It's got patent--" "Oh! Oh!" screamed Alice. "Your hand!" CHAPTER II PREPARING FOR A HUNT "What's the matter with my hand?" asked Bart holding the gun in the one that had been injured. "Why you've taken it from the sling. The blood will rush to it and--and--" "Oh, I guess it's all right," spoke Bart carelessly, as he held up the gun. "You see fellows, this is the patent ejector, and the barrels--" "Well of all things!" exclaimed Alice. "I spend a lot of time fixing up your injury and you go and undo all my work in a minute. I never saw such a boy!" "How did you hurt yourself?" asked Ned. "I had just loaded both barrels and put the gun on the table. It fell off and something hit one of the triggers or the hammers and it banged out like a cannon. My hand was in the way, that's all." "Hurt much?" inquired Fenn. "Not much," was Bart's careless answer. But an exclamation of pain escaped him as he hit his bruised fingers against the gun stock. "There!" exclaimed Alice. "I knew you'd do something wrong. Now I suppose it will start bleeding again," and she turned back as if to undo the bandage. "Never mind!" spoke Bart quickly. "I'll stick some court plaster on if it does. Say Alice get us some cake and lemonade, please." Alice agreed and while she prepared the beverage and got some cakes from the pantry, in which interval the four boys talked nothing but gun, there is an opportunity of making you better acquainted with them. It's hard to be introduced to a person when he has sustained a smashed thumb, so it is, perhaps, just as well that the formal presentation was postponed until now. Bart Keene, Ned Wilding, Frank Roscoe and Fenn Masterson, (who was called Stumpy, for short, because of his rather limited height and breadth of beam), were four boys who lived in the town of Darewell. This was located not far from Lake Erie, on the Still River, a stream in which the boys fished, swam and upon which they spent many hours in their big rowboat. With the exception of Frank Roscoe, the boys lived in the heart of the town. Their parents were fairly well off, and the boys had been chums since they attended primary school together. In fact, when their companionship continued on through the grammar school and into the high school, they became such a town fixture, in a way, that they were known as "The Darewell Chums." Those of you who have read the first volume of this series, entitled "The Heroes of the School," know what sort of lads the four were. Those of you who are meeting them for the first time may be glad of a little sketch of their characters. Frank lived with his uncle, Abner Dent, about a mile out of town. Mr. Dent was a rich farmer, and Frank had resided with him as long as he could remember. He could not recall his father or mother, and his uncle seldom mentioned them. Frank was rather a strange sort of boy. His chums were very fond of him, but they could not quite make out the curious air of mystery about him. Frank seemed to have some secret, but his chums never asked him what it was, though of late years his odd ways, at times, had attracted their attention. Ned Wilding was an impulsive, lively chap, full of fun, and given to playing tricks, which sometimes got him into mischief. He was rather thoughtless, but never mean, and when his actions did result in trouble for others Ned was always ready and anxious to make reparation. Ned's mother was dead and he lived with his father who was cashier of the Darewell bank. As for Bart, he was so fond of sports, from baseball and swimming to snowballing and skating, that he was seldom still long enough to study his lessons. Fenn, or Stumpy Masterson, had only one failing as far as his chums were concerned. He was "sweet" on the girls, as they called it. Fenn would go to considerable trouble to walk home with a girl. His chums made all sorts of fun of him, but he did not seem to mind much. His especial favorite was Jennie Smith, who was quite fond of poetry and who liked to recite and act. As told in the first volume, the boys, during the summer preceding the winter in which this story opens, had taken part in some strange adventures. They discovered that some men in the neighborhood of the town were acting very queerly, and they resolved to find what it meant. One day they went up in a captive balloon at a fair, and the restraining cable broke. The four chums were carried off in the airship high above the clouds. The boys were detained as prisoners aboard a barge on the river, because it was learned they knew something of the mystery the strangely acting men were trying to keep hidden. By dint of much pluck and hard work the boys managed to solve the affair, and, in order to avoid a law-suit, the men involved offered the boys one thousand dollars each, in valuable oil stock. This they accepted and their parents and relatives did not prosecute the men, as they originally intended, for detaining the boys on the barge. "Here's the lemonade!" cried Ned, as Alice came in with a big pitcherful while the chums were examining Bart's gun. He took it from the girl, as it was quite heavy. "Now I'll get the cakes and glasses," Alice said. "Let me help you," begged Fenn. "Here, you quit that!" called Ned. "Quit what?" "Walking downstairs with Alice. I'll tell Jennie on you, Stumpy!" "Oh, you dry up!" cried Fenn, and, despite the boys' laughter Fenn accompanied Bart's sister to the next floor, where he got the cake and glasses. "Stumpy's as bad as ever," commented Frank. "He reminds me of--" Frank did not finish his sentence. "Reminds you of what?" asked Ned. "There you go again, beginning a thing and not finishing it." "I guess I'll not say it. Doesn't make any difference," and Frank turned aside and gazed out of the window. Bart and Ned looked at each other. It was a peculiarity of Frank's to begin to say something, and then seem to recollect a matter that made him change his mind. But his chums were now used to his strangeness. "Where'd you get that gun, Bart?" asked Fenn as he came in with the cake. "Saw it advertised in a catalog, and sent to New York for it." "How much?" "Eighteen dollars. It was the first money I used of the thousand I got from the 'King of Paprica'"--for such was the assumed name of the principal man in the mystery the boys had cleared up. "From New York, eh?" spoke Ned. "That reminds me I have an invitation to visit my uncle and aunt there." "That's so. You asked us to come and see you," added Bart. "Wish we could go around Christmas time." "If the holiday vacation was longer maybe we could," remarked Ned. "Speaking of holidays, what's the matter with going hunting the end of next week?" asked Bart. "I've got my gun, and you fellows have your small rifles." "I can borrow a shotgun," put in Fenn. "This is Thursday," went on Bart. "School closes to-morrow for the Thanksgiving celebration. Let's see, Thanksgiving is a week from to-day. That would give us three days counting Monday, when we can start off. Why not go on a shooting trip and stay a couple of nights in the woods? It's not very cold, and we could take plenty of blankets." "The very thing!" cried Ned. CHAPTER III OFF IN THE WOODS The town of Darewell, though situated near the center of a well-populated district, presented many advantages to the boys. There was the river to fish in, and it was a deep enough stream to accommodate steamers and barges up to a certain point. In addition there was, about five miles from the place, the beginning of a stretch of unbroken forest, seldom visited, and which in season contained much game. It was a favorite hunting spot, but had not been over-run with gunners. The boys had, in past summers, camped along the river and in the woods, but they had not penetrated far into the forest, as there were few roads or trails through it. "Have we got everything?" asked Fenn, as they stood in the front yard of Bart's house, early the next Monday morning. "I guess so," Ned replied. "I looked after the blankets and such stuff, Bart saw to the tent and Frank to the portable stove and fixings. I suppose you've got the food all packed, Stumpy?" "Everything." "Didn't forget the salt, did you, the way you did when we went camping before and had to borrow of a tramp?" "There's lots of salt." "How about condensed milk?" asked Bart. "Remember how you dropped it in the river that day?" "Do I? And how Ned howled because he had to drink black coffee." "Maybe we'd better take the sled along," suggested Ned, as he noticed it was beginning to snow. "If it gets deep enough we can haul the things on it, instead of on the wagon." The camp supplies, including a shelter tent, had been placed on a wagon, on which they were to be taken to where the boys decided to make their first camp. On the large vehicle was a smaller one, which the chums could load with all their stuff and haul through the woods, in case they found it advantageous to move to a section where there was better hunting. "Wait a minute, I've got an idea!" exclaimed Bart. "Make a note of it before you forget it!" called Fenn. "Good ideas are scarce." "We can take runners along for the small wagon," Bart went on, not noticing his chum's sarcasm. "There are some adjustable ones I made a couple of years ago. Then we'll be prepared for anything." The wagon was one the boys had built for themselves several seasons past. They used to cart their camp outfit on it when they did not transport the things by boat up or down the river. As Bart had said, there were adjustable runners, which could be fitted over the wheels, without taking them off, and thus on short notice the wagon could be transformed into a sled. It was a crisp November day, with a suggestion of more cold to come, and the first few flakes had been followed by others while the boys waited until Bart, whose hand was almost well again, got the runners from the cellar. "Looks as if we'd have quite a storm," remarked Jim Dodd, the driver of the express wagon, whom the boys had hired to take their stuff to a point about two miles inside the woods. The road, which was made by lumbermen, came to an end there. "Yes sir," Jim went on, "it's goin' t' be a good storm. You boys better stay home." "Not much!" cried Ned. "A storm is what we want." "I'd rather eat my Thanksgivin' turkey in a warm kitchen than in an old tent," Jim added with a laugh. "Oh, we'll be home for Thanksgiving," Fenn said, "and we'll have plenty of game to eat too." "Wish ye luck," was Jim's rejoinder. The adjustable runners were packed on the wagon, a last look given to see that everything was in place, and then, about nine o'clock the start was made. "Keep your thumb wrapped up!" Alice called after her brother. "Don't take cold. Drink some hot ginger tea every night before you boys go to bed. Keep your coats well buttoned up around your throats, don't get your feet wet and--" "Say, give us the books, sis," called Bart good-naturedly, "we can't remember all that. Good-bye!" "Good-bye!" called Alice, waving her hands to the chums. "Good-bye!" the four boys echoed. CHAPTER IV THE FIRST TURKEY "I must say you boys has got grit," remarked Jim, as the wagon lurched along, pitching like a ship in a storm because of the rough road. "Why?" asked Bart. "Leavin' your comfortable homes an' comin' out to a wilderness in winter. Land! I'd no more think of doin' it than I would of flyin'." "Didn't you do such things when you were young?" asked Fenn. "Never had no time," the expressman said. "When I got a few days off I had t' go t' th' woods an' chop cord-wood or tap trees for maple syrup." They jogged along for another mile or so, the road getting more and more rough as they progressed. "Don't believe I can take you any farther," said Jim, as he brought his wagon to a stop before a big bog-hole. For the last mile the road was "corduroy," that is, made by laying small logs across it, close together, like the ribs in corduroy cloth; whence its name. The boys helped the expressman to unload, and, with his aid they soon had cleared a place among the trees for the tent. It was put up, and then the camp stuff and provisions were taken inside. Stumpy quickly had ready a meal, which, if it was not elaborate, was appetizing, and Jim who was invited to it had to acknowledge that the coffee was good enough for anyone. "Now for a turkey hunt!" exclaimed Ned, when Jim had left and his wagon was out of sight on the wood road. "We've got all the afternoon. Let's get the guns and start out." The snow was coming down faster now, and the wind had increased. It was not very cold, however, and they were warmly dressed so they did not mind it. They had a compass with them, to avoid getting lost, and, confident they would return laden with turkeys or rabbits, they tramped on through the woods. "Say, fellows! Here's something!" cried Frank suddenly, pointing to some tracks in the snow. His companions ran to where he stood. "Turkey tracks!" called Bart. "They're leading off into the woods, too! Come on! We'll get some birds now!" The new-fallen snow deadened their footsteps or they would have frightened all the game within a mile, the way they rushed through the forest. They had never hunted wild turkeys, and did not know what shy birds they are. So it was more by good luck than good management that they suddenly came upon a small flock, gathered about a big gobbler. The birds were in a little clearing, standing rather disconsolately about in the snow. Bart, who was leading, came to an abrupt halt as he saw the flock through the bushes. He motioned for the others to remain quiet. Then he carefully brought his gun to bear on the big gobbler. "Aren't you going to give us a shot?" asked Ned in a whisper. He and the others were standing behind Bart, and could not get a fair aim at the turkeys, as the trail was a narrow one and Bart occupied the most of it. The whisper, as it was, gave the alarm to the easily frightened birds. The gobbler raised its head and sounded one note of warning. But Bart shot at the instant. The flock scattered in all directions and the other boys fired wildly in the hope of getting a bird. When the smoke had blown away the chums peered eagerly forward, expecting to see at least four turkeys lying on the snow-covered ground. Bart ran up, hoping the big gobbler had fallen to him. "Didn't we kill any?" asked Frank, as they saw nothing but turkey tracks. "Looks as if we all missed," remarked Fenn. "No, here's one, and it's a fine one too!" exclaimed Frank, as he ran to one side and picked up a plump hen from under a bush. "Who aimed at that one?" asked Bart, much disappointed at missing his gobbler. "Hard to say," said Ned. "I guess we can all claim a share in it. We each shot one-fourth of a turkey. Not so bad for a starter." "I'm out of it," Bart rejoined. "I aimed straight at the gobbler, and he got away. It's a third of a bird apiece for you fellows." "Anyhow it is the first turkey of the hunt," observed Ned. "Yes, and my gun is christened," added Bart. CHAPTER V THE BLIZZARD "Now for some more game!" cried Ned, as Frank tied the legs of the turkey and slung the bird across his back in true hunter fashion. "Guess we'll have to tramp a long distance before we get any more," remarked Fenn. "All the turkeys for a mile around heard the guns and they'll keep to deep cover." However the boys, ever hopeful, resumed their tramp. They found plenty of turkey tracks but no birds, and, after covering several miles, decided to make their way back to camp, as it was getting dark early on account of the storm. They got the right direction, by means of the compass, and were within about a mile of where they had set up the tent when Bart, who was ahead, suddenly halted. "What is it?" asked Fenn, as he saw his chum aiming his gun up through the low branches of a tree near which he had stopped. For answer Bart fired. There was a flutter of big wings, a protesting gobble or two, and a big turkey cock fell to the ground. "There, I knew I'd get him!" Bart cried as he ran forward and secured his prize. "I saw him roosting up in the branches, and I fired before he could get away. I knew I'd get him!" "You don't think this is the same one you fired at a while ago, do you?" asked Ned. "Well, it's one just as big and just as good," retorted Bart. "I'm satisfied if he is." He slung the gobbler, which was a large fat one, over his shoulder and went on, much pleased with himself and his new gun. "Guess we'll have roast turkey to-night all right," Frank remarked as they trudged along. "I guess not, if I have to cook it!" exclaimed Fenn. "It's too late to dress any birds to-night. Canned stuff and coffee for yours." "Well, to-morrow then," Frank insisted. "We've got to have a turkey dinner while we're in the woods." It was almost dark when they reached camp. They lighted some lanterns, and built a big fire, while Fenn, who had been elected cook, got supper ready. The other boys cleared out the tent for sleeping purposes. When the boys awoke in the morning it was to find the ground covered about a foot deep with snow. The flakes had ceased falling, but it was much colder, and there was a stiff wind. Gray clouds covered the sky, and altogether it was rather a cheerless prospect. But the boys' spirits were proof against almost anything. With some hot coffee to warm them up, and some hot canned meat, which Fenn prepared, they were ready for another day of tramping through the woods after game. "What do you say to moving camp?" suggested Bart. "I'm afraid we've scared from around here whatever there was in the way of turkeys and rabbits. We can put our stuff on the sled and pull it through the snow." This was agreed to, and soon the runners were adjusted over the wheels, and the four boys were pulling the sleigh with the camp outfit. They went slowly, picking their way as best they could among the trees. On a down grade, where two were enough at the rope, Bart and Frank went ahead to see if they could observe any signs of game. Frank killed a fat rabbit, but Bart fired at one and missed. They went about four miles farther into the forest and, as they saw turkey tracks, they decided to camp there. "We'll have an early dinner, put the turkey hen on to roast, and go off hunting the rest of the day," decided Fenn. The turkey was prepared in a somewhat rough fashion and put to roast in the oven of the portable stove. When it was nearly done the fire was allowed to cool down. "All we have to do when we get back is to start a small blaze and we'll have hot turkey," explained Fenn. Some dry wood was placed within the tent to keep it safe in case it began to snow again, and, fastening the flaps, the boys set off. They had better luck this time, and managed to get a turkey apiece, though they were only hens, and not very large. "We ought to each get a big gobbler before we go back home," Bart said. "You fellows want to look alive. I've got mine." "You had all the luck," retorted Ned. But the gobblers seemed too wise to come within the reach of the boys' guns, and when it came time to make back-tracks for camp there was none numbered among the slain. Several more rabbits had been secured, however, and the boys were well satisfied. "My mouth waters for that roast turkey," exclaimed Ned, as he tramped through the snow. "I want a piece of the breast and some of the brown skin. Just a bit of dressing, please, and a spoonful of gravy!" "Let up!" cried Bart. "I'm half starved!" Ned's anticipations of the turkey were fully realized. It may not have been done just to the turn a French chef would call proper, but the boys thought they had never eaten anything half so good. There was little left when they had finished. "We'd better circle around so's to fetch up near where Jim's to meet us to-night," remarked Bart as they crawled out of the blankets Wednesday morning. The cold had increased and the wind was blowing half a gale. The tent was struck, after a hasty breakfast, and, with the other things, not forgetting the game, was packed upon the sled. The boys started off, intending to make a large circle and bring up that evening where Jim had left them, in time to meet him. They would not erect the tent again. They managed to kill several hen turkeys, another gobbler, which fell to Ned's gun, and a couple of rabbits, but most of the game seemed to have disappeared, and there was no more in the vicinity of where the boys tramped, dragging the sled after them. They halted for dinner in a dense part of the forest, and, after the meal, started for the place where the corduroy road ended. They judged it to be about six miles from where they were, and knew it would take them about until night-fall to reach it. It was hard work, pulling the sled, but the exercise kept them warm, and they trudged on, plunging into drifts which the wind quickly raised. It started to snow again and the flakes began to blow across their path whipped into stinging particles by the force of the gale. They were enveloped in a white cloud through which they could see only dimly. "Say, it's getting worse and worse!" exclaimed Ned, as he paused for breath after a particularly stiff bit of pulling. "Boys, it's a regular blizzard, that's what it is," cried Bart. "We're certainly in for it now. I don't believe Jim will come for us in a storm like this." "If it isn't a blizzard it's the best imitation of one I ever saw," remarked Frank. "What are we going to do?" "Only thing is to keep on," replied Bart. "Are we going in the right direction?" asked Ned. "Fenn, suppose you take a look at the compass." Fenn, who carried the little instrument, reached in his overcoat pocket for it. He did not find it. Then he looked in several other pockets. "What's the matter? Haven't lost it, have you?" asked Bart. "I'm afraid so. Didn't I give it to you, Ned, this morning?" "Never saw it," replied Ned. Fenn made a more thorough search. The compass was not to be found. The boys stood there helplessly, in the midst of the howling storm, which was now at its height. The snow was a blinding, scurrying, mass of flakes which stung their faces like needles. Overhead the trees were bending to the blast and the gale was roaring through the branches. There was no path. Ten feet ahead it looked like a blank white wall. "Boys, we're lost in the woods, and the blizzard is getting worse!" cried Bart, almost having to shout to make himself heard above the storm. CHAPTER VI A LONELY CABIN "What's to be done?" asked Fenn. "Keep on! We may find the place where we were to meet Jim," advised Frank. "No," Bart said. "That would be foolish. Jim would never come for us on such a night. Besides, we don't know which way to go. We'd better camp here until the storm blows over. We've got everything we need, but it's not going to be much fun under a tent in this weather." "Let's get down more in a hollow," suggested Fenn. "We're on a hill here and get the full force of the wind. If we go on a bit we may find a better place." "Good idea!" exclaimed Bart. "Come on, fellows!" He seized hold of the sled rope and began to pull, the others joining him. There was no choice of direction, so they turned to get the wind on their backs. With grim perseverance they kept on. The wind seemed fairly to carry them forward, though it was hard to struggle through the drifts they encountered every once in a while. As they had no particular path to take, they avoided the big hummocks of snow as much as they could. "I'll have to stop!" declared Fenn, after a bit of hard pulling. "My wind's giving out!" "I wish the wind up above would," murmured Bart as he tried to peer through the clouds of flakes to see where they were. "Let's stay here," suggested Fenn. "If we've got to camp in the storm this place is as good as any." "That's what I say," remarked Frank. "This seems to be well sheltered." There came a momentary let-up to the gale. The snow did not seem to fall so thickly and the boys eagerly looked around them. "There's something over that way!" cried Ned, pointing to the left. "It looked like a barn or house. Let's try for it!" Then the wind swept down on them again, blotting out, in the swirl of flakes, whatever Ned had seen. But he had an idea of the direction it was in, and started off toward it. "Here, come back and help pull the sled!" cried Bart, and the four boys, led by Ned, dragged the heavy load toward the spot where the building had been noticed. They did not see it again until they were within ten feet of it, and then made out a lonely cabin in the midst of a clearing in the woods. The snow was half way up to the first floor window sills. "There's some one inside!" shouted Bart, as he saw smoke curling from the chimney. "Knock on the door! I'm half frozen!" But there was no need to knock. The door was opened and a little girl peered out. "Can we come in and get warm?" asked Ned. "We're lost in the storm." "Who is it?" asked a woman's voice, as she came to the door. "We were camping out," explained Bart, "and the storm caught us as we were about to go home. We live in Darewell." "Come in!" the woman exclaimed. "Our cabin is poor enough but it is better than the woods in such a storm. I'm sorry we can't offer you anything to eat, but we have only a little for ourselves and there's no telling when we'll get more." "And to-morrow's Thanksgiving," murmured Ned in a low voice. The boys stamped the snow from their feet and entered the cabin. There were two rooms downstairs and two up. In the apartment they entered was a stove in which a wood fire burned. In one corner stood a table with a few dishes on it, and there was a cupboard. Some chairs completed the furnishings. Close to the fire, clad in a ragged dress, sat a little girl. The boys needed but one glance to see that the family was in dire straits. "My name is Perry," the woman said. "I live here with my two daughters. The town of Kirkville supports us. The poormaster brought some food last week but he hasn't been here this week, and we are afraid he can not come because of the storm. Otherwise I could offer you something to eat," and she turned aside her head to hide her tears. "Don't cry, mother," exclaimed the child who had been sitting near the fire. "We're not very hungry, and maybe the snow will stop. We had a nice Thanksgiving last year--and--and--" "I'm afraid we'll have a poor one to-morrow," Mrs. Perry replied. "But boys, come closer to the fire. You must be cold. At least we have plenty of wood. That is free, and my daughters gathered a lot the other day in the woods." "Mrs. Perry--ahem, ma'am--that is--er--I mean--Oh, hang it! Ain't any of you going to help a fellow out!" exclaimed Ned, clearing his throat with unnecessary violence. "What I mean is we've got a lot of things to eat, on our sled. We'd be glad to have you--Oh, here! Boys come on out and bring in some of the things!" and before the astonished woman knew what was happening Ned and his chums were out in the snow fairly tearing the things off the sled. In they trooped again, bearing turkeys, rabbits, and a lot of the camp food they had not eaten. "Oh, it's just like Santa Claus!" cried the little girl. "I knew we'd have Thanksgiving, mommey!" But Mrs. Perry was crying, with her head down on the table. Indeed the room did look as if it was ready for some sort of holiday feast. It was fairly crowded with the things the boys had brought in. "I don't--don't know what to say," Mrs. Perry exclaimed, as she dried her eyes. "Are you sure you can spare so much?" "Spare it? Say we've eaten so much lately we'll be sick!" broke in Bart, with a laugh. "Now we'll make a better fire, and if you'll get some of these turkeys and rabbits ready you can have a dinner. There's some other things,--canned stuff, you know." By this time the older girl, whose name, the boys learned, was Jane, was placing some of the things aside. Her mother helped her, while Mary, the younger daughter, seemed, from mere astonishment, unable to stir. She sat gazing at the pile of good things as if they might suddenly vanish. The boys brought in more wood and began to help with the meal. In a little while they had a good one ready, using some of the camp food, while the turkeys and rabbits were put away for the next day. The boys told something of themselves, and, in turn, Mrs. Perry related how her husband had died a few years before, leaving her with a small farm, and three children, a boy and the two girls. The farm, she said, had been taken because they could not pay the interest on the mortgage, and there had been nothing left for them. The town gave them the use of the little cabin, and they managed to make something of a living, for Mrs. Perry did sewing for women in the village, which was about three miles away. They had a little garden patch, and raised some fruit. "You said you--you had a son?" asked Ned gently. "Is he--" "No, he isn't dead," replied Mrs. Perry sadly. "Poor boy, I wish I knew where he was. He tried to help us, as much as he could," she went on. "But there was no work for him around here, and so he decided to try and get work. He went to the city and wrote me that he was going to sea. He said he had a good position, and would send me some money." "Did he?" asked Bart. "I have never heard from him since," the widow replied. "I'm afraid he is dead," and she began to cry again. "Perhaps not," suggested Ned, as cheerfully as he could. "Maybe he is on a long voyage and can't write. Or perhaps he has written and the letters have gone astray. I would not worry. He may come back." "I think Willie is alive," remarked Jane. "He was a very proud boy, and perhaps when he found he could not earn money enough to send home, he decided to stay away until he could. Maybe he is ashamed to come home." "Oh, he knows I would forgive him! I would be glad to see him if he never had a penny!" exclaimed Mrs. Perry. "I'll bet he'll turn up all right," put in Fenn. "He's only waiting until he can come back rich." "It's been about a year now," the widow went on. "Willie was fifteen when he left, and he'd be sixteen now. It's his first birthday away from home." The boys did their best to comfort her, and she seemed to feel a little better after telling her troubles. The girls were certainly more cheerful after the meal. "You boys had better stay all night," Mrs. Perry suggested. "The storm is getting worse. If you don't mind being crowded we can accommodate you." "If we can sleep on the floor in the kitchen we'll be glad to," Ned answered. "I have Willie's bed, which no one uses, and there is another," the widow replied. "I have always kept his room ready for him." "Then we'll stay for the night, thank you," Fenn said. The storm did appear to be getting worse, or else the howling of the wind about the lonely cabin made it seem so. CHAPTER VII HOME FOR THANKSGIVING "Hurrah! It's stopped snowing!" exclaimed Ned as he looked out of the little window on the second floor of the cabin the next morning. "Maybe we can get home for Thanksgiving!" "I hope so," Bart answered. "The folks will be worried. Wonder if Jim is waiting for us?" "Not much! Jim's too fond of his comfort to come out in such weather," said Frank. The boys found the widow had breakfast ready for them. She told them their best plan would be to go to Kirkville, which could be reached by the road leading from the cabin. From that village it was seven miles to Darewell. "It's going to be a long pull," remarked Ned. "But I guess we can make it." "Let's go out and see how the snow is," suggested Bart. They found though it was quite deep it was dry and soft so that tramping through it, and pulling the sled, would not be so great an exertion as it otherwise would have been. "We'll have to take it easy, and we may get home in time for dinner," said Frank. "Pity, though, we can't have some of our own game cooked for the feast, but we'll not arrive in time." "I think we'll leave most of it with her. What do you say?" asked Bart, and he nodded toward the cabin, outside of which the boys stood. "Sure thing!" exclaimed Fenn. "I wish we could find her son for her." "Maybe we can, some day," remarked Ned. "But we'd better go in to breakfast and then get started." "I hardly feel like taking all this," Mrs. Perry said as she looked at the rabbits and turkeys the boys left. They had reserved a turkey and some rabbits each but left all the rest. "It hardly seems right," she added. "Why it's no more than we owe you," said Bart quickly. "We never could have stayed all night out in that blizzard in our tent. I don't know what we would have done if it hadn't been that we saw your house." "I only wish I had had better accommodations to offer you," the widow said. "But we have nothing except what charity gives us. In the spring Jane hopes to get a place to work." "Perhaps we could help you," suggested Ned. "My father knows a number of business men and he might get Jane a place in a store." "Oh, if he only would!" exclaimed the girl. "I do so want to help mother. I must take Willie's place--until he comes back," she added a little sadly. "My poor boy," Mrs. Perry exclaimed with a sigh. "I wonder if he will have as nice a Thanksgiving dinner as we will, thanks to the generosity of you boys." "We'll hope so," said Fenn. "So you haven't any idea where he is?" "Not the least. He used to say he wanted to see New York, as I suppose all boys do. But I hardly believe he is there. I wish I knew where he was. He should come home, pride or not, no matter if he hasn't a cent." "New York," murmured Ned. "I expect to go there soon. I might see Willie." "Oh! If you only could!" exclaimed Jane. "Tell him to come home at once. You can easily recognize him. He has a little red scar on his right cheek. He fell and cut himself on a stone when he was a baby." "New York is a big place," said Mrs. Perry. "You are not very likely to see my boy. But if you should--tell him his mother prays for him--every night!" and, unable to keep her feelings in control the widow burst into tears. It was rather an awkward moment for the boys, but little Mary saved the day. "I'm going to New York!" she exclaimed. "I'm goin' right now with these nice boys. They can pull me on their sled!" and she ran to get her bonnet and cloak. This raised a laugh, and Mrs. Perry recovered her composure. "Not now, dear," she said. "Sometime, maybe," and she smiled through her tears. "Well, we must be going," remarked Fenn. "We're ever so much obliged to you." "Indeed, I am in your debt," the widow replied. "If you are ever out this way again come and see us." "We will!" the boys cried as they put on their things and started off with the sled. It was lighter now that the load of camp food and much of the game was off, though the boys found it heavy enough before they had gone a couple of miles. But they were determined to reach home as soon as possible and kept on. "Pretty tough, eh?" remarked Ned, after a silence of several minutes, as he nodded back in the direction of the cabin. "You're right," replied Bart. "Glad we could do something to help 'em." The boys found, on inquiring from a farmer they met, that, by taking a short cut through the woods, they could get on the road to Darewell without going to Kirkville. This would save them a mile, and, though they might be able to hire a horse and wagon in the village, they thought it better to take the short cut. They were just turning from the woods into the highway that led to Darewell, which was about five miles away, when they heard the jingle of sleigh bells back of them. Turning they saw coming along a big sled drawn by two horses. A boy was on the seat. "Here's a chance for a ride!" exclaimed Ned. "We're in luck. We can offer to pay him to take us home." They waited until the sled was close to them and hailed the driver. He turned and they saw it was their old enemy, Sandy Merton. Sandy had been employed by the men in the secret which the four boys were instrumental in bringing to disclosure, but had lost his position and gone to work for a farmer. "Oh, it's you, eh?" asked Sandy with a sneer, as he saw the four chums. There was a moment's hesitation among them. They did not relish the idea of asking him for a ride. But still less did they like the thought of pulling their heavy sled five miles. "Look here, Sandy!" exclaimed Ned. "This is a strict business proposition. Will you drive us to Darewell for four dollars, and take our sled? That's a dollar apiece, and it's more than livery prices. We're not asking you out of friendship." "No, and I guess you'd better not!" exclaimed Sandy. "Not the way you acted toward me!" "We never injured you in any way!" said Bart. "But we're not going to discuss that now. Will you give us a lift for money, or won't you?" "Well I won't, and that's my answer!" cried Sandy, in sudden and unreasonable rage. "You fellows think you're mighty smart. But this time is where I've got the upper hand. I wouldn't take you to Darewell for ten dollars apiece. You can go off hunting and enjoy yourself while other folks work. Then because you get lost in the woods you think every one you meet has got to give you a ride. Not much! You can walk to Darewell!" And whipping up his horses Sandy drove on, laughing loudly at the predicament of the chums. "Might have known better than to ask him," murmured Ned. "Well, fellows, I guess we'll have to walk." It was easier traveling in the road than through the woods and across the fields, but still it was hard work. However, they managed to get a lift from a farmer when they were within a mile of town. They hitched their sled to the back of his sleigh and the man obligingly took them to Bart's house. "Oh! There are the boys!" exclaimed Alice as she looked from the window. "Look, Jennie, they have some game. I can see the turkey feathers!" she added to her friend, who had called. "Here we are!" cried Bart, as his sister and her chum came running down the front walk. "Just in time for dinner!" Bart wanted his chums to come into his house, but they were in a hurry to tell their folks of their safe arrival, so, shouldering their guns, and dividing the game, the boys separated. CHAPTER VIII GETTING SQUARE WITH SANDY "Come Alice, help me carry this game into the house," said Bart when the excitement over their arrival had quieted down a bit. His rabbits and the turkey were on the sled with the camp stuff. "Is that all the luck you had?" asked Mr. Keene, as he came out on the porch to greet his son. "Why I thought you'd come loaded down. We didn't buy anything for dinner, thinking you'd have enough." Bart knew by his father's tone that he was only joking. "We did have fine luck," the boy replied, and then he told about the widow and how they had left her with plenty of food. "Humph!" exclaimed Mr. Keene. "If you'd brought home any more game than you did, and hadn't left her some I'd make you go back to Mrs. Perry without your dinner. You did right, Bart. I'm glad to hear it." Bart ate his Thanksgiving dinner with an appetite that astonished even himself. Jennie Smith remained, as the guest of Alice, and she kept those about the table in lively mood, reciting bits of verse. During the course of the meal Bart told of their trip, and more about the widow. "We didn't hardly know what to do when that blizzard came up," he said. "Wonder if Jim went to meet us." "No, he came here and said he was expected to be at the end of the corduroy road for you," Mr. Keene explained. "I said I guessed you boys would know what to do. Besides, it is doubtful if he could have gotten his wagon through the drifts." In the afternoon Bart's chums came over. Ned said he had spoken to his father about the Perry family, and Mr. Wilding was going to get Jane a place to work. Mr. Keene expressed a wish to help the widow, and arrangements were made to see that she did not suffer any more for lack of food or clothing for herself and daughters. When the roads were better Mrs. Keene went to visit Mrs. Perry, and Jane secured a place in a store in Kirkville, so she could come home every night. "Now if we could only find the widow's son for her we'd have that family in pretty good shape," remarked Bart to his chums one morning early in December as they were on their way to school after the Thanksgiving holidays. "Accidentally we were able to do quite a lot for them, but I'd like to do more." "I'm glad Jane has a place," observed Fenn. "Good thing it isn't in Darewell," said Frank. "Why?" asked Fenn. "Because you'd be hanging around the store where she was whenever you had the chance, Stumpy, to see her home." Frank did not dodge quickly enough to escape the snowball Fenn threw at him, and caught it on the head. But he laughed good-naturedly. It was the price for his joke and he was willing to pay it. "Let's go skating this afternoon," suggested Bart. "The river edge is fine almost up to the Riffles." "Good!" exclaimed Ned. "We'll have a race." School was dismissed for the day at three o'clock and as soon as they were out the boys hurried home for their skates. The weather was crisp and cold, just right for a fine spin up the frozen stream. The four chums were soon gliding over the smooth surface on which were a number of other boys and girls enjoying the sport. "We haven't room to expand here," said Bart, after they had skated around on the broad expanse of the river near the town. "Let's go up a mile or two." His chums agreed, and they were soon racing up the stream toward the "Riffles" a shallower place where, in summer, there was good fishing. "Let's see who'll be first to the dead pine!" cried Bart, pointing to a lightning-blasted tree on the river's edge about a mile up. All four dashed off at top speed. There was little difference in the ability of the boys when it came to skating. They were as much at home on the steel runners as they were on the baseball diamond, and were speedy skaters. Forward they went, stooping over to avoid the wind resistance as much as possible, the metal of their skates singing merrily in the crisp winter air. "Now for the last rush!" cried Bart, as he put on an extra burst of speed. His companions responded to the call, but Bart had a little the best of them, and was first at the goal. "I'll beat you going back!" cried Ned. "Let's rest a while," suggested Frank. "What's that?" The boys turned suddenly at the sound of loud shouting on the road which, at this point, ran close to the river. It was someone trying to stop a team of horses, attached to a sleigh and, to judge by the noise, the animals were running away. "Whoa! Whoa there!" cried the driver. An instant later the team dashed from the road and came straight for the river, the driver trying in vain to stop them. "It's Sandy Merton!" exclaimed Bart. Before the boys could say any more the horses had run out on the ice of the river, near the chums. Fortunately it was thick enough to bear the weight of the animals or it might have proved a disastrous runaway. As it was, Sandy, in trying to stop the horses, lost one rein. He pulled sharply on the other and the steeds, obeying it, turned quickly to the left. In an instant the sleigh, with its load of feed, in bags, was overturned on the ice and Sandy was spilled out. "Quick! Grab the horses!" cried Bart, and the chums were soon at the bridles. But the animals appeared satisfied with the damage they had done, and stood still. Sandy picked himself up, for he was not hurt, and came to the heads of the horses. He looked at the overturned sleigh, with the bags of feed scattered on the ice, and murmured: "I'll catch it for this." "I rather guess he will," said Bart in a low tone, as the temper of Silas Weatherby, for whom Sandy worked, was well known in that locality. For a few moments Sandy stood surveying the scene. It looked as if it would take several men to set matters right, even if the sleigh was not broken. Then Sandy, with a sigh, set to work unhitching the horses. He led them from the ice and tied them to a tree on shore. Then he began moving the bags of feed so as to get a clear place around the vehicle. The chums watched him for a few minutes. They were thinking, as no doubt Sandy was, of that day when he had refused them a lift. "It's a good chance to get square," murmured Bart to his companions. "We could sit down and watch him sweat over this, and laugh--but we won't!" he added quickly. "That isn't our way. We'll get square with Sandy by helping him out in his trouble. That'll make him feel just as badly as if we sat and laughed at him." It was an application of the Biblical injunction of heaping coals of fire, but it is doubtful if the boys thought of it in that light. "Come on!" cried Bart. He began to take off his skates, and his chums followed his example. Then, to the great surprise of Sandy, they began to help him move the bags away so they could get at the sled. "Say--say--fellows--" began Sandy, as the thought of his own mean conduct, that day on the road, came to him. "Say--I don't deserve this. I'm--" "You dry up!" commanded Bart. CHAPTER IX SANTA CLAUS IN SCHOOL The four chums pitched in with a will and helped Sandy. They did not talk much, for, take it all in all, it was rather an embarrassing situation. Sandy did not know what to say, and the boys did not feel like entering into friendly conversation. They did not care to be sociable with Sandy after what he had done, not only in regard to refusing them a ride, but in the matter of the oil barge. But they could not see anyone in such a plight as Sandy was, through no fault of his own, and not render assistance. "The horses took fright and ran away," Sandy explained, when most of the bags had been piled on shore. "I couldn't stop 'em. The load was too heavy, and it was down hill." The chums did not answer. Sandy did not expect they would. The situation was too novel. But he was grateful for their help, and, doubtless resolved not to act meanly toward them in the future. The trouble with Sandy was he had no strength of character. He was mean in spite of himself, and couldn't help it. When the bags were out of the way the five boys, by dint of hard work, managed to right the sleigh, which was a big double bob. It was not damaged to any extent and soon was ready to receive the bags of feed. They were piled in and the horses hitched up again. "I'm--I'm much obliged to you fellows," said Sandy in a mumbling tone. "I'm sorry I didn't give you a ride that day." Sandy meant that. He was much softened by what the chums had done. "We'd made up our minds to get square with you," said Bart, as he fastened on his skates. "And I think we did, Sandy," and with that the four chums started off down the river, while Sandy drove the horses up into the road. "Queer way to get square," murmured Ned. "I'd like to punch his face." "This was the best way," Bart replied, and, somehow, though perhaps they didn't know just why, the chums agreed with him. Christmas was approaching, and mingled with the joys of the holiday season, were thoughts in the minds of the four chums and all the other pupils, that school would close for two weeks. "Next Wednesday is Christmas," observed Bart one afternoon as the chums were on their way home. "School closes Tuesday for the two weeks, and we ought to mark the occasion in some way. Have you fellows heard of any celebration?" "Nary a one," replied Fenn. "Well, there's going to be something doing, all right." "Who's going to do it?" asked Ned. "Well, not the fellow who invited the cow to school," replied Bart, referring to an incident for which Ned was responsible. "You, maybe, eh?" "Maybe," and Bart winked his left eye. There was little studying done on Monday of Christmas week, and less was in prospect for the following Tuesday. Some of the classes had arranged for informal exercises in their rooms and later there was to be a general gathering of all the pupils of the school in the large auditorium, at which Mr. McCloud the principal would make an address. Monday night Bart was very busy in his room. There were odd noises proceeding from it, and when he came down a little later, and asked Alice to sew some strips of red cloth for him, she asked: "What in the world are you up to, Bart?" "I'm a knight, getting my armor ready for the conflict of battle," he replied gravely. "Be ready for me when I return, for I may be covered with wounds and you can get lots of first-aid-to-the-injured practice." "Now, don't do anything silly," Alice advised. "Far be it from me to do any such thing. You girls can attend to that part." "As if we girls were anywhere near as silly as boys are when they get started," commented Alice, sewing away at the cloth. "Ouch! There, I've pricked my finger!" and she wiped away a few drops of blood. "Here! Don't get my uniform all spotted!" exclaimed Bart, as he saw Alice wipe her finger with the red cloth. "Silly! How is blood going to show on this old red flannel?" asked Alice. "You'll have to wait, Bart, until I wash my finger in an antiseptic solution," and, laying aside the cloth, Alice hurried for her little box of remedies. "I can sew it myself," declared Bart, and he tried to, but he made awkward work of it, for he used a five cent piece in place of a thimble, at which Alice laughed when she returned. Under her skillful fingers, even though one was done up in a cloth, the work was soon completed. It was about two o'clock when the pupils were assembled in the auditorium of the High School Tuesday afternoon. Professor McCloud delivered an address on the meaning of Christmas, telling of how ancient people celebrated it, and relating stories of the various nations that had beliefs in myths corresponding to Santa Claus, or St. Nicholas. "Speaking of Santa Claus," Mr. McCloud went on, as the closing remarks to his lecture, "I am reminded of--" At that instant there was a jingle of bells out in the corridor, and before pupils or teachers, the latter all sitting on the raised platform in front, knew what it portended, a strange sight was presented. Into the big room came a personage dressed in the usual Santa Claus costume, red flannel striped with white, a big white beard, his clothing sprinkled with something to represent snow, and, over his back a big bag. But, oddest of all, was a little sleigh which St. Nicholas pulled in after him by a string. Hitched in front of it were eight tiny reindeer, made of plaster-of-paris, properly colored. Each animal was on a stand on wheels, and as St. Nicholas pulled them in with the sleigh, he shook the leading string, on which were bells, so that they jingled musically. "Merry Christmas to all!" exclaimed St. Nicholas in a deep bass voice. "May I speak to them, sir?" and the figure turned to Professor McCloud, who, entering into the spirit of the occasion, nodded an assent. Neither he nor any of the teachers were prepared for the advent of Santa Claus. Some of the boys had suspected, but they were not sure. "My sled and reindeer shrunk as soon as I struck this climate," Santa Claus went on in his deep tones, which Ned was puzzling his brain over. He was wondering where he had heard them before. "Still I managed to come," the red-coated figure went on. "I have a few gifts for some of the more faithful of my subjects." He slung the bag from his shoulder and began groping in it. "Is Lem Gordon here?" he asked. "Step up, Lemuel," said Professor McCloud, for, though he did not know what was coming, he was willing to let the pupils have fun on such an occasion as this. Rather sheepishly Lem, the pitcher on the High School nine, left his seat. "I have heard of your good work last season," Santa Claus went on, "and, as a reward for it I have brought you this. May it help you to win many games." With that he handed Lem a red, white and blue striped rubber ball, the kind given to babies so they can not hurt themselves. The other pupils burst into laughter, and Lem blushed. He acted as though he was going to throw it at the head of St. Nicholas, but thought better of it and went to his seat. "Fenn Masterson," Santa Claus called next, and Stumpy went forward. "Fenn, I have heard how devoted you are to the ladies," the speaker went on. "So I bring you this that you may never forget them," and Fenn was given a doll dressed in the height of fashion. On the neck was a card which read: "I love Fenn and Fenn loves me." "Kiss her, Fenn!" called out Ned in a loud whisper, and poor Fenn, blushing to his ears, carried the doll back to his seat. "I have here something for Ned Wilding," the figure went on, and, as Ned, in response to the remorseless urging of his fellow pupils, went forward he was given a tin rattle box. "Now James Eaton," called Santa Claus, and James, who was very fond of dogs was given a little woolly one that emitted a squeaky bark when gently punched in the stomach. "William Sanderson!" called St. Nicholas, and a lad who did little else than fish in his spare time, was presented with a small pole and line, from which dangled a tin trout. So it went on, until a score of the boys and several girls had been given toy presents bearing on their particular traits of character. Meanwhile Ned and Fenn had been whispering to each other. "Shall I do it now?" asked Ned, as St. Nicholas seemed to have reached the bottom of his bag. "Yes," whispered Fenn. As Santa Claus prepared to leave, thinking perhaps his identity had not been penetrated, Ned walked forward. "One moment," he called, and St. Nicholas halted in the act of dragging out his tiny reindeer and sleigh. "Though you have remembered us, you have forgotten yourself," Ned went on. "Therefore, Mr. Bart Keene, _alias_ St. Nicholas, on behalf of the pupils of the school I present you with this." Before Bart could get away Ned had torn the false beard from his chum's face. Then, holding out what seemed to be a basket-ball, Ned suddenly raised it high in the air and brought it down on Bart's head. It broke with a loud sound, for it was paper blown up, and out flew a shower of confetti, which covered Bart's red flannel uniform with tiny scraps of colored paper. Ned had brought it to use in playing a joke on someone else, but, at the last minute, discovering the identity of St. Nicholas, he had resolved on a different plan. CHAPTER X WRECK OF THE TOWER A loud shout of laughter went up at the surprised look on Bart's face. He did not know what to say, and he shook his head to get rid of the confetti that clung even to his eyebrows. He had hoped to get away undiscovered but his chums had been too smart for him. He opened his mouth to speak, and the hickory nut he had placed in it to make his voice sound deep, dropped out and rolled on the floor. At this there was more laughter. "Very well done, Bart," observed Principal McCloud. "I think school is dismissed," he added, as he and the other teachers joined in the laughter. "Come again, Bart," said Ned, as he and the other boys crowded about the impersonator of Santa Claus. "Off with his uniform!" one of the boys called, and, before Bart could defend himself, he was being pulled this way and that, until the red suit he had gone to such trouble to make was a thing of shreds and tatters. "It's just like poor King Lear, being all torn apart by the winds," exclaimed Jennie Smith, though some of her companions could not quite see the simile. "Oh, I would love to recite something," she went on. "Go ahead," said Mary Tedwell. "I guess no one will hear you," and she laughed rather maliciously. "Mean old thing!" exclaimed Jennie. "She's mad because she can't recite poetry." Now Bart was entirely stripped of his Santa Claus suit, and the boys and girls, securing pieces of it, formed a ring about the lad and marched around singing any tune that came into their heads. The teachers had retired, leaving the pupils to finish in their own fashion the celebration attendant upon closing of school for the holidays as they knew there would be little trouble. But all things must have an end and the merry frolic of the boys and girls was gradually brought to a close. Those who had received the odd presents from Bart were made to exhibit them, and many were the jibes and quips that accompanied the display. On all sides and from scores of girls and boys came the greeting, "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year," for school would not assemble again until the second week in January. One by one the pupils left for home. The big auditorium became quieter and soon only the four chums, Alice and Jennie, and a few of their friends remained. "Come on," said Bart. "I'll stand treat for hot chocolate at Fanton's Drug Emporium." The boys and girls were a little later on their way to the "Emporium" as the sign in the window declared it to be. "Coming to the entertainment Friday night?" asked Jennie of Fenn, when they were sipping the hot beverage. "What entertainment?" "The Y. M. C. A. is going to give one in the school auditorium. Moving pictures and some music. Alice and I are going." "Sure I'm coming," Stumpy replied, though it was the first he had heard of it. But Stumpy wasn't going to be left out if there were girls in it. "Where you going?" asked Bart, overhearing the talk. "Entertainment--school hall--Y. M. C. A.--Mov--ing pict--ures." The breaks Fenn made, in imparting the information, were caused by the sips of chocolate he took between his words. "We'll all go," decided Bart. "We'll be over our Christmas dinners by then." Finishing their chocolate the boys and girls walked together down the street on their way home. As they separated they wished each other the joys of the season. Christmas, which came next day, was celebrated in Darewell much as it is celebrated every where in Christian lands. There was happiness in the homes of the four chums, not only at the gifts which they received, but also over those they gave. Each one remembered Mrs. Perry and her two girls, and, it is safe to say, it was the best Christmas the widow's family had experienced since trouble came. "If only Willie was home now," Mrs. Perry said to Jane as they looked at the gifts which had come so unexpectedly to them, "we would be very happy." "Perhaps he will be with us next Christmas," Jane remarked, trying to comfort her mother. "Let us hope so anyhow. We are much more happy than we were the day before Thanksgiving when everything seemed so black." "Yes, thanks to those good boys," the widow replied. "Well, we will trust in Providence. Perhaps Willie may come back to us." The day of the Y. M. C. A. entertainment proved to be one of the coldest of the winter. It dawned with a dull leaden sky, filled with lowering clouds, and there was a nip to the air that made thick wraps a necessity. The wind, which had been blowing strongly in the morning, increased in violence as the day advanced until by evening it was blowing half a gale. But the boys and girls who crowded into the school auditorium did not mind this. It only made their cheeks redder, and though the wind did toss and tumble the hair of the girls it only caused them to look all the prettier, at least so Fenn thought, and he ought to know. "B-r-r-r! It's a regular hurricane!" exclaimed Bart as he and Alice entered the hall, where they found a number of their friends. The entertainment had not yet begun. "It must be getting colder," observed Ned. "What makes you think so?" asked Bart. "Your nose is as red as a beet." "It feels half frozen," Bart answered. "That comes of having such a big one. But it's a sign of greatness you know." "If we let you tell it," interposed Frank. The hall soon filled up and the entertainment was started. There was vocal and instrumental music and recitations. Jennie Smith rendered "Horatius at the Bridge" with all the energy she was capable of, and the four chums applauded vigorously. The wind was increasing in violence, and it rattled the windows so that at times it interfered with the singing. The janitor went about tightening the fastenings. "It's going to be a bad storm," Bart heard the man murmur as he adjusted the catches. "I hope it doesn't blow some of the chimneys down. One or two of 'em need pointing up, for the mortar's most out of 'em." "Is there any danger?" asked Bart in a whisper. "No, I hope not. The old tower--" but what the janitor would have said about the tower Bart did not hear, for the man had passed on and there came the chorus of a song which drowned his words. But the janitor's prophecy seemed likely to be true. The noise of the wind could be heard more plainly now. The windows did not rattle so much after being attended to, but the gale fairly made the school building vibrate. The old tower the janitor spoke of was a tall, square affair, at one corner of the building. It was for ornamental purposes only, though it contained a large clock, and there was a winding stair in it that gave access to the mechanism. A white screen was adjusted and moving pictures thrown upon it. The first series was that of battleships in practice evolutions and as the smoke rolled from the muzzles of the big guns a man behind the scenes beat a bass drum, to simulate the distant roar of the ordnance. The audience watched one great ship as it came into view on the screen. A broadside was fired, and, as the white smoke rolled out there came a tremendous concussion that shook the entire school. "He must have busted the drum that time," thought Bart. An instant later there came a terrifying crash so near at hand that everyone knew it was not the sound of the drum, nor their excited imagination. Nor was it the noise of the wind. Then, down through one corner of the auditorium, fortunately in a place where no one was seated, crashing through the ceiling, came a mass of brick and mortar. Before the echoes of that had died away there sounded another noise; a deep, dull sound, and the school again vibrated with the shock. Then the auditorium was in darkness, and through it came the voice of the janitor shouting: "The tower has been wrecked and has fallen!" CHAPTER XI NED GETS A LETTER For an instant silence followed the startling announcement, silence in which the wind seemed to join, for there came a lull in the gale. Then, as the gale resumed its furious blowing, the audience became fear-crazed and a mad rush ensued. Women and girls were screaming at the tops of their voices. Men were shouting to one another to know what had happened. Boys were darting here and there seeking a means of escape from what they believed would prove a death-trap. The noise of bricks clattering to the floor could be heard and the school-house seemed, at least to the excited imaginations of some, to be on the point of toppling down. The four chums, who were seated near each other, had jumped up at the first crash. Bart reached over to grab Alice and prevent, if possible, her being trampled under foot. Fenn had Jennie by the arm. Then the light from the moving picture machine, which had served to dispel the gloom, went out. The maddened rush became worse. "Quick!" cried Frank. "Let's give the school yell! Maybe it will quiet the rush until we can turn on the lights! There's a switch on the wall here! Now, fellows altogether!" His three chums heard him as if in a dream, but they comprehended. "One, two, three!" cried Frank. Then, above the noise of the gale, above the shrieks of the women and girls, above the hoarse calls of frightened men, arose the yell, given with all the power of the lungs of the four boys: "Ravabava--Havabava--Hick! Hick! He! Dabavaba--Nabahaba--Snick! Snack! Snee! Why do we thus loudly yell? 'Tis for our school: old Darewell!" Never had the call been given under such circumstances. Never had it sounded more strangely. Never had it been more welcome. For an instant there was a silence following the yell. It had momentarily drowned the cries from the panic-stricken ones. Before there was a chance for a continuance of the panic that had been halted, if only for an instant, Bart cried: "There's no danger. Wait until the lights are turned on!" In another moment Frank had reached the switch and the place was brilliant with the gleam from scores of incandescent lamps. The rush had been stopped, for, as the crowd looked about, they saw there was no immediate danger. In one corner of the auditorium there was a gaping hole in the roof, where the top part of the tower had crashed through. The floor in that section was covered with bricks and mortar, and several seats were crushed, but the audience had crowded up front and no one was hurt. A moment later some of those in charge of the entertainment hurried to the platform and made an announcement. A hasty investigation showed, it was said, that the tower had fallen mostly outward instead of toward the school, which accounted for only a small part of it hitting the roof. Had the entire pile of masonry toppled over on the auditorium there might have been a great loss of life. As it was the main school was in no danger, but, for fear the structure might have been weakened it was decided best to dismiss the audience at once. "That wind must be pretty strong," observed Bart as he and his chums, with Alice, Jennie, and some of the other girls, got outside. "Oh! It certainly is!" cried Jennie as she stepped from the doorway. "I'm being blown away." The wind had caught her long cloak and whipped it up around her shoulders so that it acted like a sail. Jennie was being fairly carried along the street. "There's your chance, Fenn!" cried Frank. "Rescue a maiden in distress." Fenn did not stop to reply to his tormenter but caught Jennie by the arm and helped her to straighten her garment. "Noble youth!" exclaimed Bart. "You shall be suitably rewarded." They all laughed, rather hysterically, it is true, at the nonsense talk, but it was a relief to their over-strained nerves for the shock of the accident had been a severe one. They passed along and, as they got beyond the shelter of the school the full force of the wind was felt. It was almost a hurricane, and it was all they could do to walk along. "No wonder it blew the tower down," observed Ned. "Let's take a look at the wreck." They walked around to the other side of the school. There, prone on the ground, though but a confused mass of bricks and mortar, was what had been the tower. "There's the clock!" exclaimed Frank, as he saw the dial of the timepiece some distance from the big mass of masonry. "See, it stopped just at ten." There were four dials to the clock, one for each side of the tower. The dials were of sheet iron with big gilt hands which were worked simultaneously by the one set of wheels and springs. This dial, to which Frank called attention, had fallen from its place, with the hands still attached to it, the rods to which they were fastened, and which served to turn them, having been cut off close to the back of the face. "I'm going to take it home for a souvenir," Frank said. "If they want it back they can have it." He picked up the dial, which was painted white with black numerals on it. As he did so he uttered an exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Ned. "It's all mud, or something black," Frank replied. "I've got it all over my hands." "Better let it alone," advised Bart. "The wind will blow it away, and you with it, if you try to carry it." "I guess I can manage," Frank responded, and though the gale did get a good purchase on the flat surface of the dial which was two feet in diameter, Frank clung to it and took it home with him. "See you to-morrow!" called Fenn to Frank, as the latter turned off on a street that led to his uncle's house. The others went in the opposite direction. "We'll come and take a look at the ruins by daylight," suggested Frank. "Good-night." "Good-night," called his chums, and the girls. "Queer sort of a relic he's got," observed Bart. "It's just like him," Ned rejoined. "Frank's a queer chap anyhow." "I think he's nice," remarked Alice. "So do I," chimed in Jennie. "Who said he wasn't?" demanded Bart. "Can't a fellow make a remark about his chum without being found fault with?" "I don't think it's nice to say he's queer," Alice said. "Why he admits it himself," her brother put in. "He doesn't care what we say about him. We call him queer about twice a week; don't we fellows." "Sure," replied Ned, coming to his chum's support. "Well, never mind," Alice rejoined. "Let's hurry home or we'll be blown into the next county." It was such a cold blustery night, with the wind seeming to increase in violence rather than diminish, that all were glad when they reached their houses. "It's a pretty fierce gale," remarked Mr. Keene, when his son and daughter had told him what had happened, "but I wouldn't think it was strong enough to blow the tower down. Must have been weak somewhere." "The janitor said some of the chimneys needed new mortar in the cracks, and maybe the tower did also," Bart said. "I suppose the school authorities will investigate and see what caused it to fall," his father went on. "It was a dangerous thing to let such a weak tower stay up." Bart stopped at Ned's house the next morning to call for him, and then they intended to get Frank and Fenn to go together and take a look at the tower. "Come on in," Ned invited his chum at the door. "I've got a letter." "Who from?" "My aunt, Mrs. Paul Kenfield, of New York. She wants me to come down for a week or two. You know, she wrote me some time ago inviting me for next summer. Now she says she wants me to come right away, and to bring you three fellows. I wrote her, after I got the first invitation that I'd like to take my chums with me." "That's very kind of you," replied Bart. "I guess I can go. When are you going to start?" "Monday." "That will give you a week there. I don't believe I could get ready so soon. I've got to help dad Monday." "Then you and the other boys could come afterward. Say on Tuesday or Wednesday," suggested Ned. "I'll think about it," his chum replied. "But come on, let's go take a look at the fallen tower." CHAPTER XII NED STARTS OFF Ned and Bart went to Fenn's house, where they found Frank. The two were just on the point of starting out. "Did you get your relic home safe?" asked Bart of Frank. "You mean the clock dial? I did, though I thought at one time the wind would blow it away. I got that black stuff whatever it was on it, all over my clothes." "Was it paint?" asked Ned. "No, seemed like some kind of smoke. I had hard work to get it off my hands." "Come on!" called Fenn. "There are crowds going to see the tower." "Well, what of it?" asked Ned. "They can't carry it away; can they?" "No," replied Fenn, "but they'll all get around it and we can't see anything." "Oh we'll get you a pair of opera glasses," rejoined Frank. "I guess you're all just as anxious to see it as I am," said Stumpy. "Come on." A fine, calm day, though cold, had succeeded the blustery one. As Fenn had said, the streets were filled with a large throng hastening to see the wreck of the tower. The falling of it had created more excitement than had been known in Darewell for some years. "Say, you fellows are all right," called Jim Nelson, as the four chums passed him. "That was a fine yell you gave. I'd a joined in, only--" "Too much work, eh?" asked Frank, for Jim had the reputation, not altogether undeserved, of being the laziest boy in town. "No, it wasn't that exactly," Jim replied, "but I couldn't remember the words." "Why didn't you come in on the tune?" asked Ned. "Um," was all Jim said. It was his usual reply when he did not want to take the trouble to answer in words. "Say," he called a moment later, as the chums kept on, "are you going to the tower?" "Yes; are you?" inquired Fenn. "I was, but if you're going that way would you do me a favor?" "What is it?" asked Ned. "Stop on your way back and tell me how it looks. No use of me going if you are. I'll wait in the drug store here for you," and Jim turned into the "Emporium." "We may not be back until late this afternoon," Fenn said. "That's all right, I'm in no hurry. I can wait here as well as anywhere else," and Jim went into the store and took a seat on one of the stools at the soda fountain, from whence he could look out of the window. "Well, if that isn't the limit!" exclaimed Ned. "It's a wonder he didn't ask us to bring the tower around for him to look at," said Bart. "He would, only he was too lazy to think of it," remarked Frank. The boys found quite a crowd around the fallen mass of bricks, and many were the comments on the accident. "Let's go up and take a look at where the roof was broken through," suggested Ned. The chums started to enter the school intending to go to the auditorium, but, as they reached the stairs, for the building was open, they were met by Mr. Williamson, president of the Board of Education. "You can't go in, boys," he said pleasantly enough. "Is it dangerous?" asked Ned. "Well, that's what we're trying to find out. We have some workmen looking over the ruins to see what repairs we will have to make. There's quite a hole in the roof." "Will it interfere with the opening of school next week?" asked Bart. "Do you wish it would?" asked Mr. Williamson. The boys laughed, for the president had read their thoughts. "We hope not," Mr. Williamson went on. "By the way, you boys know almost everything that goes on in Darewell? Did you happen to hear of any one carrying off one of the clock dials? We can only find three in the ruins, and there were four." "I took one home with me last night," said Frank promptly. "I wanted it for a relic. I hope there was no harm in that." "None in the world, if you still have it," said Mr. Williamson. "You see we are trying to find out just what caused the tower to be blown down by the wind, and we want all the evidence we can get. Just keep the dial safely and, the next time you come up toward my store, leave it for me. You may have it back again after we are through with it, for we'll have to have a whole new clock I expect." "Wonder what he expects to find from the clock face?" asked Ned, as the boys went back on the campus to get another look at the fallen tower. "Probably wants to look into its open countenance and ask questions about how it feels to be blown down," Bart replied. "I hadn't any idea they'd want that piece of the clock, or I'd never have taken it," said Frank. "Lucky I saved it, or someone else might have carried it off and they'd never get it again." They took another look at the tower, though there was little they had not already seen, and then on Stumpy's invitation to have some hot chocolate they strolled back to the "Emporium." They found Jim still there, but he seemed to have fallen asleep. "Put some chocolate near him, and see if he wakes up," suggested Ned in a whisper. The clerk, at the boys' request, placed a glass of the steaming liquid close to Jim's hand as it rested on the marble counter. Jim opened his eyes, looked at the beverage, glanced at the four chums waiting expectantly and then--closed his eyes again without reaching for the chocolate. "He's lost his chance," Fenn said. "I'll drink it myself." He did so, and, as the boys were leaving, Jim appeared to rouse from his slumber. He seemed to remember the chocolate, for he put out his hand as if to grasp it. His fingers closed on the empty air. "Did I drink it?" he asked of the chums, who stood laughing at him. "Must have," replied Ned. "I don't remember," Jim said, in puzzled tones. "But it's all right. I'm sleepy to-day. Is the tower still--?" Then the exertion of talking seemed to be too much for him, and he closed his eyes again. "Come on," said Ned. "I've got to get home and make arrangements for my New York trip." "Oh, yes, and I must find out when I can go," Bart added. "We can have jolly sport there, fellows." There were several family councils that night. Ned's plans were all made, and he had but to pack his trunk, ready to leave on the following Monday morning. The other chums, though, had to consult their relatives. It was inconvenient for some to let the boys go Tuesday, and Thursday did not suit any better. Finally a compromise was made and Wednesday, following the Monday on which Ned was to start, was fixed on. Then came an announcement which changed the plans of the boys to some extent. Late Saturday afternoon it was stated that the damage to the school had been greater than was at first supposed. It would be impossible to make repairs so that classes might assemble the second week in January, and the institution was to close for a month. Not until February first, President Williamson stated, would the school open again. "Say, this will just suit us!" cried Ned as he and his chums discussed the news that night. "We can stay so much longer. I know my aunt will be glad to see us, and the longer vacation we have the better she will like it. She's fond of boys. All hers are grown up. She said I was to come and stay a month if I wanted to." "Fine!" exclaimed Bart. "I'll have to pack a few more clothes in my trunk if we are to be gone longer than we first calculated." "So will I," cried Fenn. "Then it's all settled," said Ned. "I'll go Monday and you follow Wednesday. You can find your way to the house I guess. It's on West Forty-fourth street. Here's the number. I'll be there to welcome you. Won't we have fun though! I've never been in New York." The others had not either, and they spent some time discussing the pleasant prospects ahead of them. Monday morning they all went down to the depot to see Ned off. "Good-bye until Wednesday," he called to his chums as they stood on the platform waving their hands to him. "I'll meet you in New York sure." But it was a long time before Ned kept his promise. CHAPTER XIII STARTLING NEWS The issue of the Darewell _Advertiser_ that Monday afternoon contained some startling information. The three chums were standing in front of the drug store talking of their prospective trip when a newsboy ran past calling: "Extra! Extra! Full account of the blowing up of the school tower with dynamite!" "What's that he's yelling?" asked Bart. "He said something about the school tower and dynamite," replied Fenn. "Trying to sell his papers I guess." "Let's get one and see if it's a fake," suggested Frank. "Here boy! Give me one!" cried Bart, and the lad handed him a sheet, damp with paste from the press. Staring at the three chums in big black letters was the heading: SCHOOL TOWER DYNAMITED! Not Blown Down by Gale of Wind as First Supposed. BELIEVED TO BE BOYS' WORK! Investigation Has Been Ordered by President Williamson of the Board of Education. FOUR LADS SUSPECTED! "Well, what do you think of that!" exclaimed Bart when he had finished reading the head-lines. "Isn't that the limit?" "Limit! It's the strangest thing I ever heard of," cried Frank. "Somebody has been stuffing the reporter," suggested Fenn. "Let's read the rest of it." Looking over Bart's shoulders the two other lads read the account. It told in vivid language how the fact was discovered that the tower had been blown down by an explosive. Those nearest the tower when the crash came told of hearing a dull boom, that was not caused by the wind. Then came the sound as the bricks fell through the corner of the roof of the auditorium. "But if other evidence was wanting," the article went on, "it is easily found in the dials of the clock that was in the tower. The white faces bear the black marks of powder and an analysis which has been made shows the stains to have been caused by some powerful explosive, the exact nature of which is being kept secret by the authorities. "It is understood from a reliable source, however, that dynamite was used, a small quantity being placed in the top of the tower. It is said that part of a dynamite cartridge has been found but this is denied by the police. "That the work was that of mischievous boys, who, possibly did not appreciate the seriousness of their deed, is the opinion of the school authorities. This is borne out by the fact that a boy confessed to having carried off one of the powder-marked dials of the clock. Why he did this has not been disclosed, but Mr. Williamson has secured an admission from him that he did take the dial from the debris of the wrecked tower. This dial the president of the board has secured, together with the other three. "It is alleged that four boys, who are often seen in each others' company, and who have, before this, taken part in more or less harmless tricks, are suspected of blowing down the tower. One of them, it can be asserted on the highest authority, had the clock dial. An investigation has been started by the school authorities, and the four boys in question, including the one who took the dial from the wreckage, will be called on to tell what they know. If the evidence, after a thorough sifting, points to them, it is understood that criminal action will be taken." "Did you ever hear the like?" cried Fenn. "Wait, here's something more," said Bart. He pointed to a few lines of type at the bottom of the article. They read: "Just as we are going to press we learn that one of the four suspected lads has hurriedly left town." "Come on!" cried Bart. "I'm going to make him take that back." "Make who take what back?" asked Frank. "Why the editor of this paper. Can't you see who he's referring to in that last line? He means Ned! He means that Ned's run away for fear he'll be arrested! He means us when he says 'four boys often seen in each others' company!' He's accusing the Darewell Chums of blowing up the tower! Come on, we'll make him deny this if he has to get out an extra!" "Go slow," advised Frank. "Go slow! Yes, that's always your way! Wait and let him say all he wants to about us! I guess not!" "I say we'd better wait," Frank went on quietly. "Of course you know, and I know, none of us had anything to do with the blowing up of the tower. I don't believe it was blown up. I believe the wind did it, and some one has imagined all this and given the reporter a story of what he thinks is the truth. At the same time the school authorities may be going to have an investigation. It's their privilege. Now if we go to the editor's office and raise a row folks at once will jump to the conclusion that we had some hand in the explosion. Besides, it doesn't say we are suspected." "It as good as says so," Bart exclaimed. "Everyone will know they mean us." "At the same time the article doesn't say so. That editor is cute enough for that. He doesn't want a libel suit on his hands." "It might as well call us by the names," Bart insisted. "Besides, that refers to Ned as plain as can be, and he isn't here to defend himself. It's our duty to go." "I tell you you'll only make things worse if you go to the office of the paper," Frank insisted. "The editor will ask you if you think the article refers to you. You'll say it does, and he'll say, in effect, 'if the shoe fits put it on.' These newspaper men are no fools. They have some basis for what they write. Besides, you know I did take the dial." "So you did," said Fenn. "Did you give it back to Mr. Williamson?" asked Bart. "Yes, I took it to the store as he asked me to." "But you didn't make any admissions, did you?" "How could I? There were none to make. You were with me when he asked me about the clock face and you heard all I said. When I left the dial in the store he was not there. I haven't seen him since. The reporter is drawing on his imagination I guess for considerable of this." "I wonder if they are going to have an investigation?" said Bart. "Let's go and see Mr. Williamson," suggested Fenn. "We can show him the article and he can tell us what to do. I think that's the best plan." The other two chums agreed to this, and, each one having purchased a paper containing the startling news, they went to the hardware store of the president of the Board of Education. Mr. Williamson was talking to some other members of the board, in his private office, when the boys entered the store. They sent word they wanted to see him, and in a little while, his visitors having gone, the president invited the chums in. "Well, boys," he began, "what can I do for you?" "This article," began Bart. "It seems to--" "I have read it," Mr. Williamson interrupted. "Do you suspect us?" demanded Bart. "That is hardly a fair question," Mr. Williamson replied. "I shall probably be called upon to preside at the investigation and I can not discuss the case in advance of the hearing. I will say this however: We believe some boy or boys blew up the tower, little thinking of the terrible danger to which he subjected the entire school and that audience. We have no direct evidence, as yet, but we expect to get some. I may add that a hearing will be held to-night, and I would like you boys to be there. I understand Ned Wilding has gone to New York." "He went this morning," replied Bart, "but he had planned to go long before this thing happened. We are going to join him Wednesday." "Indeed?" and Mr. Williamson looked a little surprised. "What time is the hearing?" asked Fenn. "At eight o'clock, in my office here." "We'll be on hand," spoke Bart. All the members of the Board of Education, the school janitor, the chief of police, a detective, the fathers of Bart and Fenn, and Frank's uncle were at the hearing. There was much testimony in an informal way, to the effect that the tower was wrecked by an explosion and not by the wind. So much was easily proved. The next thing was to discover who had done the deed. The janitor said he had seen a boy hanging around the tower just before the entertainment began, but he could not give a good description. It might fit half the boys in Darewell. There was no direct evidence against the chums. Bart had bought some powder in Mr. Williamson's store a few days before the explosion, but he testified it was for his gun, which evidence was corroborated by Mr. Keene. The taking away of the clock dial by Frank was dwelt upon, and there seemed a disposition to make much of it, but the boy's uncle bore out Frank's statement that the dial had been placed among a lot of other relics and ornaments in his nephew's room, and was not hidden away as though Frank wished to conceal any evidence. Ned's sudden trip was explained, though it was manifest that some of the school commissioners looked with disfavor on it. The affair ended, as far as the four chums were concerned, in a sort of Scotch verdict of "not proven." "Does that end this inquiry?" asked Mr. Keene. "For the time being," replied Mr. Williamson. "Then I demand that this committee issue a statement that there is not the slightest evidence against my son and his chums." "We will do nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Mr. Williamson. "Then I shall take legal steps to compel you to." "And I will join you," declared Mr. Masterson. "This investigation will be continued later," Mr. Williamson went on. "We have not finished. We are going to have some expert detectives here. Then perhaps we shall discover who perpetrated this outrage." "You may rest assured it was none of these boys," said Mr. Dent. "I know my nephew and I know his chums too well even to suspect them." "That is all at present," the president of the board remarked. "The meeting is adjourned." "But it leaves these boys under a cloud," objected Mr. Keene. "I am sorry but that cannot be helped," was Mr. Williamson's reply. CHAPTER XIV NED'S BUSINESS VENTURE Meanwhile Ned Wilding was speeding on the fast train toward New York. The first part of the journey was no novelty to him, as he had been over that part of the line before. Soon, however, he noticed a change in the scenery and was kept busy watching the landscape as it seemed to fly past the windows. "I wonder if I'll have time to attend to that little matter of business before I go to Uncle Kenfield's house," said Ned to himself as he leaned back in his seat and pulled a bundle of papers from his pocket. "Let's see what the address is." Ned began to turn over the pages of a booklet which he selected from among his bundle of documents. "Skem & Skim, 111 Broadway," he read. "I'll just drop down there before I go to uncle's house and buy my stock. Just think of me being a stockholder in the Mt. Olive Oil Well Corporation, Limited. Capital ten million dollars, surplus and undivided profits five millions. It must be a great concern." Ned gave himself up to pleasant thoughts and looked out of the window. Perhaps he saw himself a millionaire riding in his private car. For Ned was going to do some business on his own account--the first he had ever done. When he learned that he was to visit his aunt and uncle in New York he decided to put into operation a plan he had long had in mind; ever since, in fact, he got the thousand dollars damages which were paid to him and his chums by Mr. Ricka, as told in the first volume of this "Darewell Chums Series." Mr. Wilding, after much solicitation on Ned's part, had allowed his son to take one hundred dollars of the money to invest in any way he saw fit, subject to certain restrictions. "I'll not let you buy gold bricks with it, of course," Mr. Wilding had said, "and I advise you not to invest it in alleged counterfeit money or 'green goods.' But anything else in reason you may do. It's your first real business venture, and it will be good for you to learn by experience. I had to when I was a boy." "How about buying oil stock?" Ned had asked. "I have been reading that up lately." Mr. Wilding smiled behind the paper he was reading. "I warned you against gold bricks," he said. "Oh, but this is a legitimate oil business," Ned replied. "The company advertises in the best magazines, and is only selling stock low for a few days. By February first it is going to five dollars a share. It's only fifty cents now. Why, they have testimonials from prominent men, and an expert writes that the oil wells of the Mt. Olive concern are the richest ever seen. They have one well that runs a hundred barrels a day and they haven't it half bored yet." "Ned," said Mr. Wilding, and he spoke a little gravely, "I'm not going to stand in your way. I've allowed you to take that hundred dollars to invest as you please. Now I'm not going to advise you. If I did I might as well invest the money myself. I want you to learn to be a business man and the best way to learn is by experience, though it isn't always the easiest way. If you want to buy stock in that oil company do so. If you get 'bitten' you do so with your eyes open." "Don't you think it's a good investment, father?" "I'm not going to say. Sometimes those concerns pay well, and again they do not. It's an operation such as business men enter into every day, and in this case, as far as you are concerned, it is legitimate, since you are going to buy the stock outright, and not speculate in it by buying on a margin. As I said, I will not advise you. Buy that stock if you want to, and I'll say nothing which ever way the cat jumps. It's your money and you will have to foot the bill. I wouldn't risk more than a hundred dollars though." "That will give me two hundred shares at fifty cents each," Ned replied, figuring on the back of an envelope. "If it goes to five dollars a share I'll make nine hundred dollars profit. That would be fine!" "So you've decided to buy it, eh?" "I think so. I'll get it when I go to New York to Uncle Kenfield's house." "Very well, Ned. You may do so. Only remember one thing, just repeat to yourself that old proverb about counting your chickens before they're hatched." "Oh, well, I may not make nine hundred dollars, but I'm bound to clear some profit. The stock can't go much below fifty cents a share," Ned remarked hopefully. "That's your lookout," his father replied. "Now that you've got it settled I'll draw a hundred dollars of your thousand and give it to you before you start for New York." It was this transaction Ned had in mind as he was on his way to the great city. He read the account of the oil concern from circulars which had been mailed to him in Darewell a few weeks ago. There were big sheets of statistics, prospectuses glittering with gold printing, finely engraved sample stock certificates and a mass of figures that showed the impossibility of the Mt. Olive oil wells producing any less than the highest possible number of barrels per day. "If this turns out all right I'll get the other boys to invest some of their money," Ned said to himself. Ned reached New York safely about noon. He had his dinner in a restaurant near the station and then, leaving his trunk until he could have it sent to his uncle's house, and carrying only a small valise, he went to the office of the oil concern. He had little difficulty in finding it, once a policeman had directed him to Broadway. He was hardly prepared for the beautifully furnished office into which he stepped. There was heavy carpet on the floor, the chandeliers, glowing with electric lights, seemed of solid gold. There were brass and mahogany railings, big rosewood desks, telephones on the desks, stock tickers clicking in one corner, and three girls clicking on typewriters in another corner. On every side were evidence of a big and rushing business. "Well, sir, what can we do for you? Who are you from?" asked a clerk, from behind a brass grating, as Ned entered. "I came to buy some stock," the boy replied. "Who for? Speak quick! This is our busy day!" "For myself," Ned replied. "Come, no joking. I haven't any time to waste. Got an order from a broker? Hand it over with the check." "I haven't any order and I haven't any check," Ned made reply, somewhat sharply, for the clerk's manner nettled him. "I came in here to buy some stock on my own account. I've got the cash here, but if you don't want--" "What is it?" asked a large, pompous man, with a florid face and a white moustache, coming from an inner office. "This boy says he wants to buy some stock," the clerk replied. The florid man looked at Ned sharply. "You mean this gentleman comes in here to invest in the Mt. Olive Oil Well Corporation," the florid man went on quickly. "Certainly, my dear sir," and he shot a meaning look at the clerk. "Skem & Skim will be happy to transact any business you may entrust them with. Step in here, please," and he held the door open for Ned to enter the inner office. That was even more richly furnished than the outer one. Ned sat in an upholstered chair that seemed to smother him, so far down did it let him sink. "Now, my dear sir, what can we do for you?" and the man looked at Ned. "I have a hundred dollars to invest in your oil well." The man seemed a little disappointed. "Hum, yes, of course. Well, at the present market rate that will give you two hundred shares. You are in luck, my dear sir. We are going to put the price at a dollar a share in the morning. In fact we were going to advance it this afternoon. I will have your certificate made out at once." He took the money, which Ned held out, and touched a button on his desk. A young man entered. "Make out a certificate for two hundred shares for this gentleman, er--let's see--I'm afraid I didn't catch your name when you mentioned it." As Ned had not mentioned it the gentleman's inability to catch it might easily be forgiven. Ned supplied the necessary information, and the clerk withdrew. Another entered a moment later. He seemed much excited: "Just had a wire from Colonel Janders," he said. "The Black Cat well has increased fifty barrels a day, Mr. Skem!" "Good!" exclaimed the florid gentleman. "Tell Mr. Skim at once, and put the stock up to a dollar a share. You got in just in time," he added, turning to Ned, and our hero thought so himself. As the last clerk withdrew another one came in. "Got an order from Mr. Johnson for five thousand shares," he announced. "Shall I let him have 'em at fifty?" "Sorry to disoblige Mr. Johnson, who is a very good friend of mine," said Mr. Skem, "but I shall have to charge him a dollar. I guess he'll pay it. The stock will go to two dollars a share before the end of the week." The first clerk came back with a finely engraved certificate, on which the name "Edward Wilding" was written in a flourishing hand. "There you are," said Mr. Skem. "I hope you will take some more stock soon. If you invest before the end of the week I will, as a special favor to you, make the price seventy-five cents." Ned had half a mind to invest another hundred dollars, but he thought he had better write to his father first. Then, with the precious certificate in his pocket, he started for his uncle's house, planning to stop on the way and order his trunk sent up. CHAPTER XV IN TROUBLE By inquiring from a policeman Ned found which elevated road to take in order to get to his uncle's residence. As he found the station was close to the office of the oil company, he decided he would go direct to Mr. Kenfield's home and arrange later to have his trunk sent up. He knew his uncle had a telephone, and thought the baggage could be sent for by an order over the wire. This would save him a long trip back to the station. When Ned reached the address on West Forty-fourth street he was admitted by a maid, who asked him whom he wished to see. "Is my uncle in?" asked Ned. "Oh, so you're the little lad from Darewell," the girl exclaimed, with a smile, though Ned did not think he quite came under the category of "little." The maid asked him to come in and, as soon as he entered the hall, he saw that the place was in confusion. Several trunks stood about, some half full, others empty, while on chairs and sofas in the reception hall and parlor were piles of clothing. "Is anything the matter?" asked Ned. "Mr. Kenfield has suddenly been called to Europe," the girl said. "He has to go aboard the steamer to-night, and he must pack up at once. He has gone down town on a matter of business but he'll soon be back. Your aunt is expecting you. She's upstairs. I'll show you." The girl led Ned to Mrs. Kenfield's room. "Oh, Ned, I had forgotten all about you!" his aunt exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see you, but I'm sorry we're so upset. However, it will be over in a few hours, and when your uncle is off on the steamer you and I can sit down and talk. I want you to tell me all about Darewell and how your father is. I haven't seen him in so long! My! but you're the perfect image of him. How are you?" "Very well, aunt," Ned replied. "Can I do anything to help you?" "No, we are almost packed, or, rather your uncle is. He has to take quite a lot of things, as he doesn't know how long he may have to stay. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll see about another trunk." Mr. Kenfield returned to the house in about an hour and warmly welcomed his nephew. He expressed regret at the necessity which so unexpectedly called him abroad, and said his trip could not be postponed. "But you will have a good time with your aunt," he added with a smile. "She knows as much about New York as I do, and will have more opportunities to take you around." "Perhaps I had better telegraph the other boys not to come," suggested Ned. "It may inconvenience you." "No, no; let them come and welcome!" exclaimed Mrs. Kenfield. "I love boys. We'll have a fine time. I have lots of room, and I want you and your chums to enjoy this visit to New York." That night Mr. Kenfield, bidding his wife and nephew good-bye, went aboard the vessel which was to sail early in the morning to take advantage of the tide. "Well, I suppose your uncle is well out on the ocean by this time," remarked Mrs. Kenfield, after a somewhat late breakfast which she and Ned ate alone in the handsome dining room. "Now, Ned, will you excuse me for a few hours? I have some shopping to do, and I know you wouldn't want to be going through the stores while I stop at the bargain counters," and she laughed. "Try and make yourself at home here. Mary will get lunch for you, in case I am not back in time. To-morrow your chums will be here, and we must plan to entertain them." Ned said he would be glad to take a rest during the morning, and, after his aunt had left he went to the library to read. He could not get interested in books, however, with the big city of New York at hand. "I think I'll go out and get a paper, and see how my oil stock is getting along," he said. "Maybe it's advanced some more." Telling Mary, the maid, where he was going, and remarking that he would soon be back, Ned went out into the street. It was rather cold, but the sun was shining brightly and most of the snow had been cleared away. Ned got a paper and turned to the financial page. There, sure enough was the name, Mt. Olive Oil, and it was quoted at one dollar a share. Ned did not notice that it was in the column of "unlisted securities," together with other stock of corporations, some selling as low as ten cents a share. "I'm getting rich," Ned murmured to himself. "Guess I'll take another look at that certificate." He pulled it from his pocket, and, as he stood in the street reading it over he suddenly exclaimed: "They've made a mistake. It's only for one hundred shares instead of two hundred. I must go right down to the office and have it straightened out. It's probably a clerical error." Though he said this to himself, it was with a vague feeling of uneasiness that Ned boarded a car to go to the offices of Skem & Skim. It must be an error, he repeated to himself, over and over again. Still he remembered what his father had said about "fake" companies. But this one had seemed substantial, and their offices certainly indicated that they did a big business. Ned was deposited by the elevator in the corridor opposite the glittering offices of Skem & Skim. He observed a number of persons standing before the entrance door. "I tell you I will go in!" Ned heard one excited man exclaim. "They've got a thousand dollars of my money and I want it back." "Yes, and they've got five hundred of mine," another man chimed in. "I am sorry, gentlemen," replied a third voice. "But the offices are closed. No one can go in until after an investigation." "By whose orders are they closed?" asked the man who had mentioned the thousand dollars. "By the orders of the United States postal authorities," was the answer. "A fraud order has been issued against Skem & Skim, and there is a warrant for their arrest on a charge of using the mails to swindle. They skipped out just before we got here this morning." "Can't we get our money?" inquired half a dozen anxious ones. "I'm afraid not," was the reply from a small but determined looking man who stood before the door. "My assistant and I have charge of the offices. As soon as we can learn anything definite we will let you know." "Did they both get away?" asked some one of the postoffice inspector, for such the man in charge was. "Yes, both Skem and Skim." "Their names ought to be Scheme and Skin," said a man in a corner. "They skinned me out of three hundred dollars." "Any chance of getting 'em?" was the next inquiry of the inspector. "We hope so. We are also looking for a young fellow who is supposed to hold two hundred shares of this wild-cat oil stock in the Mt. Olive well. As far as we can learn he is the only stockholder outside of Skem & Skim, and of course he's liable if there's any money in the concern. He may have a lot of the cash, which the firm got on other deals, salted away somewhere. He's the one we want as badly as we do the other two. A young chap too, but as slick as they make 'em I'm told, even if he is a stranger here." Ned listened in wonder. He thought of his two hundred shares, and of the certificate in his pocket. He wondered if, by any possibility, he could be the one wanted. "Who is this young fellow?" some one in the crowd asked. "That's what we'd like to find out," the inspector replied. "He only got into New York yesterday, so one of my detectives informs me. Came from up state, or out west I hear. He's the one I want, for he can tell a lot about this business. If I can lay hands on him I'll clap him into a cell quicker than he can say Jack Robinson." "I wonder if he can mean me?" Ned thought, and his heart beat rapidly. "I came from up state yesterday. I got into New York yesterday, and I have two hundred shares of the Mt. Olive stock--at least I paid for 'em. But I don't know any more about this business than the man in the moon. Still they may not believe me. I wonder if they would arrest me? Maybe it was against the law to buy the stock of a fraudulent concern. I wonder what I'd better do?" "Yes, sir," the inspector went on, speaking to the angry and defrauded investors, "once let me get my hands on this young fellow who has those two hundred shares and I'll clear up some of this mystery. He and Skem & Skim worked the trick among themselves and now you gentlemen can whistle for your money." "I'd like to get one chance at that young fellow!" exclaimed the man who had lost the thousand dollars. "So would I!" chimed in the others. "They wouldn't even give me an opportunity to explain," thought Ned. "They'd lock me up at once, though I'm entirely innocent. I'm going to get away from here!" Then, while the angry men were still talking to the postal inspector, Ned turned and hurried off. He was afraid to go down in the elevator lest the attendant might recognize him as the youth who was at the offices the day before, so he walked down the ten flights of stairs. "I must hurry and tell my aunt all about it," Ned thought. "She will know what I ought to do." CHAPTER XVI ADRIFT IN NEW YORK Puzzled, worried and not a little frightened at what the outcome of his investment might be, Ned boarded an elevated train for his aunt's home. He was sure the inspector had referred to him, and, though he knew he had done nothing wrong, yet he admitted he was ignorant of the laws regarding stocks and bonds, and might have, unknowingly, acted illegally. He had read of cases where the stockholders in a fraudulent concern were liable for the corporation's debts, and, in fancy, he saw a suit started against himself. As he was a minor he thought his father would have to stand the damage. Poor Ned was in a highly nervous state when he went up the steps of his aunt's home. He began to imagine there might be a policeman waiting for him in the hall. He looked around as he reached the front door, expecting to see a blue-coated officer close at his heels. That there was a general alarm sent out for him he felt positive. Something in Mary's manner, as she opened the door in response to his ring, told him there was trouble in the house. The girl's eyes showed she had been crying. "Oh, Master Ned!" she exclaimed as he entered. "Isn't it awful! To think of the trouble!" "Why, how did you hear?" asked the boy, wondering if in the parlor there was an officer to arrest him. "Why, 'twas a message we got, to be sure." "Then the postoffice authorities sent a letter here?" asked Ned, somewhat relieved to find he would not have to break to his aunt what he believed would be terrible news. "No, dear," Mrs. Kenfield called down from the head of the stairs. "It wasn't a letter from the postoffice, it was a telegram. I have received bad news." "Oh, aunt, it wasn't my fault at all!" burst out Ned. "I didn't know about it, or I'd never have come to New York." "Of course it isn't your fault," his aunt said. "How could you know about it when I only got the telegram myself a little while ago? As for your coming to New York, that couldn't be helped. Of course it's too bad. But you can pay me another visit." Ned thought she meant he must hurry away to escape arrest. "Are you almost packed up, Mrs. Kenfield?" asked Mary. "Yes, almost. I shall want a little help. I must go at once." "Why--what--are you--I don't understand--" began Ned. "Of course, just like women, to begin at the wrong end," said Mrs. Kenfield, and Ned's heart beat fast. He wondered if his aunt was going to reproach him for bringing disgrace on the family. He thought she would have to flee the city too, in order to avoid arrest. How he wished his uncle was at home to advise and help them. "Do you have to go, aunt?" he asked. "Can't I let 'em take me? I don't mind." "No, it's very good of you to offer, Ned. But I must go. They need me to help nurse her." "Help nurse," repeated Ned, wondering if he had heard aright. "Yes, didn't Mary tell you? We have just received a telegram from my niece Jane Alden in Chicago. She has typhoid fever and I must go to her at once. She has no other relatives living and I must take care of her. I shall have to start at once and, as there is no telling when I will come back I must close up the house." "Close up the house," Ned said. "Yes, it will make lots of trouble, and I am so sorry that it will spoil the pleasure of yourself and your chums. But there is no help for it. I think you had better go back home, Ned. You and your friends can come and spend two months here next summer." "Is Mary going too?" asked Ned. "Mary is going to stay with some relatives in Long Island until I come back. I have sent a cablegram explaining matters to your uncle and it will be waiting for him when his ship arrives on the other side. Oh, poor dear Jane! I hope her case is not a severe one. It is lucky I know how to nurse. She never could get along without me. I am sorry for you, Ned." Ned felt sorry for himself but he did not feel like inflicting his own troubles on his aunt. Still he did want some instructions about what he had better do. He was all upset and did not know whether to go home at once or wait until his aunt had started. He half resolved to tell her what had happened and ask her advice. "Maybe she can send me to uncle's lawyer and he can help me," he said to himself. His aunt came downstairs at that moment and he decided to make an attempt to gain an idea of how to proceed. "Do you know anything about stocks, aunt?" asked Ned. "Stocks? Mercy, no! I leave all that to your uncle. I have trouble enough--" The door bell rang and Mrs. Kenfield opened it. A boy handed her a telegram. Her hands shook as she opened it. "Jane is worse," she said as she read the second brief dispatch. "I must hurry off soon. Now Ned, I can't tell you how sorry I am, but you had better arrange to go home at once. I will take the noon train for Chicago. What time can you get one back to Darewell?" "At four this afternoon." "Then you had better take it. Mary, hurry packing those trunks. Then get your own things ready." "Mine are all packed, Mrs. Kenfield," the girl replied. "All right then. See that the house is well locked up. Don't leave any victuals around where they will spoil. Shut all the blinds and fasten the windows well. You can go any time you are ready, Mary." "I was going to the station with you and help you carry your valise." "Ned can do that. His train doesn't go until four o'clock; can't you, Ned?" "Certainly, aunt." Ned's chance to ask advice was gone for, following the receipt of the second telegram, his aunt was so excited about getting ready that he had no heart to bother her with his affair. He started every time the door bell rang, fearing the police might have traced him to his aunt's house and would arrest him at any moment. An expressman, who had been telephoned for, took two trunks belonging to Mrs. Kenfield. They were to go to Chicago. Mary's was also shipped to her friends in Long Island. Ned was glad he had left his at the depot, as it could be checked back to his home from there. Mary departed about ten o'clock. The house had been darkened by the closing of the shutters so that it was necessary to light the gas. Mrs. Kenfield went about making sure that all the doors were fastened. "I can't tell you how sorry I am," she said to Ned. "To think of your holiday being spoiled!" "Don't worry about that, aunt," said the boy. "It couldn't be helped." In fact he was thinking less about his broken holiday than he was about his own plight in the stock transaction. He felt the certificate rustle in his pocket when he moved, and he had half a mind to throw it away. But he feared lest doing that, even with the tearing of it into small bits, might lead to his discovery. He was too worried and excited to be able to think clearly. "I guess we are all ready," his aunt remarked as she stood in the hall. She had a small valise to carry, and Ned had the one he had brought from home. "Be sure and explain to your father how it happened," Mrs. Kenfield said. "Tell him about your uncle's unexpected trip to Europe and about Jane Alden. He knew her quite well when he was a young man. Now I guess we will start. I like to be in plenty of time for my train. I hate to hurry at the last minute." Together they left the house, Ned carrying both valises. They boarded the elevated which ran near Mrs. Kenfield's house and were soon on their way to the station where Ned's aunt was to take her train. The boy saw her safely aboard and bade her good-bye. She told him to write to her, and gave him her Chicago address. "Tell your chums how sorry I was to disappoint them," she called to Ned as her train rolled out of the depot. "I will," replied Ned. Then, left alone as he was in the big city, he felt a sense of fear, and hardly knew what to do. "Guess I'd better go straight back to Darewell and tell dad all about it," he said to himself. He was soon in the station at which he had arrived the day previous, and where he had left his trunk. As he was going to the baggage room, to have it rechecked to Darewell, he caught sight of a man who seemed strangely familiar to him. The man had his back toward Ned, but when he turned the boy saw it was the postal inspector who had been at the offices of Skem & Skim. "He's after me!" thought Ned. "He's on my track! I must not let him see me." He turned suddenly away so the man could not observe his face. The inspector was talking to a policeman, and Ned overheard the bluecoat ask: "Have you sent the telegram?" "Yes, they'll be on the watch for him if he goes back home," was the reply. "They'll nab him as soon as he gets off the train. If he calls for his baggage the agent here will hold him and notify me." Ned hurried from the depot and ran up the street as if the officer was after him. The last way of escape seemed closed. CHAPTER XVII THE CHUMS ARRIVE Darewell never had known such excitement as followed the destruction of the school tower. Of course all the doings in Mr. Williamson's store leaked out, and, though there were not lacking those who accused the four chums of, at least, knowing something about the matter, there were others who felt sure they had had nothing to do with it. "I just wish I had a chance to nurse that mean Mr. Williamson!" exclaimed Alice, when her brother had told her of the hearing. "I'd fix him." "What would you do?" "I'd cover him with the hottest mustard plasters I could make, and I've got a good formulæ for some powerful ones. Then I'd fasten 'em on with bandages so they couldn't come off. The idea of accusing you boys!" "He didn't exactly accuse us," said Bart. "That's the trouble. If he did we could demand a legal trial and be found not guilty in short order. As it is we're suspected and can't prove our innocence." "What are they going to do about it?" "Why nothing at present, and I'm glad of it. Frank, Fenn, and I are going to New York Wednesday and we don't care what they do until we come back." "But, Bart, doesn't that look like running away?" "I don't care what it looks like. It's the first chance we have ever had of going to a big city like that and we may never have another, so we're going. They can talk all they want to, and fix the tower up to suit themselves." From the preparations Bart and his two chums made for their journey to New York, one would have thought they were going to Europe. They were at the station about an hour ahead of train time Wednesday morning, and a number of their boy friends were present to see them off. Going to New York was somewhat of a novelty in Darewell, especially when three boys went at once to visit the rich aunt of another local lad. Amid a chorus of good-byes the boys got aboard and soon they were speeding toward the big city. They arrived at the same depot where Ned had left the train two days before, and looked around for a possible sight of their chum. "Was he going to meet us here?" asked Frank. "No, he said we were to go right to his aunt's house," replied Fenn. "Bart has the address; haven't you?" "Yes, on Forty-fourth street." "East or west?" asked Frank. "Neither one, just plain Forty-fourth street." "I'm sure he said east," Fenn remarked. "I think it was west," Frank replied. "Let's flip a coin," said Fenn. "Heads is east and tails is west." It came down heads, and, following a policeman's directions they started for that section of the city. They reached it, after no little trouble for they took the wrong car once. "Doesn't look like a very nice neighborhood," said Fenn as they started along East Forty-fourth street. "Still I guess New York is so crowded you can't have much of a choice." They found the number on East Forty-fourth street, but at the first sight of the big apartment house they knew they had made a mistake, since Ned had told them his aunt lived in a house all to herself, which is quite a distinction in New York. "Now for the other side of the city," said Frank, as after diligent inquiry, they learned Mrs. Kenfield did not live in the neighborhood they first tried. They boarded a car and were soon at Ned's uncle's home. "Looks as if it was shut up," remarked Bart. "I hope we haven't made another mistake," said Fenn. "It's the right number and it's the right street," replied Bart. "Yes, and Mrs. Kenfield lives here," put in Frank. "How can you tell?" asked Bart. "There's the name on the door plate," Frank answered pointing to the silver plate worked in black letters with the name: "Paul Kenfield." "Ring the bell harder," suggested Fenn, when no one had answered in response to Bart's first attempt. "It's an electric bell, and can ring only so hard," Bart answered. They rang several times and waited. "The blinds are all closed," spoke Frank, looking up at the windows. "Folks in New York often do that," replied Bart. "If his aunt wasn't home Ned would have sent us word." Just then a woman in the next house came to her door. "Are you looking for Mr. Kenfield?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am," replied Bart. "He sailed for Europe Monday." "For Europe?" repeated Bart. "Yes." "Is Mrs. Kenfield at home?" "No, I saw her leave the house yesterday just before noon. She told me she had a telegram that some relative was quite ill and she had to go to Chicago. Her servant girl has gone also. The house is shut up." CHAPTER XVIII HUNTING FOR NED For a few seconds the boys did not know what to do. They stood on the steps looking blankly at one another. The woman observed them. "Were you expecting to call on Mrs. Kenfield?" she asked sympathetically, as she observed they were strangers in New York. "We came here to visit our chum, Ned Wilding," said Fenn. "That must have been the boy who went off with Mrs. Kenfield," the woman went on. She described Ned so the chums had no difficulty in knowing it was he whom she had seen. "You say he went off with Mrs. Kenfield?" asked Bart. "Yes, just before noon yesterday. He was carrying two valises, one had a red mark on it." "That's Ned's satchel," said Fenn. "That was some red paint he got on it the day we went over to Jones's Corners to play ball. One of the fellows daubed it on for a joke." "And he didn't come back?" asked Bart. "No," replied the woman. "There has been no one at home since Mrs. Kenfield went away. I understand she is going to stay in Chicago for some time. Her niece is quite ill." "Well, this is queer," remarked Bart. "I wonder what we had better do." "If you want to leave a message with me I'll give it to Mrs. Kenfield when she returns," the neighbor went on. "We're much obliged to you," said Bart, "but I'm afraid that would do little good. Mrs. Kenfield does not know us. Ned is her nephew and when she invited him to stay with her she said he could ask his chums to spend part of the time with him. Well, we're his chums, but where is Ned?" "I'm sure he didn't come back here," the woman continued. "I have been watching the house pretty constantly ever since Mrs. Kenfield went away, as she asked me to notify any tradesmen, who might call, that she was gone, but that they could send their bills to the house by mail and they would be forwarded to her. I can, however, give you her Chicago address." "I don't know as that would be of any use, though we're much obliged to you," said Fenn. "Yes, it would!" exclaimed Bart. "We can wire her and ask where Ned went. She'll probably know." "Has she got to Chicago yet?" asked Frank. "It's about twenty-four hours since she started," replied Bart. "Even a comparatively slow train would make it in that time. If you'll give us Mrs. Kenfield's address," he went on, "we'll wire her." The neighbor gave the boys the desired information and, since there was nothing more they could do at the closed house, save stare at the tight shutters, they started for the nearest telegraph office. "If I can do anything for you boys, let me know," the woman said to them as they were leaving. "I am Mrs. Rowland. I have two boys of my own, and, if you need any further help in locating your chum, they will be glad to aid you." They thanked Mrs. Rowland, but for whose information they would have been more in the dark than they were, regarding Ned's strange disappearance. "I had no idea people were so neighborly in New York," said Frank. "I read somewhere that in this city no one ever knew who lived next door to him." "Lucky we got some sort of a starting point," said Bart. "Now to send the telegram." A few minutes later they found a place where scores of instruments were clicking away and forwarded this message, addressed to Mrs. Kenfield: "Ned's chums arrived to find house closed. No trace of Ned. Understand he went away with you. Can you tell us where he is now?" They told the clerk they would call for the answer in about two hours, as they wanted to allow plenty of time for a reply. "Meanwhile we'll go and get dinner," suggested Fenn. "Let's check our valises somewhere," proposed Bart. "I'm tired lugging mine around." "Leave 'em at the station where our trunks are," Frank put in. "We may have to start back home soon, and they'll be handy for us there." "Too far away," objected Fenn. "Here's a good place." He pointed to a newsstand built under one of the elevated railroad stations, where a sign was displayed, announcing small parcels would be checked for ten cents. They left their grips, receiving little brass tags in return, and then went to a restaurant where they had dinner. "Lets go back and see if there's an answer to our message," suggested Fenn, after they had walked around a bit. Back they went to the telegraph office, and found there was a reply. Bart's hands trembled slightly as he tore open the envelope. The message from Mrs. Kenfield was a short one. It read: "Ned started for home after leaving me." "Might have known it," remarked Frank. "Of course," put in Fenn. "What else could he do? He wouldn't stay in New York, where he doesn't know a soul, after his aunt and uncle left." "Then I s'pose the only thing for us to do is to follow Ned back to Darewell," suggested Bart. "Here's an end to our holiday. Too bad!" "Why need we go back?" asked Frank. "We're here in New York. It may be many years before we have another chance like this. We have enough money to last us a week or more, even if we have to stay at a hotel." "What do you mean?" asked Fenn. "Why not spend a week in New York anyhow?" Frank went on. "It's too bad Ned has gone home. He'd stay with us if he was here. We can go to a cheap hotel and have almost as much fun as if we were at Ned's uncle's house. What's the use going right back home?" "I believe you're right," came from Bart. "We'll stay a while and see what New York looks like. Might as well spend some of that money for hotel bills as anything else. I've heard they rob you in New York, but I guess we can look out for ourselves." "Let's telegraph back to Darewell," suggested Fenn. "What for?" asked Bart. "To see if Ned got there safely. If he did maybe he'll come here and join us." "Good idea," commented Frank. "Write out another message. Send it to Ned's father. He'll get it quicker at the bank than Ned would at the house." A little later this message, signed by Bart, went clicking over the wires to Darewell. "Is Ned home? His uncle and aunt called away unexpectedly and he started back for Darewell. Answer." The boys said they would call in an hour for a reply. They spent the time wandering about the streets. Now, as it was approaching evening, the thoroughfares were filled with hurrying throngs. They found the telegram from Darewell waiting for them when they went back to the office. It was from Mr. Wilding and read: "Ned not home. What is the trouble? Can't you locate him in New York? Try. Will come on in the morning." "Ned has disappeared," said Bart in strange tones, as he let the telegram fall to the floor. CHAPTER XIX DOWN THE ROPE When Ned started on a run up the street, after seeing in the station the man he believed was seeking to arrest him, he had no definite idea where he was going. All he cared about was to get out of the inspector's sight. "I can't go back home," he reasoned as he hurried on, seeking to lose himself in the crowd. "If I do they'll arrest me as soon as I leave the train. I can't bring disgrace on my father that way, though I am innocent of any intentional wrong-doing. Besides if it was known that I bought this stock it might injure his reputation at the bank. They might think he advised me to do it, and the bank doesn't allow its officials to do that sort of business." Ned slowed his pace down from a run to a rapid walk, as he noticed that several persons were looking curiously at him. He did not want to attract attention. "What had I better do?" he asked himself. "If I stay here I'm liable to arrest any moment. If I go home I'm sure of it as soon as I get off the train, as every one at the depot knows me. But they don't here," he added, as a thought came to him. "That's one good thing. I'm an utter stranger in New York. The only persons who know me are my uncle and aunt. They are far enough off. Of course there's Mary the servant girl, but I guess she's not liable to meet me. Besides, she wouldn't know the police wanted me. Then there's Mr. Skem, but I guess he's too busy himself, dodging the officers, to be found in this vicinity. "That's the best thing to do," Ned decided. "I'll stay in New York until--well until something happens. But the worst of it is I can't even write to the folks at home. I can't let them know what has occurred. I wonder what the boys will do when they come and find the house closed? If I send a letter to father the postal authorities can trace where it came from and get me. A telegram would be as bad. I'm just like a prisoner who can't communicate with his friends. The only thing to do is to stick it out until something happens. If they would only arrest Skem & Skim maybe their testimony would clear me. But I guess they're not likely to catch them. I've got to stick it out alone and it's going to be hard work." By this time Ned felt he was far enough away from the depot to render capture in the immediate future out of the question. He felt he could risk walking a little slower, for it was no joke to hurry along a mile or more carrying his valise, even though it was not a large one. "I believe I'm hungry," he said, as he came in front of a small restaurant. He had taken no food since breakfast and it was now about four o'clock in the afternoon. "I'll feel better after I've eaten. Besides I've got to stay somewhere to-night. I must look for a hotel." He did feel more encouraged after he had dined, and, on inquiring of the cashier in the restaurant, where he could find a cheap but decent hotel, was directed to the Imperial a few blocks distant, back toward the station. Ned thought this would be safe enough. "I'd better take an account of stock," he remarked to himself as he started for the hotel. "Most of my clothes are in the trunk, and so is the check dad gave me to have uncle cash. I can't get at that, and I guess I wouldn't if I could. I'd have to endorse it to cash it, and when I wrote my name whoever saw it might tell the police." Ned's imagination probably made things seem worse than they really were, but he was unaccustomed to city ways, and the memory of the inspector's words, and the angry men who had lost money through Skem & Skim acted as an incentive for him to do everything possible to avoid arrest, which he felt would follow any disclosure of his identity, such as would result from endorsing a check. "The only clothes I've got are on me," Ned went on, continuing the process of "stock taking." He had a change of underwear and some clean collars, cuffs and handkerchiefs in his valise, and about ten dollars in bills. In his pocketbook he carried five dollars and there was a little change in his overcoat. "I've got to sail pretty close to the wind," he told himself. "Fifteen dollars isn't going very far in New York. I must get work to do until this thing blows over, or something happens. That's what I'll do. I'll look for a job to-morrow." The hotel at which Ned arrived a few minutes later did not look very inviting. Still, he reflected, he was not in a position to be particular. It was a five-storied building, and on both sides of it, were shops for the sale of various articles. "Can you give me a cheap room?" asked Ned of the clerk behind the desk. "Sell you one, you mean I guess," was the man's reply as he went on with the operation of cleaning his finger nails. "We don't give 'em away." "I'd like to engage a room for the night," Ned went on. "Dollar's the cheapest we've got." "That will do." "Register," the clerk said, swinging the book around in front of Ned, and handing him a pen which he dipped into the dirty ink bottle. Then he went on with his manicuring. "I must sign my name," thought Ned. "No I can't do that! They might trace me!" He felt the rustle of the stock certificate in his pocket as he took the pen. What was he to do? "Is it necessary to register?" he asked. "Course it is," replied the clerk looking at him curiously. "That's the law. Everybody who stops at a hotel has to put their name on the book. What's the matter? You ain't afraid to register, are you? Don't look as though you'd committed a murder or had robbed some one," and the clerk grinned at his joke. "No, of course not," Ned replied, his heart thumping away under his overcoat. Then he resolved to put on the book a fictitious name. He hesitated a moment and inscribed: "Thomas Seldon," in a large hand as unlike as possible from his own usual small writing. "Thomas Seldon, eh?" queried the clerk as he turned the book around once more. "Where you from? That has to go down." Once more Ned hesitated. What should he answer. "What's the matter? Forget where you live?" the clerk asked. "No. It's Perryville, New York," replied Ned, taking a name at random, as he had the one he signed in the book. The clerk told him to write it down, and after this was done the number 113 was placed after his name. "Hope you're not superstitious," the clerk remarked. "Why?" asked Ned. "There's a thirteen in your room number." "I don't mind that." "Some folks do," the clerk continued. "But that's the only dollar room we've got left. Front!" A boy answered the ring of the bell which the clerk touched, and, taking Ned's grip led the way. A rattling, shaking elevator, of an antiquated type, carried Ned and his guide to the fifth floor. The young porter opened the door of a small room and set Ned's grip down inside of it. "Here's where you bunk," he remarked. Ned had read of the necessity for tips in New York, and handed the boy a dime. The lad seemed to welcome it. "T'anks," he said. "What's that rope for?" asked Ned, as he noticed one in a corner of his room. "Fire escape. New law. All rooms has to have 'em," the boy replied. "If the shebang goes up you drop the rope out of the window and slide down. Your window's right over the back yard and there's a gate that leads out into a side street." "Do they have many fires?" asked Ned, feeling a bit nervous. "Many? Every day ten or a dozen." "I mean around here?" "Ain't had none since I worked here, but when this place goes it'll go quick. It's about a thousand years old, I guess." When the boy had gone Ned looked out of the window. It overlooked the rear yard of the hotel, a place filled with boxes, barrels and all sorts of rubbish. The rope was fastened to an iron ring in the wall, and looked stout enough to hold several men. It was long enough to reach to the ground, as Ned could see. "Hope I don't have to use it," he thought. Leaving his valise in his room, Ned went downstairs, again, the old elevator taking considerable time on the trip. "I'll look around a bit, have some supper and then go to bed," he decided. "Maybe my luck will change to-morrow." Ned after walking about the streets for awhile went back to the same restaurant where he had dined before, as he did not fancy the looks of his hotel well enough to eat there. He strolled about through the brilliantly lighted streets after supper pondering on his curious plight, and then went back to the Imperial. As he approached the desk to get to the elevator he saw a stout man in close conversation with the clerk. He could hear the latter, in reply to some question, say: "Guess we haven't got anybody here you want, Jim. No new ones came except a kid. Queer thing about him, though, I believe he's registered under the wrong name. Acts sort of funny." "What name did he give?" asked the stout man. "'Never'--'ever'--no, that isn't it but it's something like that. 'Seldom'--that's it--no it isn't either--'Seldon,' that's it. 'Thomas Seldon.' I sized him up for a queer one." "I'll have to get a look at him," the stout man went on. "I don't know as we have any call for him, but it's best to be on the safe side." Ned felt his knees beginning to shake. He wondered who the big man might be. Just then the youthful porter sauntered toward him. Ned had come to a halt half way up the lobby of the hotel. "Pipe off that guy?" asked the boy in a friendly whisper, with a nod at the stout man. Ned understood the question to mean "Do you know who that man is?" and he answered that he did not. "One of the detectives from the Central Office. The sleuths come here same as at other hotels, every once in a while, to see if anybody they want might happen to be on hand. Guess he won't land anybody this time, though, about a week ago--" But Ned did not stop to listen. The stairway was in front of him, and he could get to his room without the clerk or the detective seeing him. As he started up the stairs, intending to go to his apartment and hide, for he had left the key in the lock, the boy-porter called after him: "Why don't you take the cage?" "The elevator's too slow," Ned answered, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He was afraid the men might hear him. But they did not, and, walking swiftly he was soon in his room. "What shall I do?" poor Ned asked himself. He seemed hounded on every side. "I must get away from here," he thought. "The clerk suspects me! Perhaps that detective has a description of me! I must sneak out, and yet--I can't go. I haven't paid for my room!" Then he caught sight of the rope fire escape. An idea came to him. "I'll slide down the rope to the ground," he murmured. "That's the way. I can get off without any one seeing me, and I'll go to another hotel." He loosened the rope, which was looped upon a hook, and looked down into the yard. All was dark and quiet there. He tied his valise to the end of the rope and lowered it. The little thud of the satchel as it landed and slipped from the noose of the rope told him it was in the yard. Then, having left a dollar bill pinned to one of the pillows of the bed, Ned put on his hat and overcoat, and, taking a firm hold of the rope stepped out of the window and went down, hand over hand. It was a trick he had often performed, though it was hard to descend the five stories. At last his feet touched the ground, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Now to take my valise and skip," he said in a whisper. "That was pretty well done." He stooped over to loosen his satchel from the rope. His fingers encountered nothing but the hempen strands. "My valise is gone!" he exclaimed. CHAPTER XX IN THE LODGING HOUSE Ned felt around on the ground. He thought the valise might have slipped from the rope and rolled away into some corner of the yard. He got down on his knees and crawled about, looking among boxes and barrels, as well as he could in the darkness. But the valise was gone. "Where in the world could it have disappeared to?" Ned asked himself. "I came down within three minutes after I lowered it to the ground." There was a gate, opening from the yard to the street, and Ned decided some one had either seen or heard the valise drop and had slipped in and stolen it. "Now I am in a pickle," the lad murmured. "No baggage, not even a clean collar, only a little over four dollars left" (for he had taken one from his pocketbook to leave for his room rent), "and I can't even tell the police I've been robbed. If I do they'll question me and find out I'm wanted for that stock matter. I certainly am up against it. But I guess I'd better get away from here. That detective may go to my room, discover that I've gone, and make a search." Ned peered out of the gate. The street was deserted at that moment. With a hasty look up at the window of his room he had just left, and from which the rope still dangled, Ned, in worse plight than he had been before, hurried away. Once more he felt himself an outcast, without a place to go. "When they see that rope they'll suspect I'm some sort of a criminal," he reflected bitterly. "What a lot of trouble a fellow can get into without meaning it," he reflected. "This is the last time I'll ever buy stocks or bonds on my own responsibility. I guess dad can manage finances until I learn the ropes a little better." He walked on, not knowing whither he was bound. He emerged from the side street to one of the main thoroughfares. There he mingled with the crowds, believing, that for the present at least, he was safe from pursuit. "But I've got to stay somewhere to-night," he told himself. "I can't walk the streets forever. I wonder if there isn't some place where I can get a bed without having to answer a lot of questions about myself?" As he walked along an illuminated sign, on a building across the street, attracted his attention. It informed those who cared to know that the place was the "Owl Lodging House," and that single beds could be had for fifteen cents a night, or a room including the privilege of a bath, for twenty-five cents. "That about fits my pocketbook," Ned reasoned. "Twenty-five cents a night is cheaper than a dollar, and I've got to be saving. I wonder if it's clean? It seems like living in a tenement house, but I s'pose lots of men have to. I'll try it anyhow. If I don't like the looks of it I can leave." He walked up the stairs. Certainly the place would not have taken a prize for cleanliness but then, Ned reflected, beggars must not be choosers. He emerged into a big room, lighted by several gas jets, and seemingly filled with men in chairs who were lolling about in all sorts of attitudes. Some were asleep and some were reading newspapers. As Ned stood irresolutely gazing on the scene his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp voice. "Well, young man, do you want a room or a bed?" "Have you any rooms left?" asked Ned, turning to see a man staring at him from a small window in an office built against one side of the apartment. "Lots of 'em," replied the clerk of the lodging house. "Twenty-five cents. Pay in advance. This isn't the Waldorf-Astoria." Ned handed a quarter through the half circular opening and received in return a key with a big brass tag. "Do I register?" asked Ned, hoping that he would not have to put down another false name. "Register nothin'," the clerk replied. "They go by numbers here. Yours is seventeen," and Ned, looking at the tag on his key, saw what the clerk meant. "I'm glad there's no thirteen in this," the boy thought. "How do I get to my room?" he asked. "Right along the corridor. You can't miss it. Go on until you strike the right number and go in. Do you snore?" "No. Why?" "Because there is a man in the next room to you who says he'll punch my face in, if I put any one near him who snores. It's all right. Go ahead. If you want a bath it's the last room at the end of the hall, but you have to furnish your own soap and towels." "That settles the bath question," thought Ned; "that is unless I dry myself on a pocket handkerchief, and I guess I'd better save that." "Lock your door," the clerk called after him. "We're not responsible for anything stolen from the rooms." Ned had not expected much for twenty-five cents, and the small room, the little narrow iron cot, and the scanty supply of coverings did not disappoint him. The room was merely separated from the others, in the row of which it was, by partitions that did not extend all the way to the ceiling. Ned sat down on the chair and gazed about him. He could hear men in the next rooms breathing heavily. It was rather chilly for there was no fire in the bedrooms. "I can use my overcoat for a blanket," Ned inadvertently spoke aloud. The next moment a voice, from the room on his left startled him. "Hello, in seventeen!" called a man. "Well?" asked Ned. "Do you snore?" "No." "All right. If you do there'll be trouble. I'm a light sleeper." Ned wondered who his unseen questioner was, but he was too tired to care much. He undressed, and crawled into bed. His overcoat answered well for a blanket, and soon he began to feel warm and drowsy, in spite of his strange surroundings. He must have slept for several hours when he was suddenly awakened by a pounding on his door. "What is it? Is the place afire?" he called, sitting up in bed. "Fire nothing! I want my money you took!" It was the voice of the man who had asked him if he snored. "I haven't your money," Ned answered, thinking the man might be a lunatic. "Yes, you have! You sneaked into my room and took it! I woke up just in time! Open the door or I'll break it down!" Ned sprang from his bed and turned the key. The door flew open and a big man with a red moustache entered. "Give me my money!" he demanded, striding up to Ned. CHAPTER XXI NED FLEES AGAIN "I tell you I haven't your money!" exclaimed Ned. "What do you mean?" "You know what I mean well enough! I had a lot of dollar bills under my pillow! You sneaked in and took them! I want my money!" "And I tell you I haven't it and didn't take it!" Ned repeated. "This is my room, and you'd better get out of it!" "Not until I have my money! Where is it?" He lifted a pillow from Ned's bed. Under it were four one dollar bills which Ned had placed there before he went to sleep. "Here's part of it, anyhow!" the man exclaimed. "I want the rest now! Fork it over!" "That's my money!" cried Ned, as the red-moustached man took the bills and stuffed them into his pocket. "Your money! A likely story! Anybody with as much money as that would never stop in a place like this." "How did you happen to stop here then?" asked Ned quickly. "Me? Why young impudence, I'm the proprietor of this lodging house! I live here! That's why. Hey, Bill!" he called in a loud voice, "come here. There's trouble." In answer to the summons a big man, evidently the night porter or watchman, came shuffling down the corridor. "What's the trouble, boss?" he asked, and Ned began to believe the man had spoken the truth when he said he was the proprietor of the place. "Why, here's a kid comes into my room when I'm asleep and takes my cash right from under my pillow. I wake up just in time to see him sneak back into his room and when I get him with the goods on him he has the impudence to deny it. There's part of the cash," and he showed Ned's money, "but I want the rest. Better call a policeman, Bill." "All right, boss. Just as you say," and the porter shuffled off. "Do you mean to say you're going to have me arrested on a charge of stealing your money?" asked Ned. "That's what I am unless you give it up." "But I didn't take it. It must have been some one else, if you really were robbed. Why don't you look in some of the other rooms along here?" "Because I saw you come in here after you were in my room, and had your hand under my pillow." "Couldn't you be mistaken?" "Not much. I've been in this business too long. 'Tisn't the first time I've been robbed, but it's the first time I got the thief and I'm goin' to make an example of you." "You're making a big mistake," Ned said, trying to speak bravely, but the accusation, unjust as it was, coupled with his other misfortunes was almost too much for him. "I'll take the chances on that. Who are you, anyhow? What's your name, and where'd you come from?" Ned hesitated. If he gave his real name it might lead to trouble over the stock, in case the proprietor carried out the threat to have him arrested. He was not used to telling untruths and he was afraid if he gave a false name he would soon betray himself. Still it seemed the best thing to do and would harm no one save himself. "My name's George Anderson," he said boldly. "Where I came from is none of your affair." "Afraid to tell, eh? Well, the judge will soon have it out of you." It was quite cold now, and Ned, standing half dressed as he was in the room, began to shiver. He put on his clothes. "Guess that's a wise thing to do," the proprietor of the lodging house remarked. "You'll get a ride in the hurry-up wagon soon." The words struck a chill of terror to Ned's heart. Must he spend the rest of the night in a cell? The man's manner showed no relenting. He either believed Ned had robbed him or was insisting on the charge for some reason of his own. "Are you in earnest about this?" asked Ned, as he put on his hat and overcoat. "You can make up your mind to that," was the man's answer. "It'll be the jail for yours, in a little while, if you don't give me back my money. It isn't too late. I can fix it with the cop if you'll give up. Why look here, kid, they'll search you and find it on you. You haven't had time to hide it, and, besides, there's no place in this room. You must have it on you. Give it up and save trouble." "I haven't your money," Ned said boldly. "Those bills you took from under the pillow were mine. You can search me now if you want to. That is all the money I have except a little change in my overcoat pocket," and he showed the man. "That don't go with me. I'm sure you robbed me. I'll not search you or you'd say I was up to some game, and nobody ever said but what Jim Cassidy was honest, though he does keep a cheap lodging house. No, sir, the cop'll search you." Ned knew the officer would find nothing--except the stock certificate. There was the trouble. Ned thought every officer in New York had a description of it and was looking for the boy who carried it. No, he couldn't allow himself to be searched. "It's cold!" exclaimed Cassidy suddenly, as he shivered in his long nightrobe. "I'm goin' to get dressed. Better not try to run or I'll nab you. I'll be in the next room." He went into his own apartment and Ned could hear him putting on his clothes. By the grunts and puffs that ensued he judged Cassidy was having hard work, as he was a large man, and putting on a shirt was no easy matter. Then a daring plan came into Ned's mind. In spite of the excitement caused by the proprietor's entrance into his room and the loud talking that followed the accusation, none of the other lodgers had gotten up. Even sending the porter for a policeman had not excited any curiosity. Ned resolved to make his escape if possible. He thought he could slip past Cassidy's door and down the stairs before Bill would return with a policeman. He got upon the bed and looked over the partition into Cassidy's room. The proprietor was putting on his shoes and had his back to the door. There was a light at the far end of the corridor, illuminating it dimly. Ned took off his own shoes, and, carrying them in his hand stepped to the door of his room. He stole softly into the corridor and was about to slip past Cassidy's room when the door of the apartment opposite his opened just a crack and a hoarse voice whispered: "Hey, cully! If youse wants t' make a git-away, go de other way an' down de back stairs. Youse kin slip around through de alley an' inter de street 'fore de cop comes. I heard what youse said and ye sounds honest, an' dat's more'n ye kin say fer a lot in dis joint. Quick, some one's comin' up de front stairs!" Then, before Ned could thank his unknown friend, the door was shut. Ned could hear Cassidy getting up from the chair on which he had seated himself to lace his shoes. There was not a moment to spare. Making no sound in his stocking feet, Ned hurried down the dark corridor, away from the front of the building. He had to trust almost entirely to feeling, as the gleam from the single lamp farther toward the front stairs did not penetrate thus far. He did not even know where the rear flight was, but trusted to luck to find them. With his hand stretched out in front of him, to avoid running into any obstructions he went on as fast as he could. Suddenly he turned a corner in the passage and saw a dim light. Then he observed a flight of stairs leading downward. He listened a moment. Behind him he could hear the tramp of heavy feet, and guessed that Bill had returned with the policeman. Ned hurried down the stairs. He stopped only long enough, when he reached the bottom, to put his shoes on, but did not lace them. He only tucked the ends of the strings into the tops so they would not dangle and trip him if he had to run. Then Ned stepped from the hallway into the dark and deserted street. Once more, though entirely innocent, he had been obliged to flee from officers of the law. "It's getting to be a habit with me," he said grimly, as he hurried along. What happened back in the lodging house he did not know and he cared less. That his flight would seem a confession of guilt he was sure; but what did it matter? It was cold and dark and cheerless in the streets. He was a night wanderer, with no place to go, and, as far as he knew, not a friend in the big city. "I guess I'll have to walk the streets all night," poor Ned thought. "I haven't much money left." He felt in the pocket of his overcoat, and counted the change. There was less than a dollar. "Have to take fifteen cent beds after this," he remarked to himself. "As for eating I guess I'll have to cut that out altogether." He walked through several thoroughfares. Not a soul did he meet save once as he passed a policeman the officer stared at him suspiciously. But Ned still had his good clothes with him, and his overcoat though crumpled from being used as a bed-spread, made him look decent enough to pass muster in the neighborhood where he was. "I think I'll find another lodging house and get a bed," he said to himself. "I must get a little rest if I am to look for work to-morrow." He had no difficulty in finding a place, for there were many such nearby. He got a fifteen cent bed, in a room where scores of other men and youths were sleeping. His entrance excited no comment, and, in fact, few were awake to notice his arrival. Ned was so tired he fell asleep with most of his clothes on. He had little fear of being robbed for he had little left to take. He got a frugal breakfast the next morning and started out to search for work. But New York seemed to be overflowing with men and boys on the same errand. Every place where Ned applied, either from seeing a sign "Boy Wanted," or by getting the address from a newspaper he bought, had been taken or else he would not fill the bill. All day long he tramped, spending a few cents for some buns and coffee at a lunch stand. At night, tired and discouraged, he went back to the lodging house where he had last stayed, and again got a fifteen cent bed. "To-morrow's Thursday," thought Ned, as he crawled under his overcoat, which he once more used as a blanket. "I wonder if the boys arrived to-day? What could they have thought when they saw the house closed? Oh, I wish I could find them. If this keeps on I'll have to pawn my overcoat for something to eat, and it looks as if it would snow to-morrow. What a pickle I'm in!" Then, in spite of his troubles he fell asleep, for he was very tired. CHAPTER XXII OUT IN THE STORM The telegram from Ned's father, which the three chums received that Wednesday evening, telling them their friend was not at his home in Darewell, was a great shock to them. "Why," remarked Bart, as he picked up the message he had dropped, "it hardly seems possible. I wonder where in the world he can be. He starts for home but he never arrives." "Are we sure he started for home?" asked Frank. "Why of course," Fenn answered. "Didn't the telegram from Mrs. Kenfield say so?" "She would hardly know," Frank went on. "Ned's train for Darewell wouldn't leave until four o'clock. The timetable shows that. According to what the woman who lives next door to Mrs. Kenfield told us, Ned's aunt started away before noon. Her train must have left about that time, so Ned couldn't have gotten away from New York, if he left at all, until after his aunt had started for Chicago. Consequently though she may have seen him leave the depot where she was, with the intention of going back to Darewell, that's no proof that he really went back home." "That's so," admitted Bart, struck with the force of Frank's reasoning. "But where then can he be?" "That's what we've got to find out," said Fenn. "How are we going to do it?" Bart inquired. "I think Ned's right here in New York," Frank went on. "Now look at it. His aunt goes away unexpectedly and closes the house up. It would seem natural for Ned to go back home, but we find out he has not. He doesn't know any one else in this part of the country, or he would have told us. Consequently he has not gone to any other city. Therefore he must be in New York." "But why would he stay here?" insisted Bart. "Probably for the same reason we're going to, in order to see the sights." "Then why didn't he send some word home to let his father know?" Bart asked. "Mr. Wilding wouldn't be starting for New York if he knew Ned was safe here. Ned hasn't communicated with his father, that's sure." "I forgot about that," Frank admitted. "That makes it look different." "Maybe something has happened to him," suggested Fenn. "Don't look for trouble, Stumpy," remarked Bart. "It's bad enough as it is." "However I still think Ned is in New York," Frank went on. "He may be sick or he may have been hurt, which would prevent him communicating with us, or with his father. But that he's in this city I'm sure. Now the thing for us to do is to find him." "But how?" asked Fenn. "There are dozens of ways. We must communicate with the police and ask their help." "Ned wouldn't like that," interposed Bart. "He's not a criminal." "Of course not," Frank answered. "But the police have to help find lots of persons who are not criminals. If Ned's in trouble we want to know it as soon as possible so we can help him." "Then the sooner we start the better," suggested Bart. "Where ought we to begin?" "Let's ask the agent here at the station where Ned's train came in," Frank said. "Perhaps he may have noticed him." "Not likely," replied Bart. "Too many passengers coming and going." They made some inquiries, but, as Bart had said, there were too many arrivals and departures for the agent to have taken particular note of a boy among a thousand others. "That settles one end of it," remarked Fenn, as they were about to leave the depot. "Let's arrange to stop at some hotel. We're going to be here several days, very likely." "So we are," Frank replied. "Hold on! Wait a minute! I've just thought of something." "What?" asked Bart. "The baggage room. We can find out if there are any trunks from Darewell, besides our own, that have not been called for. Besides I know Ned's when I see it." They hurried to the baggage agent and told him what they wanted. He soon ascertained from his records that four trunks had come in from Darewell in the last few days. Three were those of the three chums, which had arrived that noon. "I've got one other," the agent said. "It came in Monday, and there are storage charges on it now." "Can we look at it?" asked Frank. The agent showed it to them. "That's Ned's trunk!" cried Frank. "We're on the track. He hasn't left New York, that's sure. Has any one called for that trunk?" he asked the agent. "No, but I wish they would. It's in the way here." "Could you let us know in case any one does call?" Frank went on, giving his reasons for the request. "We'll pay you for your trouble." "I s'pose I could. Where'll you be?" "We ought to stop at some hotel near here," Frank suggested. "Then we can come here quickly if we get a message." "Do you know of a good hotel near here?" asked Bart of the agent. "There's the Imperial a few blocks up the street. It's not especially good, but it's respectable. I guess you could stop there." "That will do," Frank said. "We'll get rooms there. We will send for our trunks, and you can telephone us in case that other one is called for." He gave the man a couple of dollars to pay for his trouble, and for any telephone messages he might have to send, and then the three chums went to the same hotel where Ned had stopped. The same clerk was on duty who had been there when Ned registered, and he seemed rather surprised at the three well dressed youths who entered. Usually the Imperial, in spite of its name, did not attract such a class of patrons. The boys bargained for three connecting rooms, and, as they had plenty of money were given good apartments on the second floor. "Register," the clerk said, swinging the book around to them. As Bart took the pen to write his name, he looked at the book and gave a start. "I thought first that was Ned's writing," he said as he looked where his chum, but a few hours before had written "Thomas Seldon." "Friend of yours?" asked the clerk quickly. "I thought first it looked like the writing of a chum of mine," Bart replied. "But it's different I see." "Guess that chap doesn't travel in your company," the clerk went on, as the other boys put down their names. "Why?" "Oh, he's a crook I guess," and he told of the discovery of Ned's escape down the rope. "He hasn't done anything as far as we can learn," the clerk went on, "but his getting out that way showed there was something wrong, though he was honest enough to leave a dollar for his room, which he didn't occupy. However, the police would like to get him just to see why he was in such a hurry to get away. "Funny thing, too," the clerk continued. "He left his valise behind him. He must have lowered it out of the window by the rope, or else he threw it out. Anyway, just before we found out that he had gone, our chef went out in the back yard for a breath of air. He saw the valise lying on the ground, but didn't take notice of the rope. He brought the satchel in and gave it to me. I was talking to a detective at the desk, one who comes in here every once in a while to see if there are any suspicious characters. I was telling him about this Seldon lad, just as the cook handed me the grip. I recognized it as the one the boy had when he came in, and got suspicious. We went to his room, but he had skipped. We've got the valise yet, but haven't opened it. The police may in a few days." The boys slept soundly that night. They awoke in the morning to find a heavy snow storm in progress. They spent the day going from one place to another, following the advice they got at the office of the chief of police. But all to no purpose. There was no trace of Ned. They were out almost all day in the storm, which continued to get worse as night approached. "There's one thing we forgot," said Frank, as they prepared to go back to the hotel for the night. "What?" asked Fenn. "We should have let Mr. Wilding know where we are stopping. You know he said he was coming to New York. We must send him a wire. If he has left Darewell, the bank will know his address here, and forward it to us." This plan, Frank's chums decided, was a wise one. They turned toward a telegraph office which they had noticed near their hotel. As they were going down a dark side street Bart, who was in advance, stumbled over something and fell into a snow drift. "Hurt yourself?" asked Frank. "No. It was like falling into a feather bed, only it's cold." Just then something like a groan sounded from the object Bart had stumbled over. "What's that?" asked Fenn. The three boys bent over the object. "It's a boy!" cried Frank. "He's almost frozen to death. Come on, fellows! We must carry him to some shelter." "Better take him to our hotel," suggested Bart. They picked up the boy, who was lying in a drift of snow on the sidewalk, and hurried on with him. Feeble moans came from between the unknown's white lips. CHAPTER XXIII NED'S PREDICAMENT When Ned awakened Thursday morning in the lodging house and, on looking from the window saw that it was snowing, his unpleasant position came forcibly to him. "This is nice," he reflected as he put on his shoes. "It's as cold as Greenland out of doors, and I'm down to--let's see what my cash capital is, anyhow." He fumbled in the change pocket of his overcoat, and found a few coins. "Thirty cents," he murmured as he looked at them. "There's enough for three five-cent meals, and enough to pay for a bed to-night. I'll need the bed too, if this storm keeps up." He finished dressing and went to the window to look out. It was anything but a pleasant day on which to look for work. The wind had blown the snow into big drifts, and the white flakes were still falling. It was cold too, as he could tell by the draught that came in around the window. "Come now, everybody clear out!" called a voice, and one of the porters of the lodging house appeared with a pail and broom. "Got to clean up the place. Fifteen cents doesn't mean you fellers can make a hotel of this place and hang around all day. Clear out!" "Can't we stay until it stops snowin'?" asked one of the men, who were crowded around the big stove in the sleeping room. "You kin if you pay for another night's lodging," was the answer. "What do you think this is, the Salvation Army or the Y. M. C. A.? If you want free graft go there. You has to pay for what you gits here. Clear out!" There was no help for it. Those who hoped to remain in away from the storm, where it was at least warm, though not very inviting, were doomed to disappointment. A few, who had the money, paid for another night's lodging, which gave them the privilege of remaining in during the day. Ned had half a notion to do this, but he reflected he might find a place to work which would be so far from the lodging house that he could not conveniently return. So he decided to save his money until he could find out what the day might hold for him. With scores of other unfortunates he left the warm room and went out into the cold. He was glad he was well clothed and that he still had his overcoat. How long he could keep it, before he would have to pawn it for food, he did not know. He almost decided to go back to the hotel where he had first stayed and see if they knew anything about his valise. That had ten dollars in it. Then the thought of the detective deterred him. "If I had the four dollars the lodging house proprietor stole from me I'd think I was rich," he murmured. "But I wouldn't dare go back after it. He'd have me arrested sure! Though I may have to submit to that to get a warm place to sleep and something to eat, if I don't get work soon," he added. It was very cold. As soon as Ned got out into the street, where he could feel the full sweep of the wind he shivered though his overcoat was a thick one. The snow was blown into his face with stinging force. "As long as it doesn't make any difference which way I go I may as well have the wind at my back," he reasoned as he turned and walked in the opposite direction. "That's more comfortable, at any rate," he continued. "Now I must get something to eat, if it's only a cup of coffee." He walked on until he saw a restaurant. In the window was a big gas stove on which a man, in a white uniform and cap, was browning some buckwheat cakes. They looked so good they made Ned's mouth fairly water. "I'm going to have some," he decided. "It will take fifteen cents, if I get coffee with them, but it's worth it. I'll make this meal do for dinner too. But supper--" Ned did not dare carry his thoughts further. All he knew was that he was very hungry, and at least he had money enough to pay for a simple meal. Supper must take care of itself. "Maybe I can get a night's lodging at some free place, and save the rest of my money for supper and breakfast to-morrow," Ned thought to himself as he entered the restaurant. He ordered a plate of the cakes and some coffee, and could hardly wait until the girl had placed them on the table in front of him. He got a small pitcher of what passed for maple syrup, and there was a plate of butter from which all at the table helped themselves. Ned finished the cakes in short order. The coffee was hot if nothing else, but Ned was surprised at the small place in his big appetite which the cakes filled. He almost felt like ordering more but decided it would be rash to reduce his capital to five cents. As it was now, when he had paid for his breakfast, he would have fifteen cents left out of the thirty. With the pasteboard check which the girl had left at his plate, in his hand, Ned approached the cashier's desk in the front part of the restaurant. His fingers went into the change pocket of his overcoat, searching for the money. He could feel nothing but the lining. A blank look came over his face. He was sure he had put the money back into that pocket as he finished counting it when he sat on the edge of his bed. Yet it was not there. Hurriedly he felt in all his other pockets. Meanwhile several customers behind him were impatiently waiting to pay their checks. "One side," said the cashier in a gruff tone, as he saw Ned fumbling through his pockets. "What's the matter with you? Left your memory home?" "I think I've lost my money," Ned answered, his voice trembling a little. "Then you've got another think coming," the clerk said in an ugly tone. "I've heard that story before." "What story?" asked Ned. "About forgetting your money. Left it in the bank I s'pose, or home on the pianer, or you've got to have a check cashed. What is it, speak quick, I've got no time to fool." While he was talking, the man was busy making change for other customers who walked past Ned. "Do you mean that you think I'm trying to cheat you?" asked the boy. "I don't mean anything if you pay for what you've eaten. If you don't pay--well--there's a cop just around the corner, and we've had your same kind in here before." By this time Ned stood alone in front of the desk, as the line of waiting men had passed out. "I had my money when I came in here," said the boy. "Or at least I think I did. I had it a little while before, I'm sure, for I counted it. There was thirty cents--" "That's what you look like now," the cashier interrupted, with a coarse laugh at his joke. "It'll be thirty days for yours if you don't settle up." "But I haven't got the money," replied poor Ned. "Then you shouldn't have eaten anything. Do you think we're feedin' beggars here?" "I thought I had the money when I ordered the cakes," Ned replied, staring helplessly at the fifteen cent check in his hand. "Say, young feller, that's too thin. It don't go here any more. I've been stung too often with that yarn. You'll pay for your grub or you'll be arrested, see? Have you got the money; yes or no?" "I haven't--but if--" "Yes, if we let you go you'll stop in on your way from the bank and give us a check! No you don't! A fellow gave me that song and dance last week. Jim, call the cop," and the cashier nodded to one of the men waiters. "Are you going to have me arrested?" exclaimed Ned. "That's what I am. It's a criminal offense to order a meal, eat it, and not pay for it." Ned did not know what to do. CHAPTER XXIV A QUEER IDENTIFICATION Stumbling through the snow drifts the three chums bore the half-unconscious boy they had picked up in the snow bank. They went as quickly as they could, for they knew the need of haste in the case of a person who had been exposed to the cold and storm. "I wonder who he is?" said Fenn. "Whoever he is he's pretty nearly dead," replied Frank. "I hope we're not too late." As they struggled into the lobby of the hotel with their burden, the night clerk gazed curiously at them. "What the matter?" he asked. "Boy almost frozen," replied Bart. "Send for a doctor!" "Who's going to pay him?" the clerk inquired. "We will!" Bart replied, somewhat indignantly. "That's all right, needn't get mad about it," the clerk exclaimed. "You'll find there's a lot of grafting in New York, and we have to be careful. Here, I'll help you with him." "Take him up to my room," Frank suggested, as the clerk came from behind the desk and assisted in supporting the boy, who was now unconscious. "Mine is the largest apartment," Frank went on, "I can bunk in with one of you fellows." "Telephone for Dr. Smithers," the clerk called to a helper as they placed the boy in the elevator. "He's just around the corner." The lad was put to bed in Frank's room, and the clerk, who seemed a little sorry, for his question about payment, brought in some rubber hot-water bags which were placed about the silent form under the coverlet. "We must thaw him out," he said. "That's the best treatment I know of." In a little while the doctor arrived. He said the clerk had done the right thing and he ordered some hot broth prepared. "Alice ought to be here," remarked Bart. "This would be just in her line." "Wonder who he is?" asked Frank, as the three boys were in Bart's room, for the doctor, and one of the women servants of the hotel, who had volunteered for a nurse, were busy trying to restore the boy to consciousness. "Probably some poor homeless wanderer," replied Fenn. "Tough luck, to be without a home on a night like this." "I only hope Ned isn't in any such plight," spoke Bart. "Why should he be?" asked Fenn. "He had plenty of money when he left home." "You can never tell what will happen in New York," replied Fenn with a wise look, which, though he did not appreciate it, was quite a truthful remark. In about an hour Dr. Smithers came out. He seemed well pleased with what he had accomplished. "I think we'll pull him through," he said, rubbing his hands. "It was a close call. If you had been five minutes later he would probably have been past human aid." "Could he tell you anything of himself, doctor?" asked Frank. "Oh, no. He has not yet fully recovered consciousness. But he will be pretty well in the morning, unless something unforeseen sets in. In the meanwhile he must be kept perfectly quiet. On no account must he be disturbed. One of the chambermaids will watch him during the night. I ventured to engage her as a sort of emergency nurse." "That's right," spoke Bart. "You can send the bill to me, doctor, and we'll pay for the nurse." "I'm sure that's very good of you," Dr. Smithers went on, "to take so much interest in a boy you never saw before, as I understand it." "Can't tell but we might want the same kind of help ourselves, some day," Frank remarked. "That's so," the physician agreed. "Well, now I believe I'll go. He'll get along all right I think, and I'll look in on him in the morning." Frank and Bart arranged to occupy the latter's bed that night, as it was a large one. As Frank went into his room, where the rescued boy was, to get some clean clothing for the morning, he saw the lad lying asleep, with the woman watching at the head of the bed. The gas was turned low, but a gleam from it struck on the cheek of the sleeper. As Frank passed close by the bed he looked down on the patient, and, as he did so, he started. For there, on the right cheek of the boy, was a small, but vivid red scar. Frank pointed to it, before he knew what he was doing. The nurse, seeing his gesture, looked up in alarm. "That mark!" whispered Frank. "Is it a cut? Did he fall and hurt himself?" "It's an old scar," the woman replied in a whisper. "I noticed it when I was giving him some medicine a while ago. Why?" "Nothing much; I thought it might be a cut," Frank replied as he hurried quietly from the room. He found Bart and Fenn discussing the finding of the boy. "Fellows," began Frank suddenly as he entered, "do you remember Mrs. Perry?" "You mean the woman whose place we stayed at over night out of the blizzard?" asked Bart. "That's it. Do you remember what she told us about her son William who was lost?" "Sure," answered Bart. "Didn't she say he had a scar or something on his face?" "A red scar on his right cheek," replied Bart. "Why?" "He's in there!" declared Frank. "Are you dreaming?" asked Bart incredulously. Then Frank told his chums what he had seen. "Of course there may be other boys besides William Perry with red scars on their right cheeks," he added, "but I'm sure this is the son of the widow, in the cabin in the woods. We can find out in the morning." "Why not now?" asked Fenn. "Doctor said he mustn't be disturbed," Frank replied. "We'll have to wait." In the morning the boy was much better. The doctor paid an early visit and pronounced him out of danger, but advised that he be kept in bed a day or so. "Now you chaps who rescued him had better go in and tell him all about it," the physician said as he came from the room. "He's all excited with curiosity as to how he got here." The boys paid the doctor, who said he would not have to call again unless the patient had a relapse, and then they went into the room where the lad was. He was sitting up in bed alone, for the chambermaid had gone. "Are you the boys who saved me?" was the first question he asked. "We pulled you out of the snow, but I guess the doctor did the real work of saving you, William Perry!" exclaimed Frank. "What's that?" almost shouted the boy in bed. "Aren't you William Perry? Doesn't your mother live near Kirkville, and haven't you two sisters, Mary and Jane?" Frank went on earnestly, for he had determined on a bold plan. "Your mother wants you to come home," he added. "Your room is all ready for you. She told us to tell you to come back, no matter what had happened." "Have you seen my mother?" asked the boy, his eyes filling with tears. "Did she send you to find me?" "Then you are William Perry!" exclaimed Bart. "You guessed it, Frank!" "We saw your mother Thanksgiving day," went on Frank. "We were able to help her. We found her cabin just in the nick of time, for we were caught in a blizzard. So we have only paid back, in a measure, what she did for us." "Yes, I am William Perry," the boy admitted, and now he made no effort to conceal his tears. "It's the first time I've used my name, though, in many months. My poor mother! Yes, I will go back to her. I'd go now, only--" "Don't let the money part worry you," said Fenn eagerly. "We'll lend you some." "I've made a big failure of it all," William went on. "I ought not to go home." "The more reason why you should," interrupted Frank. Then the waif told them his story. He had started off to go to sea, in order to earn money for his mother. But he only got as far as Boston. Then, unable to stand the hard work he deserted the ship. Fearing to go home, because he thought he might be arrested for leaving the vessel, he tried to find work. He did manage to get odd jobs here and there, and finally drifted to New York. He found it was just as hard to earn a dollar there as it had been in Boston. He could barely get enough to buy himself food and he often went hungry. Finally he managed to get a permanent position, but he earned so little that he could only just live on it. He had slept in lodging houses, he said, and wore the poorest clothing he could buy. "I was ashamed to go home without money," he went on, "or I would have gone back long ago. I wanted to return with good clothes and gold jingling in my pocket, as I had read, in books, of boys doing. So I didn't even write to let them know where I was. Poor mother!" and William sighed. "I lost my position a month ago. Since then I have only managed to earn enough to live, and it was hard work at times. I hadn't had anything to eat all day yesterday," he went on, "and I was cold and weak. I was on my way to the river, thinking I could find a place on the wharves to sleep, when I stumbled and fell into the snowbank. When I was down it felt so warm there I decided to stay. I didn't care what became of me." "But you do now, don't you?" asked Frank. "Do I?" asked the boy eagerly. "Say, will you lend me a stamp so I can write home to mother?" "We'll do better than that," said Bart. "We'll send her a telegram." When the message had been forwarded to Mrs. Perry, telling her of the unexpected finding of her wandering boy, the three chums told the waif their reason for being in New York. "And you haven't been able to find a trace of Ned, eh?" asked William, musingly. "Not a trace," replied Frank. "But don't let our troubles worry you. You must get strong and hurry home to your mother." "Say, let me help you!" exclaimed William eagerly. "Maybe I can pay you back for your kindness. I know New York like a book. I've knocked all around it for the last six months. Maybe I can locate Ned for you. I know lots of places where fellows go when they're down on their luck, as I was. Let me help. Mother won't mind when I write and tell her I'm going to stay here a few days longer, when she knows what it's for. I believe I can help you." "Perhaps you can," said Fenn. So it was arranged that William was to stay with the three chums at the hotel for a few days. He was not to venture out until the next day, however, as he was still weak. "Will you be all right if we leave you alone here?" asked Frank a little later. "We want to go out and make some inquiries." "Sure. Go ahead," replied William. "I'm so happy now I'll not be lonesome." The three chums went to police headquarters to ask if any news concerning Ned had been received, but there was none for them. The sergeant behind the desk tried to cheer them up by remarking that "no news was good news." "We must find him pretty soon," Bart declared. "If we don't I'll begin to believe something bad has happened." As they were walking along the Bowery, in the neighborhood of the cheap variety theaters, they were attracted by a flaming poster which announced the various performers who could be seen or heard. They paused and read it through. There were men who imitated monkeys, trained birds, strong men, women who sang, bands of musicians, and at the bottom of the poster was the announcement. HEAR JOHN NEWTON, THE GREAT BIRD WHISTLER. "John Newton," murmured Fenn. "That name sounds familiar." "Of course it does," replied Frank. "That's the name of the chap who was expelled from our high school last term." "So it was. But this can't be the same one." "I think it is," suggested Fenn. "Don't you remember, he said he was going to New York to be an actor? I heard he had some sort of a job in a theater. Maybe this is he. Let's go in and see." They bought tickets and entered. The whistling was the last thing on the program, the theater being one where a "continuous performance" was given. A boy came out on the stage and began to whistle, giving imitations of various birds. He did very well, but the three chums were more interested in the identity of the lad than in his performance. "It is John Newton, from Darewell," whispered Bart. "I never knew he could whistle like that." "He was always practicing at it," declared Fenn, "but he's improved a lot since I last heard him in Darewell." "Let's find out if we can't see him," suggested Frank, as they went from the theater and inquired their way back of the scenes. CHAPTER XXV NED SHOVELS SNOW A multitude of thoughts rushed through Ned's mind as he stood in the restaurant awaiting the arrival of the policeman for whom the cashier had sent. He could not imagine what had become of his money. He knew his pockets had no holes in them and he came to the conclusion he must have dropped it on the bed in the lodging house instead of putting it in his overcoat. But he knew he must think of something besides the lost money, as any moment the officer might appear and take him to the police station. He looked across the street to where a man was shoveling snow from the sidewalk. Then a bright idea came to Ned. He turned to the cashier who was looking at him vindictively and asked: "Can't I shovel your walk off and pay for my breakfast that way?" "Humph! That's a different proposition," the cashier replied. "If you're willing to do the square thing, I guess we are, too. Only don't try any trick like that again. I s'pose if I let you take a shovel you'll not skip out with it?" "I'm not in the habit of stealing," Ned answered indignantly. "I don't know anything about your habits," the man answered. "I only know a fellow worked that game on me once and I don't intend to be caught again. I'll give you thirty cents for cleaning the walk. That'll pay for your meal and be fifteen cents over. You can take it or go to jail." "I'll take it," Ned exclaimed. "Where's the shovel?" "I'll be watching you," the clerk went on. "If you try the sneaking act I'll have the cop after you." "You needn't be afraid," rejoined Ned. The waiter came back to report that the policeman would be there in a few minutes. "Go and tell him it's all right," the clerk said. "The kid's going to shovel the walk to pay for his grub." The waiter, not much relishing his second trip through the storm, scowled at Ned as he passed our hero, but the boy was so pleased at the escape from his predicament that he did not mind the waiter's black looks. Ned made a good job of cleaning the walk. The snow was not falling so heavily now, though the storm was far from being over. "I think I could get work at this if I only had a shovel," Ned thought as he put the finishing touches on his task. "Maybe the clerk would lend me this one." He made the request when he went in to get his pay. "I'll leave the fifteen cents with you as security for the shovel," he said, when he had made his request. "That's a hot one; fifteen cents security on a dollar and a half shovel," the clerk replied with a laugh. "Still, you look honest, though I had my doubts at first," he added. "Go ahead, take the shovel. Never mind about leaving the money. You'll need it to get dinner with. Bring the shovel back to-night." Thus was Ned started in business. He got several jobs at cleaning sidewalks, and at noon had earned two dollars. He went back to the restaurant, returned the shovel and got dinner. The cashier he had dealt with had gone, but the one who had relieved him knew about the transaction. When Ned had finished his fifteen cent dinner, for that was all he allowed himself, the waitress brought him a big piece of pie. "I didn't order that," he said, though he looked at it longingly. "The cashier says it's his treat," the girl replied with a smile, and Ned had no further compunctions about eating it. "I told the other fellow you wouldn't bring the shovel back," the cashier remarked as Ned paid his check. "How do you mean?" asked Ned. "Why the clerk, who was on duty here when you ate breakfast, said he thought you would, and I said I didn't believe you would show up again. I said if you did I'd give you some pie. See?" "Oh," Ned answered with a laugh, "much obliged." That afternoon he bought a second-hand shovel and went about looking for more walks to clean. By night he had earned a dollar additional, which gave him considerable more capital than he had possessed since the episode at the hotel. "I'll get a room at the lodging house to-night," he said as he finished a simple supper. "I don't like those beds all in a heap." It was still snowing the next day, and though Ned found the field pretty well covered by scores of other men and boys, he managed to earn two dollars, which made him feel quite like a capitalist, as he shut the door of his lodging-house room that night. * * * * * The three chums, who wanted to find John Newton had no trouble. They met him coming from the rear of the theater, as he had done his "turn," and was not to go on again for three hours. The "Bird Warbler" was as much surprised to see his former acquaintances from Darewell as they were to find him engaged at a theater. "I'm studying to be an actor," John said, "but it's dull times now and I took this job. It pays pretty well." "I never knew you could whistle good enough for this work," said Fenn. "It comes natural I guess," replied John. "But what are you chaps doing in New York?" They told him, and Bart suggested that perhaps John might happen to see Ned. "If I do I'll let you know," the "warbler" replied. "Where are you stopping?" "At the Imperial," replied Bart. "You might telephone us if you hear anything of Ned." "I will. Come and have a glass of soda with me," John added, but the chums were too anxious to keep on with their search to accept, and, bidding the "warbler" good-bye they kept on. They got back to their rooms at noon, to find that William Perry was up and dressed, and impatient to go out. "I want to begin to help you," he said. "Did you see the clerk when you came in?" "No. Why?" asked Fenn. "He's anxious to tell you something. Says they opened a valise a fellow left here and he thinks it might contain a clew that would help you." "Maybe it's about Ned," suggested Bart. "Come on fellows." "What did you say the name of your missing friend was?" the clerk asked them, as the three chums hurried down to his desk. "Ned Wilding," answered Frank. "Why?" "You remember me telling you about that fellow who slipped down the fire escape rope and lost his valise?" the clerk asked. The boys said they did. "Well, we opened it to-day, and the collars are marked 'N. W.' I thought it might be a tip for you." "Let's see the things in the satchel," suggested Fenn. The clerk showed them to the chums. They had no difficulty in identifying as Ned's several articles in the valise. "Then that writing was his, after all!" exclaimed Frank. "Boys, we are on his track." "But where can he be?" asked Bart. "We only know he ran away from here. Why did he leave in that fashion? Had he done something he was afraid of?" "Perhaps he suddenly went--" began Frank, and then he stopped in seeming confusion. "What were you going to say?" asked Bart. "Nothing," Frank replied. "I made a mistake. I think we'd better tell the police about this." "That's so. I nearly forgot," the clerk added. "You are to go to police headquarters. A message came over the telephone a little while ago." "Perhaps they've found Ned!" exclaimed Bart for they had left the telephone number of their hotel with the sergeant at headquarters and the official had promised he would telephone if he had any news. "Hurry up!" cried Fenn. "Perhaps Ned is there waiting for us." "I only hope he is," Frank remarked, and the boys noticed he appeared gloomy and sad. "Wonder what ails Frank?" asked Bart of Fenn, as they went to their rooms to get their coats and hats. "A fit of the same old mysteriousness," replied Stumpy. "Don't notice him and it will pass over." "Let me go to headquarters with you," begged William. "I want to help." "Are you strong enough to go out?" asked Bart. "It's quite cold." "Oh I'm used to that," and the boy laughed. "But you--er--you have no overcoat," said Fenn, wishing when it was too late he had not mentioned it. "I'm used to that too," William replied. "Would you mind if we loaned you money enough to get a coat?" asked Bart. William thought for a moment. "I'm ever so much obliged to you," he said. "You've done more for me now than I can ever repay." "Then a little more won't hurt," said Fenn with a laugh. The overcoat was purchased, and the four boys went to police headquarters. "Gentleman waiting to see you," the sergeant said. "Seems terribly upset about something." They went into an anteroom and found Mr. Wilding. He had been in New York since early Thursday morning, but had been unable to locate the boys, since the finding of William in the snow had taken from the minds of the three chums all thoughts of sending the telegram to Darewell, telling Ned's father of their address. "I knew there was something we should have attended to, but I couldn't think what it was," Bart exclaimed. "Have you any news?" asked Mr. Wilding eagerly after explaining he had obtained the address of the chums from the police sergeant who offered to telephone to them. "Just a little," replied Fenn and he told of the finding of Ned's valise. Then all went over the situation, but the prospect seemed no brighter than ever. "I'll tell you what we ought to do," declared William. "What?" asked Mr. Wilding anxiously. "We ought to make a regular search of all the lodging houses and other places. I've slept in lots of 'em. That's where men and boys go when they have only a little money, and I guess your son hadn't much when he lost his valise." "I believe you're right!" exclaimed Ned's father. "It is a good suggestion. I will hire some private detectives to help in the search." "And I'll do all I can," said William, whose story had been told to Mr. Wilding. "My poor boy," Ned's father murmured. "I wonder where he can be." "Don't you fret!" exclaimed William. "We'll find him for you," and he spoke so hopefully that Mr. Wilding smiled for the first time since he had left home. It was arranged that he would stay at a hotel near police headquarters while the four boys would remain at the Imperial as there was a bare chance Ned would return. "Now here's where I get busy," declared William, as they left the police station. CHAPTER XXVI CASSIDY CATCHES NED A systematic search of the lodging houses was begun that afternoon. But it was harder and more baffling work than any one had imagined. John Newton gave them unexpected aid. As he had much time to himself he offered to go with them to the different lodging houses in the evenings, and give his whistling imitations of birds. "What good will that do?" asked Bart. "Does he think Ned will hear him and come from hiding?" "Not that," explained Fenn, to whom John had told his scheme. "But when he's whistling there's sure to be a crowd around him, and, if Ned is in the place, he'll join the others and we may see him. I think it's a good plan." The others did also, and, for several evenings John amused the inmates of the lodging houses with his whistling. As Fenn had said, crowds gathered about him, and the three chums looked eagerly through them for a sight of Ned. It was perhaps one of the best plans the boys could have adopted, for in their eagerness to hear the "Bird Warbler" the unfortunate lads and men who were forced to the shelter of the places crowded close up around John Newton. In this way Bart and his companions could scrutinize at short range nearly every person in the throng. "Aren't you getting tired of it?" asked Bart one evening when they were starting out for a large lodging house on the Bowery. "I don't mind it a bit," replied John. "I'd do more than this to help find Ned. Besides, it's a good advertisement for me. You see the fellows in these places hear me, and when they see my name on the theatrical bill boards they'll come in. You can't get too much advertising when you're an actor," and John looked quite important. There was a larger crowd than usual in the lodging house that night. John made his way to the front of the room. At first no one paid any attention to the entrance of himself and his friends. But, as soon as John began an imitation of a mocking bird, there was a stir. "That sounds just like it used to when I was a boy!" exclaimed an old man. "Many and many's the mornin' I've heard them birds. Can you do a song-sparrow imitation, sonny?" "Sure," replied John, and he trilled some sweet high notes. "My but that's fine!" From that John proceeded to imitate a robin and a bob-o-link. He had scarcely finished with the last before there was a stir in one corner of the room. It seemed as if some one was trying to get out. "Maybe Ned's there!" exclaimed Bart to Fenn. "Go over and take a look." Fenn edged his way through the crowd, but found, instead of some one trying to get out, it was a man trying to make his way closer to where the whistler was. From his appearance the man seemed to have just awakened from a sound sleep on a couple of chairs. "Where are they?" he exclaimed. "Let me get at 'em!" "What's the matter?" asked several. "I want to catch those birds!" the recently awakened sleeper said, rubbing his eyes. "I can put 'em in cages and sell 'em. I haven't made any money lately, now's my chance. Get out of my way, can't you? I used to trap birds when I was a boy. These are fine singers." John had not yet caught sight of the man making his way toward him. The "Warbler" was giving an imitation of a blackbird, and he managed to send out his notes with such skill that it really sounded as if the bird was in a different part of the room from where the whistler stood. The notes appeared to come from a window in the corner. "I can get him! Look out!" cried the man. He made a dash for the window, and at that, John, who was now aware of what was going on, changed the whistling to the notes of a bluebird. This time the tones were so directed as to seem to come from a window on the other side of the room, and the man turned to make a dash in that direction. "Why, there's two birds!" he exclaimed. "I'll catch 'em all!" No sooner had he reached the second window than John changed the tune to that made by a bullfinch, and the man, listening, thought the bird was in the back of the apartment. He made his way there, the crowd parting to let him through, and laughing, the meanwhile, at the deluded man's actions. John was concealed from view by the throng packed close about him, or the man would have discovered the trick at once. As it was he thought sure there were several birds in the room. When he got to the rear the notes of the feathered songster seemed more distinct than ever. The man climbed up on a chair to peer behind the window curtain, and, as he did so, John, whose vocal abilities were not alone limited to birds, let out a croak like a big frog. "That's no bird!" exclaimed the man in disgust, as the crowd broke into a laugh at him. "Am I dreaming or what's the matter? Is this place haunted?" Then he caught sight of John, who was just puckering up his lips to again imitate a bird. "Oh, it's you, is it?" the man exclaimed. "Well you're a good one, all right, to fool me. I used to live in the woods and I know birds pretty well." "That's where I learned to imitate 'em; in the woods," said John, glad of a chance to rest, for his lips and mouth were aching from the strain. "Can you whistle tunes?" the man asked him. "A little." "Give us some music then. I like a good jolly song; and we'll join in the chorus." Then John poured forth his melody in a series of popular songs, for he was a good whistler, aside from his power to mimic, and, for half an hour the lodging house rang with the voices of the men, led by John's shrill notes. All this while Bart and the others kept a close lookout for Ned. They did not see him, and, when it was evident that all the inmates of the place had come under their scrutiny, the boys left, their mission unsuccessful. And so it was for several evenings. Meanwhile Ned, all unconscious of the search being made for him, was puzzling his brains as to what he had better do. He was in no immediate danger of starving, as there were several snowstorms, and he earned enough to pay for his room and live frugally. Still he knew his father and chums would worry but he did not feel he dare communicate with them. He bought the papers each day, and saw several references to the swindling operations of Skem & Skim. They had not been arrested yet, it stated, and search was being made for them and for a young fellow who was believed to have helped them in their operations by dealing in a number of shares of oil stock. "That means me," thought Ned, as he read it. "I've got to lay low yet." So he went his weary way, fearing arrest every moment, yet feeling rather secure now that a week had passed and he had not been apprehended. He found several odd jobs to do when there was no snow to shovel and so managed to make enough to live on. The four boys and Mr. Wilding kept up their search. The police and private detectives did what they could but to no purpose. Personals were inserted in the papers, begging Ned to communicate with his father, but Ned never thought of looking for them. One afternoon, William, who had adopted the plan of walking about the streets in the hope of seeing Ned, whom he knew by description and a photograph, paused in front of a commission store, where a youth about his own age was helping to move boxes of oranges from a truck. Something about the lad attracted William's attention. "I wonder if that's Ned?" he said to himself. "He looks just like the boys told me he would and like that photograph Mr. Wilding had. Still I wouldn't like to make a mistake. I must get closer." He pretended to be searching for a number on the building, and so approached near to the boy helping unload the crates. "I'll bet it is Ned," William said to himself with conviction. "I'm going to ask him. He can't any more than say no." He sauntered up to the young fellow, and, with an air of unconcern asked: "Do you know anyone around here named Ned Wilding? I'm looking for him." The boy, carrying a crate of oranges, jumped so he almost dropped the fruit. Then he looked sharply at William. His face grew pale, and William was sure he had found Ned. "I haven't got time to talk," was the rather gruff answer made by the boy with the crate. "I'm busy," and then he hurried into the store with the box. "Fooled again," thought William. He waited until the boy came out again, and this time he was sure it was the missing youth. But now he decided on a different plan. "Evidently, if it is Ned, he doesn't want to be known," thought William. "Something's gone wrong with him. My only chance is in getting some of his chums here to identify him. I must telephone to one of them. They may be at the hotel. If not I'll leave word for them to come here as soon as they get back. Mr. Wilding too! I must 'phone him! Then I'll remain on the watch until some one arrives." There was a telephone pay-station across the street, and William sent his two messages from there. Neither of the three chums was in, nor was Mr. Wilding, but at both hotels the clerks said they would deliver the messages promptly. "Now to wait until they come," said William as he left the booth. Just then, as he was looking at the boy, who was still carrying in the crates, he saw a big man with a red moustache approach him. William was not near enough to hear what the man said, but he noted that the boy seemed frightened. "Ah I've caught you, haven't I?" exclaimed the man, and Ned (for as William suspected the boy carrying in the oranges was the missing youth) looked up with a start. "I'll teach you to steal my money and run away." He grabbed Ned by the arm and shook him roughly. "I didn't take your money, Mr. Cassidy!" exclaimed the boy, as he recognized the lodging house keeper. "What did you run away for? I'm on to your game. Now you can come along with me and work out what you stole from me, or I'll hand you over to the first officer I meet. What are you going to do?" What was poor Ned to do? He was in dire straits. Still it seemed better to go with Cassidy than to make a scene on the street and be arrested. He wanted that least of all things. "I'll go with you," he said, "though you have no right to make me, and I didn't take your money." "What's the matter?" asked the fruit man, who had hired Ned to assist in unloading the truck. "Nothing much," replied Cassidy. "This lad owes me some money and I'll make him work it out." "That's your affair," the fruit man replied. "He's earned half a dollar working for me. Here it is." He was about to hand it to Ned, but Cassidy took it. "I'll apply that on account," he said grimly, as he marched Ned away. The whole affair had occurred so suddenly that Ned did not know what to do. He was in a sort of dream. The appearance of Cassidy, the confiscation of the half dollar and the lodging house keeper's evident intention of holding the boy to account for a theft he had never committed, made Ned think he was doomed to misfortune, no matter what he did to avoid it. Then followed a natural desire to escape. He knew Cassidy had no right to take him into custody, and he felt the injustice of it keenly. The man held him loosely by the coat sleeve, and marched him along through the streets. Several persons turned to look at the spectacle, but no one ventured to interfere. New Yorkers have formed the habit of not taking much interest in affairs that do not concern them directly. As they were crossing a narrow street in one of the thickly settled tenement districts a horse, attached to a wagon, and rapidly driven, bore down on them. Ned, with the instinct of a quick runner, started to dash ahead. Cassidy, who moved slower, pulled back toward the curb, to let the steed pass. The movement separated Ned from his captor, for Cassidy's hold on the boy's sleeve was broken. Ned was free! The horse and wagon was now between him and the man. The boy gave a hasty glance back, and saw Cassidy standing on the crossing, ready to dash forward as soon as the wagon should pass. He could not go around it because of vehicles on either side. "Here's my chance!" exclaimed Ned as he dashed forward and ran down the other side of the street. An instant later the wagon had passed and Cassidy was after him. But the start Ned had he used to good advantage. He was fleet of foot and he had an object in making speed, such as he had never had before. Somewhat to his surprise Cassidy did not shout to him to stop, and made no outcry. "I wonder if he's afraid to let people know he's after me?" thought Ned. The truth of it was, Cassidy wanted to save his breath for running. Also, he did not want to raise too much disturbance in his pursuit of Ned. He knew he had no right to take the boy into custody, and, though he knew he could cause his arrest on the false charge, that would not bring back the money Cassidy thought Ned had stolen. It was the money, or its equivalent, the lodging house keeper was after. So he decided to try to catch Ned without aid from outside sources if possible. With this in view he started after the fugitive without raising an alarm, though the streets were well filled. Ned made good time. He speeded down the thoroughfare until he came to where another intersected it, and turned the corner. This put him out of Cassidy's view. The second street was not so thronged as the one he had just left, and Ned had a chance to run better. But there was this disadvantage, that he was more closely observed. On the crowded avenue a running lad attracts little attention, but when more plainly in sight, as Ned now was, he becomes an object of interest. As he ran he looked back over his shoulder to see if Cassidy was in sight. Past several houses Ned kept on, and his pursuer did not appear around the corner. Then, just as he came in front of a big tenement house Ned saw Cassidy some distance in the rear. "I guess I'll go in here!" thought the boy. "Maybe I can slip out of the back before he gets here and that will fool him. I'm going to try!" He darted into the hallway, but, before he had gone three steps he collided with an old man who, at that instant, was coming from his room into the corridor. The shock threw the old man down, and Ned could scarcely retain his balance. "Excuse me!" he exclaimed, pausing, when he had recovered his equilibrium, to help the aged man to his feet. "I'm sorry," and then he started to run through the hallway. "Here! Vait a minute!" the man exclaimed. "Are you tryin' to rob me? I dinks you are a t'eef! Hold on! Vait until I see if you haf taken my vatch!" "I haven't taken anything of yours!" cried Ned. "I'm in a hurry!" He was almost at the end of the hall, and saw that it opened into a sort of court. Abutting on that was another tenement. "Vait! You vas a t'eef!" cried the old man, and he set up such a yelling that doors on either side of the corridor opened, and men and women stuck their heads forth, all demanding to know what the matter was. "I'm done for now!" thought Ned. "If Cassidy comes past here he'll be sure to hear the excitement, and they'll tell him I ran through!" Still he determined not to give up. He dashed on into the court, leaving behind the aged man who was now the centre of an excited throng. "He vos a t'eef! He knocked me down! He vouldn't vait until I looked to see if I am robbed!" was the burden of the aged one's cry. "Call de police! He vos a t'eef!" Ned ran across the open space and into the other tenement house. The hallway there seemed deserted, but he knew it would not be so long, when the cries from the other house had aroused the inmates. "If I can only get through the corridor, and into the other street I can fool Cassidy," Ned reasoned. "I seem to be having all my bad luck at once." He had almost reached the front door, for it was the back entrance of the structure that he had gone in, and he thought he saw freedom before him, when there sounded behind him a cry of: "Stop thief! Stop thief!" This is enough to arouse excitement anywhere, but in a New York tenement nothing can sooner be calculated to draw the inmates from their rooms, than such an alarm, unless, indeed, it be one of fire. No sooner had the first cry resounded through the corridor than the hall was swarming with people. Ned found his way blocked, the more effectually when one woman ran to the front door and closed it. "I've caught you!" she exclaimed. "I'll teach you to rob honest people, even if they are poor!" "I haven't robbed anybody!" cried Ned, as he saw the throng in front of him, and heard the tramp of many feet in his rear. "Stop him! Hold him!" cried half a score. Ned looked about him. There seemed to be no way of escape. He was standing near the flight of stairs leading to the upper stories of the second tenement. There was a little clear space in front of him, as the crowd before him was composed mostly of women, who were a little timid about approaching too closely to a "thief" even if he was only a lad. "I'm going to chance it," thought Ned. "If I can get to the roof I can cross to some other house, and go down a scuttle hole, perhaps, and so reach the street. Or I can hide until the excitement blows over." With this in mind he suddenly grasped the balustrade near which he was. With a jump and a swing he was over it and part way up the stairs. Then he began to run, while the crowd below him, surprised at his sudden escape, set up a chorus of yells. But Ned had a good start. He took the steps three at a time, and was soon at the top. Then he essayed the next flight, and so on until he found himself on the roof, which was a big, wide stretch of tin. It was used as a place for hanging out clothes, and was easy of access from the top hallway. Below him Ned could hear the shouts and cries, and the tramp of many feet. "Which way shall I go?" he asked himself, as he paused for an instant. "Guess it can't make much difference." He turned to the left and ran along until he came to a stairway several houses further along. The door of this was open, and he went down. He had fairly distanced his pursuers, for none of them were yet on the roof. "I'll get to the street and leave 'em behind," the boy reasoned. "Everyone will be in the house looking for me, and the street will be deserted." In this Ned was almost right, for when, after hurrying down several flights of stairs, he reached the thoroughfare, the only person in sight in the immediate neighborhood was a colored man putting in coal. He seemed to be so busily engaged that he had no time to waste in pursuit, so, after a hasty glance from the front door of the tenement, Ned went out. But in this he reckoned without his host. The colored man, looking up from his shoveling, saw Ned. The lad's wild and disheveled appearance raised the man's suspicions. Besides he had heard of the chase after the thief. "I'll cotch you!" he cried, leaping from his wagon. "I'll get you!" Ned, who was, by this time, running past where the coal wagon was backed up to the curb, turned out to avoid the negro, who, with outstretched arms was advancing toward him. In his anxiety to avoid the coal man, Ned did not notice an open hole down which the black diamonds were being shoveled. Before he could save himself he had plunged into it. Lucky for the boy the cellar underneath was almost full, the coal coming to within a few feet of the sidewalk, so when Ned toppled in he only went down a little ways. There he was, his head and shoulders sticking up above the pavement, while his feet and legs were buried in the pile of coal underneath. "Now I've got you!" yelled the colored man, as he ran up to Ned, and hauled him from the hole. "I've got you! What'd you steal?" "I didn't steal anything," Ned answered. "It's all a mistake. Please let me go!" "Hold him!" cried Cassidy, appearing at that moment from the front entrance of the house, up the stairs of which Ned had dashed a few minutes before. "Don't let him get away!" "He'll not get away," replied the negro. Cassidy came up and took charge of Ned. Quite a crowd gathered, but the lodging house keeper answered none of the many questions asked him. "Guess he's a detective," was the general whisper that went around, and Cassidy did not correct it. "You come with me!" he said to Ned. "Don't try any of your tricks again, or it'll be the worse for you." And he marched Ned off. CHAPTER XXVII BAFFLED AGAIN William, coming across the street to take up a position, where he could watch the lad he suspected was Ned, puzzled his head over the scene he had just witnessed. "I wonder what he went off with that man for?" he said to himself. "Didn't act as though he wanted to, either. I'll ask the fruit man." He approached, and then the thought struck it would be a good idea to apply for the job the other boy had just left. He got it, for there was need of hurry in unloading the fruit, as the day was cold. "What was the matter with the other fellow?" asked William carelessly as though it was of little moment to him. "I don't know," the fruit man replied. "The boy came along just like you and asked for a job. I hired him and then along comes this fellow and says the lad owes him money. It wasn't any of my affair. Hustle those boxes in now, I don't want the oranges to freeze." "Who was the man who took him away?" asked William, as indifferently as he could, though he was nervous with eagerness to hear the answer. "I never saw him before. It was none of my affair, though I liked the looks of that boy, and I didn't care much for the man. But I've gotten over the habit of interfering in other people's business. Come now, boy, hustle!" William went to work with an energy that pleased his employer. The boy was beginning to think he had made a mistake. He felt that he should have followed the man, to see where he took the lad he believed was Ned. But then, too, he had telephoned Mr. Wilding and the chums to meet him at the fruit store, and if he was not there when they arrived, they would not know what to make of it. "I can't be in two places at once," William thought to himself. "I guess I'd better stay here until some one comes. Then maybe I can trace which way the man took the boy. Anyhow I'm not sure it was Ned. I've never seen him, and it wouldn't do to make a mistake. He wouldn't admit he was Ned Wilding, but he acted to me as though he was afraid of something." Thus musing, and puzzling over whether he had done the right thing, William continued to help unload the truck, keeping a sharp lookout for Mr. Wilding or the three chums. The three boys arrived first. They came down the street in a hurry looking for the place William had described to the hotel clerk over the telephone. "There he is!" cried Bart, as he caught sight of the boy they had pulled from the snow drift. "Where's Ned?" he added. "I'm not sure it was him," William replied, "but a man came and took him away half an hour ago." Then he rapidly explained what had taken place, describing the boy he had seen. "That's Ned sure enough," Fenn exclaimed. "Where in the world could he have gone to?" "And who was the man who said Ned owed him money?" asked Frank. "I guess we're on the trail of the mystery." "Hurry up, let's see if we can't find them," suggested Bart. "They can't have gone very far." "One of us ought to stay here to meet Mr. Wilding if he comes," said Fenn. "The other two can go with William to look for Ned and the man." "Say, did I hire you to chin or to carry in oranges?" asked the fruit man, suddenly appearing in the doorway, and noting William talking to the three boys. "Guess I'll have to give up the job," replied William. "I've got to go with these boys." "Say, there must be a hoodoo about this job," the fruit man exclaimed. "You're the second boy to give it up in less than an hour. What's the matter?" The boys did not think it necessary to explain. It was arranged that Frank would stay in the vicinity of the store to meet Mr. Wilding, if that gentleman should arrive, and tell what had happened, while William, with Bart and Fenn, tried to trace Ned and the red-moustached man. "When Mr. Wilding comes I'll take him to our hotel," said Frank. "There will be no use in remaining here and we can wait for you there, as it's nearer than his." "All right," replied Bart. "We may have some good news for you." "I hope you do," Frank said. "This thing is getting on my nerves. I'm afraid we'll never see Ned again." "Oh, yes we will," put in Fenn cheerfully. William did not stop to ask any pay from the fruit man for what work he had done, but hurried off with the two chums in the direction taken by Ned and the man who had led him away. "We'll ask any policeman we meet," suggested Bart. "I'm afraid we're on a sort of wild-goose chase," remarked William, "but it's the best we can do. If I had only been sure it was Ned I would have followed him, without waiting for you, but I wasn't." "If it was Ned," said Bart, "I can't understand why he didn't admit his identity." "He must have had a good reason for it," retorted Fenn. Through the street they hurried, making inquiries from policemen, and others whom they met, as to whether Ned and the man had gone that way. They got some traces, but in New York few persons, even policemen, have time to take note of those whom they have no special reason for keeping in mind. As William had said, it was a sort of wild-goose chase, and, when they had gone a mile or more, they became convinced that it was useless to continue any farther. "Baffled again," remarked Bart. "This beats me. I wonder what we are to do." "Have to begin all over again," declared William. "It was my fault. I should have followed Ned." "No, you did what you thought was best," Fenn replied. They returned to the hotel, to find Mr. Wilding and Frank awaiting them. Mr. Wilding, who had expected some news of his son, was deeply disappointed when the three boys returned with none. "What in the world are we to do?" asked Mr. Wilding. "We seem completely at a loss." "There are a few more lodging houses to try," suggested William. "I'll start out again this evening. That's when the places are full, and I may get some trace of him." No one could offer a better suggestion, and it was arranged that Mr. Wilding should continue the search with a private detective he had hired, while William and Bart would make a tour of the lodging houses. Fenn and Frank were to remain at the Imperial Hotel. "There's no telling when a message may come from the baggage agent telling us that Ned has called for his trunk," Bart said, "and some one ought to be ready to hurry to the depot. We'll have to divide our forces." With little hope in their hearts, but with dogged patience, and a determination to keep up the search, William and Bart started out. CHAPTER XXVIII NED A PRISONER Ned followed Cassidy through the streets, the lodging-house keeper leading the way, and seemingly in no fear that the boy would give him the slip. As a matter of fact, Ned did not intend to try to escape. He was, in a sense, a voluntary prisoner now, as he knew, if he tried to run away again, Cassidy would probably take after him and raise such a disturbance that the police would interfere. And Ned had his own reasons for not wanting anything to do with the bluecoats. Afterwards he thought how senseless, in a measure, his fears were, but at the time they loomed up large before him, and caused him to do things of which, otherwise, he would not have dreamed. "Hurry up!" exclaimed Cassidy when he and Ned had been walking about half an hour. "I haven't got all day." "What do you intend to do?" asked Ned. "I intend to make you work out the value of the money you stole from me. One of my porters has left and I have to have another. Instead of hiring one I'll make you do the work until you square things." "I never took your money!" declared Ned. "You've said that several times," Cassidy exclaimed. "I don't want to hear it again. I saw you, but I'm willing to give you a chance to reform. No use calling in the police unless I have to, but I will, if you don't do as I tell you." The man spoke earnestly, and not unkindly, and Ned began to believe that Cassidy really believed he stole the money, a thing the boy had not admitted at first. "Some day you'll find you're wrong," Ned said. "I guess not! Jim Cassidy doesn't make mistakes," was the answer. "If I do I'll pay you back with interest." They reached the lodging house where Ned had stopped before, and whence he had escaped in the night. "Go ahead up," commanded Cassidy. "Get a broom and a pail of water and scrub out the rooms. I'll allow you at the rate of a dollar and a half a day. I had fifteen dollars under my pillow that you took. I got four and a half of it back, counting the fifty cents from the fruit man, and that leaves ten dollars and a half you owe me. You work seven days and I'll call it square, and give you your bed free at night. That's more than you deserve, but you're young and I'll give you a chance." Ned thought it was a pretty poor chance, considering his innocence of the theft, but he decided it was best not to answer. He got a pail and broom, and, taking off his coat set to work cleaning the dirty floor. Cassidy watched him a while in silence and remarked: "I'll be on the lookout, so don't try to sneak away." "I'll work my seven days," Ned replied, trying to hide the tears that would persist in coming into his eyes. As he labored away the stock certificate, in his inside pocket, rustled. All his trouble dated from the acquisition of that, he reflected bitterly, and it was a dearly bought bit of experience. All that afternoon Ned worked away, his heart like lead. He longed for a sight of the faces of his chums, and he wanted to hear from his father. It seemed a very long time since he had left Darewell so happy and filled with expectations of the pleasures he and his friends would enjoy in New York. "I wonder if the boys came?" Ned thought. "I wonder what my father must think? Oh, I've a good notion to write to him and ask him what to do! I can't stand it any longer!" Ned was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He had stood about all he could, and with the poor food and the bad sleeping places, which were all he could afford, his health was in danger. "Come now, no loafing!" exclaimed Cassidy's coarse voice, as Ned paused a moment in his scrubbing. "When I pay a dollar and a half a day I expect good, quick work. We don't want any idlers around here." Wearily Ned began to move the wet broom over the dirty boards. There were a number of unkempt men engaged in the same occupation. "If my chums should see me now," thought Ned. He expected to be allowed to go to bed early as he was tired, but when Cassidy had sent him to a near-by, cheap restaurant, in company with one of the other porters, for supper, Ned found, on his return, that he was expected to clean out the office. "Ten o'clock's time enough to go to bed," Cassidy told him. "The work got behind when my other man left and it's got to be made up. I don't want the Board of Health here, condemning the place." Even with all the cleaning that was done, it looked as if the Board should take some action, Ned thought. Meanwhile William and Bart had, that same evening, visited several lodging houses. They met with no success, though the proprietors described boys who bore a resemblance to Ned, but who had only stopped one night and had then disappeared. "We'll find him," said William, more cheerfully than he felt. The two boys were walking down a side street, approaching a lodging-house they intended to visit. It was one they had not yet inspected. It was about eight o'clock and was blowing up cold. There was a feeling of snow in the air, and the boys buttoned their coats closely around them. "Hope Ned doesn't have to stay out in the storm like I did," said William. "So do I," chimed in Bart. "I hate to think about it." "We'll try this place," William went on, as they reached the entrance to the lodging house. In the hallway a gas jet burned, and, as the lads started up the stairs, they met a red moustached man coming down. At the sight of him William cried out: "There he is!" "Who?" asked Bart. "The man who took Ned away!" The next instant the two boys were besieging Cassidy with questions. The lodging-house proprietor looked bewildered a moment, and then, gathering the import of what they wanted, he exclaimed: "Oh, you're chums of his, eh? Belong to the same gang I s'pose? Well, you can't come any tricks on me! If that lad is your chum he stays here until he's worked out what he owes me!" "What does he owe you?" demanded Bart. "Ned Wilding doesn't need to owe anyone anything." "He owes me the money he stole!" Cassidy cried, "and I'm going to get it! Now, you fellows skip out of here or I'll call the police!" "Can't we see Ned?" demanded William. "No, you can't! He's got to stay here a week. Think I'm going to let you in and have you help him git away the way he did after he took my money?" "He never took your money!" cried Bart. "Clear out!" exclaimed Cassidy. "Bart, you go get a policeman!" called William suddenly. "We'll see about this thing. Telephone for Mr. Wilding and the boys!" "What will you do?" asked Bart. "I'll stay on guard!" William replied, looking Cassidy straight in the face. "He's not going to get Ned away from me again!" CHAPTER XXIX NED IS FOUND--CONCLUSION Bart hurried down the stairs. Cassidy looked after him, a little in doubt what to make of the proceeding. Then he glanced at William. "Here, you get out of this!" he called roughly. "All right," agreed William cheerfully. "It's your place, I admit, but you'll sing a different tune pretty soon. I'll get out of the hallway but the street is free, and I'll be on guard there until this thing is settled." "You're too fresh!" spluttered Cassidy, as he turned and went back upstairs. "That's all right! You'll get what's coming to you pretty soon," retorted William confidently, as he went down to the street to await the return of Bart with reinforcements. Bart soon got into communication with Mr. Wilding, and with the two chums, at their hotel. They said they would hurry to the lodging house, and Mr. Wilding announced that he would bring a detective from headquarters, rather than have the boys ask a policeman to investigate the matter. Meanwhile, Mr. Wilding advised Bart to keep close watch on the lodging house. William and Bart now took up their positions where they could observe the entrance to the place. They did not know there was a rear stairway, but, as Cassidy had no idea of spiriting Ned away, desiring, in fact, to only keep him secure, there was no need of guarding the back. It seemed a long time before Mr. Wilding arrived with the detective. About the same time Frank and Fenn got to the place. "I have told the detective all about it, as far as we know the circumstances," Mr. Wilding said. "Are you sure Ned is in there, William?" "Almost positive," was the answer. "The man admitted as much. He says Ned stole money from him and has to work to pay it back." "We'll soon see about it," the detective put in. "I know Cassidy. He's a rough sort, but he's square I guess. Come on." Up the stairs they went, the hearts of the boys beating with anxiety. Mr. Wilding's face showed the strain he was under but, as for the detective, he seemed to take it all as a matter of course. He had seen too many similar scenes to be affected. The little party entered the main room of the lodging house. Mr. Wilding pressed forward, close behind the detective. Through the office window he caught sight of a boy scrubbing the floor. There was something dejected in the lad's appearance. Mr. Wilding looked a second time. Then he called out: "Ned! My boy!" "Father!" cried Ned, and an instant later he was locked in Mr. Wilding's embrace, while the tears, which he did not try to conceal, streamed down his face. "Hurrah!" fairly yelled William. "We've found him!" and he began dancing around the room. At the sound of William's cry Ned looked up and saw his chums. "Why--why--where did you all come from?" he asked. "We came after you," replied Bart, "and a fine chase you led us. Where in the world have you been, Ned?" "Here! What's all this row about in my place?" asked Cassidy, hurrying up from the rear of the resort. "You people have no right in here." "Easy, Cassidy," advised the detective. "What about that boy?" and he pointed to Ned. "Oh, it's you, Reilly," said Cassidy, as he recognized the officer. "Well, he robbed me!" "No, I didn't!" retorted Ned, hotly. "That's right, you didn't kid!" exclaimed a husky voice, and a man, in ragged clothing, shuffled into the light. "He didn't take your money, Cassidy." "Who did then?" asked the lodging-house keeper. "It was Mike Jimson. I met him down the street a while ago, and he told me. Thought it was a good joke. He had a room next to you that night and he slipped in while you were asleep. He heard you accuse the kid here, but when the lad got away he thought it was all right, and the next day Mike lit out." "Are you sure?" asked the detective. "Sure! Didn't Mike tell me? He showed me some of the money. He's spent the rest." "Then I'll have him locked up!" Cassidy exclaimed. "I wonder how I could have made that mistake? I thought sure it was you who took my money," and he looked at Ned. "I'm sorry for what I did." Ned was too happy over the outcome to reply. He held his father's hand and his chums crowded around him. "Here," said Cassidy suddenly, holding out five one dollar bills to Ned. "What are they for?" asked Mr. Wilding. "Guess they're his. Anyhow four and a half belongs to him. The rest is interest. I took 'em from under his pillow thinking they were mine. I hope you'll let this thing drop." "You've made a serious mistake, Cassidy," Detective Reilly said. "You are liable to be sued for damages." "I hope you'll not prosecute me," whined the lodging house keeper. "That's a question we can settle later," said Mr. Wilding sternly. "Come, boys, let's get away from here. We will go to my hotel, and then I'll send a telegram to our friends in Darewell. They are very anxious to hear from me." "Will you arrest Mike and get my money back, Reilly?" asked Cassidy. "Maybe, later," the detective replied. "You don't deserve it, for the trouble you caused," and he followed Mr. Wilding and the boys to the street. "But, Ned, it wasn't that accusation that kept you in hiding, was it?" asked his father as they walked along. "No--no--" Ned answered with a look at the detective. "I guess I'm wanted on another charge?" "Wanted on another charge? What in the world do you mean?" "Why I bought some stock in the Mt. Olive Oil Well Company," Ned explained, still eyeing the detective. "I got it from the brokers, Skem & Skim. I went back to have a mistake in the figures corrected and I found the firm had fled and the postal authorities were in charge of the offices. I overheard the inspector say they wanted a young fellow who had bought two hundred shares of the stock and I knew it was me, so I ran away. I didn't want to be arrested. "But I don't mind, now!" he went on, as he drew the stock certificate from his pocket and handed it to his father. "You can lock me up, if you want to," turning to the detective. "I'm tired of dodging around." "Let's see that paper?" asked the officer, and he took it to a light where he could read it. As he looked it over a smile came to his face. "Well, well, you certainly had a big scare for nothing," he remarked to Ned. "How?" "I know all about the case. I helped work on it. We located Skem & Skim in Boston and they're under arrest." "But about me? About the two hundred shares of stock that the inspector was talking about?" asked Ned anxiously. "Two thousand shares was what he said I guess, but you probably misunderstood him," Mr. Reilly went on. "Yes, there was a young fellow who was mixed up in the transactions. He was a holder of two thousand shares of the stock. All there was in fact, and he was one of the main ones in working the swindle. We're looking for him still. Why, my boy, this paper isn't worth anything. They cheated you. There isn't any stock in the Mt. Olive Oil Well Company except the fake two thousand shares issued to John Denton, which is the name of the other swindler we want. And so you thought the inspector meant you?" "I did, and that's why I ran away. I didn't want to be arrested and bring disgrace on my father." "You poor boy!" exclaimed Mr. Wilding. "But it's all over now, Ned. How in the world did you manage to live in the meanwhile?" Ned told them part of the story as they walked to his father's hotel, and the remainder of it he related inside, from the time of his aunt's departure until they found him scrubbing the lodging-house floor, including his escape down the rope. "And we have your valise!" exclaimed Fenn. "It's at our hotel." "I thought some one came along and stole it," Ned replied. "I was afraid to ask about it for fear I'd be arrested. I didn't even dare go for my trunk." "That's safe at the depot," said Bart, "but you'll have to pay storage charges on it. Well, well, how this thing has worked out!" "We've solved two mysteries instead of one," Frank remarked. "Here's William ready to go back to his mother," and he told Ned who William was. "So you're the boy who was watching me this afternoon when Cassidy came for me?" Ned asked. "I was afraid you might be a detective, and so I wouldn't admit who I was." "We'll start for home in the morning," declared Mr. Wilding. "And maybe get into more trouble there," put in Fenn. "How?" asked Ned. "If there's any more trouble I want to get it all over with at once." "They suspect us of blowing up the school tower!" exclaimed Frank. "Oh, that!" cried Mr. Wilding. "I guess I forgot to tell you about that, I was so busy thinking of Ned. That's all cleared up!" "How?" asked Bart. "They found out it was done by a wicked boy named Peter Sanderson. He thought it was a joke to set off a dynamite cartridge, but he found out it wasn't. He's been sent to the reform school and his father has to pay a big bill for damages. I got a letter from Fenn's father this morning, telling me all about it. So you boys can go home with everything cleared up." "And we'll take William with us," said Bart. "Yes, of course. I guess William's troubles are over too. We need a boy in the bank, and I think he will fill the bill," and Mr. Wilding laughed. They were all so excited that none of them slept well that night, but they were up early and started back for Darewell. Ned rather expected his father would express regret at the loss of the hundred dollars, for Detective Reilly said there was little chance of the money ever being recovered. Mr. Wilding, however, did not refer to it, until Ned, anxious to know how his parent felt, remarked: "I guess I'm not much of a business man, dad." "Why so?" inquired Mr. Wilding with a smile. "Why, I lost my hundred dollars the first thing." "Not exactly lost it, Ned, though you haven't got it. You can consider that you bought a hundred dollars worth of experience, and I think you got quite a lot for your money." "I certainly did," replied Ned with conviction. "By the way," his father went on. "I got a telegram from your aunt. Her niece in Chicago is not as ill as was at first believed, and Mrs. Kenfield is coming home soon. She wants you boys to stay and visit her. Your uncle will be home from Europe in another week." "I think I'd rather go home for a while," answered Ned. "Well, everything came out all right," remarked Bart as he and Fenn sat together looking from the car windows as they approached their destination. "Yes, everything is right but Frank," replied Fenn. "He's been acting strangely lately," and he nodded toward his chum who sat alone in a seat on the other side of the car. "I wonder what ails him?" Bart remarked. "I'd like to find out. It certainly is something strange," went on Fenn. What the mystery was will be told in the third volume of this series, to be called, "Frank Roscoe's Secret." A little later the train drew into the Darewell depot. There was quite a crowd to welcome the boys, for their story was partly known. Mr. Wilding had telegraphed to the families of Ned's chums, that the mystery was solved and the trouble at last ended. "Did you see any great actors, Fenn?" asked Jennie as she greeted the boys. "Tell me all about them." "The only actor we saw was John Newton, the 'Marvelous Bird Warbler,'" replied Fenn, "and we left him there. He certainly can whistle." "Oh, tell us all about it!" begged Alice. "Did you see any accidents?" "Didn't have time," her brother replied. "But come on home. I want to see the folks." There we will take leave of the boys and girls, as they trooped up the platform, talking, laughing, and asking and answering scores of questions. Only two in the crowd were rather silent. Frank, who seemed gloomy and depressed, and William. But William was only quiet because of the great happiness he felt in knowing he would soon see his mother and sisters, from whom he had been so long separated. Two hours later he was with them, telling all about the way the chums found him, and of Ned's disappearance so strangely solved with his aid. THE END Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Changed Table of Contents page numbers to the actual page numbers in the text, for Chapters XXVII (was 203, now 216), XXVIII (was 209, now 222), and XXIX (was 216, now 229). 
37912	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) [Illustration: THE BALL ROSE AND FLEW DIRECTLY AT THE BASKET.] THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH AT BASKETBALL GERTRUDE W. MORRISON 1914 CONTENTS: CHAPTER I--HESTER IS MIFFED CHAPTER II--THE KERNEL IN THE ATHLETIC NUT CHAPTER III--JOHNNY DOYLE CHAPTER IV--"THERE'S GOOD STUFF IN THAT GIRL" CHAPTER V--HESTER AT HOME CHAPTER VI--THE FIRST GAME CHAPTER VII--THE SECOND HALF CHAPTER VIII--THE ROUND ROBIN CHAPTER IX--ANOTHER RAID CHAPTER X--MOTHER WIT AND THE GRAY MARE CHAPTER XI--HEBE POCOCK CHAPTER XII--"OUT OF IT" CHAPTER XIII--THE WIND VEERS CHAPTER XIV--RACING THE FLAMES CHAPTER XV--THE KEYPORT GAME CHAPTER XVI--UPHILL WORK FOR THE TEAM CHAPTER XVII--HEBE POCOCK IN TROUBLE CHAPTER XVIII--MOTHER WIT TO THE RESCUE CHAPTER XIX--AT LUMBERPORT CHAPTER XX--WINNING ALL ALONG THE LINE CHAPTER XXI--WHAT HESTER DID CHAPTER XXII--WHAT MR. BILLSON COULD TELL CHAPTER XXIII--CLIMBING UP CHAPTER XXIV--HESTER WINS CHAPTER XXV--THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED CHAPTER I HESTER IS MIFFED The referee's whistle sounded sharply, and the eighteen girls of Central High engaged in playing basketball, as well as an equal number strung along the side lines, stopped instantly and turned their eyes on Mrs. Case, the physical instructor. "Hester Grimes! you are deliberately delaying the game. I have reprimanded you twice. The third time I will take you out of the team for the week----" "I didn't, either!" cried the person addressed, a rather heavily built girl for her age, with a sturdy body and long arms--well developed in a muscular way, but without much grace. She had very high color, too, and at the present moment her natural ruddiness was heightened by anger. "You are breaking another rule of the game by directly addressing the referee," said Mrs. Case, grimly. "Are you ready to play, or shall I take you out of the game right now?" The red-faced girl made no audible reply, and the teacher signalled for the ball to be put into play again. Three afternoons each week each girl of Central High, of Centerport, who was eligible for after-hour athletics, was exercised for from fifteen to thirty minutes at basketball. Thirty-six girls were on the ground at a time. Every five minutes the instructor blew her whistle, and the girls changed places. That is, the eighteen actually playing the game shifted with the eighteen who had been acting as umpires, judges, timekeepers, scorers, linesmen and coaches. This shifting occupied only a few seconds, and it put the entire thirty-six girls into the game, shift and shift about. It was in September, the beginning of the fall term, and Mrs. Case was giving much attention to the material for the inter-school games, to be held later in the year. Hester Grimes had played the previous spring on the champion team, and held her place now at forward center. But although she had been two years at Central High, and was now a Junior, she had never learned the first and greatest truth that the physical instructor had tried to teach her girls: "_Keep your temper!_" Since spring several of the girls playing on the first team of Central High had left school, graduating as seniors. The work now was to whip this team into shape, and finally Mrs. Case and the girls themselves, voting upon the several names in their capacity as members of the Girls' Branch Athletic League, had settled upon the following roster of names and positions as the "make-up" of the best-playing basketball team of Central High: Josephine Morse, goal-keeper Evangeline Sitz, right forward Dora Lockwood, left forward Hester Grimes, forward center Laura Belding, jumping center Lily Pendleton, back center Dorothy Lockwood, right guard Nellie Agnew, left guard Bobby Hargrew, goal guard The basketball court of Central High was located in the new Girls' Athletic Field, not far from the school building itself, and overlooking beautiful Lake Luna and the boathouses and rowing course. At the opening of Central High this fall the new field and gymnasium had first come into use. The athletic field, gymnasium and swimming pool were the finest in the State arranged for girls' athletics. They had been made possible by the generosity of one of the very wealthy men of Centerport, Colonel Richard Swayne, and his interest in the high school girls and their athletics had been engaged by one of the girls themselves, Laura Belding by name, but better known among her schoolfellows and friends as "Mother Wit." The play went on again under the keen eye of the instructor. Mrs. Case believed most thoroughly in the efficiency of basketball for the development and training of girls; but she did not allow her charges to play the game without supervision. Lack of supervision by instructors is where the danger of basketball and kindred athletics lies. The game is an excellent one from every point of view; yet within the last few years it has come into disfavor in some quarters, and many parents have forbidden their daughters to engage in it. Like bicycling in the past, and football with the boys, basketball has suffered "a black eye" because of the way it has been played, not because of the game itself. But the Girls' Branch played the game under sound rules, and under the keen oversight of the instructor engaged by the Board of Education of Centerport for that purpose. Basketball is the first, or one of the first vigorous team games to become popular among women and girls in this country, and under proper supervision will long remain a favorite pastime. The rules under which the girls of Central High played the game were such as brought into basketball the largest number of players allowed. Whereas there were often in the games on Central High courts only right forward, left forward, center, right guard and left guard, with possibly a jumping center--these games being engaged in by the girls for their own amusement--in the regular practice and when the representative team played the teams of other schools, the girls on the field numbered nine upon a side. Thus conforming with the new rules, Mrs. Case, and the physical instructors of the other highs of Centerport and the neighboring cities, made the interest in basketball more general and enabled a greater number of ambitious girls to gain coveted positions on the first team. Suddenly Mrs. Case's whistle stopped the play again. And as the bustle and activity subsided, two girls' voices rose above all. "You just see! It's only Hester who gets scolded----" "It's not so! If she'd play fair----" "Miss Pendleton and Miss Agnew are discussing something of much importance--much more important than the game," said the referee, tartly. "Well, she said----" began Nellie Agnew, who was usually a very quiet girl, but who was flushed and angry now as she "looked daggers" at Lily Pendleton, who was Hester Grimes's chum. "That will do, Nellie!" exclaimed the instructor. "You girls evidently have not taken to heart what I have been telling you. The only way to play this--or any other team game--is to work together and talk as little as possible. And by no means allow your tempers to become heated. "We have formed a new line-up for the fall series of games with East and West High, and the highs of Keyport and Lumberport. It would be too bad to change the make-up of the team later; but I want girls on our champion team, who play the first class teams of other schools, who know how to keep cool and to keep their mouths shut. Now! don't let me have to repeat this again to-day at least. Time!" Hester Grimes turned and gave Nellie Agnew an angry look and then went on playing. The girls officiating at the lines changed with the actual players. Later they shifted again, which brought the first team into the field once more with the ball. When the practice was over Mrs. Case stopped Hester Grimes before she could run off the field. She spoke to her in a low voice, so that no other girl could hear; but she spoke firmly: "Hester, you are making a bad impression upon the teachers as well as on the minds of your fellow pupils by your indulgence in bad temper." "Nobody else calls me down for it but you, Mrs. Case," declared the big girl, bitterly. "You are a good scholar--you do not fail at your books," Mrs. Case continued, quietly. "You do not have occasion in the classroom to often show your real disposition. Here, in matters of athletics, it is different. Your deportment does not suit me----" "It never has, Mrs. Case," exclaimed the red-faced girl. "You have criticized me ever since you came here to Central High----" "Stop, Hester! How dare you speak that way to a teacher? I shall certainly report you to Mr. Sharp if you take my admonition in such a spirit. I have finished with you. If you do not show improvement in deportment on the athletic field I shall shut you out of practice entirely." The instructor spoke sharply and her face was clouded. She was a very brisk, decisive woman, and she considered that she had been patient with Hester Grimes long enough. Hester was the only daughter of a very wealthy wholesale butcher, and from her babyhood had been indulged and given her way. She was one of those girls who fairly "boss" their parents and everybody around their homes. She had bought the friendliness of some weak girls by her display and the lavish use of spending money. Perhaps, however, Lily Pendleton was really the only girl who cared for Hester. Most of the girls who had been relieved from basketball practice had run in to change to their street clothing. On the lower floor of the gymnasium building was the swimming pool, shower baths, and dressing room, besides the lockers for field materials, the doctor's and instructor's offices, and the hair-drying room. Above was the gymnasium proper with all the indoor apparatus allowed by the rules of the Girls' Branch. Each girl had her own locker and key, the key to be handed in at the instructor's office when she left the building. When Hester came into the long dressing room there was a chatter of voices and laughter. There was no restriction on talking in here. Lily met her chum at the door. The former was naturally a pale girl, rather pretty, but much given to aping fashions and frocks of grown women. "I'd like to box that Bobby Hargrew's ears," she said, to her angry chum. "She was just saying that you'd queer the team again before you got through. She's always hinting that you lost that last game we played East High last spring." "I'll just fix her for that--the mean little thing!" snapped Hester, and being just in the mood for quarreling she stalked over to where little Clara Hargrew was talking to a group of friends, among whom were Nellie Agnew and the Lockwood twins. "So you're slandering me, as usual, are you, Miss?" demanded Hester, her face very fiery and her voice very loud. "Meaning me?" demanded Bobby, shaking her curly head, and grinning impishly at the bigger girl. "Who else would I mean, Miss?" pursued Hester. "I couldn't slander you, Hessie," said the mischief-loving Bobby. "You are a trouble-maker all the time, Bobby Hargrew----" began the older girl, but Bobby broke in with: "If I made anywhere near as much trouble as you do about this gymnasium, Hessie, I'd talk soft." "Now, Bobby," cautioned Nellie Agnew, laying a quick hand upon the smaller girl's arm and drawing her away. But Hester, quite beside herself, lifted her palm and struck at Bobby. Perhaps the agile girl dodged; or maybe Nellie deliberately stepped forward. Anyhow, the stroke intended for Bobby landed full upon Nellie's cheek. Hester was strong and her hand heavy. The print of her palm left a white patch for a moment upon the plump cheek of the doctor's daughter. "Now you've done it, Hessie!" cried Bobby, angrily. "See what you've done!" "I didn't----" began Hester, rather startled by the result of her blow; but the tears of anger and pain had sprung to Nellie's eyes and for once the peacemaker showed some spirit. "It served you just right! You're always interfering," flashed out Hester. "You are a bad and cruel girl," said Nellie, sobbing, but more in anger than pain. "Bah! you run and tell Mrs. Case now. That will be about your style." "I shall tell my father," said Nellie, firmly, and turned away that her enemy might not exult longer in her tears. "And he's our physician and I guess he'll have something to say about your actions, Hessie!" cried Bobby Hargrew. "You're not fit to play with nice girls, anyway." "And you're one of the 'nice' ones, I suppose, Miss?" scoffed Hester. "I hope I am. I don't lose my temper and queer my team-mates' play. And nobody ever caught me doing mean things--and you've been caught before. If it wasn't for Gee Gee favoring you, you'd have been asked to leave Central High before now," cried Bobby. "That's so, too," said one of the twins, quite as angry as Bobby, but more quietly. "I should worry!" laughed Hester, loudly and scornfully. "What if I did leave Central High? You girls are a lot of stuck-up ninnies, anyway! I hate you all, and I'll get square with you some day--you just see if I don't!" It was perhaps an empty threat; yet it was spoken with grim determination on Hester Grimes's part. And only the future could tell if she would or would not keep her promise. CHAPTER II THE KERNEL IN THE ATHLETIC NUT The Girls' Branch Athletic League of Central High had been in existence only a few months. Gymnasium work, folk dancing, rowing and swimming, walking and some field sports had been carried to a certain point under the supervision of instructors engaged by Centerport's Board of Education before the organization of the girls themselves into an association which, with other school clubs, held competitions in all these, and other, athletics for trophies and prizes. Centerport, a lively and wealthy inland city located on the shore of Lake Luna, boasted three high schools--the East and West Highs, and the newer and large Central High, which was built in "the Hill" section of the town, the best residential district, on an eminence overlooking the lake and flanked on either side and landward, as well, by the business portions of the city. The finest estates of the Hill district sloped down to the shore of the lake. Public interest had long since been aroused in the boys' athletics; but that in girls' similar development had lagged until the spring previous to the opening of our story. In the first volume of this series, entitled "The Girls of Central High; Or, Rivals for All Honors," was related the organization of the Girls' Branch, and the early difficulties and struggles of a group of girl sophomores, most of whom were now on the roster of the basketball team as named in our first chapter. Laura Belding was the leading character in that first volume, and her quick-wittedness and loyalty to the school and to the athletic association really brought about, as has been intimated, the building of a fine gymnasium for the girls of Central High and the preparation of the athletic field connected therewith. In "The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna; Or, The Crew That Won," the second volume of the series, was narrated the summer aquatic sports of the girls and their boy friends; and in that story the Lockwood twins, Dora and Dorothy, came to the fore as champion canoeists among the girls, as well as efficient members of the crew of the eight-oared shell, which won the prize cup offered by the Luna Boat Club to the champion shell rowed by high school girls. Lake Luna was a beautiful body of water, all of twenty miles in length, with Rocky River flowing into it from the west at Lumberport, and Rolling River carrying off her overflow at the east end of the lake, where stood the third of the trio of towns--Keyport. Both Lumberport and Keyport had a well conducted high school, and the girls in both were organized for athletics as were the three chief schools of Centerport. South of Centerport was a range of low hills, through which the two railroads which tapped the territory wound their way through deep cuts and tunnels. In the middle of the lake was Cavern Island, a very popular amusement park at one end, but at its eastern end wild and rocky enough. The northern shore of the lake was skirted by farms and deep woods, with a goodly mountain range in the distance. The girls who had been in the first class at basketball practice began to troop out of the gymnasium in their street apparel. Chetwood Belding and his chum, Lance Darby, were waiting for Laura and Jess Morse. With them was a gangling, goose-necked youth, dressed several degrees beyond the height of fashion. This was Prettyman Sweet, the acknowledged "glass of fashion and mould of form" among the boys of Central High. "Hullo! here's Pretty!" cried Bobby Hargrew, dancing out behind Laura and Jess. "You're never waiting to beau _me_ home, are you, Mr. Sweet?" "I--oh--ah----" stammered Purt, in much confusion. "It weally would give me pleasure, Miss Bobby; but I weally have a pwior engagement--ah!" Just then Hester and Lily came out of the door. Bobby dodged Hester in mock alarm. Lily stopped in the shelter of the doorway to powder her nose, holding up a tiny mirror that she might do it effectively, and then dropping both mirror and "powder rag" into the little "vanity case" she wore pendant from her belt. Purt Sweet approached Miss Pendleton with a mixture of diffidence and dancing school deportment that made Bobby shriek with laughter. "Oh, joy!" whispered the latter to Nellie, who appeared next with the Lockwood twins. "Purt has found a shrine before which to lay his heart's devotion. D'ye see _that_?" pointing derisively to Lily and young Sweet turning the first corner. Hester was strolling away by herself. Nellie said, quickly: "Let's not go _this_ way. I don't want to meet that girl again to-night." "Much obliged to you, Nell, for taking my slapping. But Hester never really meant to hit me, after all. You got in the way, you know." "You'd better behave," said one of the twins admonishingly. "You made this trouble, Bobby." "There you go!" cried Bobby, with apparent tears. "Nobody loves me; Hester tried to slap me, and Pretty Sweet wouldn't even walk with me. Oh, and say!" she added, with increased hilarity, "what do you suppose the boys are telling about Pretty now?" "Couldn't say," said Dora Lockwood. "Something ridiculous, I venture to believe." "It's _funny_," giggled Bobby. "You see, Purt thinks he's really getting whiskers." "No!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Sure. You watch him next time you have a chance. He's always feeling to see if his side-tapes have sprouted. He _has_ got a little yellow fuzz on his upper lip--honest! "Well, Purt went into Jimmy Fabro's shop the other day--you know, that hair-cutting place right behind Mr. Betting's store, on the side street? Well, Purt went in and took a chair. Jimmy was alone. "'What you want--hair cut again this week, Pretty?' asked Jimmy. "'No--o,' says Purt. 'Sh--sh--shave.' "Jimmy grunted, dropped back the chair, muffled Purt up in the towels, and then squinted up and down his victim's cheeks. Finally he mumbled something about being 'right back' and ran into Mr. Belding's and came back with a watchmaker's glass stuck in his eye. Then he squinted up and down Purt's face some more and finally mixed a big mug of lather--and lathered Purt's eyebrows!" "Oh! what for?" demanded Dora Lockwood. "That's what Purt asked him," giggled Bobby. "Jimmy said in his gruff way: "'I'm hanged if I can see hair anywhere else on your face, Pretty. You want your eyebrows shaved off, don't ye, Pretty?' So, Chet says, Purt's been trying to shave himself since then in a piece of broken mirror out in the wood shed, and with a jack-knife." Although Nellie Agnew laughed, too, at Bobby's story, she was in no jolly mood when she parted from the other girls and entered Dr. Agnew's premises. The doctor, Nellie's father, was a broadly educated physician--one of the small class of present day medical men who, like the "family doctor" of a past generation, claimed no "specialty" and treated everything from mumps to a broken leg. He was a rather full-bodied man, with a pink, wrinkled face, cleanly shaven every morning of his life; black hair with silver threads in it and worn long; old-fashioned detachable cuffs to his shirts, and a black string tie that went around his collar twice, the ends of which usually fluttered in the breeze. There had long since been established between the good doctor and his daughter a confidential relation very beautiful to behold. Mrs. Agnew was a very lovely woman, rather stylish in dress, and much given to church and club work. Perhaps that is why Dr. Agnew had made such a comrade of Nellie. She might, otherwise, have lacked any personal guide at a time in her life when she most needed it. It was no new thing, therefore, that Nellie should follow the doctor into the office that evening after dinner, and perch on the broad arm of his desk chair while he lit the homely pipe that he indulged in once a day--usually before the rush of evening patients. When Nellie had told her father all about the unpleasant quarrel at the gymnasium the doctor smoked thoughtfully for several minutes. Then he said, in his clear, quiet voice--the calm quality of which Nellie had herself inherited: "Do you know what seems to me to be the kernel in the nut of these school athletics, Nell?" "What is it, Daddy Doctor?" "Loyalty. That's the kernel--loyalty. If your athletics and games don't teach you that, you might as well give 'em up--all of you girls. The feminine sex is not naturally loyal; now, don't get mad!" and the doctor chuckled. "It is not a natural virtue--if _any_ virtue is humanly natural--of the sex. It's only the impulsive, spitfire girls who are naturally loyal--the kind who will fight for another girl. Among boys it is different. Now, I am not praising boys, or putting them an iota higher than girls. Only, long generations of working and fighting together has made the normal male loyal to his kind. It is an instinct--and even our friends who call themselves suffragettes have still to acquire it. "But this isn't to be a lecture, Nell. It's just a piece of advice. Show yourself loyal to the other girls of Central High, and to the betterment of basketball and the other athletics, by----" "By what?" cried Nellie. "By paying no attention to Hester Grimes, or what she does. After all, her shame, if she is removed from your basketball team, is the shame of her whole class, and of the school as well. Ignore her mean ways if you can. Don't get in the way of her hand again, Nell," and his eyes twinkled. "Remember, that blow was not intended for you, in the first place. And I am not sure that Clara Hargrew would not sometimes be the better for the application of somebody's hand--in the old-fashioned way! No, Nell. Say nothing. Make no report of the affair. If Hester is disloyal, don't you be. Keep out of her way as much as possible----" "But she spoiled our games with the other schools last spring, and she will do so again," complained Nellie. "Then let Mrs. Case, or somebody else, be the one to set the matter in motion of removing Hester from the team. That's my advice, Miss." "And of course I shall take it, Daddy Doctor," said Nellie slowly. "But I _did_ think it was a chance for us to get rid of Hester. She is _such_ a plague." The doctor's eyes twinkled. "I wonder why it is that we always want to shift our burdens on other folks' shoulders? Do you suppose either the East or West Highs would find Hester any more bearable if she attended them instead of Central?" The girls of Central High had something of more moment than Hester Grimes's "tantrums" to think of the next day. Bobby Hargrew came flying up the path to the doctor's porch long before school time. Nellie saw her and ran out to see what she wanted. "What do you s'pose?" cried Bobby. "Couldn't guess, Chicken-little," laughed Nellie. "Has the sky fallen?" "Almost as bad," declared Bobby, twinkling, but immediately becoming grave. "The gymnasium----" "Not burned!" "No, no! But it's been entered. And by some awfully mean person. The apparatus on the upper floor has been partly destroyed, and the lockers broken into downstairs and lots of the field materials spoiled. Oh, it's dreadfully mean, Nellie! They even sawed through the rungs of the hanging ladders a little way, so that if anybody swung on them they'd break. "And with all the harm they did, nobody can tell how they got into the building, or out again. The watchman sleeps on the premises. You know, he's not supposed to keep awake all night, for the same man keeps the field in repair during the day. But my father says that Jackway, the watchman, must have slept like the dead if he didn't hear the marauders while they were damaging all that apparatus. "It's just too mean," concluded Bobby. "There isn't a basketball that isn't cut to pieces, and the tennis ball boxes were broken open and the balls all thrown into the swimming pool. Tennis rackets were slashed, hockey sticks sawed in two, and other dreadful things done. It shows that whoever did it must have had a grudge against the athletic association and us girls--must have just _hated_ us!" "And who hates us?" cried Nellie, the question popping out before she thought. Bobby turned rather white, though her eyes shone. She tapped Nellie on the shoulder with an insistent index finger. "You and I know who _says_ she hates us," whispered the younger girl. CHAPTER III JOHNNY DOYLE Franklin Sharp, principal of Central High, had something particular to say that morning at Assembly. At eight-thirty o'clock the gongs rang in each room and the classes marched to the hall as usual. But there was an unusual amount of excitement, especially on the girls' side of the great hall. The news Bobby Hargrew had brought to Nellie Agnew had spread over the Hill long before schooltime. Bobby, running from house to house, had scattered the news like burning brands; and wherever she dropped a spark a flame of excitement had sprung up and spread. And how many of the girls had whispered the same thing! What Hester Grimes had said the previous afternoon had been heard by a dozen girls; a hundred had learned of it before the gymnasium had cleared that afternoon; now the whole school--on the girls' side, at least--knew that Hester had declared her hatred of the girls of Central High before the damage was done in the gymnasium. This gossip could not fail to have flown to Principal Sharp's ears. He was eminently a just man; but he seldom interfered in the girls' affairs, preferring to let his assistant, Miss Grace G. Carrington (otherwise "Gee Gee" among the more thoughtless of her pupils) govern the young ladies. But what the principal said on this occasion seemed to point to the fact that he had taken cognizance of the wild supposition and gossip that was going the round of the girl's classes. "A cruel and expensive trick has been perpetrated by some irresponsible person with pronounced criminal instincts," declared Mr. Sharp, seriously. "This is not the outburst of some soul prone to practical joking, so-called; nor is it the mere impish mischievousness of a spirit with a grudge against its fellows. The infamous actions of the person, or persons, in the girls' gymnasium last night show degeneracy and a monkeyish wickedness that can be condoned in no particular. "We can declare with confidence that no pupil of Central High could have accomplished the wicked work of last night. It would have been beyond the physical powers of any of our young ladies to have broken into the building; and we are equally confident that no young gentleman on our roster is at that early stage of evolution in which he would consider such work at all amusing. "Of course, there will be an investigation made--not alone by the school authorities, but by the police. The matter is too serious to ignore. The damage done amounts to several hundreds of dollars. And the mystery of how the culprit or culprits entered the building, with the doors and windows locked and Jackway asleep in his bed in the doctor's office, must likewise be explained. "Meanwhile, young ladies and gentlemen, let no wild romances or unsubstantiated rumors shake your minds. We none of us know how the criminal entered the gymnasium, or who he is. Let the matter rest there until the investigation is completed and the actual wrong-doer brought to book. I hope I make myself clear? That is all. You are dismissed to classes." But, to himself, perhaps the principal said: "Meanwhile I will go out and stop the water from running down hill!" For the gossip having once begun to grow, there was no stopping it. Some of the girls had already begun to look askance at Hester when they passed her. Others whispered, and wondered, and surmised--and the wonder grew like the story of the man who ate the three black crows. Hester, however, did not realize what all this meant. She was still angry with Nellie, and Bobby, and the others whom she considered had crossed her the previous afternoon. And especially was she angry with Mrs. Case, the physical instructor. "I don't much care if the stuff in the gymnasium _was_ all cut up," she declared, to her single confidant, Lily Pendleton. "Oh, Hester! Don't let them hear you say it!" cried her chum, who had heard some of the whispers against Hester, but had not dared repeat them to her chum for fear of an outbreak of the latter's unfortunate temper. "What do I care for 'em?" returned Hester, and went off by herself. Hester Grimes was not entirely happy. She would not admit it in her own soul, but she was lonely. Even Lily was not always at her beck and call as she once had been. To tell the truth, Lily Pendleton seemed suddenly to have "a terrible crush" on Prettyman Sweet. "And goodness only knows what she sees in that freak to want to walk with him," muttered Hester, in retrospection. Lily and Purt were pupils in the same dancing class and just at present dancing was "all the rage." Hester did not care for dancing--not even for the folk dancing that Mrs. Case taught the girls of Central High. She liked more vigorous exercises. She played a sharp game of tennis, played hockey well, was a good walker and runner, and liked basketball as well as she liked anything. "And here these Miss Smarties and Mrs. Case want to put me off the team," thought Hester Grimes, walking down toward the athletic field and the gym. building after school that day. There was little to go to the gym. for just now, with the fixtures cut up and broken. But Hester felt a curiosity to see the wreck. And there were other girls from Central High who seemed to feel the same. Some were ahead of her and some came after. They exclaimed and murmured and were angry or excited, as the case might be; but Hester mooned about in silence, and the only soul she spoke to in the building was Bill Jackway. The latter looked very much worried. He was a steady, quiet, red-haired man, with pale blue eyes and a wandering expression of countenance at most times. But he was a good and careful worker and kept the athletic field in good shape and the gym. well swept and dusted. Jackway had never been married; but his sister had married a man named Doyle and was now a widow with two children. When Jackway got an hour or two off from the gym. he went to see his sister, and played with the baby, Johnny. Johnny, who was a sturdy little fellow of three, had been brought to-day to see his uncle by his gangling big brother, Rufe Doyle. Rufe was a second edition of his uncle, Bill Jackway, without Bill's modicum of sense. A glance at Rufe told the pitiful story. As his Irish father had said, Rufe was "an innocent." But he loved Baby Johnny and took great care of him. "Johnny's growing like a weed, Rufie," said Hester, kindly enough, as she pinched the little fellow's cheek softly. "You take such good care of him." Rufe threw back his head, opened his mouth wide, and roared his delight at this compliment. "Yes, ma'am!" he chuckled, when his paroxysm was over. "Johnny ain't much out of my sight when he's awake. Is he, Uncle Bill?" "No, Rufus," replied Jackway, sadly. "I'm pretty smart to take care of Johnny so well--ain't I, Uncle Bill?" demanded the weak-minded boy again. "You are smart enough when you want to be, Rufus," muttered Jackway, evidently in no very social mood. "You're worried about what happened last night, aren't you?" demanded Hester, sharply. "Yes, ma'am; I be," admitted the watchman. "You needn't be. They'll never blame you," returned Hester, brusquely, and went out. She wandered into the park at the foot of Whiffle Street and sat down. Here Rufus Doyle followed her with Baby Johnny. There had been heavy rains for the past week--until the day before. The gutters had run full and the park squad of "white wings" were raking the beaten leaves into windrows and flushing the sand and debris into the sewers. One basin cover had been laid back and left an open trap for unwary feet. Rufus Doyle was trying to coax a gray squirrel near for Johnny to admire. But Johnny was not particularly interested in bunny. Hester saw the toddler near the open hatch of the sewer basin one moment; the next he had disappeared, and it seemed to her as though a faint cry rang in her ears. She leaped up from the bench. "Johnny!" she called. Rufus was still engaged with the squirrel. Nobody seemed to have noticed the disappearance of the baby. Hester dashed to the open basin and peered down into the swirling brown water. CHAPTER IV "THERE'S GOOD STUFF IN THAT GIRL" Again that cry--that weak, bubbling wail from out the darkness of the sewer basin. Something swirled past Hester's strained vision in the dervish dance of the debris floating in the murky water. It was a tiny hand, stretched forth from a skimpy blue-cloth sleeve. It was Johnny Doyle's hand; but the child's body--the rest of it--was under water! The water was not more than six feet below the surface of the ground; but deep, deep down was the entrance of the big drain that joined the main sewer taking the street water and sewerage from the whole Hill section. Johnny was being sucked down into that drain. The girl, her mind keenly alert to all this, shrieked unintelligible cries for help--unintelligible to herself, even. She could not have told afterward a word she said, or what manner of help she demanded; but she knew the boy was drowning _and that she could swim_! With her clothing to hold her up a bit Hester believed she could swim or keep afloat even in that swirling eddy. The appealing little hand had no more than waved blindly once, than Hester gathered her rather full skirts about her and jumped, feet first, into the sewer-basin. That was no pleasant plunge, for, despite her skirts, Hester went down over her head. But her hands, thrashing about in the water, caught the baby's dress. She came up with Johnny in her arms, and when she had shaken the water from her eyes so that she could see, above was the brown face of one of the street cleaners. He was lowering a bucket on a rope, and yelling to her. What he said Hester did not know; but she saw her chance, and placed little Johnny--now a limp, pale rag of a boy--in the bucket, and the man drew him up with a yell of satisfaction. Hester was not frightened for herself. She felt the tug of the eddy at her feet; but she trod water and kept herself well above the surface until the man dropped the bucket down again. Then she saw the wild eyes and pallid, frightened face of Rufus at the opening, too; and a third anxious countenance. She knew that this belonged to Nellie Agnew's father. "Hang on, child!" exclaimed the physician, heartily. "We'll have you out in a jiffy." Hester clung to the rope and was glad to be dragged out of the filthy basin. She sat on the ground, almost breathless, for a moment. Rufe, with a wild cry, had sprung to Johnny. But the doctor put the half-witted lad aside and examined the child. "Bless him! he isn't hurt a mite," declared Dr. Agnew, cheerfully. "Run, get a taxi, Rufe! Quick, now! I'll take you and Johnny, and Miss Hester, too, home in it." Everybody was used to obeying the good doctor's commands, and Rufus Doyle ran as he was told. Hester was on her feet when the cab returned, and Dr. Agnew was holding the bedraggled and still unconscious Johnny in his arms. "We'll take you home first, Hester," said Dr. Agnew. "You live nearest." "No, no!" exclaimed Hester. "Go by the way of Mrs. Doyle's house. The baby ought to be 'tended to first." "Why, that's so," admitted the physician, and he looked at her a little curiously. Hester whisked into the cab and hid herself from the curious gaze of the few passers-by who had gathered when the trouble was all over. The taxi bore them all swiftly to the Doyles' humble domicile. It was on a street in which electric cabs were not commonly driven, and Rufe was mighty proud when he descended first into a throng of the idle children and women of the neighborhood. Of course, the usual officious neighbor, after one glance at Johnny's wet figure, had to rush into the house and proclaim that the boy had been drowned in the lake. But the doctor was right on her heels and showed Mrs. Doyle in a few moments that Johnny was all right. With a hot drink, and warm blankets for a few hours, and a good sleep, the child would be as good as new. But when the doctor came out of the house he was surprised to find the cab still in waiting and Hester inside. "Why didn't you go home at once and change your clothing?" demanded Dr. Agnew, sharply, as he hopped into the taxi again. "Is Johnny all right?" asked Hester. "Of course he is." "Then I'll go home," sighed Hester. "Oh, I sha'n't get cold, Doctor. I'm no namby-pamby girl--I hope! And I was afraid the little beggar would be in a bad way. He must have swallowed a quantity of water." "He was frightened more than anything else," declared Dr. Agnew, aloud. But to himself he was thinking: "There's good stuff in that girl, after all." For he, too, had heard the whispers that had begun to go the rounds of the Hill, and knew that Hester Grimes was on trial in the minds of nearly everybody whom she would meet. Some had already judged and sentenced her, as well! CHAPTER V HESTER AT HOME If Hester had arrived at the Grimes's house in two cabs instead of one it would have aroused her mother to little comment; for, for some years now, her daughter had grown quite beyond her control and Mrs. Grimes had learned not to comment upon Hester's actions. Yet, oddly enough, Hester was neither a wild girl nor a silly girl; she was merely bold, bad tempered, and wilful. Mrs. Grimes was a large, lymphatic lady, given to loose wrappers until late in the day, and the enjoyment of unlimited novels. "Comfort above all" was the good lady's motto. She had suffered much privation and had worked hard, during Mr. Grimes's beginnings in trade, for Hester's father had worked up from an apprentice butcher boy in a retail store--was a "self-made man." Mr. Grimes was forever talking about how he had made his own way in the world without the help of any other person; but he was, nevertheless, purse-proud and arrogant. Hester could not fail to be somewhat like her father in this. She believed that Money was the touchstone of all good in the world. But Mrs. Grimes was naturally a kindly disposed woman, and sometimes her mother's homely virtues cropped out in Hester--as note her interest in the Doyles. She was impulsively generous, but expected to find the return change of gratitude for every kindly dollar she spent. They had a big and ornate house, in which the servants did about as they liked for all of Mrs. Grimes's oversight. The latter admitted that she knew how to do a day's wash as well as any woman--perhaps would have been far more happy had she been obliged to do such work, too; but she had no executive ability, and the girls in the kitchen did well or ill as they listed. Now that Hester was growing into a young lady, she occasionally went into the servants' quarters and tried to set things right in imitation of her father's blustering oversight of his slaughter house--without Mr. Grimes's thorough knowledge of the work and conditions in hand. So Hester's interference in domestic affairs usually resulted in a "blow-up" of all concerned and a scramble for new servants at the local agencies. Under these circumstances it may be seen that the girl's home life was neither happy nor inspiring. The kindly, gentle things of life escaped Hester Grimes. She unfortunately scorned her mother for her "easy" habits; she admired her father's bullying ways and his ability to make money. And she missed the sweetening influence of a well-conducted home where the inmates are polite and kind to one another. Hester was abundantly healthy, possessed personal courage to a degree--as Dr. Agnew had observed--was not naturally unkind, and had other qualities that, properly trained and moulded, would have made her a very nice girl indeed. But having no home restraining influences, the rough corners of Hester Grimes's character had never been smoothed down. Her friendship with Lily Pendleton was not like the "chumminess" of other girls. Lily's mother came of one of the "first families" of Centerport, and moved in a circle that the Grimeses could never hope to attain, despite their money. Through her friendship with Lily, who was in miniature already a "fine lady," Hester obtained a slight hold upon the fringe of society. But even Lily was lost to her at times. "Why ain't I seen your friend Lily so much lately?" asked Mrs. Grimes, languidly, the evening of the day Hester had plunged into the sewer and rescued little Johnny Doyle. "Oh, between dancing school and Purt Sweet, Lil has about got her silly head turned," said Hester, tossing her own head. "My goodness me!" drawled Mrs. Grimes, "that child doesn't take young Purt Sweet seriously, does she?" "Whoever heard of anybody's taking Pretty seriously?" laughed Hester. "Only Pretty himself believes that he has anything in his head but mush! Last time Mrs. Pendleton had an evening reception, Purt got an invite, and went. Something happened to him--he knocked over a vase, or trod on a lady's dress, or something awkward--and the next afternoon Lil caught him walking up and down in front of their house, trying to screw up courage enough to ring the bell. "'What's the matter, Purt?' asked Lily, going up to him. "'Oh, Miss Lily!' cries Purt. 'What did your mother say when you told her I was sorry for having made a fool of myself at the party last night?' "'Why,' says Lil, 'she said she didn't notice anything unusual in your actions.' "Wasn't _that_ a slap? And now Lil is letting Purt run around with her and act as if he owned her--just because he's a good dancer." "My dear!" yawned her mother. "I should think you'd join that dancing class." "I'll wait till I'm asked, I hope," muttered Hester. "Everybody doesn't get to join it. We're not in that set--and we might as well admit it. And I don't believe we ever will be." "I'm certainly glad!" complained her mother, rustling the leaves of her book. "Your father is always pushing me into places where I don't want to go. He had a deal in business with Colonel Swayne, and he insisted that I call on Mrs. Kerrick. They're awfully stuck-up folks, Hess." "I see Mrs. Kerrick's carriage standing at the Beldings' gate quite often, just the same," muttered Hester. "Yes--I know," said her mother. "They make a good deal of Laura. Well, they didn't make much of me. When I walked into the grounds and started up the front stoop, a butler, or footman, or something, all togged up in livery, told me that I must go around to the side door if I had come to see the cook. And he didn't really seem anxious to take my card." "Oh, Mother!" exclaimed Hester. "You needn't tell your father. I don't blame 'em. They've got their own friends and we've got ourn. No use pushing out of our class." "You should have gone in the carriage," complained Hester. "I don't like that stuffy hack," said her mother. "It smells of--of liv'ry stables and--and funerals! If your father would set up a carriage of his own----" "Or buy an automobile instead of hiring one for us occasionally," finished Hester. For with all his love of display, the wholesale butcher was a thrifty person. With Lily so much interested for the time in other matters, Hester found her only recreation at the athletic field; and for several days after the mysterious raid upon the girls' gymnasium there was not much but talk indulged in about the building. Then new basketballs were procured and the regular practice in that game went on. In a fortnight would come the first inter-school match of the fall term--a game between Central High girls and the representative team of East High of Centerport. In the last match game the East High girls had won--and many of the girls of Central High believed that the game went to their competitors because of Hester Grimes's fouling. There was more talk of this now. Some of the girls did not try to hide their dislike for Hester. Nellie Agnew did not speak to her at all, and the latter was inclined to accuse Nellie of being the leader in this apparent effort to make Hester feel that she was looked upon with more than suspicion. The mystery of the gymnasium raid overshadowed the whole school; but the shadow fell heaviest on Hester Grimes. "She did it!" "She's just mean enough to do it!" "She said she hated us!" "It's just like her--she spoils everything she can't boss!" She could read these expressions on the lips of her fellow students. Hester Grimes began to pay for her ill-temper, and the taste of this medicine was bitter indeed. CHAPTER VI THE FIRST GAME It would have been hard to tell how the suspicion took form among the girls of Central High that Hester Grimes knew more than she should regarding the gymnasium mystery. Whether she had spoiled the paraphernalia herself, or hired somebody to do it for her, was the point of the discussion carried on wherever any of the girls--especially those of her own class--met for conference. Older people scoffed at the idea of a girl having committed the crime. And, indeed, it was a complete mystery how the marauder got into the building and out again. Bill Jackway, the watchman, was worried almost sick over it; he was afraid of losing his job. Bobby Hargrew was about the only girl in Central High who "lost no sleep over the affair," as she expressed it. And that wasn't because she was not keenly interested in the mystery. Indeed, like Nellie, she had seen at the beginning that suspicion pointed to Hester Grimes. And perhaps Bobby believed at the bottom of her heart that Hester had brought about the destruction. Bobby and Hester had forever been at daggers' points. Bobby, however, was as full of mischief and fun as ever. "Oh, girls!" she exclaimed, to a group waiting at the girls' entrance to the school building one morning. "I've got the greatest joke on Gee Gee! Listen to it." "What have you done now, you bad, bad child?" demanded Nellie. "You'll miss playing goal guard against East High if you don't look out. Miss Carrington is watching you." "She's always watching me," complained Bobby. "But this joke can't put a black mark against _me_, thank goodness!" "What is it, Bobby?" asked Dorothy Lockwood. "Don't keep us on tenter-hooks," urged her twin. "Why, Gee Gee called at Alice Long's yesterday afternoon. You know, she is bound to make a round of the girls' homes early in the term--she always does. And Alice Long was able to return to school this fall." "And I'm glad of that," said Dorothy. "She'll finish her senior year and graduate." "Well," chuckled Bobby, "Gee Gee appeared at the house and Tommy, Short and Long's little brother, met her at the door. Alice wasn't in, and Gee Gee opened her cardcase. Out fluttered one of those bits of tissue paper that come between engraved cards--to keep 'em from smudging, you know. Tommy jumped and picked it up, and says he: "'Say, Missis! you dropped one of your cigarette papers.' Now, what do you know about _that_?" cried Bobby, as the other girls went off into a gale of laughter. "Billy heard him, and it certainly tickled that boy. Think of Gee Gee's feelings!" Not alone Bobby, but all the members of the basketball team were doing their very best in classes so as to have no marks against them before the game with the East High girls. Mrs. Case coached them sharply, paying particular attention to Hester. It was too bad that this robust girl, who was so well able to play the game, should mar her playing with roughness and actual rudeness to her fellow-players. And warnings seemed wasted on her. Hester never received a demerit from Miss Carrington. In class she was always prepared and there was little to ruffle her temper. The instructors--aside from Mrs. Case--seldom found any fault with Hester Grimes. The game with the crack team of the East High girls was to be played on the latter's court. The girls of Central High had been beaten there in the spring; this afternoon they went over--with their friends--with the hope of returning the spring defeat. Bobby had been in the audience and led the "rooting" among the girls for Central High at the former game. Now she had graduated from a mere basketball "fan" to a very alert and successful goal guard. This was Eve Sitz's first important game, too; but the Swiss girl was of a cool and phlegmatic temperament and Laura Belding, as captain, had no fears for her. The audience was a large one, and was enthusiastic from the start. The girls of Central High always attended the boys' games in force and applauded liberally for their own school team; so Chet Belding and Lance Darby, with a crowd of strong-lunged Central High boys at their backs, cheered their girl friends when they came on the field with the very effective school yell: "C-e-n, Central High! C-e-n-t-r-a-l, Central High! C-e-n-t-r-a-l-h-i-g-h, Central High! Ziz-z-z-z---- Boom!" The teams took their places after warming up a little, their physical instructors acting as coaches, while the physical instructor for West High School of Centerport was referee. The officials on the lines were selected from the competing schools. It was agreed to play two fifteen-minute halves and the ball was put into play by the referee. The girls of Central High played like clockwork for the first five minutes and scored a clean goal. Their friends cheered tumultuously. When the ball was put into play again there was much excitement. "Shoot it here, Laura! I'm loose!" shouted Bobby, whose slang was always typical of the game she was playing. "Block her! Block her!" cried the captain of the East High team. Most of the instructions were supposed to be passed by signal; but the girls would get excited at times and, unless the referee blew her whistle and stopped the play, pandemonium _did_ reign on the court once in a while. Suddenly the ball chanced to be snapped to Hester's side of the court. Her opponent got it, and almost instantly the referee's whistle blew. "That Central High girl at forward center is over-guarding." "No, I'm not!" snapped Hester. The lady who acted as referee was a bit hot-tempered herself, perhaps. At least, this flat contradiction brought a most unexpected retort from her lips: "Central High Captain!" "Yes, ma'am?" gasped Laura Belding. "Take out your forward center and put in a substitute for this half." "But, Miss Lawrence!" cried Laura, aghast. "You are delaying play, Miss Belding," said the referee, sharply. Laura looked at Hester with commiseration; but she did not have to speak. The culprit, with a red and angry visage, was already crossing the court toward the dressing rooms. Laura put in Roberta Fish, and play went on. But the Central High team was rattled. East High got two goals--one from a foul--and so stood in the lead at the end of the half. The visiting team did not work so well together with the substitute player, and the captain of East High, seeing this fact, crowded the play to Roberta Fish's side. "My goodness!" whispered Bobby Hargrew, as they ran off the field at the end of the half. "I hope that's taught Hester a lesson. And this is once when we need Hester Grimes badly." "I should say we did," panted Laura. "We've got to play up some to win back that point we lost, let alone beating them," cried Jess Morse. Nellie Agnew was the first to enter the dressing room assigned to the Central High girls. She looked around the empty room and gasped. "What's the matter, Nell?" cried Bobby, crowding in. "Where is she?" demanded the doctor's daughter. "Hessie has lit out!" shouted Bobby, turning back to the captain and her team-mates. "She's got mad and gone home!" declared Jess Morse. "Her hat and coat are gone." "_Now_ what will we do?" cried Dorothy Lockwood. And the question was echoed from all sides. For without Hester it did not seem possible that the Central High team could hold its own with its opponents. CHAPTER VII THE SECOND HALF The dressing room buzzed like an angry beehive for a minute. It was Laura Belding, captain of the team, who finally said: "Hester surely can't have deserted us in this way. She knows that Roberta is not even familiar with our secret signals." "She's gone, just the same," said her chum, Jess. "That's how mean Hester Grimes is." "Well, I declare! I don't know that I blame her," cried Lily Pendleton. "You don't blame her?" repeated Nellie. "I don't believe you'd blame Hester no matter what she did." "She hasn't done anything," returned Lily, sullenly. "How about the gym. business----" Bobby Hargrew began it, but Laura shut her off by a prompt palm laid across her mouth. "You be still, Bobby!" commanded Nellie Agnew. "You're all just as unfair to Hessie as you can be," said Lily with some spirit. "And now this woman from West High had to pick on her----" "Don't talk so foolishly, Lil," said Dora Lockwood. "You know very well that Hester has been warned dozens of times not to talk back to the referee. Mrs. Case warns her almost every practice game about something. And now she has got taken up short. If it wasn't for what it means to us all in this particular game, I wouldn't care if she never played with us." "Me, too!" cried Jess, in applause. "Hester is always cutting some mean caper that makes trouble for other folk." "We can't possibly win this game without her!" wailed Dorothy. "I'll do my very best, girls," said Roberta Fish, the substitute player at forward center. "Of course you will, Roberta," said Laura, warmly. "But we can't teach you all our moves in these few moments--Ah! here is Mrs. Case." Their friend and teacher came in briskly. "What's all this? what's all this?" she cried. "Where is Hester?" "She took her hat and coat and ran out before we came in, Mrs. Case," explained Laura. "Not deserted you?" cried the instructor. "Yes, ma'am." "But that is a most unsportsmanlike thing to do!" exclaimed the instructor, feeling the desertion keenly. That one of her girls should act so cut Mrs. Case to the heart. She took great pride in the girls of Central High as a body, and Hester's desertion was bad for discipline. "You must do the best you can, Laura, with the substitute," she said, at last, and speaking seriously. "I will inform Miss Lawrence that you will put in Roberta for the second half, too. Nothing need be said about Hester's defection." "I am afraid we can't win with me in Hessie's place," wailed Roberta. "You're going to do your very best, Roberta," said Mrs. Case, calmly. "You always do. All of you put your minds to the task. Your opponents are only one point ahead of you. The first five-minutes' play in the first half was as pretty team work on your part as I ever saw." "But we can't use our secret signals," said Laura. "Play your very best. Do not put Roberta into bad pinches----" "But the captain of the East High team sees our weak point, and forces the play that way," complained Jess Morse. "Of course she does. And you would do the same were you in her place," said Mrs. Case, with a smile. "But above all, if you can't win gracefully, _do_ lose gracefully! Be sportsmanlike. Cheer the winners. Now, the whistle will sound in a moment," and the instructor hurried away to speak to the referee. "Oh, dear me!" groaned Roberta. "My heart's in my mouth." "Then it isn't where Sissy Lowe, one of the freshies, said it was in physiology class yesterday," chuckled Bobby Hargrew. "How was that, Bobby?" queried Jess. "Sissy was asked where the heart was situated--what part of the body--and she says: "'Pleathe, Mith Gould, ith in the north thentral part!' Can you beat those infants?" added Bobby as the girls laughed. But they were in no mood for laughter when they trotted out upon the basketball court at the sound of the referee's whistle. They took their places in silence, and the roars of the Central High boys, with their prolonged "Ziz--z--z--z----Boom!" did not sound as encouraging as it had at the beginning of the first half. Basketball is perhaps the most transparent medium for revealing certain angles of character in young girls. At first the players seldom have anything more than a vague idea of the proper manner of throwing a ball, or the direction in which it is to be thrown. The old joke about a woman throwing a stone at a hen and breaking the pane of glass behind her, will soon become a tasteless morsel under the tongue of the humorist. Girls in our great public schools are learning how to throw. And basketball is one of the greatest helps to this end. The woman of the coming generation is going to have developed the same arm and shoulder muscles that man displays, and will be able to throw a stone and hit the hen, if necessary! The girl beginner at basketball usually has little idea of direction in throwing the ball; nor, indeed, does she seem to distinguish fairly at first between her opponents and her team mates. Her only idea is to try to propel the ball in the general direction of the goal, the thought that by passing it from one to another of her team mates she will much more likely see it land safely in the basket never seemingly entering her mind. But once a girl has learned to observe and understand the position and function of team mates and opponents, to consider the chances of the game in relation to the score, and, bearing these things in mind, can form a judgment as to her most advantageous play, and act quickly on it--when she has learned to repress her hysterical excitement and play quietly instead of boisterously, what is it she has gained? It is self-evident that she has won something beside the mere ability to play basketball. She has learned to control her emotions--to a degree, at least--through the dictates of her mind. Blind impulse has been supplanted by intelligence. Indeed, she has gained, without doubt, a balance of mind and character that will work for good not only to herself, but to others. Indeed, it is the following out of the old fact--the uncontrovertible fact of education--that what one learns at school is not so valuable as is the fact that he _learns how to learn_. Playing basketball seriously will help the girl player to control her emotions and her mind in far higher and more important matters than athletics. To see these eighteen girls in their places, alert, unhurried, watchful, and silent, was not alone a pleasing, but an inspiring sight. Laura and her team mates--even Roberta--waited like veterans for the referee to throw the ball. Laura and her opposing jumping center were on the _qui vive_, muscles taut, and scarcely breathing. Suddenly the ball went up. Laura sprang for it and felt her palms against the big ball. Instantly she passed it to Jess Morse and within the next few seconds the ball was in play all over the back field--mostly in the hands of Central High girls. They played hard; but nobody--not even Roberta--played badly. The East High girls were strong opponents, and more than once it looked as though the ball would be carried by them into a goal. However, on each occasion, some brilliant play by a Central High girl brought it back toward their basket and finally, after six and a half minutes, the visiting team made a goal. The Central High girls were one point ahead. The ball went in at center again and there was a quick interchange of plays between the teams. Suddenly, while the ball was flying through the air toward East High's basket, the referee's whistle sounded. "Foul!" she declared, just as the ball popped into the basket. A murmur rose from the East High team. Madeline Spink, the captain, said quietly: "But the goal counts for us, does it not, Miss Lawrence?" "It counts as a goal from a foul," replied the referee, "which means that it is no goal at all, and the ball is in play." The East High girls were more than a little disturbed by the decision. It was a nice point; for on occasion a goal thrown from the foul line counts one. It broke up, for the minute, the better play of the East High team, and the instant the Central High girls got the ball they rushed it for a goal. There was great excitement at this point in the game. If Central High won two clean points it would hardly be possible for East High to recover and gain the lead once more. Laura signalled her players from time to time; but she was hampered whenever the ball came near Roberta, or the time was ripe for a massed play. The substitute did not know all the secret signals. Had Hester Grimes only been in her place! Her absence crowded the Central High team slowly to the wall. In the very moment of success, when a clean goal was about to be made, they failed and their opponents got the ball. Again it was passed from hand to hand. One girl bounced the ball and a foul was called. Again the Central Highs rushed it, and from the foul line made another goal. Two points ahead, and the boys in the audience cheered madly. No harder fought battle had ever been played upon that court. "Shoot it over, Jess!" roared Chet, at one point, rising and waving to his particular girl friend, madly. "Look out! they'll get you!" "Look out, Laura! don't let 'em get you----Aw! that's too bad," grumbled Lance Darby, quite as interested in the work of Chet's sister on the court. "Hi! no fair pulling! Say! where's the referee's eyes?" demanded Chet, the next moment, in disgust. "Behind her glasses," said his chum. "I never did believe four eyes were as good as two." The ball came back to center again and there was little delay before it was put in play. Only three minutes remained. The eighteen girls were as eager as they could be. Madeline Spink and her team mates were determined to tie the score at least. A clean goal would do it. They rushed the play and carried the ball into Roberta's country. Roberta never had a chance! In a moment the ball was hurtling toward the proper East High girl, and no guarding could save it. A cheer from the audience--those interested in the East High girls--announced another clean goal. The score was tied and two minutes to play! "Do not delay the game, young ladies!" warned the referee. They were in position again and the ball was thrown up. No fumbles now. Every girl was playing for all that there was in her! A single point would decide the rivalry of the two schools at the beginning of the playing season. To lead off with this first game would encourage either team immeasurably. East High led off first; but quickly Laura and her team mates got the ball again and pushed it toward the basket. There was no rough play. The umpires, as well as the referee, watched sharply. It was a sturdy, vigorous, but fair game. This was a time when Hester's hot temper might have brought the team disgrace; and for a moment Laura was, after all, glad that the delinquent had gone home. Then, suddenly, from full field and a fair position, the ball rose and flew directly for the basket. While in mid-air the whistle was blown. Time was called and the game was ended. CHAPTER VIII THE ROUND ROBIN The spectators, as well as the players, held their breath and watched the flying ball. Although the whistle had blown, the goal--if the ball settled into the basket--would count for the visiting team. This one unfinished play would give the girls of Central High two clear points in the lead if all went well. The course of the flying ball was watched by all eyes, therefore. Chet Belding and his mates began their chant, believing that the ball was sure to go true to the basket. But they began too soon. The ball hit the ring of the basket, hovered a moment over it, and then fell back and rolled into the court! Chet's chant of praise changed to a groan. The game was over--and it was a tie. Disappointed as the girls of Central High were, they cheered their opponents nobly, and the East High girls cheered them. The audience had to admit that the game had been keenly fought and--after Hester was put out of it--as cleanly as a basketball game had ever been played on those grounds. Miss Lawrence, the referee, came to the Central High girls' dressing room and complimented Laura and her team on their playing. "I was sorry to put off your forward center, Miss Belding, in the first half. If you had brought her into the field in the second half your team, without doubt, would have won," said the referee. "That girl is a splendid player, but she needs to learn to control her temper." "That's always the way!" cried Nellie Agnew, when the West High instructor was gone. "Hester spoils everything." "She crabs every game we play," growled Bobby, both sullen and slangy. "She ought to be put off the team for good," said one of the twins. "That's so," chimed in her sister. "We'll never win this season if Hessie is included in this team," declared Jess Morse. Even Lily Pendleton could find nothing to say now in favor of her chum. She hurried away from the others girls, and the seven remaining seriously discussed the situation. It was Nellie, despite her promise to her father, who came out boldly and said: "Let's put her off the team altogether." "We can't do it," objected Laura. "Ask Mrs. Case to do it, then," said Jess. "But who'll ask her? Hester will be awfully mad," said Eve Sitz. "I wouldn't want to be the one to do the asking," admitted the bold Bobby. The seven regular members of the basketball team were alone now. Dorothy Lockwood said: "I wouldn't want to be the one to sign a petition. But that is what we ought to do--sign a petition to Mrs. Case asking her to remove Hester." "What do you say, Mother Wit?" demanded Jess Morse of Laura. "I vote for the petition," said Laura, gravely. "And who'll sign it?" cried Dorothy. "All of us." "Not me first!" declared Dora. "We'll make it a 'round robin,'" said Laura, smiling. "All seven of us will sign in a circle, but nobody need take the lead in making the request. If we are all agreed Jess can write the petition to Mrs. Case." "I'll do it!" declared Jess Morse. With some corrections from her chum, Josephine finally prepared and presented for their signatures the petition, and having read it the girls, one after the other, signed her name in the manner Mother Wit had suggested. The petition and Round Robin was as follows: "We, the undersigned members of Basketball Team No. 1, of Central High, Girls' Branch Athletic League, after due and ample discussion of the facts, conclude that the retention of Hester Grimes as a member of the said team is a detriment thereto, and that her membership will, in the future, as in the past, cause the team to lose games in the Trophy Series of Inter-School Games. We therefore ask that the aforesaid Hester Grimes be removed from the team and that some other player be nominated in her stead." [Illustration: Josephine Morse, C. Hargrew, Dora Lockwood, Eve Sitz, Nellie Agnew, Laura Belding, Dorothy Lockwood] In signing the paper in this fashion no one girl could be accused of leading in the demand for Hester's removal. Lily had gone, so that nobody would tell Hester just what each girl said, or who signed first. That Nellie Agnew had taken the lead in this petition against her schoolmate the doctor's daughter herself knew, if nobody else did. She felt a little conscience-stricken over it, too, for she had told Daddy Doctor that she would be guided by his advice in the matter of Hester Grimes. And after supper that night her father said something that made Nellie feel more than ever condemned. "Do you know, Nell," he said, thoughtfully, pulling on his old black pipe as she perched as usual on the broad arm of his chair. "Do you know there is good stuff in that girl Hester?" "In Hester Grimes?" asked Nellie, rather flutteringly. "Yes. In Hester Grimes. I guess you didn't hear about it. And it slipped my mind. But when I was over to see little Johnny Doyle again to-day I found Hester there and the Doyles think she's about right--especially Rufus." "Rufus isn't just right in his mind--is he?" asked Nellie, her eyes twinkling a little. "I don't know. In some things Rufe is 'way above the average," chuckled her father. "He is cunning enough, sure enough! But to get back to Hester. I never told you how she jumped into the sewer-basin and saved Johnny's life?" "No! Never!" gasped Nellie. The physician told her the incident in full. He told her further that Hester had done a deal, off and on, for the Widow Doyle and her children. "Oh, I wish I had known!" cried Nellie, in real contrition. "What for?" demanded the doctor. But she would not tell him. She knew that the petition had been mailed to Mrs. Case that very evening. Her name was on it, and in her own heart Nellie knew that she had had as much to do with the scheme to put Hester Grimes off the basketball team as any girl. "Perhaps, if the girls had known what Hester did for Johnny they wouldn't have been so bitter against her," thought the doctor's daughter. "I know _I_ would never have signed that hateful paper. Oh, dear! why did Daddy Doctor have to find out that there was some good in Hester, and tell _me_ about it?" CHAPTER IX ANOTHER RAID Hester Grimes, as the doctor said, had appeared late that afternoon at the Doyles' little tenement. She had gone there from the basketball game instead of going directly home. To tell the truth, she did not wish to be questioned by her mother, nor did she want to meet Lily. If she had felt hatred against her mates in Central High before, that feeling in her heart was now doubled! For, as all anger is illogical (indignation may not be) Hester turned upon the girls and blamed them for the referee's decision. Because Miss Lawrence had put her out of the game Hester would have been glad to know that her team mates had gone to pieces and been defeated. She had managed to recover outwardly from her disappointment and anger, however, when she arrived at the domicile of her humble acquaintances. Mrs. Doyle knitted jackets, and Hester had ordered one for her mother. "Ma is always lolling around and complaining of feeling draughts," said Hester. "So I'll give her one of these 'snuggers' to keep her shoulders warm. She's always snuffing with a cold when it comes fall and the furnace fire is not lit." "Lots o' folks are having colds just now," complained Mrs. Doyle. "Johnny's snuffling with one." "Oh, he'll be all right--won't he, Rufie?" said Hester, chucking the baby under his plump little chin, but speaking to his faithful nurse. "In course he will, Miss Hester," cried Rufus, and then opened his mouth for a roar of laughter, that made even the feverish Johnny crow. "Rufus never gets tired of minding Johnny," said the widow, proudly. "But he does miss his Uncle Bill." Rufe's face clouded over. "He ain't never home no more," he said, complainingly. "But you can go over to see him at the gymnasium," said Hester. "Not no more he can't, Miss," said the widow. "Rufus used to go over to see Uncle Bill evenings; but Uncle Bill can't have him there no more." "Why not?" asked Hester, quickly; and yet she flushed and turned her own gaze away and looked out of the window. "Bill's had some trouble there. He's afraid the Board of Education would object. Somebody got into the building----" "I heard about it," said Hester, quickly. "Wisht Uncle Bill had another job," grumbled Rufus. "Rufie's real bright about some things," whispered his mother. "And sharp ain't no name for it! He is pretty cute. You can't say much before him that he don't remember, and repeat." "Wisht that old gymnasium building would burn up; then Uncle Bill could come home," muttered Rufe. Mrs. Doyle went to see to her fire. Hester beckoned the boy to the window and whispered to him. Gradually Rufe's face lit up with one of his flashes of cunning. Money passed from the girl's hand to that of the half-witted youth. Just then Dr. Agnew appeared and Hester took her departure. On the following morning Franklin Sharp, the principal of Central High, called a conference of his teachers at the first opportunity. He was very grave indeed when he told them that another raid had been made upon the girls' gymnasium. "Not so much damage is reported as was done before. But, then, the paraphernalia before destroyed was not all removed. But this time the scoundrel--or scoundrels--tried arson. "A fire was built in a closet on the upper floor. Bill Jackway smelled smoke and got up to see what it was. He found no trace of the firebug--can discover no way in which he got out----" "But how did he get in?" asked one of the teachers. "That is plain. It had rained early in the evening. Footprints are still visible leading across a soft piece of ground from the east fence to a window. The window was open, although Bill swears it was shut and locked when he went to bed at ten o'clock. That is how the marauder entered the building. How he got out is a mystery," declared the principal. "It is a very dreadful thing," complained Miss Carrington. "I do not see what we can do about it." "We must do something," said Miss Gould, with vigor. "Suppose you suggest a course of procedure, Miss Gould?" said the principal, his eyes twinkling. "I think it would be well," said Miss Gould, "to sift every rumor and story regarding this matter. There is much gossip among the girls. I have heard of a threat that one girl made in the gymnasium----" "That is quite ridiculous, Miss Gould!" cried Miss Carrington, with some heat. "You have been listening to a base slander against one of my very best pupils." "You mean this Hester Grimes, Henry Grimes's daughter?" said the principal, sternly. "That is the girl," admitted Miss Gould. "I know little about her----" "And I know a good deal," interposed Mrs. Case, grimly. "Miss Carrington finds her good at her books, and her deportment is always fair in classes. I find her the hardest girl to manage in all the school. She has a bad temper and she has never been taught to control it. It has gone so far that I fear I shall have to shut her out of some of the athletics," and she related all that had happened at the basketball game with the East High girls the afternoon before. "I do not approve of these contests," said Miss Carrington, primly. "They are sure to cause quarreling." "If they do, then there is something the matter with the girls," declared Mr. Sharp, briskly. "And I have received this request from the girls of the team--seven of them--this morning," continued Mrs. Case, producing the "round robin." "The only girls beside Hester who did not sign it is a girl who always chums with her--the only really close friend Hester has to my knowledge in the school. "Now, I should like very much to be instructed what to do about this? The girls are perfectly in the right. Hester is not dependable on the team. There should be another girl in her place----" "Oh, but it is quite unfair!" cried Miss Carrington. "And remember her father is quite an important man. There will be trouble if Hester is put down in these tiresome athletics; or if this story that is going about is repeated to Mr. Grimes I can't imagine what he _would_ do." "Mr. Grimes does not run the Board of Education, nor does he control _our_ actions," declared Mr. Sharp. "We must take cognizance of these matters at once. I believe you should remove Hester from the team, as requested, Mrs. Case. You have ample reason for so doing. And this matter of the attempt to burn the gymnasium must be investigated fully." "But no girl could do these things in the gymnasium," cried Miss Carrington, with considerable asperity. "But she could get somebody else to do them--especially a girl who is allowed as much spending money as Hester Grimes," said the principal. "I can imagine no sane person committing such a crime. It is wilful and malicious mischief, and could only be inspired by hatred, or--an unbalanced mind. That is my opinion." CHAPTER X MOTHER WIT AND THE GRAY MARE For some reason, that lively young "female Mercury," as Jess Morse sometimes dubbed her, Bobby Hargrew, did not hear of this new raid upon the girls' gym. early that morning; so, like the other pupils of Central High, she could not visit the athletic building until after school. She went then with Nellie and Laura and Jess, and the quartette were almost the first girls to enter the building that day. "It's a dreadful thing," said Laura, in discussing the affair. The girls were all noticeably grave about the matter this time. There was little excitement, or talk of "how horrid it was" and all that. There was a gravity in their manner which showed that the girls of Central High were quite aware that the case was serious in the extreme. One of their number was accused of being the instigator of these raids on the gymnasium. True, or false, it was an accusation that could not be lightly overlooked. Laura Belding was particularly grave; and Nellie Agnew had cried about it. The four friends went out into the field and examined the footprints in the earth. "Those were never Hessie's 'feetprints,' for, big as her feet are, she never wears boots like _those_!" giggled Bobby. "He was a shuffler--that fellow," said Jess. "See how blurred the marks are at the heel?" "And he shuffled right up to this window--And how do you suppose he opened it, if, as Mr. Jackway says, it was locked on the inside?" "Mystery!" said Bobby. "Give it up," added Jess. "What do you say, Mother Wit?" "That is the way he opened it," said Laura, softly, looking up from the foot prints. "What's that?" cried Jess. "Why--I hear you talking, but you don't say anything!" laughed Bobby. "_How_ did he open it?" "From the inside," said Laura. "Why, Laura!" gasped Nellie. "You do not distrust Mr. Jackway?" "Hush! Of course not," cried Jess, in a lower tone. "No, I do not distrust him," said Laura Belding. "What do you mean, then, by saying that the fellow opened the window from the inside?" "And that's ridiculous, Laura!" cried Jess. "He walked up to the window from across the field--you can see he did. And there's no mark showing how he went away. He did not leave by the window. He could not have been inside when he came from outside----" "Hold on! Hold on!" warned Bobby. "You're getting dreadfully mixed, Jess." "But I don't see what Laura's driving at," declared her chum. "Why," said Mother Wit, calmly, "the person who made those shoe prints walked backwards. Don't you see? That is what makes the shuffling mark at the heel. And see! the step is so uneven in length. He escaped by the window; he didn't enter by it." "Well!" cried Nellie Agnew. "That explains without explaining. The mystery is deeper than ever." "Why is it?" demanded Jess. "Don't you see? Before, we thought we knew how the fellow got in. It seems to be an easier thing to get out of the gym. than into it. But now Laura knocks that in the head. The mystery is: How did he get in?" "Oh, don't!" cried Bobby. "It makes my head buzz. And Laura is a regular lady detective. She's always finding out things that 'it would be better, far, did we not know!'" She said this to Nellie Agnew, when they had separated from Laura and Jess, and were walking toward home. "Say! do you know how Laura explained that canoe tipping over with Purt Sweet and Lily Pendleton?" pursued the lively one. "I didn't know that they had an accident," laughed Nellie. "Those canoes are awfully ticklish, I know." "I should say they were! Well, Purt and Lil borrowed Hessie's canoe and they no more than got started before they went head first into the water--and Lil, of course, helpless as usual, had to be 'rescued.' The number of times that girl has been 'rescued' this season is a caution!" "I do admire your elegant language," said Nellie, reprovingly. "But what did Laura say?" "She explained it all for them. Both Purt and Lil were trying to tell how such a wonderful thing chanced to happen as an overturn, when Laura said she could explain it satisfactorily to all hands. She said that Purt had made a mistake and parted his hair too far on one side, and that had overbalanced the canoe!" "Well, they do swamp awfully easy," laughed Nellie. "I guess Laura has found the right explanation of how the villain left the gym. But there is one explanation that I would like to have--a much more important one," concluded Nellie. "What's that?" "_Who_ did it?" "I thought that was pretty well understood," growled Bobby. "No girl could have climbed over that fence, that's sure!" "Oh, I grant you that!" cried Bobby. "But she paid to have it done. There are plenty of tough fellows from down at the 'Four Corners' who work at the slaughter house. They could be hired to do it." "Hush, Bobby!" commanded the doctor's daughter. "I feel terribly condemned. I am afraid we are accusing Hester wrongfully. A girl couldn't have two such very opposite sides to her character," and she promptly told her friend what Dr. Agnew had related regarding Hester's rescue of little Johnny Doyle from the sewer basin. "Gee! that was some jump, wasn't it?" demanded the admiring Bobby. Then she shook her head slowly. "Well," she remarked, "nobody ever said Hester wasn't brave enough. She was brave enough to slap your face!" and then she giggled. "I don't care," said Nellie, slowly. "I fear we went too far when we asked Mrs. Case to take her off the team. And I'm _sure_ it isn't right for us to accuse her of being the cause of the trouble at the gym.--without further and better evidence." "Oh, dear, Nell! you're a great fuss-budget!" cried the effervescent Bobby. "Are you sure that your Daddy Doctor saw quite straight when he saw Hester save the kid? You know, he's getting awfully absent-minded." Nellie smiled at her, taking Bobby's jokes good naturedly. "I know father is absent-minded," she admitted. "But not as bad as all that." "I don't know," returned Bobby, with apparent seriousness. "The other day when he put the stethoscope to me before practice, I expected to see him take the receiver away from his ear and holler 'Hello, Central!' into it." "I'll tell him that!" promised Nellie. "All right. Do your worst," giggled Bobby. "It will be a month old before he gets around to sound my heart action again, and he will have forgotten all about it by then." The Saturday following a crowd of the girls went out to visit Eve Sitz, and Nellie and Bobby were included in the automobile load that left the Beldings' house right after luncheon. Saturday mornings Laura always helped in her father's jewelry store, while Chet was behind the counter as an extra salesman in the evening; so the Beldings' chauffeur drove the car to the Sitz farm for the girls. There were chestnut and hickory woods on, and near, the Sitz farm, and the girls had in mind a scheme for a big nutting party just as soon as Otto Sitz--Eve's brother--should pronounce the frost heavy enough to open the chestnut burrs and send the hickory nuts tumbling to the ground. There was always plenty to do to amuse the young folk--especially young folk from the city--on the Sitz place. This day Otto and the hired men were husking corn on the barn floor, and Nellie, and Bobby, and Jess and the Lockwood twins were supplied with "corn pegs" and sat around the pile, helping to strip the golden and red ears. Eve had an errand down at the nearest country store, so she put the old gray mare into the spring cart with her own hands, and Laura rode with her. "We had a nice colt from old Peggy last year, and two weeks ago it was stolen. Otto had just broken her to saddle, and she was a likely animal," Eve said. "Old Peggy misses her, and whinnies for her all the time," she added, as the mare raised her head and sent a clarion call echoing across the hills. "Hasn't your father tried to find the thief--or the colt?" queried Laura. "Yes, indeed. He's over to Keyport to-day to see the detective there." "But the colt may be outside the county," urged Laura. "That's so, too. We haven't any idea where Jinks went. That was her name--Jinksey. She doesn't look much like Old Peggy; but she was worth a hundred and fifty dollars, if she was worth a cent! More than father could easily afford to lose. And then--Otto really owned her--or would have owned her when he came of age. Father had promised Jinks to him." "It's a shame!" cried Laura, always sympathetic. "And you have no suspicion as to who could have taken her?" "No. Down beyond the store--beyond Robinson's Woods, you know--there is a settlement of people who have a hard name. They rob the gardens and orchards on the edge of town----" "Toward Centerport, you mean?" "Yes." "The Four Corners' crowd!" cried Laura. "Yes." "Oh, that gang are a bad lot. Once Chet and I motored through there and an ugly fellow named Pocock came out and fired a charge of bird-shot into a rear tire. He said an auto had been through there the week before and killed his pig, and he was going to shoot at every machine he saw. We've never taken that road again." "That Hebe Pocock is an awfully bad fellow," said Eve, seriously. "He tried to work for us once, but father wouldn't keep him more than a day. And he's been mad at us ever since." "Maybe some of those fellows in that gang stole your Jinksey." "How are we going to know? Father or Otto wouldn't dare go down there and look around. And I guess the police are afraid of those fellows, too." "Let's drive down past the store," suggested Laura, thoughtfully, after the old mare had again lifted up her voice. "Oh, my, Laura! What for?" "Something might come of it." "I guess nothing but trouble." "I've got what Chet and Lance call 'a hunch,'" said Laura, slowly. "We--ell----here's the store." "Just a little farther, Eve," said Laura, taking the reins herself, and clucking to the old mare. They passed the store on the trot. Around the first bend they came in sight of the little hollow where the roads crossed, making the renowned "Four Corners." Coming up the road was a boy on a bay colt. Instantly the old mare whinnied again, and the colt answered her. "It's Jinksey!" gasped Eve. "We're going to get her--if you're sure!" declared Laura. "Of course I'm sure. I'd know her anywhere--and so would Old Peggy." The colt snorted again, and the boy riding her tried to pull her out into a side path, to cut across the fields. Eve stood up and shouted to him. Laura urged the gray mare on, and she went down the hill at a tearing pace. CHAPTER XI HEBE POCOCK "Oh, Laura!" gasped Eve. "That boy will never give the colt up." "Why not? See him?" exclaimed Mother Wit. "He knows he is riding a stolen horse. There! he's sliding out of the saddle." The fact was, the colt--still but half broken under the saddle and with its eyes on its mother--would not move out of its tracks. The boy jumped off and tried to lead Jinks. "Get away from that horse, boy!" commanded Laura, bringing the old mare down to a more moderate pace as they approached the stolen colt. "I'll tell my brother!" yelled the youngster. "I'll set him on ye! This critter is his'n." "And he came by it just as dishonestly as you came by such grammar as you use," said Laura, laughing, while Eve hopped over the wheel on her side of the cart and grabbed the reins out of the boy's hands. "Let that horse alone!" cried the youngster, kicking at Eve with his bare foot. But Eve Sitz wasn't afraid of any boy--not even had he been of her own size and age. Her open palm smacked the youngster's head resoundingly and he staggered away, bawling: "Lemme erlone! Hebe! Hebron Pocock! I wantcher!" Laura was already backing the mare, preparatory to turning about. "Come on with the colt, Eve!" she cried. The boy they had unhorsed continued to bawl at the top of his voice. But for the moment nobody appeared. Eve lengthened the bridle rein for a leading strap and then essayed to climb into the cart again. The boy ceased crying and threw a stone. The colt jumped and tried to pull away, for the stone struck her. "Whoa, Jinks!" cried Eve. "If I could catch that boy! I'd do more than box his ears--so I would!" "Come on, Eve!" called Laura, looking over her shoulder. "Here come some women from the shanties. They will do something to us beside calling us names----or throwing stones," as she dodged one that the boy sent in her direction. "Whoa, Jinksey!" commanded Eve, again, trying to lead the frightened colt toward the cart. "Hebe Pocock! Yi-yi! You're wanted!" yelled the small boy again, sending down a perfect shower of stones from the bank above them, but fortunately throwing them wild. Eve managed to climb up into the cart, still holding the snorting, pawing colt by the strap. "Drive on! drive on!" she gasped, looking back at the several ill-looking and worse dressed women who were running toward them. "Go on!" urged Laura to the mare, and Old Peggy started back up the hill, while Eve towed Jinks behind. Suddenly, however, the bushes parted, and a roughly dressed fellow, with a red handkerchief tied around his head in lieu of a cap, stepped out into the road. He carried a gun in the hollow of his arm, the muzzle of which was turned threateningly toward the cart and the two girls in it. The two barrels looked as big around as cannon in the eyes of Laura and Evangeline Sitz! "Hey, there!" advised the ugly looking fellow. "You ladies better stop a bit." "It's Pocock!" whispered Laura. "I know it," returned Eve, in the same tone. "That horse you're leadin' belongs to me," said Pocock, with an ugly scowl. "You know better, Hebron," exclaimed Eve, bravely. "It belongs to my father." "It may look like your father's colt," said Pocock. "But I bought her of a gypsy, and it ain't the same an--i--mile." "The old mare knows her," said Laura, quickly, as the colt nuzzled up to Peggy and the gray mare turned around to look upon the colt with favorable eye. "That don't prove nothing," growled Pocock. "Drop that rein." "No, I won't!" cried Eve. "Even the bridle is father's. I recognize it." By this time the women from the shanties had arrived. They were dreadful looking creatures, and Laura was more afraid of them than she was of Pocock's shot-gun. "What's them gals doin' to your brother Mike, Hebe?" demanded one of the women. "They want slappin', don't they?" "They want to l'arn to keep their han's off'n my property," growled Pocock. "Come! let the little horse go." "No!" cried Eve. "Yes," cried Pocock, shifting his gun threateningly. "You bet she will!" cried the woman who had spoken before, and she started to climb up on Laura's side of the cart. Laura seized the whip and the woman jumped back. "Shoot her, Hebe!" she yelled. "She'd a struck me with that thing!" But Laura had no such intention. She brought the lash of the whip down upon the mare's flank. With a snort of surprise and pain the old horse sprang forward and had not Hebe Pocock leaped quickly aside he would have been run over. But unfortunately neither Eve nor the colt were prepared for this sudden move on Laura's part. The colt stood stock-still and Eve lost her grip on the bridle rein. "Go it!" yelled Pocock, laughing with delight. "I got the colt!" He sprang at the head of Jinks. The women were laughing and shrieking. "That's the time I did it!" gasped Laura, in chagrin, pulling down the old mare. And just then the purring of an automobile sounded in their ears and there rounded the nearest turn in the road a big touring car. It rolled down toward the cart and the group about the colt, with diminished speed. "Oh! we mustn't lose that colt after coming so near getting it away," cried Laura. "But father can go after it with a constable," declared Eve, doubtfully. "But Pocock will get it away from here----" "Why, Laura Belding!" exclaimed a loud, good-natured voice. "What is the matter here?" "Mrs. Grimes!" gasped Laura, as the auto stopped. The butcher's wife and daughter were sitting in the tonneau. Hester looked straight ahead and did not even glance at her two school-fellows. "Isn't that young Pocock, that used to work for your father, Hester?" demanded Mrs. Grimes. "That's a very bad boy. What's he been doing to you, Laura?" "He has stolen that little horse from Eve's father," cried Laura. "And now he won't give it up." "'Tain't so!" cried Hebe Pocock, loudly. "Don't you believe that gal, Mis' Grimes. I bought this horse----" "Hebe," said the butcher's wife, calmly, "you never had money enough in your life to buy a horse like that--and you never will have. Lead it up here and let the girl have her father's property. And you women, go back to your homes--and clean up, for mercy's sake! I never did see such a shiftless, useless lot as you are at the Four Corners. When I lived there, we had some decency about us----" "Oh, Mother!" gasped Hester, grasping the good lady's arm. "Well, that's where we lived--your father an' me," declared Mrs. Grimes. "It was near the slaughter houses and handy for him. And let me tell you, there was respectable folk lived there in them days. Hebe Pocock! Are you goin' to do what I tell you?" The fellow came along in a very hang-dog manner and passed the strap to Eve Sitz. "'Tain't fair. It's my horse," he growled. "You know better," said Mrs. Grimes, calmly. "And you expect Mr. Grimes to find you a good job, do you? You wanted to get to be watchman, or the like, in town? If I tell Henry about this what chance do you suppose you'll ever have at _that_ job?" "Mebbe I'll get it, anyway," grinned Pocock. "And maybe you won't," said Mrs. Grimes, calmly. Meanwhile Laura and Eve, after thanking the butcher's wife, drove on. But Hester never looked at them, or spoke. CHAPTER XII "OUT OF IT" For on that Saturday morning Mrs. Case had called at the Grimes house and asked to see Hester. The girl came down and, the moment she saw the physical instructor of Central High, seemed to know what was afoot. "So you've come to tell me I'm not on the team any more, I s'pose, Mrs. Case?" she demanded, tossing her head, her face growing very red. "I am sorry to tell you that, after your actions at the game with East High Wednesday afternoon, it has been decided that another girl nominated to your position on Team Number 1 would probably do better," said Mrs. Case, quietly. "Well!" snapped Hester. "You've been wanting to get me off ever since last spring----" "Hester! although we are not at school now, we are discussing school matters, and I am one of your teachers. Just as long as you attend Central High you must speak respectfully to and of your instructors, both in and out of school. Do you wish me to report your language to Mr. Sharp?" Hester was sullenly silent for a moment "For I can assure you," continued Mrs. Case, "that if I were to place the entire matter before him, including your general deportment at the gymnasium and on the athletic field, I feel sure your parents would be requested to remove you from the school. Do you understand that?" "I don't know that I would be very sorry," muttered the girl. "You think you would not," said Mrs. Case; "but it is not so. You are too old to be taken out of one school and put in another because of your deportment. Wherever you went that fact would follow you. It would be hard work for you to live down such a reputation, Hester." "I wish father would send me to a boarding-school, anyway." "And I doubt if that would help you any. You will not be advised, Hester. But you will learn yet that I speak the truth when I tell you that you will be neither happy, nor popular, wherever you go, unless you control your temper." "What do I care about those nasty girls on the Hill?" sputtered the butcher's daughter. "They're a lot of nobodies, if they _are_ so stuck-up." "There is not a girl in your class, Hester, who puts on airs over you--or who attempts to," said Mrs. Case, warmly. "And you know that is so. Deep in your heart, Hester, you know just where the trouble lies. Your lack of self-control and your envy are at the root of all your troubles in school and in athletics." Hester only pouted; but she made no reply. "Now I am forced to remove you from this team where--if you would keep your temper--you could be of much use. You are a good player at basketball--one of the best in Central High. And we have to deny you the privilege of playing on the champion team because----" "Just because the other girls don't want me to play with them!" cried the girl, angrily. "And can they be blamed?" demanded the teacher, quite exasperated herself now. "If you had any loyalty to Central High you would not have acted as you did." "I don't care!" flashed out Hester. At that Mrs. Case arose to go. "You are hopeless," she said, decisively. "I had it in mind to offer you a chance to win back your position on the team. But such consideration would be thrown away on you." "I don't want to play with the horrid, stuck-up things!" cried Hester, quite beside herself now with rage and mortification. "I hate them all. I don't want any of them to be my friends. And as for your old athletics--I'm going to tell father that they're no good and that I want to withdraw from the League." "You may be saved the necessity for that if you haven't a care, Hester," warned Mrs. Case, taking her departure. It was because of this visit from the physical instructor, perhaps, that Hester fairly bullied her father at luncheon time into allowing her mother and herself to try out an automobile that an agent had wanted to sell the wholesale butcher for some time. If automobiles had been uncommon on the Hill Henry Grimes would have had one long before for his family, for he loved display, just as Hester did. But nearly every family at their end of Whiffle Street had a car. However, Mrs. Grimes woke up enough to show interest in the matter, too, for she really liked riding in a car that ran smoothly and rapidly over the macadamized roads about Centerport; so she added her complaint to Hester's and finally the butcher telephoned for the car to be sent up. But he would not give any time to it himself. Therefore it was that Hester and her mother appeared on the Hill road just above the Four Corners in season to extricate Laura Belding and Eve Sitz from their very uncomfortable session with Hebe Pocock and his crowd. "We ought to have gone along and left those girls to get out of it as best they could," snapped Hester, when the car rolled on and Laura and Eve, with the mare and colt, were out of sight. "Why, I declare for't!" ejaculated Mrs. Grimes. "You certainly do hate that Belding girl--and I don't see a living thing the matter with her. She's smart an' bright--remember how she found my auto veil that you lost last spring?" Hester had very good reason for remembering that occasion. She had always been afraid that Laura would circulate the story connected with that veil; and because Laura had kept silence Hester hated her all the more. And now Hester allowed bitter thoughts against Mother Wit and the other members of the basketball team to fester in her mind, until she was actually insanely angry with and jealous of them. When her mother that evening at dinner told Mr. Grimes about the actions of Hebron Pocock, who sometimes worked for the butcher at the slaughtering plant near the Four Corners, Hester tried to smooth the matter over and suggest that Hebe was "only in fun" and was just scaring two silly girls. "Well, I suggested him for watchman at the gymnasium," said Mr. Grimes. "But he isn't likely to get it. The Board has every confidence in this Bill Jackway, despite the fact that somebody seems to get into the gym. and damage things without his knowing how they do it. Bill is an easy-going fellow. That's why I suggested Hebe Pocock. If Hebe was on the job, he'd eat a fellow up who tried to monkey around the gym." Hester was silent thereafter until the subject of conversation was changed. The following week she found herself "out of it" with a vengeance. If Lily Pendleton had been absenting herself from Hester's side more than usual since the fall term opened, now she was still more away. Lily did not wish to lose her membership in the basketball team. To be a member of the champion nine of Central High gave her a certain prestige that that young lady did not wish to lose. Besides, Lily was one of the largest girls in the Junior class, was vigorous physically, and loved the game. So Hester was thrown back upon her own resources more than ever. And her own company did not please Miss Hester Grimes. She could, of course, have found associates among some of the younger girls, or among those who are always willing to play the courtier to a girl who spends her money freely. Yet there were few of these latter at Central High, and not many of the younger girls--the sophs and freshies--liked Hester well enough to chum with her. And now that the whispered accusations against the wholesale butcher's daughter had gone about the school regarding the gymnasium mystery, many girls looked askance at Hester when she passed by, and some even ignored her and refused to speak to her. Ordinarily this would have troubled her but little. She was often "not on speaking terms" with dozens of girls--especially with those of her own class. But this was different, and she began to notice it. Girls who had heretofore nodded to her on the street or in the yard of the school, at least, walked right by and did not turn their eyes upon her. Furthermore, when Hester approached a group of her classmates they often hushed their animated discussions and broke up the group quickly. They were speaking of her. She could not imagine what they said, but her heart burned with anger against them. Hester kept away from the gym. She told herself she did not care what happened to the "old place." She hated it. She would not go there and see another girl practice in her place on the basketball team. A game with the West High girls was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. It was not until after that that her mother learned that she no longer played on the Central High team. And Mrs. Grimes wanted to know _why_. "Never you mind!" snapped Hester, who was not above being saucy to her mother at times. "It doesn't concern you." "Don't you _want_ to play any more?" insisted Mrs. Grimes. "No, I don't! Now, that's finished!" cried Hester, and flounced out of the room. Her father had agreed to buy the new auto, and she telephoned for the man at the garage to bring it up. Nobody ever crossed Hester, if he could help it, and when she said to the man that she wanted to learn to run the car he supposed that her father was willing. He did not ask her age, although the Centerport Board of Aldermen had established a rule that no person under sixteen should be given a license or be allowed to run a motor car. At any rate, he did not expect to be requested to let her run the car without his guidance. But this is exactly what Hester demanded when they were out of town. It was a warm, smoky fall day. There were brush fires somewhere over the ridge to the south of Centerport; or else some spark from a railroad locomotive had set the leaves in the ditches afire. It had been dry for a week and the woods were like tinder. They had run far out the road past the entrance to Robinson's Picnic Grounds, and there Hester demanded to manage the car alone, while the man sat in back. "You make me nervous!" she exclaimed. "I'll never learn anything with you nudging my elbow all the time. There! get along with you." She really was a very capable girl, and she was not unfamiliar with motor cars; but the chauffeur doubted. "I don't believe I can do it, Miss," he said. "I'll sit here----" Suddenly the car stopped. The engine was still running, but the car did not move. "_Now_ what's the matter?" snapped Hester. "Hop out and see, Joseph." The man did so and immediately she turned the switch again and the machine darted ahead, leaving the chauffeur in the middle of the road. "I'll be back after a little!" she called to him, coolly, over her shoulder, and the next moment rounded a turn safely and shut the amazed and angry chauffeur out of view. CHAPTER XIII THE WIND VEERS The car purred along so easily and it was such a delight to manage the wheel without the interference of the chauffeur that Hester did not note the distance she traveled. Nor was she at first aware of the speed. Then she suddenly realized that she had shifted the gear to the highest speed forward, and that a picket fence she passed was merely a blur along the roadside. But this was a road on which there were few houses, and most of them were back in the fields, in the middle of the farms that bordered the pike. "This will never do," thought Hester, and she began to manipulate the levers and finally brought the car to a stop. The roadway was narrow and she would have to back to turn. But this was one of the very things she desired to learn how to do; and that officious Joseph was always fussing when he was beside her. "How many miles have I come, I wonder?" she asked herself, looking about. She was on a ridge of land overlooking a narrow valley. At the end of the valley the road seemed to dip from the ridge, and it disappeared in a thick haze of blue smoke. "The fire must be over that way," she thought. "Shall I run that far and see what it means? The wind is not blowing toward me." She started the car once more. The auto rolled on, but she noticed that it wasn't firing regularly. "Hullo! Is it going to kick up rusty now and here?" muttered Hester, and she stopped. Having learned that much, she opened the carburetor to see if the gasoline was flowing all right. Then she tried a dozen times to start the car, without success. Suddenly she stood up with a jerk. In the distance she heard a growing roar--the oncoming rush of a powerful car. Fortunately she had stopped on the side of the road. There was room for another car to pass. And out of the blue smoke ahead it appeared with startling suddenness, hurled like a missile from a gun directly up the road toward her. She knew the car almost instantly. It was the Beldings' auto and it was crowded with young folk. She knew where they had been. The next week the girls of Central High had been invited to Keyport to play the first team at basketball of the High School in that town. Hester had heard all about the game the day before with the West High girls. With Roberta Fish in Hester's old position at forward center, the girls of Central High had swept all before them. They had beaten their opponents with a good lead. Of course, the West High team was not as strong as the East High had been; but Roberta had done well and victory had, for the first time in months, perched upon the banner of Central High. A committee had been appointed to go over and see the Keyport managers, and now it was returning. The big car was driven by Chet Belding, with Launcelot Darby beside him. Laura, Jess, Bobby, Nellie, and the Lockwood twins filled the tonneau comfortably. Hester hoped that the Belding car would wheel right by and that her school fellows would not notice her. But Chet saw the car stalled, and Laura's quick eye detected the lone girl standing with her back to them, looking off across the valley. "What's the matter with that girl and her car?" demanded Lance, as Chet slowed down. "It's Hester. Mr. Grimes has bought a car at last, I understand," said Laura, leaning over the back of the seat and speaking to the boys. "Is she in trouble, do you think?" "I'll bet she is!" exclaimed Lance. "And out on this road alone. Where's the chauffeur?" said Chet. "And if the wind should change!" cried Nellie Agnew. "By Jove, that's so!" ejaculated Chet, bringing his car to a full stop right beside the stalled auto. "Hullo, Miss Grimes!" he sang out. "Can we help you? What's the matter with your car?" Hester saw it was useless to refuse to see them then. Besides, she did not want to be stalled there for hours. "That's what I've been trying to find out," she said, pointedly speaking to the boy, not to the girls. "Great machines," drawled Lance. "When you think you know all about 'em they kick up and give you a lot of trouble. Isn't that so, Chet?" Chet was getting from under the wheel, and grunted. But Laura hopped out before him, came to Hester's side of the car, and asked: "Did it stop of itself?" "No. It wasn't firing regularly. I looked at the carburetor to see if it was all right. Then I tried to start her and couldn't," said Hester, ungraciously. Laura was going over the wiring to see if there were no loose contacts before Chet came to them. She turned the fly wheel far enough to get the buzz of the spark coils. "Go ahead, Sis!" chuckled Chet. "You know so much you'll be taking our old mill to pieces pretty soon, I reckon." Hester stood by and bit her lip with vexation. She was almost on the point of driving Laura away from the car, rather than have her enemy--for so she considered Mother Wit--help her out of her trouble. But night was coming on and she did not want to stand there much longer, if the car could be started. Laura removed a plug, grounded it on a cylinder and turned the wheel to a sparking point to note the quality of the spark and the strength of the battery. Then she ticked the carburetor and opened the small cock at the bottom. "You're getting your gloves all messy, Laura!" called Jess from the other car. "Hush!" commanded Chet, grinning, and holding up his hand. "Do not disturb the priestess of automobiling at her devotions. There will be something 'didding' in a minute--now watch." But Laura was serious--and interested. She closed the cock and felt along the gasoline pipe to the valve rod. This seemed to interest her particularly. In a moment she straightened up and stood back, saying to Hester: "You try the engine. Maybe she'll work now." Hester scrambled into her seat and tried the starter. The engine began to buzz like a saw-mill. "Great Scott, Laura!" cried her brother. "What did you do to it?" "Turned on the gasoline," said his sister, drily. "When Hester looked at her carburetor she turned it off. No wonder the engine wouldn't run." "Thanks," muttered Hester, in a choked tone, while the crowd in the other auto smothered their laughter, and she prepared to start the car when Chet should have stepped aside. "Hold on!" said young Belding. "This isn't any way to be traveling, Miss Hester." "Why not?" she snapped at him, for the situation was getting on her nerves now. "The wind is likely to change. If it veers around it will drive the fire directly up this road," said Chet. "What's burning?" demanded the girl, sharply. "The whole forest back yonder through the cut. We came through a big cloud of smoke." "If you got through I guess I can," Hester said, ungratefully, and the next moment started her car, which rolled swiftly away along the turnpike. The fact was, she did not want to try to turn the machine while they were watching her. She knew she should be awkward about it. And Laura Belding had displayed her superiority over her once already--and that was enough! The big car purred again joyously, and the roadway slipped behind like a ribbon running over a spool. In half a minute Hester and her car had dipped into the valley and were running through the cut between the hills. The Belding car was out of sight. But suddenly she became aware that the smoke was thick here. This deep cut was filled with it. And the fumes were not only choking; there was heat with the smoke. A shift of wind drove a thick cloud out of the forest and she had to shut her eyes. This was dangerous work. She knew better than to try to run the car on high speed when she could not see twenty feet beyond it. When she reduced speed she was cognizant of a roaring sound from the forest. For a moment she thought a big wind was coming. Then she knew better. It was the fire. Not far away the flames were devouring the forest hungrily--and the wind was behind the flames! There must have already been a change in the air-current, as Chet had prophesied. The forest fire was driving right into this narrow cut between the hills. To be caught here by the flames would not only mean the finish of this brand new car, but Hester knew that there would be no escape for her from such a situation. CHAPTER XIV RACING THE FLAMES Hester's car jarred down to a complete stop. The smoke stung her eyes and it began to be difficult for her to breathe. She knew that she had come too far on this road. She should have heeded Chet Belding's warning. But now she needed all her courage and coolness to get her out of the hot corner into which she had so heedlessly driven the automobile. The road was not more than thirty feet wide and the thick woods bordered it on either hand. Out of the covert dashed a flash of rusty brown that was gone in an instant. Hester knew it to be a fox. Already she had seen the rabbits running, and not a bird was in sight. The fire was coming--and coming by leaps and bounds! It smote upon Hester Grimes's mind that not alone were she and the innocent animals of the wood in peril; but there were lonely farms, deep in the forest, where the houses were so near the woods that the fire was sure to destroy them. Who would warn those squatters and small farmers of the danger down here in the cut? When once the flames rose over the ridge, with the wind behind them, they would descend the other side with the swiftness of an express train. Crops, orchards, outbuildings, and dwellings would all be sacrificed to the demon of flame. And some of the families along that far road on which the Sitz farm lay would scarcely have time to flee. But Hester, as she often said herself, "was no namby-pamby girl." She made a deal of fun of her chum, Lily, because the latter was always so helpless--or appeared to be--in time of trouble. She was alone, at the edge of this burning forest, with this big car. It had to be turned around, and then she must run it out of the line of the fire. Her father would have something to say--and that to much purpose--if she lost this brand new car, which he had not even paid for as yet. She started the car on the reverse, and twisted the wheel. The car backed, and shook, and she stopped it just as a rear tire collided with a stump. She must go ahead, and back, and go ahead again, and reverse once more, and repeat the operation half a dozen times before the car would be headed in the proper direction. The smoke grew thicker and thicker--and more choking. Her eyes were half blinded by tears, for the smoke stung them sadly. But soon she was free. The car could fly back over the road which it had lately descended, and once out of the cut her peril would be past. But on the very moment of starting ahead again Hester heard a great crashing in the bushes. Out into the road ahead of the car sprawled on hands and knees a man--or the semblance of one. For the instant Hester scarcely knew what to make of the figure sprawling there before the car. But she shut down again so as not to run over it. Then the individual arose to his knees and waved his arms weakly. His clothing was in rags. Indeed, he had only half a shirt and the remains of his overalls left upon his body, besides his shoes. His hair had been singed from his head. A great angry burn disfigured one side of his face, while the beard was crisped to cinders on the other side. He was without eyebrows and eyelashes, and his eyes stared from deep hollows in his face--or so it seemed. "For heaven's sake, help me!" he gasped. "Take me aboard! Take me away from here!" He struggled to his feet and fell again. He had come as far as he could. Had the road not been right where it was, the man must have fallen in the woods and been swept again by the flames. Hester sprang up, caught him around the waist and half dragged him to the car. She was thoroughly scared now; but she was courageous enough to aid this man who was more unfortunate than herself. "Get in! Get in!" she cried, flinging open the door of the tonneau. "We must hurry." "You bet we gotter hurry!" gasped the man, as he crawled into the car and she banged to the door so that he would not fall out. Into her own seat Hester sprang. The car was jarring with the throb of the engine. If it should balk now, what would become of them? The frightened girl turned the switch carefully. The car rolled on. It moved faster and faster along the narrow road. The smoke was now so thick that she was running the car blindly. At any moment the wheels might hit a stump at the side of the road, for she could not be sure that she was keeping in the main-traveled path. While they were in the cut she heard nothing from the man behind. But when the car shot up the hill out of the cut to the ridge-ground, and left the smoke behind, the man struggled up into the seat and leaned over to speak to her. "You air a brave gal!" he gasped. "Woof! my lungs is burnt to a crisp--I swallered so much smoke. Ye jest erbout saved my life, Miss." Hester made no reply. She was winking the tears out of her eyes, and the pressure in her own lungs hurt. "But there air a lot of folks goin' to be caught similar over the ridge, if we can't warn 'em." "What's that?" she demanded, quickly, but without looking around at him. "My name's Billson. I live back in the bottoms yonder. I got an acre or two cleared around my cabin; but the bresh warn't burned up. It is now, by jinks!" added Mr. Billson, with a grim cackle. "When the wind veered thar so suddent, it caught me. I had to run through a wall of fire at one place. Then I got acrost the crick and that saved me for a while. But the fire would have caught me again if it hadn't been for you. I am sure mighty much obleeged to ye." "I--I'm glad I was there with the car," faltered Hester. "And we've got to warn those other folks over the hill," cried the man, coughing. "Gee! I guess I'll never get this smoke out o' my lungs." "But how can we get to those other farms?" gasped Hester. "I'll show ye. There's a crossroad along here a spell. An automobile can git through it on a pinch. And there's two families live on that road, too." "Do you s'pose they'll be in danger?" asked Hester, slowly. "In course they are. Say! you ain't afraid, are you?" demanded the man. "I tell ye the fire is coming. It's going to sweep this whole ridge." "Won't--won't they see it?" "Did _I_ see it?" demanded the squatter. "Not soon enough, you bet. Drive on, Miss. Surely you ain't goin' to show a yaller streak now?" "But my--my chauffeur is waiting for me along the road here toward town." "Let him wait. He's out of danger. There are plenty of open fields in that direction. _He_ won't get into no trouble. You drive through this side road like I tell you, and we'll get clear around by Sitz's farm ahead of the fire. But drive hard!" Inspired by the man's excitement, Hester did as she was told. They came to the crossroad, which she remembered, and turned into it. There was little smoke here beyond the ridge. Nobody would have suspected the raging pit of flame down there in the cut to the southeast. Yet the flames were advancing on the wings of the wind. Hester had seen enough to assure her that the case was serious indeed. Once the fire topped the ridge the whole northern slope would be swept by a billow of flame! The picture of these farmsteads burning and the people being unable to escape with their livestock and sundry possessions began to take form in Hester's mind. She speeded up the car and it rushed through the gathering twilight like a locomotive of a fast express. At the first house they stopped for only a moment. Hester turned on the car lamps, for the shadows were gathering in the narrow places along the road now. The squatter did not have to urge the danger upon the farmers. A look at his condition told its own story. A forest fire is a terrible thing, and once it gets under way usual means of fire-fighting are of no avail. On and on raced the motor car. Along the summit of the wooded ridge behind them the glow of the fire spread to a deep rose--then to a crimson--against the sky. It was an angry light and the smoke that billowed up from it began to canopy the heavens. From certain heights Hester could see far down into the city of Centerport, with its countless twinkling lights. The forest fire must burn out long before it reached the edge of the city; but detached houses, here and there, were in peril--and many farmers got out their teams and ploughed fresh furrows around their stacks and buildings. They rushed through Tentorville at a speed that made the dogs howl and the women run to the doors of their houses, leaving their suppers to burn. Beyond this straggling little settlement there were better farms. The village was not endangered by the flames, for there were open fields all around it. At the next house the occupants had been warned by telephone; for news of the advancing fire had been wired from beyond the ridge, toward Keyport. The better class of farmers were supplied with 'phones, and they were warned; but the man who had been burned out of his own place was interested in the other poor people--the tenant farmer and squatter class. "Them fellers can't stand the expense of telephones," he told Hester. "And they work moughty hard and will go to bed airly. If they haven't kalkerlated on the veering of the wind they won't know anything about it till the fire's upon 'em." Thirty-seven of such farmers and settlers did the rushing auto visit. Hester and her comrade must have startled some of these people dreadfully, for the auto dashed up to the little farmsteads with the noise of an express train, and the scorched man yelled his loudest to the inmates: "Git up! Git up! The fire's comin'. It'll be over the ridge before midnight and this hull mountainside'll crackle in flames. Git out!" Then, at the first word in reply from the aroused inmates, the girl and her companion rushed on in their car, and sometimes before the people in the house realized what had passed, the car was out of sight. For nearly two hours from the time Hester had helped the man into her car did she speed about the country. By that time both he, and the girl--and the gasoline--were about exhausted. They pulled up at a country store where they sold gasoline, and Hester refilled her tank. There she telephoned home to her family, too. Joseph had come in on another auto and Hester's father was about to send out a general alarm for his absent daughter. "What in thunder are you doing, riding over the country alone?" her father demanded over the telephone. "Now, don't you mind. I'm all right," said Hester, tartly. "I'm coming home now--by the way of the Sitz place and Robinson's Woods. We've done all we can to rouse up the farmers." And she shut her angry father off before he could say more, and ran out to the car--to find her companion senseless in the bottom of the tonneau, and a local doctor bending over him. CHAPTER XV THE KEYPORT GAME "These are bad burns," said the physician, looking up at the wide-eyed crowd. "And I believe he is hurt internally. Where did he come from?" "This gal brought him in her car, Doc," said the storekeeper, who had forgotten trade for the moment. "Who is he?" asked the physician, with his hand on the man's pulse, but looking curiously at Hester. "I don't know--oh, yes! I remember! He said his name was Billson." "Jeffers-pelters!" ejaculated the storekeeper. "I'd never ha' knowed him. His whiskers is burned off, that's a fac'." "Then you know all about him, Carey?" pursued the medical man. "Not much! not much!" exclaimed the storekeeper, hastily. "He's jest a squatter. Come from one of the lower counties, I b'lieve. Holler-chested. Bad lungs, he said. Goin' to live in the open an' cure 'em." "He ought to go to the hospital at once," growled the doctor. "I can take him," said Hester, quietly. "He's a very brave man, I believe. He warned all the people through the section back of Tentorville----" "I guess you druv the car, Miss," cackled Carey, the storekeeper. "But I should have driven it home in a hurry after finding him on the road without knowing anything about the people in danger," said the girl, honestly. "He did it." "No matter who did it. I want to get him to the hospital. I'll go to Centerport with him, Miss, if you'll take us." "Of course," said Hester. "You know him, Carey," said the doctor, turning to the storekeeper. "Can I use your name at the hospital in Centerport?" "No, you can't," said the other, quickly. "I can't stand no 'nearest friend' game for a man that never spent fo' bits a week in my store for groceries. No. I dunno him." "We'll stand sponsor for him, sir," said Hester, hastily. "Come on. You'll have to tell me how to drive. I don't know these roads very well." "What's your name, Miss?" asked the physician, climbing into the car as Hester touched the electric starter. Hester told him, and the medical man nodded. "Henry Grimes's gal, eh?" he said. "Well, he's well able to be sponsor for this poor fellow. Drive on." He was a shabby old man, this country doctor. His name was Leffert, and he seemed none too blessed with this world's goods. But he was kindly and he eased the senseless man into a comfortable position in the tonneau with the gentleness of a woman. The car started on the long run to Centerport with a plentifully filled tank. And the engine worked nicely. When they passed the Sitz place Hester saw that the farmer and Otto were out ploughing along the edge of the woods by lantern light. But the sky above the ridge glowed like a live coal. The forest fire was sweeping on. When they came down the hill past Robinson's Woods the doctor nudged Hester from behind. "Hadn't you better take that left-hand turn, Miss?" he demanded. "What for? This is the nearest way," returned the girl, slowing down a bit. "But it goes through the Four Corners. They have a habit of setting on automobiles there." "They won't dare bother us," declared Hester. "Most of those people work for father." "Aw--well," said the doctor, and sat down again. The car roared through the settlement of shacks about the Four Corners like a fast express. Nobody tried to bother them. In twenty minutes thereafter the car stopped at the City Hospital. The patient was carried in on a stretcher, and one of the interns took Hester's name and address. Dr. Leffert evidently had no standing at the institution, and he merely handed the patient over to the hospital authorities and hurried away. Hester drove the car home and found both her mother and father excitedly awaiting her coming. "Now, don't you bother about me--or the car!" she said, sharply, when her parents began to take her to task for worrying them so. "I haven't had a bite to eat, and I'm tired, too. Your old car isn't hurt any----" "But you can't ride that car all over this country alone, Hess! I swear I won't have it!" "But I _did_ drive it alone, didn't I? And it isn't hurt any. Neither am I," she replied, and it was several days before her parents learned the particulars of their daughter's wild ride over the mountainside with the squatter, Billson, warning the small farmers of the coming fire. "I declare for't!" her mother then said. "You're the greatest girl, Hess! The folks say you're a heroine." "They say a whole lot beside their prayers, I reckon," snapped Hester. "But one of the country papers has got a long article in it about you and that Mr. Billson. Only they don't know your name." "No. I told Doc. Leffert to keep still about it," said Hester. "Now! there's been enough talk. I want two dollars, Ma. I want to send that Billson some jelly and some flowers. He's having a mighty hard time at the hospital. And there isn't a soul who cares anything about him--whether he lives or dies." "Ain't that just like you, Hessie?" complained her mother. "You throw that poor fellow good things like you was throwing a bone to a dog! I--I wish you wasn't so hard." But events were making Hester seem harder than usual these days. She was completely cut off from the society of her school fellows. She had no part in the after-hour athletics. Nobody spoke to her about the fine time expected at Keyport when the basketball team went over to battle with the team of the Keyport High. And when that day arrived, fully a carload entrained at the Hill station of the C. K. & M. Railroad, bound for the neighboring city. These were all the girls of Central High interested in the game and their friends among the boys. It was not a long run by train to Keyport, but they had a lot of fun. Chet and Lance were full of an incident that had occurred in Professor Dimp's class that morning, and Chet was telling his sister and a group of friends about it. "Short and Long got one on Old Dimple again to-day," said Chet. "You know he's forever hammering the Romans into us. We ought to call him 'The Old Roman'--we really had! There's that Roman lad who was such an athlete and all-around pug----" "'Pug!'" gasped Laura. "Wait till mother hears you say _that_." "Ha! I'm going to watch to see that she doesn't hear me, Sis," returned her brother. "Well, Old Dimple was telling us about this lad who used to swim across the Tiber three times before breakfast. And when he'd expatiated on the old boy's performance, Short and Long put up a mitt----" "'A mitt!'" groaned Laura again. "Aw, well! His hand, then. Dimple perked right up, thinking that Short and Long was really showing some interest, and says he: "'What's your question, Mr. Long?' "And Billy says: 'What's puzzling me, is why he swam it _three_ times?'" "'Eh?' says Dimple. 'How's that, young man?'" "'Why didn't he swim it _four_ times,' says Billy, grave as a judge, 'and so get back to the bank where he'd left his clothes?' And not a smile cracked Short and Long's face! Dimple didn't know whether to laugh or get mad, and just then the gong sounded 'Time' and Dimple got out of it without answering Billy's question." "Tickets!" cried Lance, as the girls laughed at the story. "Here comes the conductor. Get your pasteboards ready." "Who says that's the conductor, Lance?" demanded Chet. "Huh! It's Mr. Wood, isn't it? He's the conductor of this train." "Impossible," sighed Chet "Wood is a non-conductor." But the crowd wouldn't stand for puns like that and shouted Chet down. When they debarked at the Keyport station they formed in marching order and, the boys with canes and the girls with flags, marched two by two to the Keyport girls' athletic field. The game was called for four o'clock, and Mrs. Case got her team out and "warmed them up" with ten minutes' practice before the referee called both teams to the court selected for the match game. The boys in the audience droned out the Central High yell, with its "snap-the-whip" ending of, "Ziz--z--z--z----Boom!" and the ball was thrown into play. Right at the start the home team got the best of the visitors. There were excellent players on the Keyport team. Indeed, in all athletics the Keyport girls had excelled for years. Our friends from Central High were outmatched at several points. But they fought hard. Laura and her mates battled every moment, and when the whistle ending the first half sounded, the Keyport team was only two points ahead. But the visitors ran to their dressing room in no hopeful frame of mind. CHAPTER XVI UPHILL WORK FOR THE TEAM "I declare!" ejaculated Bobby Hargrew; "we're being whipped out of our boots!" "I'm doing the best I can!" wailed Roberta Fish. "Nobody's blaming you, child," Jess Morse hastened to say. "Not at all," added Laura. "I haven't a single complaint to make about your work, Roberta." "But there's something lacking somewhere," declared Dorothy Lockwood. "We might as well admit that these Keyport girls are better at basketball than we are," said her twin. "My gracious!" cried Bobby. "They're better than we ever _dared_ to be!" "No!" cried Laura. "That is not so." "What's the answer, then, Miss Captain?" demanded the irrepressible. "We must play up to each other, that's all," said the captain. "Our playing is loose." "We're weak in spots," admitted Nellie Agnew, slowly. "And I'm the worst spot," groaned Roberta. "Pshaw! you're not, either," said Eve Sitz, kindly. "You do your very best, Roberta," said Laura, again. "But that isn't as good as Hester's best," responded Roberta, quickly. "Hessie is certainly one mighty good player," grumbled Bobby. "And we got rid of her rather hastily," sighed Nellie. "Don't wail about that now!" cried Josephine Morse, with some asperity. "My goodness! I'm only glad she's out of it. And I reckon Laura is." "I am sorry it seemed best to ask her to get out," admitted the captain. "Bah! she was more trouble than she was good," declared Jess. "Let's not weep and wail over what we did." "But have you heard what she did last week, girls?" asked the doctor's daughter, earnestly. "What now?" returned Bobby, with curiosity. "Remember the day we found her broken down in that new car of her father's on the Keyport road?" "Sure!" cried several of the team together. "That was the day of that big forest fire. You know, Chet warned her that the wind was likely to change and blow the fire across the road. Well, she rescued a man from the burning woods and then ran that car all over the hill country up there, warning farmers and other people that the fire was coming. She is a very brave girl," concluded Nellie, softly. "Pshaw! don't you weep over Hess Grimes," exclaimed Bobby. "You're too tender-hearted, Nell." "But she _is_ brave," said Laura, hastily. "And just as ill-tempered as she can be," put in Jess Morse. "We're well rid of her." "I guess nobody in this world is quite perfect--nor all bad, either," suggested the doctor's daughter. "And as for Hester, she never let us see her good points." "But some mighty mean ones!" exclaimed Dora Lockwood. "Just the same," sighed Laura, "if she had only stuck to the rules of basketball in playing she would have been a great help to us right now!" Lily had been "prinking up" at the other end of the room while this conversation was going on. Now she flung them one malicious "I told you so!" as the gong rang and they hurried out to their places in the basketball court. "All ready?" cried the referee. "Do your best, girls!" begged Laura. The whistle sounded long and loud at the toss-up and the game was on. At first, although the play was fast and furious, neither side scored. Then came the umpire's shout: "Foul on Central High for over-guarding!" It rattled Laura and her team mates. Their opponents got the ball and shot it basketward. Right from the field Keyport made a basket. And then, in little over half a minute they made another! "Break it up, guards! Break it up!" begged Laura. But although the girls of Central High fought hard, and there were some brilliant plays on the part of Laura and Jess, it was all to no avail. Nor did the "rooting" of their boy friends help. The Keyport team forged ahead steadily and at the end of the game they were six points in the lead. It was as bad a beating as the girls of Central High had ever received in a trophy game. Roberta was in tears in the dressing room when Mrs. Case came in to cheer them up. "Now, now! what have I told you about being good losers?" she demanded, briskly. "Tha--that's all right," stammered Roberta. "We cheered 'em, didn't we? But I feel it's my fault. I fumble dreadfully. You know, I always did when I was on the team before. Get somebody else in my place, Mrs. Case--do!" Naturally Lily Pendleton told all this to Hester; but it only added to Hester's bitterness of spirit. Deep down in her heart she felt the sting of Central High's defeat--only she wouldn't admit it. The team had lost--she believed it, too--because she wasn't there in her place at forward center! And Mrs. Case had tried to show her how she might win back, if she would, and Hester had refused. Her bad temper had cut her off from the instructor's help entirely. She was a pariah--and she felt it. So she told Lily she was glad the team was having up-hill work and was so nasty about it that Lily, who was feeling bad, too, about the affair, almost got mad herself, and went home early. "That Hester Grimes _can_ be awfully exasperating when she wants to be," Lily admitted to her mother. "Bless me, child! I don't really see why you associate so much with her. She does come of such common people. Why, Mrs. Grimes is impossible!" sighed Mrs. Pendleton. CHAPTER XVII HEBE POCOCK IN TROUBLE The big frost came soon after the Keyport game and Eve excitedly informed her particular friends when she came in to school that the nuts were falling in showers. It was toward the end of the week when this happened and it had already been arranged that a nutting party should take an entire Saturday for the trip to Peveril Pond, some miles beyond the Sitz place. The Beldings' car and one of Mr. Purcell's sight-seeing autos were to carry the party from the Hill, with two seats reserved for Eve and her brother Otto, whom they would pick up at the farmhouse. Prettyman Sweet and Lily Pendleton were invited--indeed, Eve had insisted upon all the basketball team being of the party--and Purt was dreadfully exercised in advance regarding what would be the proper costume to wear. "Oh," said Bobby Hargrew, "when folks go fox-hunting in the fall they wear red coats, because the fox is red, I suppose. Now, you ought to wear a nut-brown suit, hadn't you?" "Yes, Purt," drawled Lance Darby, "something nutty will suit you, all right, all right!" The girls wore sweaters and old caps and old skirts and lace up boots--all but Lily. She came "dressed to the nines," as Bobby declared. "What under the sun are you supposed to represent, Lil?" demanded Jess Morse. "You--you look like a fancy milkmaid." "Well, I'm going into the country; I shall look the part," said Lily, demurely. "Oh, say!" continued Jess, in a whisper, "you've got altogether too much red on your cheeks for a milkmaid, young lady." At that Lily flushed deeper than the "fast color" on her cheek. "Is that so, Miss?" she snapped. "I guess a milkmaid ought to be rosy-cheeked." Chet, going by, overheard this. He glanced at the red spots in Lily's naturally pale cheek, and laughed. "On the contrary," he said, winking at Jess. "What's on the contrary?" demanded Lily, sharply. "Milkmaids shouldn't be rosy-cheeked, you know," said Chet, gravely. "Why not, Mr. Funny?" "Because a milkmaid is naturally a pail girl," chortled Chet. Lily was rather angry for a while because they joked her about the rouge. She was the only girl in all the Junior class who used cosmetics and, as Chet laughingly said once, "painting the Lily was a thankless job--it didn't improve her looks!" They piled into the two autos and started off with much laughter and blowing of horns. Nellie Agnew was almost the last one to board the Beldings' car. "I had to run down to Mrs. Doyle's for Daddy Doctor," she explained. "Poor little Johnny is dreadfully sick. He never really recovered from the shock, or the cold, when he fell into the sewer basin. He's such a poor, weak little thing now. It would make your heart ache to see him, Laura." "Lil says that Hester goes there all the time, and that she's always doing something for Rufe, or the rest of them," Jess Morse said. Laura shook her head. "I know," she said. "I saw Hester and Rufie in the park together the other day. They seem to be very good friends. And I'm sorry." "Why--for pity's sake?" demanded Nellie. "Why, father is on the Board of Education this year, you know, and he told us--but you mustn't repeat it!--that Bill Jackway had admitted that the night the gym. was first raided Rufus slipped into the building unbeknown to him early in the evening, and was there until after midnight. Then he cried to go home, being afraid, he said. But Jackway let him out without ever making the rounds of the gym., and so he doesn't know for sure whether the damage to the apparatus was done while Rufe was there, or afterward." "My goodness me!" gasped Nellie. "How awful!" "Could it be that half-foolish boy, do you suppose?" cried Jess. "He isn't so foolish. Rufe is dreadfully cunning about some things," replied Laura. "Think of those footprints in the athletic field. I _know_ the person who made them walked backwards. Maybe Rufe got into the gym. again unknown to his uncle; and he'd be just sharp enough to get out of that window backward and so reach the fence." "And he could be hired to do that for a little money," said Jess, confidently. "Oh, I wouldn't say that!" exclaimed Nellie. "It's too dreadful." "But Mr. Jackway can't make Rufe admit it. The boy won't speak. And the Board doesn't know what to do about it," Laura said. "Now, I've told you girls this; don't let it go any farther." They promised--and they were girls who could keep their word. Lance and Chet on the front seat of the machine, with Bobby between them, hadn't heard it at all. When the cars reached the Sitz place Eve and Otto were taken into the tonneau of the Beldings' car, and they went on, down the leaf-strewn road, toward Peveril Pond. The forest fire that had threatened all this side of the ridge had burned out without crossing the wide highway known as "the State Road" and so the lower slope of the ridge and all the valley had been untouched. They passed the district school which Eve attended before she came to Central High. "And we had a splendid teacher at the last," sighed Eve. "But when I first went to it--oh! the boys acted so horrid, and the girls gabbled so. It wasn't a school. My mother said it was 'a bear garden!' "You see, there were some dreadfully bad big boys went to the school, off and on. The Four Corners isn't so far away, you know. Hebe Pocock--Laura will remember him?" "I guess so!" cried Laura. "Well, he was one of the big boys in school when I first came here. We had a new teacher--we were always having 'new' teachers. Sometimes there would be as many as four in one term. If they were girls they broke down and cried and gave it up; and if they were young men they were either beaten or driven out of the neighborhood. "But I can remember this particular young man pretty well, little as I was," laughed Eve. "He wasn't very big, but he didn't look puny, although he wore glasses. But when he opened school he took off the glasses and put them in his desk. He was real mild mannered, and he had a nice smile, and the big girls liked him. But Hebe and the other big boys said they were going to run him off right quick!" "And did they?" asked Jess, interested. "Well, I'll tell you. He was taking the names of all us children, and he got along all right till he came to Hebe. Hebron was the ring leader. He always gave the sign for trouble. When the master asked his name Hebe leaned back in his seat, put his feet up on the desk, and looked cross-eyed at the new teacher. Of course, all the little follows thought it was funny--and some of the girls, too, I guess. "'Please tell me your name,' said the master, without seeming to notice Hebe's impudence. "'Wal,' drawled Hebe, 'sometimes they call me Bob, and sometimes Pete, and sometimes they call me too late for dinner. But don't you call me nothin', Mister!' "The teacher listened until he got through," said Eve, her eyes flashing at the remembrance of the scene, "and then he doubled his fist and struck Hebe a blow between the eyes that half stunned him. Hebe was the bigger, but that teacher was awfully strong and smart. He grabbed Hebe by the collar and hauled him headlong over the desks and seats, stood him up before the big desk with a slam, and roared at him: "'What is your name?' "'He--Hebe Pocock,' exclaimed the fellow, only half sensing what had happened to him. "'Hebe?' repeated the master, with a sneer. 'You look like a 'Hebe.' Go take your seat.' "And do you know," laughed Eve, "that Hebe was almost the best behaved boy in the school all that term?" "Oh!" laughed Jess, "it must be lots of fun to go to an ungraded school like that one." "It's all according to the teacher," Eve said. "When we had a poor teacher it was just a scramble for the scholars to learn anything. The big ones helped the little ones. But our present teacher, Miss Harris, is a college girl and she is fine. But some funny things happen because we have the old-fashioned district system of government, with 'school trustees' elected every year. This year at the far end of the district they put in old Mr. Moose, a very illiterate man, for trustee. And one of the girls was telling me about the day he visited school to 'examine' it. That is the method, you know; each trustee makes an official visit and is supposed to find out in that visit how the teachers are getting along." "Tell us about it, Eve," urged Laura. "Why," laughed Eve, "Mr. Moose came in and sat on the teacher's platform for a while, listening and watching, and showing himself to be dreadfully uncomfortable. But he thought he had to make some attempt to examine the school, so when Miss Harris called the spelling class he reached for the speller and said he'd put out a few words. So he read to the first boy: "'Spell "eggpit."' "'E--double g--p--i--t,' says the boy. "'Nope,' says Mr. Moose. 'Next.' "Next scholar spelled it the same way and that didn't suit Mr. Moose, and so it went on down the line, everybody taking a shy at 'Eggpit.' Finally Miss Harris asked to see the book. "'These young 'uns of yourn air mighty bad spellers,' said Mr. Moose. "'But they have all spelled 'eggpit' right,' said Miss Harris. 'Where is the word?' "And what do you suppose Moose pointed out?" chuckled Eve. "Give it up!" was the chorus of her listeners. "'Egypt!'" "My goodness!" cried Jess, choked with laughter. "Can you beat that for a school trustee?" They arrived at the sloping hollow at the end of Peveril Pond, where they proposed to picnic, very soon after this. It was a pretty glade, and the smooth road went down to the shore and skirted it for half a mile. Off on a rocky point were several boys or men fishing; but they were not near enough to disturb our friends. Of course the boys clamored for lunch at once; but while the girls prepared it the boys were shooed off to begin the nut gathering. Lance Darby, with a perfectly solemn face, set Pretty Sweet to work thumping an oak tree with a huge club to "rattle off the nuts;" and he might have been whaling away at the trunk of the tree until luncheon had not Chet taken pity on him and showed him that neither chestnuts or shell-barks grew on oak trees, and that that particular oak didn't even have an acorn on it! Suddenly, just as the girls had the good things spread on the seats of the two cars, a chorus of screams arose from the fishermen. There were three of them, and when our friends' gaze was attracted by the shouts they saw that the bigger one was down in the water and the other two were leaping about on the sands. "Guess they've caught a whale," said Chet. "They are in trouble--serious trouble," declared his sister, leaving the car herself to start for the scene of the difficulty. "That's little Mike Pocock," said Eve, grabbing her arm. "And I believe the fellow in the water is Hebe." "Never mind. He's in some difficulty. See! he can't stand up," cried Laura. "But weally!" gasped Prettyman Sweet. "The lunch is just weady----" "Come on, you cannibal!" ejaculated Lance. "Let's see what's wanted over there." The whole party, girls as well as boys, trooped along the shore of the pond toward the rock where the fishermen had been standing. They saw in a moment that this boulder had rolled over--probably while Hebe Pocock was standing upon it to make a cast--and that Hebe was caught by the rock and held down to the bottom of the pond. He was barely able to keep his head out of water as the boys and girls of Central High approached. CHAPTER XVIII MOTHER WIT TO THE RESCUE The young ruffian who was so notorious about the Four Corners was really in a serious predicament. In making a long cast the boulder had rolled under him and, being precipitated into the pond, he was pinned to the bottom by his legs. The two boys with him had sprung into the pond, and were now wet to their necks; but they could not roll back the heavy boulder. Just as Laura and Chet, with their school mates, arrived Hebe sank back with a gurgle, and the water went over his head. He had been barely able to keep his mouth and nostrils out of water until that moment. "Hebe's gettin' drowned! Hebe's gettin' drowned!" yelled Mike, the victim's young brother, dancing up and down on the shore. "Get in there at once and hold his head up!" commanded Laura Belding. "Then we'll roll away the stone. But he _will_ drown if you don't hold him up." Mike did as he was bid. When Hebe got his breath again he began to use language that was unfit for the girls to hear, at least. "Say!" exclaimed Chet, his eyes blazing, "you stop that or I'll hold your head under the water myself. What kind of a fellow are you, anyway?" Hebe gasped and kept still. Perhaps he had scarcely realized who the people were about him. Laura said: "Can't you boys, all together, roll away that stone?" "We'll try," said Lance, already beginning to strip off his shoes and stockings. "Come ahead, Chet." They made even Purt Sweet join them, bare-footed and with their trousers rolled up as far as they would go. They waded in and got around the rock. Hebe was in a sitting posture, and the weight of the stone bore both his legs down into the muddy bottom. But there was hard-pan under the mud, and it was impossible to drag the victim from beneath the huge rock. But the boys couldn't even jar the rock. It had slipped from the bank and rolled a little, and now it was settling slowly into the ooze, bearing Hebe's legs down under it. The situation was serious in the extreme. Slowly, as Hebe settled beneath the rock, the water was creeping up about his lips and nose. Although he held his head back the water would, in time, rise above his mouth. And the rise was as steady as a tide. Again and again Chet Belding and his comrades tried to push the huge rock over. But, as at first, they could not even budge it. Mike began to cry again. Hebe said, gruffly: "I reckon I gotter croak, eh? This ain't no nice way to die, you bet!" "Die--nothing!" cried Laura. She ran back to the car and tore the piece of rubber pipe away from the bulb of the horn. Handing this to Hebe, she showed him how he could lie back in a more comfortable position, if he wished, and breathe through the tube. She produced some cotton, too, so that he could stop his ears and nostrils. "Now, you keep up your courage," Mother Wit told him. "We'll soon find a way of getting you out of this. You're not dead yet." Hebe said nothing, but he watched her, when his eyes were above water, with a grateful air. "But I tell you, Laura, we can't begin to start this stone even," growled Chet, in her ear. "You will have to think of something better than _this_." "So I will," cried Laura. "I'll think of a rope." "A rope?" "Yes. A good, strong one. One that will go around that rock and then be plenty long enough to hitch to one of the cars--the big car. I believe we can start the rock that way." "Hurrah!" cried Lance. "She's got the idea! What do you say, Chet?" "Looks like it. But how about the rope? Where'll we get it?" "We got a goot one at our house," said Otto, who was sitting down, puffing, after having strained at the rock. "Dot hay rope, he be juist de t'ing." "The hay rope for ours, then," cried Chet. "Come on, Otto. We'll go after it!" He started for the machines, the Swiss youth after him. They got in the Belding car immediately and started the engine. Purt Sweet sprang up with a yell and ran along the shore of the pond after the car. "Oh, oh! Stop!" he shrieked. But Chet did not hear him. Lance caught Pretty by the arm and demanded to know what he was yelling about. "Why," gasped Purt, "they've driven off with a whole lot of the lunch the girls spread on the seats. And look at them go! Why! it'll all be joggled onto the floor of the tonneau before they get back." "Oh--_you_!" exclaimed Lance, balked for words with which to express his contempt. The Belding car was quickly out of sight. The boys and girls gathered around the spot where Hebe Pocock had met with his accident. Nobody could help him, and he began to be in extreme pain. His head was under water a good deal of the time; but the piece of rubber pipe allowed him to breathe, and Mike, or the other smaller boy from the Four Corners, held Hebe's face above water as much as possible. Chet and Otto were not gone an hour; but it seemed, as Lance said, "a creation of time." Pocock was pretty weak when the rope was brought. Meanwhile the chauffeur had run the big car along the road and backed it near the rock and headed in the proper direction. They passed the heavy cable around the boulder and then wrapped it around the car so that the strain would not come in any one place and perhaps do the car damage. "You bigger boys get in there," said Laura, "and take Hebe under the arms. As soon as the rock moves pull him out. For the rope may slip and the rock slide back deeper into the water than it is now. That would kill him, perhaps." "You're right, Laura," said her brother, gravely. "We'll take care." Chet and Lance went to the aid of the unfortunate youth. Otto managed the rope. The chauffeur started his engine and got into his seat. "Ready! start easily," called Laura, when the boys were placed directly behind Hebe. The car lurched forward; the rope strained and creaked; then--slowly but surely--the rock began to move. "Easy, boys!" commanded Laura. Hebe shrieked with pain. The boulder rolled and the rope slipped. But the two boys darted back into deeper water, dragging the victim of the accident with them. It was all over and Hebe was released in a few seconds. But he had lost consciousness and they carried him out and put him into the Belding car. "Shall we take him home?" Chet demanded. "He ought to have a doctor at once," said Laura. "Better still, he ought to be taken to the hospital." "That's what we'll do," said Chet, quickly. "Lance, you and Purt come with me. We'll make him easy in the tonneau. And gee! here's the luncheon all in a jumble." "What did I tell you?" wailed Prettyman. "Oh, get in! get in!" exclaimed Chet. "You can stuff your face with all those goodies while we ride into town. And maybe this poor fellow will come to his senses and try Nellie's lemon meringue pie--it's a dandy, Nellie!" By the shortest road they could take--through the Four Corners--the ride to the City Hospital was bound to occupy an hour--and another to return. Meanwhile the remainder of the party had their lunch and then went after the nut harvest. Despite the incident of the wounded Pocock, the day ended happily enough and they went home at dusk with stores of chestnuts and shellbarks. The Beldings were late, of course, and Mammy Jinny, their old black cook, held back dinner for them, but with many complaints. "It's jest de beatenes' what disher fambly is a-comin' to," she grumbled, as she helped wait at table when the family had gathered for the belated meal. "Gits so, anyhow, dat de hull on youse is out 'most all day long. Eberything comes onter Mammy's shoulders." "That's all right, Jinny. They're good and broad," said Mr. Belding, for she was a privileged character. "Ya--as. Dat's wot youse allus say, Mars' Belding. Den dere was de watah man come ter bodder we-uns. Sech a combobberation I never do see. I tol' him we nebber drink no tap watah, but has it bro't in bottles, same as nice fo'ks does----" "The water man?" repeated Mrs. Belding, curiously. "I can't imagine who that could be." "Ya--as, ma'am!" exclaimed Mammy Jinny, who certainly loved the sound of long words, and hard words. "He come yere enquiratin' erbout de tuberculosis in de watah." "Crickey jacks!" gasped Chet, choking. "What's that?" "My son!" begged his mother. "Please do not use such awful expressions. You are worse than Jinny." "Ain't nothin' de matter wid wot I sez!" declared the old black woman. "Dat's wot he wanted ter know erbout--de tuberculosis in de watah." Mr. Belding recovered his breath. "Was by chance the man asking about the _consumption_ of water, Jinny?" he asked. "Dat's it," said the black woman. "Same t'ing, ain't it? Miss Laura say so. 'Consumption' an' 'tuberculosis' jes de same--heh?" "That's one on you, Laura!" shouted Chet, as Mammy Jinny indignantly waddled out. "Shouldn't teach Mammy words of more than one 'syllabub.' You've been warned before. "By the way," he added, for they had told their parents about the adventure of the afternoon, "that Pocock is in the ward with the man Hester Grimes saved from the forest fire--right in the next bed to Billson. Pocock had both legs broken, the doctors told me--one above the knee and the other below. He's going to have a bad time of it." "Pocock, eh?" said Mr. Belding. "Hebron Pocock is the name of the person who applied to the Board of Education for the job of watchman at the girls' gymnasium. I believe he gave Henry Grimes as reference. But I think we shall keep Jackway. He's a faithful soul and, whoever got into the gym. and did that damage, I am convinced that it was not Jackway's fault." "No; it wasn't Jackway's fault," muttered Chet to Laura. "But I guess we could find the person at fault pretty easily, eh?" CHAPTER XIX AT LUMBERPORT The girls of Central High were not neglecting other athletic work through their interest in basketball; but just as the boys were giving most of their spare time to football, so their sisters, during the fall weather, were mainly interested in their own game. As a whole, the girls' classes of Central High were given practice at the game at least twice a week; and of course the representative team, to which our particular friends belonged, was on the court almost daily. There were games between the less advanced teams, too, which brought the parents of the girls to the athletic field; and as the season advanced the courts were marked out in the large upper room of the gymnasium building, so that the game could be played under cover on stormy days. With the handicap against it at the beginning, of having been roughly played in the city clubs, and the record of several girls having been hurt who played without the oversight of a proper instructor, the game gradually grew in favor at Central High until even such old-fashioned folk as Mrs. Belding spoke approvingly of the exercise. The girls themselves, even the "squabs" and "broilers," as Bobby Hargrew called the freshmen and sophomores, were more and more enthusiastic over basketball as the days passed. Although their champion team was being beaten or tied in the trophy inter-school series, they went to see each game, from week to week, and cheered the Central High team with unflagging loyalty. The very next week Laura's team went to Lumberport, a small steamboat being chartered. It was filled with Central High girls and their friends, and they went over to the game, intending to have a collation aboard after the game and return down the lake by moonlight. "Whether you girls beat the Lumberport girls, or not," chuckled Chet, "we're bound to have a fine time. But I _do_ hope you'll lead your team to victory at least _once_ this season, Laura. It looks as if you girls couldn't beat an addled egg!" "Nor anybody else, Mr. Smartie!" snapped Jess Morse. "You don't know much about eggs, I guess." "Nor you girls don't seem to know much about basketball," chuckled Chet. "What's the fight about?" demanded Bobby, coming up to the group on the upper deck of the steamer. "We ought to all pitch into him," said Jess, pointing to Chet. "He is maligning the team." "All right I'll help--if it's to be 'battle, murder, and sudden death,'" chuckled Bobby. "We ought to get our hands in, anyway, for to-morrow." "What's to-morrow?" cried the girls. "Didn't you hear what Gee Gee said to the English class to-day when the gong rang?" "Go on, Bobby. What's the joke?" urged Dora Lockwood. "Why, Gee Gee said, 'Now, young ladies, that we have finished this present subject, to-morrow we shall take the life of Carlyle. Come prepared.' If Jess really wants us to help her draw and quarter Chet, it might be good practice for what we're going to do to Mr. Carlyle." "Poor Gee Gee," said Nellie, shaking her head. "She has her hands full just now. Some of the squabs are as bad as ever you were, Bobby, when you were a freshie." "I like that!" exclaimed the irrepressible. "Me bad!" "But what's happened to Miss Carrington?" asked Laura. "She's got some mighty smart scholars in the freshman class," said Nellie. "The other day she asked them what two very famous men were boys together, and what do you suppose was the answer she got?" "Give it up!" exclaimed Jess. "What was it?" "One of those fresh squabs put up her hand and when Gee Gee nodded to her, she squeals: 'Oh, I know, Miss Carrington! The Siamese Twins!'" There were enough old folk aboard the steamboat to keep the exuberance of the boys and girls within bounds. Short and Long had brought with him his famous piratical wig and whiskers, and with these in place and an old red sash-curtain draped about him, he looked more like a gnome than ever, he was so little. The girls dressed up a stateroom for him, into which he retired and told fortunes. And as Billy Long did not lack in wit he told some funny ones. This was one of the few occasions when Alice Long, Billy's busy sister, had escaped from her manifold home duties to join in the "high jinks" of her schoolmates. When they were all laughing at Billy's antics and prophecies, Laura said to Alice: "How do you ever manage to get along with those children, Alice? Tommy is as full of mischief as Billy, isn't he?" "He's worse," sighed the big sister; yet she smiled, too. "Tommy's pretty cute, just the same. He had a birthday last week, and Dr. Agnew came through our street going to see Johnny Doyle. "'Hullo, Doctor!' Tommy called to him. 'I gotter birfday.' "'You have!' exclaimed the doctor, apparently very much astonished.'How many birthdays does that make?' "'I'm five, I am,' says Tommy. "'Five years old! Well,' ruminated the doctor, stopping at the gate as though he contemplated coming in, 'what had I better do to a boy that's got a birthday?' "And Tommy speaks right up promptly: 'You can't! I'm sitting on it!'" They had a lot of fun on the boat; but when the basketball team of Central High got into their gymnasium suits in the Lumberport High School dressing-room, they came down to serious thoughts again. "We really _must_ beat these girls," said Laura, Mrs. Case being out of the room. "It's all right to talk about being 'good losers' and all that. But we don't want to be either good, or bad, losers all the time. We've lost enough in the past. It's up to us to put Lumberport on the shelf!" "Hear! hear!" cried Bobby. "That's the talk." "We have usually been able to handle Lumberport at basketball," continued Laura. "Let's not make this an exception to a good rule." Even Roberta felt the inspiration of coming success before the game. The team had been practicing faithfully and there was no real reason why every member of it should not make a good showing. Mrs. Case encouraged them as they went on to the court, and the Central High crowd lined out the "yell" to greet them. There was a big audience, for the Lumberport school had a good field and the parents of the girls engaged were enthusiastic over basketball. The ball was tossed up and Laura shot it over to Lily. Lily was a pretty sure player when she was not excited. It was safe to trust her during the first of any game. She now passed it quickly according to her captain's signal, and to the right girl. The girls of Central High kept the ball in play for a couple of minutes, and entirely away from their opponents. Then Nellie got it for a good throw and--pop! the ball went into the basket. "First goal--hurrah!" yelled the boys from Central High. For despite the insistence of the League rules, and the advice and preachments of physical instructors, there was bound to be a spirit of rivalry in the games. How else would the interest be kept up? Playing for the sake of the game is all right; but the personal desire to win is, after all, what inspires any player to do his, or her, best. There was no ugly playing, however; tense as was the interest, the opposing teams played fair and there was not an unpleasant word or look indulged in by a member of either. With Hester Grimes off the team from Central High there could be no complaint that they played too hard, or unfairly. The whistle in this first half sounded very seldom for fouls. And the game was played with a snap and vigor that was delightful. Central High had somewhat the best of it from that very first goal. They won point after point. Half way through the first half Central High was three points in the lead. When there were five minutes still to go they made another clean goal, putting them up two more points. But the Lumberport girls played well, too; they did not "go to pieces" because the visitors' efforts were crowned with success. They fought steadily and made a goal during that last five minutes. Then the girls of Central High got the ball and made a run with it down the field. Nellie seized it again and turned swiftly to throw. As she did so her ankle turned under her and she came down upon one knee with a little cry. The umpire was about to sound the whistle for time; but the doctor's daughter sprang up instantly and threw the ball straight into the basket. As she did so the timekeeper sounded her whistle. The half was over. Two of the girls ran to help Nellie, who stood, as Bobby said, "on one leg like a stork!" She hobbled to the dressing-room between them. "Oh, dear me! who'll we put in, Laura?" wailed Jess. "You sha'n't put in anybody," cried Nellie, gritting her teeth to keep back a cry of pain as she set the injured foot to the floor again. "This will be all right in a moment." "Looks like it!" cried Dorothy. "You're knocked out, Miss," said Dora. "You know you are." "I'm not!" replied Nellie. Mrs. Case came hurriedly in. "You'll have to rest that ankle, child" she said. "Captain Belding will have to put in a substitute." "No, Mrs. Case. I'm going to play out the game," declared Nellie. "You must not forbid it. I've only twisted my ankle. It will be all right to-morrow. I'll show you!" she cried, and began stripping off her shoe and stocking. CHAPTER XX WINNING ALL ALONG THE LINE "I Can't allow you to take risks, Nellie Agnew," cried the physical instructor. "What would the doctor say to me?" "I'll tell you what Daddy Doctor would say," returned Nellie, grinning grimly to answer the shoot of pain that went through the injured ankle. "And what is that, Miss?" "He'd say: 'Grin and bear it! Play up!'" laughed Nellie, yet with a choke in her voice. "Bring me my bag, Bobby. I want my 'first-aid' kit." "Nellie!" gasped Laura, amazed to see the gentle girl so firm. "We can find somebody else to put in instead of you----" "Yes, but you're not going to," cried Nellie. "Give me that bandage, Bobby. There, Mrs. Case! you know how it ought to be used. Tight--tight, now! That will hold me up. And, really, half an hour's rest would cure the ache, anyway. Daddy Doctor admires pluck. He admires Hester's bravery. I guess I wouldn't be his daughter if I didn't have just a bit of pluck myself." "Hurrah for Nell!" squealed Bobby, waving a second bandage over her head, and the pin coming out, the strip of muslin soon became a tangle of ribbon-like cloth. "Can she do it, Mrs. Case?" asked the doubtful Laura. "She _shall_ do it!" returned the instructor. "It won't hurt the ankle--bound up like that. Now, on with her stocking--and her shoe. Does it hurt, Nellie?" "It's all right," declared the doctor's daughter. "Does the shoe hurt it?" "It's all right, I tell you," insisted Nellie, standing up. Then the gong rang. The girls started for the door. Nellie was not the last one to reach her position. At first the audience was amazed to see her in place after she had hobbled off the field between two of her mates. Then, understanding, they cheered her--the boys deafeningly. "You're all right, Nellie Agnew!" yelled Chet from where the boys of Central High were massed. And how those girls of Central High played! Perhaps it was the inspiration of Nellie's courage. Perhaps it was the inspiration of the cheering spectators. But never before had Laura and her team-mates played better basketball than in that second half with the Lumberport team. Nor did the latter team "go to pieces." Every point was fought for. Suddenly the ball reached Nellie's hands again. Her guard was in front of her. She dashed quickly back, as light of foot as she had been before her injury. Her guard was after her, but Nellie dodged to the right and then caged the ball from almost the center line! "Good for you, Nell Agnew!" shouted the spectators. Again the ball was at center and was tossed up. "Shoot it to Nell, Laura!" advised some boy in the audience. "She'll know what to do with it!" "Quick, there, center! don't be all night!" yelled another. But the girls of Central High kept their heads about them. They watched their captain's signals. The Lumberport jumping center threw the ball the wrong way. Again Nellie jumped for it, and almost fell again; but she shot the ball true and fair to the basket. By this time Nell was the heroine of the whole crowd. Her opposing guard was putting up a splendid game, but she was always just a breath too late. Laura saw that the doctor's daughter was keyed up for fine work, and she let her have the ball once more. Nell dashed first to the left, then to the right; she completely lost her guard, and the guard from the other side ran in to intercept her. This is not altogether good basketball, and it gave Nell a splendid opening. "Shoot it here, Nell!" cried Laura. The ball passed through the hands of three Central High girls--a triple play often practiced on their own court--and then--plop! into the basket! Another goal to their score. Time and again the Lumberport team came near to making a goal; but at the end the tally stood with the visitors eight points ahead of their opponents, after a fifteen-minute session that abounded in good plays and vigorous action. The crowd from Central High certainly were in fine fettle when they marched down to the dock and went aboard their steamer. There was a fine spread in the cabin and Chet Belding made a speech. That was arranged for beforehand and most of Chet's speech dealt with "Why Prettyman Sweet Eats So Much." Pretty was used to being joked, and didn't mind it much as long as Chet was talking and _he_ could continue to graze at his pleasure upon the good things on the table. "Only, I say!" he exclaimed, when Chet's speech was concluded, "I don't see why I am always selected to point a mowal and adorn a tale. Weally, I don't eat so much more than anybody else--according to my height." "That's right, Purt!" cried Lance. "There's a lot of you--lengthwise!" "And just think what a thin shell you've got," cackled Billy Long. "That's why it takes so much to fill you up, old boy." "Don't carp and criticise, Billy-boy," said his sister, Alice. "I notice that a good deal goes onto your plate, too--and you haven't arrived at Purt's age yet." "Don't talk to Billy about ages," giggled Bobby. "He can't remember anybody's age. I bet he couldn't tell how old Methuselah was." "Give it up! Didn't know the gentleman. What team did _he_ play on?" asked Billy, with his mouth full. "Methuselah was 969 years old," declared Purt, seriously. "Pshaw, Purt! was that it?" demanded Billy. "I always thought that was his telephone number." The moon was up in all her October glory when the young folk crowded upon the upper deck. There was a big gramophone on the boat and they had music, and singing, and the trip home was as enjoyable as it could be. The day, too, was a red letter one for the basketball team of Central High. From that time they began to win all along the line in the inter-school series. They won from both East and West Highs during that month, and tied Keyport when that team came to the Hill to play them. The score of games played that fall showed Central High third on the list at the end of October, whereas they had been fifth. Keyport was in the lead and East High second; for in playing with other teams these two schools almost always won. Chet Belding kept in touch with Hebe Pocock's condition at the hospital and occasionally sent the injured fellow some fruit and other delicacies. Once when he went to ask after Hebe the doctor told the boy to go up to the accident ward and see him. "He's been asking after you. Wants to thank you for the stuff you've sent in. He's a pretty tough citizen, is Hebe," laughed the doctor. "But he has some gratitude in his make-up." Chet went up and found that Hebe and the man Billson were pretty good friends, being in neighboring beds. In fact, Billson was now up and about the ward and would soon be allowed to leave the hospital; but it would be some time yet before Hebe could walk. "It jest dishes me about gittin' that job at the young ladies' gymnasium, heh?" said Hebe. "Did they put that Jackway out?" "Why, no," said Chet, puzzled a bit by the young man's manner and look. "Why should they?" "He warn't no good," grunted Hebe. "You bet, if I'd had his job, nobody would have got in there and cut up all that stuff without my knowin' who did it." "Perhaps he _does_ know who did it," said Chet, slowly. Pocock flashed him a sudden look of interest. "He ain't said so, has he?" "Well--no." "And they ain't give him the bounce?" "My father says he doesn't think Jackway is to blame." "Huh!" grumbled Hebe. "Maybe I'll git that job yet." "How do you expect to do it?" demanded Chet. "Never you mind. Henry Grimes has got some influence, I reckon, an' he said I should have it." "I guess they'll keep on Jackway. I wouldn't think of it, if I was you," said Chet, seriously. "Say! that fellow's a dub!" growled Hebe, and became silent. Chet talked with the squatter, Billson, as they walked down the long ward together. "He's always goin' on about that job at the gym.," chuckled Billson, with a hitch of his shoulder toward Hebe's bed. "He was talkin' to Miss Grimes about it when she was in to see me the other day. That's a fine gal--Miss Grimes." "I'm glad you find her so," returned Chet, but with considerable surprise. "Nobody really knows who did that mean job in the girls' gymnasium, eh?" "Well--some of us suspect pretty hard," said Chet, slowly. Billson looked at him, screwing up his eyes tight. "Mebbe I could find out, Mr. Belding." "How could you?" demanded Chet, quickly. "That's telling. Perhaps I know something. I'd do a good deal to clear Miss Grimes of all this suspicion. Oh, I've heard the doctors and nurses talking about it." "Say! do you think it would help clear her of suspicion if you found out the truth?" demanded Chet, in wonder. "Huh! why not?" returned Billson. "I guess you're one of these crazy folk that think she did it?" "No. But I bet she knows who _did_ do it," blurted out Chet. "Good-day, young man!" snapped Billson. "I guess you ain't interested in what I know," and he turned on his heel and limped away up the ward. But Chet went out, feeling very much puzzled, and proceeded to take Mother Wit into his confidence. If Hester was innocent of even the smallest part in that affair, the whole school--and people outside the school, too--were treating Hester very unfairly. For by this time Hester Grimes scarcely had a speaking acquaintance with the other girls of Central High, and she was welcome only at Lily Pendleton's home. CHAPTER XXI WHAT HESTER DID Dr. Agnew was very much troubled over his little patient down in the tenements, and he told Nellie about it one evening after supper. "I have had to insist that the child be taken to the hospital," said the good doctor. "That almost broke his mother's heart; but their rooms were not sufficiently airy. And then, the child is suffering from pernicious anæmia, and unless he mends he will die, anyway." "That is an awful hard name to call little Johnny, Daddy Doctor," said Nellie. "It is awfully hard for little Johnny, that's a fact," said the doctor, thoughtfully. "It is awfully hard for his mother, who, like the plucky widow she is, has struggled so hard to bring those children to where they are. Bill, of course, has helped her; but Bill isn't much smarter in some ways than silly Rufe. The widow's done it all; and she's just wrapped up in Johnny." "How cruel for anything to happen to him!" sighed Nellie. "It looks so. We can't see things in their true light very often, I suppose. It takes a Divine Eye to see straight," and the doctor wagged his head. "Here's this poor woman would give her heart's blood--that's the expression she uses--to save the little fellow. But her blood won't do. She is not in a healthy condition herself. And Johnny needs perfectly healthy, normal blood----" "My goodness, Daddy Doctor!" exclaimed Nellie, with a shiver. "How you do talk!" "Eh?" "As though anybody's blood could help poor Johnny." "Ah! but that's just it, Nellie. Somebody's blood _would_ help poor little Johnny. A pint or so of somebody's healthy, red blood----" "How horrid!" cried the girl, trying to jump off the chair; but her father's big hand held her. "Wait. Don't be a ridiculous Miss Nancy!" he said, with a chuckle. "You are as much a surgeon's daughter as a doctor's daughter, I hope." "I'm proud that you heal folk of diseases, Daddy Doctor," she said, laughing faintly. "But you talk now just like a butcher." "No. The transfusion of blood is one of the most wonderful and blessed discoveries of recent years. Perhaps not a discovery; but the proper way to do it is a recent discovery. And that is what we want to try on little Johnny at the hospital." "Oh, Daddy!" gasped Nellie, at last seeing that he was in earnest. "Johnny's condition is such that he needs good, red corpuscles pumping through his veins, and without a proper amount or a proper quality of blood, he cannot live. The nourishment he can take is insufficient to make this blood. What he must have is now in the possession of some other person. We must find that person very quickly--or not at all." "Oh, Daddy Doctor!" she whispered. "_I_ could never do a thing like that!" "I should say not," responded her father, quickly. "Don't make this a personal matter, Kitten. You need every ounce of blood you've got for yourself. You have been perilously near the anæmic state yourself in times past. This athletic business and the resultant hearty appetite you maintain has been the salvation of you, Nellie girl. "Ah! we need a robust, healthy young person who would be willing to give a quantity of blood and not miss it. And I venture to say it's healthy blood that gives her that color, despite the fact that you Miss Namby-pambies consider it 'coarse' and 'horrid' to have a red face." "Hester!" exclaimed Nellie. The doctor nodded, then fell into silence again. It was the next afternoon that they proposed taking little Johnny Doyle to the hospital. The good doctor was at the widow's waiting for the ambulance when Hester Grimes came in. The widow was wailing as though her heart were broken; for with people of this degree of intelligence, to take a patient to the hospital is equal to signing his death warrant. "Ochone! Ochone! I'll never see me little Johnny runnin' around the flure again," she said to Hester. "He's goin' jest like his poor feyther." "What nonsense you're talking, Mrs. Doyle!" cried Hester, cheerfully. "He'll come back to you as chipper as a sparrow. Won't he, Dr. Agnew?" "So I tell her--if God wills," added the physician in a lower tone. Hester glanced at him sharply and then walked to the front room window where Dr. Agnew sat. "What is it he needs, Doctor?" she asked, in a low voice. "His mother's always talking so wild I cannot make head nor tail of it. She says you want to put new blood in him." "That is it exactly," said Dr. Agnew, his eyes twinkling. "A pint of blood such as your veins carry in such abundance might save Johnny's life." "Do you mean that, Doctor?" "Yes, Miss Hester." "Then he can have it," returned the girl, quietly. "You can take it now, for all I care." The doctor jumped up and walked back and forth across the room. Then he saw Hester stripping up her sleeve. "No, no," he said. "It isn't as easy as all that. And I'm not sure I'd be doing right to let you do it----" "I guess you're not _my_ conscience, Dr. Agnew," said Hester, in her usual brusque way. "No; but I have a conscience of my own," said the doctor, grimly. "This isn't a thing to be done in a minute, or in a corner, young lady. It includes one of the very nicest of surgical operations. It will keep you out of school for some time. It will keep you at the hospital. It will, indeed, keep you in bed longer than you care to stay, perhaps." "Is it dangerous?" "To you? No. Not in any appreciable degree. You are a full-blooded girl. You can spare much more than Johnny needs----" "Then let it be done," said Hester, firmly. "We'll have to see what your mother and father say." "You leave that to me," said Hester. "I know how to manage them." Dr. Agnew looked at her for a moment with his brow wrinkled and his lips pursed up. "I'm not sure whether, if you were my daughter, I should be most proud of you, or afraid for you," he said. She only looked puzzled by his speech. "What do you want me to do?" she asked, finally. "Come here to the light," the doctor said, rummaging in his kit for a tiny instrument. He held her thumb firmly. "It will only be a needle prick." "Go ahead," said Hester. He shot the needle into the ball of her thumb and drew out a drop or two of blood in the glass bulb of the syringe. "We'll just find out what _this_ tells about you in the laboratory," said the doctor. "I'm much mistaken if it doesn't tell a good story, Hester Grimes. Then I'll come and see your father and mother this evening." "You needn't bother if you're going to be busy," observed Hester, coolly. "They will give their permission. When will you want me at the hospital?" "You will sleep there to-night under the care of one of our very nicest nurses--Miss Parraday," said the doctor, smiling again. "And our little boy here--God willing--shall have a chance for life." CHAPTER XXII WHAT MR. BILLSON COULD TELL The champion basketball team of Central High was holding its own, and even gaining a point or two now and then in the trophy series; but it seemed impossible for the hard-working girls to change their standing in the schedule of the teams. They remained Number 3. They could beat West High and Lumberport High School teams every time they played with them; but it was a hard struggle for Laura and her mates to break even with East High or Centerport, and the Keyport girls almost always downed them. "It's a boiling shame!" cried Bobby Hargrew, one day at Laura's, when some of the team were talking matters over. "We're getting swiped----" "Goodness me, Bobby!" gasped Laura. "_Don't_ let poor mother hear you use such dreadful language. It positively hurts her to have Chet use slang; and you are worse than he is." "One would think that you had never been under the benign influence of Miss Carrington," chuckled Jess Morse. "Bah!" retorted Bobby. "I don't know but I feel a good deal like my little cousin Effie about education. You know, Effie is only six. The other day her mother had company and her mother and the other lady were talking about something that they didn't want 'little pitchers' to understand. So they spelled some of the words instead of speaking them out, and Effie listened with both eyes and mouth wide open. But she couldn't catch the meaning of the spelled words. Finally she got mad and went out to her papa on the porch and says she: "'Daddy, there's altogether too much education in this house!' "And I'm getting so saturated with Gee Gee's English and Dimple's Latin, and Miss Gould's French, that positively I _have_ to let off steam by using slang," concluded Bobby. "Just keep your slang for other places then, Bobby," said Laura. "Mother is likely to overhear you----" "And Laura's pretty prim and particular herself," laughed Dora Lockwood. Jess began to giggle. "She's getting literary, I understand," she said. "So Mammy Jinny says. I heard her grumbling to herself only this morning when Jinny was 'ridding up' the living room here. She says: "'Dese yere literary folk is suah a trouble. Leabin' books, an' papers, an' pen an' ink eroun' fo' odder folks to pick up.'" "'Is Laura literary, Mammy?' I asked her. "'Suah is,' says Mammy Jinny. 'Littahs t'ings all ober de house!'" When the laugh against her had subsided, Laura said: "But what good is it to boil, Bobby, if we can't win games? To reach the top and win the trophy, we must win every game of the series from now on." "And a fat chance we've got to do that!" exclaimed Bobby, scornfully. "Four of them are as good as won," said Dora, confidently. "Those with the West High and Lumberport teams." "Don't be too sure of the Lumberport team," advised Laura. "It improves all the time." "We can beat it if Roberta keeps up her end," declared Jess. "But how about Keyport and East High?" "Keyport has outplayed us all but one game," complained Dorothy Lockwood. "East High has beaten us two games and one was a draw. But we _have_ beaten them and we ought to be able to do it again." "That's when Hester was on the team," said Laura, quietly. Bobby stood up and smote her two hands together loudly. "If we only had Hester back!" she cried. "Why, Bobby!" cried Jess. "I don't care. It's so. I don't like Hester; but I hate to see Central High lose the trophy for the need of another good player." Nellie Agnew was just coming in and she heard part of what Bobby said. "Oh, girls!" she cried. "Do you know where Hester is?" "She wasn't at school to-day," said Dora. "Nor yesterday," added her twin. "Nor the day before that," cried Laura. "What's happened to her?" "She is in the hospital," said Nellie, solemnly. "My goodness me! what for?" gasped Bobby Hargrew. Nellie told them. Indeed, she expatiated on the affair to the full. Hester had displayed a quality of courage that appealed strongly to the doctor's daughter. It was no brave act inspired by impulse, and "of the minute." It took right down moral courage to do what Hester had done. "The transfusion of blood was accomplished yesterday. The operation was entirely successful. Hester and Johnny are side by side in little narrow beds in the children's ward of the hospital. Daddy Doctor let me in to peek at them," said Nellie, her eyes full of tears. "That girl's just splendid! Johnny is going to live and be strong again, the doctors say. Oh! I feel so _little_ when I think of Hester. I'm so sorry I signed that round robin, or said anything against her being on the team. I--I wish we had her back." "So--so do I," exclaimed Dora, and Dorothy echoed her twin's desire. "I wouldn't mind if old Hess was playing with us," said Bobby, with a grin. "Huh! I guess I was the first one to say so." And this last incident marked the further--and stronger--interest the boys and girls of Central High had centered in the City Hospital. Laura and Chet had not forgotten Mr. Billson's odd remarks about the gymnasium mystery and Chet had gone again and again to the hospital to sound the man who had been so badly injured in the forest fire. But Billson was hard to approach. He considered Chet one of those who believed Hester Grimes guilty of instigating the raid on the gymnasium. Billson had acquired a fierce admiration for Hester, and it made him angry with anybody who expressed a doubt of her entire innocence of the crime which Rumor laid at her door. But suddenly public opinion veered clear around. The story of little Johnny Doyle's necessity and how Hester had volunteered to come to his aid spread about the Hill section of Centerport almost as quickly as had the story of the gymnasium mystery. "What do you think?" Billson asked Chet Belding, when the boy visited him and Hebe Pocock again--but this was out of Hebe's hearing. "What do you think--that a girl like this would hire a foolish boy to do such dirty work? If Miss Grimes had wanted to bust up that gymnasium, you bet she'd have had the pluck to go and do it herself! That's my opinion." "Well, Rufe was there," said Chet, quietly. "Where?" "In the gym. The first night the things were disturbed. Bill Jackway admits that. They've got time-clocks for him and he goes all over the building several times a night, now; and they have let him hire another man to help him on the field during the day. But he says that he let Rufe out at midnight because the boy was scared and wanted to go home. And the second time, Rufe could have slipped in when Bill had the door ajar, and afterward got out of the window and walked backward to the field fence. Oh, he could have done it." "But why mix Hester Grimes up with it?" growled Billson. "Rufe would never have thought of the thing himself, I don't believe. And Hester threatened to 'fix' all the girls, and said she hated them, and the gym., and the whole thing." "Guess she was mad," said the man. "Quite likely. She sure wasn't _glad_," returned the boy, drily. "And I suppose you think," said Mr. Billson, scowling, "that she is doing all this for the Doyles to pay Rufus for his monkey-shines, eh?" "No I never said such a thing," cried the indignant Chet. "Then what? If folks have really got anything against Miss Hester, why don't they come out square and say so? This hinting at things--going 'all 'round Robin Hood's barn'--gets my goat--it does so!" "I guess the girls of Central High feel a whole lot differently toward Hester than they did," admitted Chet. "At least, they talk differently." And it was a fact. While Chet and Billson were talking the basketball team had gathered at the Belding house and had concocted another "round robin." But this one was couched in quite different language from the first that had been presented to their physical instructor. This time both Lily Pendleton and Roberta Fish signed the paper, which was an unequivocal request that Hester Grimes be invited to take her old position on the team. Hester had not come back to school yet; the doctor would not allow it. But she was taking her lessons at home. Johnny Doyle was well on the way to recovery and all Hester needed was a little rest, the doctor said, to put her in as good condition as usual. The round robin went to Mrs. Case and, after an interview with the principal, Mrs. Case went again to call on Hester at her home. "Ain't she the greatest girl you ever heard of, Mis' Case?" demanded Mrs. Grimes, fluttering about as she ushered the teacher into Hester's presence. "Me and her father can't do a thing with her when Hess is set on doing anything she wants to do. And this at the hospital--well, if we say a thing about it she gets that mad!" "How-do, Mrs. Case?" yawned Hester, who had been reading, curled up in the window-seat. "Do take that easy chair. Mother! I declare--you have got a grease spot on that wrapper." "Oh, excuse me!" exclaimed the simple Mrs. Grimes. "I'll go change it for a fresh one." Thus her daughter got her out of the room before Mrs. Case began to talk. And, indeed, it was Hester herself who began the conversation in her usual abrupt way. "I don't know how you feel towards me, Mrs. Case, but I know I was impudent to you when you were here before. But you said you could show me how to get back on the basketball team, and I guess I _do_ want to get back--if it isn't too late?" she concluded, wistfully. "That's what I've come to talk about," said Mrs. Case, promptly. "The girls want you back----" "Oh, no!" exclaimed Hester, in surprise. "Oh, yes!" returned the teacher, smiling, and bringing out the paper the members of the team had signed. She put it into Hester's hand; the girl read it quickly and then turned her face away so that Mrs. Case should not see her eyes for a moment. "They say they need me!" Hester said, in a choked tone. "Yes," returned the teacher, simply. "That they can't win the trophy without me," added Hester, devouring the writing again. "Yes." "And they don't say a word about that foolish business at the hospital. Folks talk too much about that," said Hester, recovering her usual manner. "If these girls really want me to help the team, I'll play." "They want you, Hester, for just that purpose. If they have more kindly feelings toward you than they have had of late, that is between them and you. But as for your joining the team again----" "Yes, Mrs. Case?" "You must remember the rules and play the game in a sportsmanlike manner," declared the instructor firmly. "You understand me?" "Yes, Mrs. Case," returned the girl, hanging her head. "Then I shall expect you to appear for practice just as soon as Dr. Agnew allows you to take up that work," said the teacher, rising briskly. "And I shall be glad to have you back on the first team," she added, giving Hester's hand a hearty squeeze. CHAPTER XXIII CLIMBING UP By the middle of the next week Hester was playing regularly in her old position on the basketball team. Roberta Fish had dropped back into the second team with all the grace of the sweet-tempered girl she was. "I'm only too glad she's come back," said Roberta, referring to Hester Grimes. "It's much more important that Central High should win that beautiful silver trophy than for _me_ to have the honor of playing on the champion team." "You're a good sort, Roberta," said Bobby Hargrew, admiringly. "Now, I'd be _mad_ if they'd asked me to step down and let somebody take my place." "No," said Laura. "You'd be loyal, too, Bobby." "And that's the A. B. C. of athletics, child," said Nellie Agnew, remembering very clearly what the doctor had said to her weeks before on the subject. "'A. B. C.,' indeed!" sniffed Bobby. "You make me feel like a primary kid again, I declare!" Jess Morse began to laugh. "Some of these primary kids, as Bobby calls them, are pretty smart. Allison Mapes--you know her?--who teaches the first grade, was telling of a little Bohemian boy in her class. He is smart as a whip, but English is quite a paralyzing language to him. She asked him the other day: "'Ivan, what is a calf?' "And the boy answered: 'Missis, that's the child of a cow and the back of your leg!'" When the laugh over this had subsided Laura spoke seriously. They were talking in one of the small offices of the school, having retired to discuss the forthcoming games. "It isn't all plum cake and lemonade, girls, even to beat West High and Lumberport----" "Oh, my!" croaked Bobby. "See what we did to West High last time without Hester." "That was a fluke," declared the captain. "Why, they're babies!" said Josephine Morse, confidently. "And Lumberport as well." "Don't get the idea in your head that we are going to whip any team so easily. That's when we are going to lose," urged Laura. "Being too sure is as bad as being careless in your play." "Now she is hitting _me_," grumbled her chum. "Well, Jess, if the cap fits, put it on." "But do let us encourage ourselves, Mother Wit," cried one of the twins. "Goodness knows, we need it." "That's right," said her sister. "We've had _such_ bad luck!" "Aw, she's a regular old croaker!" shouted Bobby, dancing up and down. "We are going to win every game from now on!" "Hush!" exclaimed Laura. "We're making too much noise. Somebody will come and put us out." "Nope. Nobody here but John, the janitor. Gee Gee's gone home, you bet. I wish those other girls would come and we could get down to business." "You look out, Bobby. If you get black marks again maybe _you'll_ be taken off the team for the rest of the term." "Oh, oh!" cried the irrepressible. "Don't say such a thing." "That would be too mean!" cried Dora. "Indeed it would!" added her sister. They were all making a deal of noise. As Laura said, "one could scarcely hear one's self think." And noise was not allowed in the school building, whether in classes, or out. Suddenly, at the height of the revelry, there came a stern knock on the door. Behind the thick oak the startled girls heard a sharp voice exclaim: "Young ladies!" "Oh, gee!" gasped Bobby. "Hush!" commanded Laura. "Shucks! Somebody's fooling us," cried Bobby, springing to the door. "Who's there?" she shouted. "It is me--Miss Carrington," said the muffled voice. For a breath the other girls were stricken dumb when the name of the strict disciplinarian of the school was spoken. But it was Bobby who recovered her speech first, and she broke into a loud laugh. "Go 'way!" she cried. "You can't fool us. If it was Gee Gee she would have said: 'It is I'!" "Oh, my goodness! suppose it _should_ be Miss Carrington?" gasped Nellie, in horror. But the sounds outside the door ceased. Bobby, after a trembling moment, snapped open the lock and unlatched the door. The corridor was empty. But in a moment Hester Grimes appeared from the stairway and approached the meeting place of the team. "You said you wanted everybody here, Laura," she said. "But did you have Miss Carrington at your meeting?" "Miss Carrington!" they shrieked in chorus. "Yes. I just met her. And she had the funniest look on her face. What was the matter with her?" demanded Hester. "Oh, my soul!" groaned Jess. "I can tell you what the matter is. Bobby just corrected Miss Carrington's English. What do you know about _that_?" But the occasion was not one for laughter or joking now. That had surely been Miss Carrington at the door, and the reckless Bobby had called her "Gee Gee" to her face, and been saucy into the bargain! "We're done for!" Dora Lockwood groaned. "Wait till assembly to-morrow. Bobby will be called out before the whole school." "Oh! she'd never be mean enough for that!" almost wept Dorothy. "But something dreadful will happen to Bobby," urged Nellie. "She'll be forbidden after-hour athletics, as sure as shooting!" declared Jess Morse. Bobby, for once, was stricken dumb. She saw in an instant all the horrid possibilities of her reckless speech. Barred from the team for the rest of the term would be the lightest punishment she could hope for. "And Gee Gee is always lying in wait for a chance to spoil our athletics," wailed Lily Pendleton, who for once felt the sorrows of her fellows. Hester wanted to know what it all meant, and they told her. "She certainly _did_ look funny when I met her on the stairs," admitted the butcher's daughter. "And you told her she couldn't be herself because she said, 'It is me?' My! that must have been a shock to her. One of her pupils correcting Miss Carrington's use of the English language!" "It isn't any laughing matter!" flared up Bobby. "And I don't see that crying over it will help any," returned Hester, grimly. The team as a whole, however, was worried a good deal by Bobby's "bad break." To be obliged to break in a new girl at Bobby's place would be almost ruinous now. Just having gotten the team into shape once more, it seemed an awful thing to contemplate. But assembly passed the next morning without Mr. Sharp saying a word about Bobby. The session dragged on till closing time without Gee Gee's speaking to Bobby Hargrew. That very day East High was to come to play the girls of Central High on their court. The uncertainty, however, made Bobby less sure in classes, and she came near to being held to make up her Latin. But she slipped through somehow and ran away from the school building as hard as she could run, for fear that Gee Gee would send for her at the last moment. "Something's happened to her. She's had a change of heart. I'm afraid she isn't well," gasped Bobby, once safely in the dressing room of the gym. "She is _never_ going to overlook that awful break of mine--is she?" "You'd better walk a chalk line from now to the end of the term," advised Jess. "If she ever _does_ get you on any other matter she will double your punishment. I believe she is ashamed to call you up for what you said to her yesterday, because you caught her using language unbecoming a purist." "Be thankful, Bobby--and be good," advised Laura. "You have certainly escaped 'by the skin of your teeth,' as the prophet has it. No, that is not slang; it is Scripture. And do, _do_ be good for the rest of this half." "Oh, I'll be a lamb--a little, woolly lamb," groaned Bobby. "You see if I'm not!" The girls of Central High played a splendid game of basketball that afternoon. They beat the East High team fairly and squarely, and their winning this game put them up a notch in the series. They took East High's place as Number 2. There was still the Lumberport and Keyport teams to whip before Central High could win the trophy. CHAPTER XXIV HESTER WINS The final games of the trophy series between the girls of the High Schools of Centerport, Lumberport, and Keyport were played on the grounds of Central High. It was verging on winter. Thanksgiving was at hand, and the first basketball series must be out of the way before the boys' big football games on Thanksgiving eve. Although school athletics was much in the minds of the girls, those who participated in the games had to stand well in their classes to retain their positions on the teams. Books first, athletics afterward. That was the iron-bound rule of the Girls' Branch Athletic League. But most of the girls on the team of Central High were bright scholars. Miss Grace G. Carrington was never "easy" on the athletic girls. That wouldn't be her way. She usually seemed glad to put obstacles in the way of those who she knew were so deeply interested in athletics. But aside from Bobby Hargrew, that last fortnight she had no chance to demerit any of the basketball team. And--to the wonderment of the girls themselves--she never said a word to Bobby regarding what had happened when she, Miss Carrington, rapped on the office door. Having whipped East High so decisively, Captain Laura and her mates went at the Lumberport team with greater confidence. Lumberport was not the weakest team in the league; but Central High had managed to beat them in every previous game, and in this last one the home team played such snappy basketball that the visitors never came near them after the first toss-up. It was a great game and the enthusiasm of the spectators increased with every play. How the boys cheered! There was a big crowd of spectators from Lumberport and they "rooted" for their home team. Despite the excitement, however, there was not a moment's rough play. Mrs. Case had watched Hester narrowly during these final games. There had been moments when the big girl was crossed by circumstances, or by her opponents, when--in the past--she might have flared up and said, or done, something unpleasant. But Hester seemed to have gained some control of her temper, and the hard places in the games were passed over successfully. It was a fact that Hester had very little in common with the rest of her team-mates, save Lily. She did not put herself forward, and as none of them had been her close friends before she was put off the team, she still kept her distance now that she was back in harness again. At home Hester's mother was determined to make a heroine of her. Many of the ladies of the Hill, who seldom before this had called on easy-going, slip-shod Mrs. Grimes, came to see her now and praised Hester's courage and her kindness to Johnny Doyle and his widowed mother. Mrs. Grimes was, naturally, pleased at all this praise. "I've a mind to give a party, so I have!" she said to Hester, one day. "Your father could easy pay for as nice a party as was ever given on the Hill. He needn't be stingy. And we could get to be friends with all these nice folks----" "Oh, Mother!" sighed Hester. "Don't be foolish. These people don't really care a thing for us. They'd only laugh. Their houses are not even furnished like ours----" "I should say not!" cried Mrs. Grimes. "We have some of the most expensive furnichoor you could buy at Stresch & Potter's----" "Yes. At a department store. Nice people do not furnish their homes in that way. The varnish smells too new on our chairs and tables. We are too new. We never should have come to live on the Hill when father made money." "How ye talk!" exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Grimes. "Where would ye have us live--at the Four Corners still?" "Perhaps we wouldn't be so much like fish out of water there," grumbled Hester. "I'm no fish, I'd have ye understand!" exclaimed Mrs. Grimes. "And Mrs. Belding axed me to join a club--the New Century 'tis called. 'Tis all women and our husbands haven't a livin' thing to say in it. I'm goin' to join." "The New Century!" exclaimed Hester, indeed surprised. "Yes. I'd be glad to be in something that Henry couldn't poke his finger into and boss," sighed the much harassed lady. "But it's never the New Century?" cried Hester. "Why not?" "That's the most select club on the Hill. Lily's mother belongs, and Mrs. Agnew, and all those folk." "And why not _me_?" demanded her mother. "We've got as much money----" "Hush! Stop talking about money if you want to be popular in the New Century Club," said her daughter, who had learned a thing or two herself of late. "That is what is the matter with us--we're proud of our money." "And why not? When Henry began with a shoestring." "Well, don't be telling of it!" cried Hester. "These other people got their money so long ago that they've forgotten how they got it. We want to forget, too." But Hester was learning lessons fast. It had amazed her to see how people--and nice people, too--thought that what she had done for Johnny Doyle was of serious importance; while her lavish expenditure of money among her mates had heretofore won her few friends. The fact that she had saved a man from the burning woods and carried the warning of the forest fire, had made her friends, too. When she had jumped into the sewer-basin after Johnny, Dr. Agnew seemed for the first time pleased with her. _It was unselfishness that counted!_ Hester Grimes had never thought of it before. She had never thought out logically why Laura Belding was so popular, why Nellie Agnew was liked so well, and what made the other girls cluster about harum-scarum Bobby Hargrew. They were all unselfish girls, thoughtful in their several ways for the comfort of others. Hester was learning what really paid in life--especially in the life of school and athletics. A good temper, a tongue without a barb to it, and thoughtfulness for the comfort of others. Those attributes won out among the girls of Central High--as they are bound to win out in every walk in life. And Hester Grimes had begun to conduct herself accordingly. The final game of the series for the cup was slated for a certain Friday afternoon. Colonel Richard Swayne--Laura Belding's very good friend, and a liberal supporter of girls' athletics--had invited the contesting basketball teams from all five High Schools to partake of a collation in the big upper hall of Central High's new gymnasium, after the final game. _That_ was to be played between the Keyport and Central High teams. Whichever of the two teams won would stand highest in the schedule of the league, and to such winning team would be presented the trophy by the president of the Board of Education. There would be such a crowd to see the game that tickets had to be issued, and those tickets went mostly to the girls who had competed in the basketball series, for distribution among their parents and friends. There was not so much cheering by the spectators at this game, for the boys were cut out of it. There wasn't room for the regular "rooters." Many parents, however, who had not been attentive to the game before, were in the seats provided now, to criticise the sport of which they had heard so much. And everybody admitted that the two best teams of the schools were now struggling for the trophy. From the first toss-up the girls played with a snap and vigor that amazed and delighted even their instructors. Trained as they had been all the fall, there were few fouls to record, and very little retarding of the game. The signals were passed silently and the girls indulged in little talking. Unnecessary talking and laughter mars basketball. It was a pleasure to watch the lithe, vigorous young girls. They were untrammeled by any foolish fashions, or demands of dress. Their bodily movements were as free as Nature intended them to be. They jumped, and ran, and threw, with a confidence that none but the well trained athlete possesses. The first half included a series of fierce rushes upon the Keyport side for baskets; but Central High held them down. Hester played brilliantly. Not once did she lose her temper, nor foul her opponent. She blocked the attempts of the Keyport players to make goals, but the referee did not catch her over-guarding or otherwise playing foul basketball. She really won the onlookers with her splendid form in playing. They began cheering her particularly. Where Roberta Fish had been weak in the mass plays, Hester was strong. The Keyport captain, remembering that weak place in the former Central High line-up, forced the play into Hester's territory. "Oh, you Hester!" yelled Bobby, beside herself at last, with enthusiasm. "You're a bear! Shoot it, Hessie! Let it come!" But each time that the ball was shot for the basket, something intervened. Once it went straight for the basket, rolled around the rim, and dropped--to the floor without entering the receptacle! The Central High rooters met this failure with a groan. But it was not Hester's fault. She had done her best, and her shooting was as clean as it could be. The timekeeper's whistle called the play at the end of the half without either side having made a point. It had been a rasping game. Many times Hester Grimes had been tempted to say something or do something that would be counted as "rough play"; but she had restrained herself, and when she walked to the dressing room she found Mrs. Case walking beside her with a hand upon her shoulder. "Good girl!" exclaimed the physical instructor of Central High. "Keep it up, my dear, and you'll be the best player we have on the roll." "But I didn't get a chance to do a thing!" grumbled Hester, shaking her head. "That is why I am praising you," said Mrs. Case, drily. "For what you _didn't_ do. Keep it up. Restrain yourself as well for the rest of the game. Your chance may come for a brilliant play; but if it doesn't, keep a grip on yourself just the same." Hester was secretly strengthened by this praise. She went out into the field at the call of the gong for the second half with the determination to deserve Mrs. Case's good word, whether the team won or lost. And almost at first chance came Hester's way and she was permitted to display a brilliant bit of play. It brought a goal for Central High--the first scored in the game. But the girls could not stop to cheer her. Laura nodded and smiled at her, however, as the ball was brought back from the basket to be tossed up. For some reason Hester began to feel a warm glow about her heart. Her captain's commendation had never meant much to her before. Up went the ball and Laura and the other jumping center did their best to get it. The ball went from girl to girl, first in the hands of one team, then in the other. The Keyport team almost made a goal; but they were foiled by good guarding on Central High's part. Up and down the field went the ball and the excitement grew moment by moment. Two to nothing in favor of the home team! That was a situation bound to create excitement both in the field and on the benches. Suddenly the captain of the visiting team got the ball. She passed it swiftly to her back center. Signaling one after the other of her team-mates, the Keyport captain sent the ball from hand to hand until--to the startled amazement of her opponents, the ball was in hand for a clear throw. In another moment it was in the basket and the score was tied again! Four minutes more to play! When the referee threw the ball up again every one of the eighteen girls playing was on the _qui vive_. The subordinate players watched their captains for signals. Central High got the ball. They rushed it down the field. But the guarding of the Keyport team was too much for them. They could not reach the basket. Again and again was the ball passed back and forth. Once more the Keyport captain shot it back for a clear throw. But Hester managed to halt it. There were but a few moments of play left. It is not good basketball to oppose other than one's immediate opponent; but for once Hester went out of her field to stop the ball. A side swipe, and the ball was hurtled directly into Laura's hands. She turned and threw it swiftly, making the signal for the famous massed play which was the strongest point in the game as played by Central High. Down the field the ball shot, from one to the other. Hester's quick break in the Keyport plan had rattled the latter team for a moment. And before the visitors recovered, the ball was hurtling through the air straight for the basket. The whistle blew. But the ball sped on. It struck the edge of the basket; but the next breath it slid in and--_the game was won_! Central High had outstripped its strongest opponent. The game won, so was the series, and the beautiful cup would remain in the possession of Central High. "And all because of you, Hessie!" shouted Bobby, when they got back to the dressing room. "You're a bully good sport! Isn't she, girls?" "She won the game," declared Laura, coming forward to shake Hester's hand. They all had something nice to say to her. Hester couldn't reply. She stood for a moment or two in the middle of the room, listening to them; then she turned away and sought her own locker, for there were tears in her eyes. CHAPTER XXV THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED The boys, as has been said, were shut out from seeing the last basketball game of the series. Chet Belding was at the hospital that afternoon, having taken up some fruit to Hebe Pocock and Billson. The latter would soon go out and would return to his burned-over clearing in the woods. "Guess that fire helped me as much as it hurt me. I'll have to build a new shanty; but Doc Leffert was in here and said he'd rode over my piece, and that my heaps of rubbish had burned clean and all I'd have to do to clear my acres for corn would be to tam-harrow it." "Hebe isn't getting along as fast as you do, Mr. Billson," said Chet, in a low voice, for the Four Corners fellow was having a hard time to even move about on crutches. "Dunno as he deserves any better than he's got," said Billson, grumpily. "What you so cross about?" laughed Chet. "Surely you're not sore over the way folks are treating Hester Grimes _now_? She comes pretty near being the heroine of the Hill section." "Ya-as. They praise her because she done what she did for little Johnny Doyle. But many of 'em still think she set that foolish boy onto raiding the girls' gymnasium." "I don't know about that," confessed Chet, slowly. "Although we may believe that Rufe had something to do with it, perhaps he did it, after all, because he's not quite right in his head." "Oh, shucks!" exclaimed Billson. "All because he was crying to be let out of the gym. the night of the first raid?" "Well, Jackway admits he was there," repeated Chet. "And Jackway is a good deal of a fool, too," snarled Billson. "Say! there's Rufe and his mother in the corridor now, going to see Johnny in the children's ward. You bring Rufe into this ward for a minute. I want to show you something." Much puzzled, Chet Belding did as he was bid. "Come here, Rufie," said Billson, beckoning to the gangling youth. "I want to show you somebody. Come here." Billson swung back a section of the screen that hid Hebron Pocock's bed. The big fellow was lying there with his eyes closed, but he opened them quickly when Rufe appeared, and scowled. "Watcher want here, gooney?" he demanded. Rufus sprang back and looked about for escape, his weak face working pitifully. But Chet and Billson barred the way of escape. Rufe began to snivel. "What's the matter with you?" demanded Chet. "Are you afraid of this man?" asked Billson. Rufe nodded, and tried to crowd farther away from the bed. "What you doing to that kid?" demanded Hebe, sitting up. "What's the matter? Why! that's the softy I saw----" "He's a bad man. He said he'd kill me if I told!" gasped Rufus. "Where was that?" asked Billson, with his hand on the boy's arm. "Tell us all about it. He sha'n't touch you, Rufie." "Aw! I wouldn't have really hurt the gooney," growled Hebe. "He was in the place where Uncle Bill watches. I hate that old gymniasium! I wish it would burn down, so I do." "And when you were in there that night this fellow was there?" asked Billson, shaking the boy a little by the arm. "Yes. And he broke things. And Uncle was worried afterward. But I never told," Rufe urged, looking fearfully at Hebe. "I said I wouldn't----" "Aw, drop it! You've told on me now, haven't you?" demanded the fellow from the Four Corners. "Well, it don't much matter, I reckon. I wanted to queer that Jackway so he'd lose his job. Henry Grimes told me that if he was discharged he'd speak a good word for me and I'd get it. That's what I was after." "Yah!" said Billson, with scorn. "You certainly are one mean scoundrel, Pocock. And lettin' folks think mebbe Miss Hester was mixed up in it. Nice feller, you are!" "Well! I don't see where it's any of _your_ funeral," growled Pocock. "You make me tired!" But the result of Rufe's confession and Pocock's admission changed the latter's place of abode rather suddenly. Both Chet and Billson decided that the truth about the gymnasium raids should be made known at once, and the Board of Education took the matter up promptly. Pocock found himself in the infirmary of the county prison, with the chance of serving three months at hard labor when the prison doctors pronounced him able to work. His attempt to work Jackway out of the job of watchman, so that he could be appointed to the position, had acted like a boomerang. Hebron Pocock was most thoroughly punished. And Chet Belding hurried to spread the tidings of the discovery among the girls of Central High, too. He got hold of Laura before the spread the basketball teams were to enjoy, and she told Principal Sharp, who was present. When he made his usual speech of welcome, he tacked onto it a paragraph regarding the gymnasium mystery. "Which is," said Mr. Sharp, "a mystery no longer. As I said when first the matter was brought to my attention, no pupil of Central High, either male or female, could be guilty of such an abominable crime. Such a malicious piece of mischief had to be originated in a perverted mind; and we have no such minds at Central High." "But it has furnished excitement enough for us all to last for the rest of the winter," said Laura, later, to her immediate friends. "I'm so glad for Hester! But we've all been stirred up enough about it, I guess. No more excitement this term, girls!" Whether Laura's wish came true, or not, the reader will be able to find out for herself in the perusal of the next volume of this series, entitled "The Girls of Central High on the Stage; Or, The Play That Took the Prize." None of them looked forward to a really "tame" winter, however. There would be other basketball games, and plenty of out-of-door sports as well. As Bobby Hargrew said: "It's all right to say that school takes up all our time; but it's the fun we get out of school that makes Latin, and French, and mathematics, and--and--Gee Gee bearable! My! suppose we didn't have athletics at all?" "That would certainly be a state of existence perfectly unbearable--for you, Bobby," Nellie Agnew said, gravely. "You'd burst, wouldn't you?" "Into flinders!" agreed Bobby. "Athletics is the 'scape-valve for me--and I guess it is for some of the rest of you. Now, tell the truth!" And her friends had to admit the truth of her declaration. THE END THE NAN SHERWOOD SERIES By Annie Roe Carr 12 mo, cloth, illustrated, and colored jacket In Annie Roe Carr we have found a young woman of wide experience among girls--in schoolroom, in camp and while traveling. She knows girls of to-day thoroughly--their likes and dislikes--and knows that they demand almost as much action as do the boys. And she knows humor--good, clean fun and plenty of it. NAN SHERWOOD AT PINE CAMP or The Old Lumberman's Secret NAN SHERWOOD AT LAKEVIEW HALL or The Mystery of the Haunted Boathouse NAN SHERWOOD'S WINTER HOLIDAYS or Rescuing the Runaways NAN SHERWOOD AT ROSE RANCH or The Old Mexican's Treasure NAN SHERWOOD AT PALM BEACH or Strange Adventures Among the Orange Groves Transcriber's notes: Original publication data: Publisher: The World Syndicate Publishing Co., Cleveland, O. Copyright: 1914, by Grosset & Dunlap Printer: The Commercial Bookbinding Co., Cleveland, O. 
30840	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 30840-h.htm or 30840-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30840/30840-h/30840-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30840/30840-h.zip) THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON LAKE LUNA Or The Crew That Won by GERTRUDE W. MORRISON Author of The Girls Of Central High, The Girls of Central High at Basketball, Etc. Illustrated New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers [Illustration: CENTRAL HIGH HAD WON!] CONTENTS I THE LONE MAN ON THE ISLAND II MISSING: THE SHORT AND LONG OF IT III TONY ALLEGRETTO IV A SOLEMN MOMENT V AUNT DORA VI WHICH IS WHICH? VII HOW TO GET A NEW SHELL VIII HIDE AND SEEK IX ONE IS A HEROINE X BAKED IN A BISCUIT XI THE BOAT IS FOUND XII IN THE CAVE XIII THE STRANGE MAN AGAIN XIV THE NEW SHELL XV TOMMY LONG HAS A BAD DAY XVI THE CANOE RACE XVII MISS CARRINGTON IN JUDGMENT XVIII MOTHER WIT'S DISCOVERY XIX THE RESCUE XX BILLY'S STORY XXI IN PRACTICE AGAIN XXII THE STOLEN SHELL XXIII BILLY'S GREAT DIVE XXIV THE BIG DAY XXV THE RACE IS WON THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON LAKE LUNA CHAPTER I THE LONE MAN ON THE ISLAND "There! I see him again," whispered Dora Lockwood. A half-minute's silence, save for the patter of the drops from the paddles as the light cedar canoe shot around East Point of Cavern Island. "So do I!" cried Dorothy, but in a low tone. "My! what frightful whiskers." "He looks just like a pirate," declared her sister. "He _is_ a pirate--or a robber--I wager," returned Dorothy. "Maybe he's one of those horrid men who robbed Stresch & Potter Tuesday night." "Oh, Dora! Let's hurry by." Both girls redoubled their efforts at the paddles and the canoe shot past the little cove which lay at the foot of the eminence known as Boulder Head. The black hair and ferocious whiskers of the person upon whom they made these comments dipped down behind a big rock on the shore and disappeared. "There! he's gone," sighed Dora, with relief. "I'm glad. _Do_ you suppose he had anything to do with the robbery at Stresch & Potter's department store? They say the thieves got more than ten thousand dollars." "I don't know whether the lone pirate is one of them or not," laughed Dora; "but _somebody_ must have committed the robbery--and why not he?" "That's heartless," sniffed Dorothy. "They say that a small boy helped the robbers, too. They had to push a boy through the wire screen they cut out, and he opened a cellar door to let the robbers in." "Don't I know that? And don't I know who is suspected, too?" returned Dora. "Oh, Dora! Don't say it!" protested Dorothy, in horror. "I don't say I believe it. But you know very well that Billy is up to all sorts of mischief." "But Billy Long is one of our own boys." "I know he goes to Central High. But all the boys who go to our school are not angelic." "Far from it," sighed her sister, pensively. "And 'Short and Long' is a regular little _snipe_, sometimes!" said Dora, with emphasis. "But to rob a store!" gasped her twin sister. "He was seen around there the afternoon before. Why, I know that a policeman has been to his house looking for him, and nobody has seen Short and Long since Thursday night." "But the robbery was committed some time Tuesday night." "He wasn't suspected at first. Perhaps he thought nobody had noticed him helping the men in the afternoon." "If they were the men--those surveyors." "Of course they were!" cried Dora. "The city engineer's office sent no men to run that street line. Those fellows were taking measurements right back of Stresch & Potter's building--and Short and Long was helping them. And, now, when the hue and cry is raised, he's gone." "Oh, Dora! It would be dreadful," sighed Dorothy. "One of our Central High boys." "And one that's always been just as full of mischief as an egg is full of meat," snapped Dora. Now, supposing there had been a blind person in the canoe with the Lockwood sisters, that unfortunate person could never in this world have told which girl spoke at each time. Their voices were exactly alike--the same inflection, the same turning of phrases, the exact tone. Nor could this supposititious blind person--had his eyes been suddenly opened--have been able to tell the girls apart, either! For Dora and Dorothy Lockwood were exactly the same height, of the same physical development, and with the same mannerisms and carriage. Both had a wealth of rather light brown hair, and that hair was tied with ribbons of exactly the same shade, and tied in exactly the same kind of bow. They possessed two pairs of very nice gray eyes, usually sparkling with fun. Each had a dimple at the left side of her pretty lips, and when they smiled that dimple came into prominence at once. The turn of their chins, the shape of their noses and ears, the breadth of their foreheads--every feature was the same. One's reflection in the looking-glass could be no more exactly like the original than was her sister. So, unless some person was near enough to watch the play of the twins' lips, it would have been impossible to tell which girl spoke. They had been paddling for some time--from the boat landing at the Girls' Branch Athletic Field of Central High, at Centerport, to the East Point of Cavern Island, and beyond. Lake Luna was a beautiful body of water some twenty miles in length and a half-mile broad. Cavern Island lay in its middle directly opposite the city of Centerport. At the upper, or west end of the lake, lay Lumberport, another lively town, at the mouth of Rocky River; and at the far eastern end of the lake its waters flowed out through Rolling River at the city of Keyport. Back of the city of Centerport, which was by far the largest and most important of the three, was a range of beautiful hills--hills which were now clothed in their mantle of full summer verdure. There was, about in the middle of the big town, a slight elevation occupied by the best residences. This "hill section" of Centerport was flanked on either hand by business portions of the city; but on the lake shore side of the Hill there were beautiful estates, boat clubs, bathing pavilions, and the new Athletic Field established for the use of the girls of Central High School, at which institution the Lockwood twins were pupils in their sophomore year. The twins were, too, dressed alike, in very pretty blue and white boating costumes, with broad-brimmed canvas hats; but despite these hats they were as brown as berries, and the red blood showed through the tan on their cheeks like the hue of blush-roses. Their arms, bared to the elbow, were very brown, too. A number of the girls of Central High were possessed of canoes; but none was a better paddler than the Lockwood twins. Either singly, or together, Dora and Dorothy, in competition with most of their mates, whether of sophomore, junior or senior class, could hold their own. Besides the twins rowed respectively Number 6 and Number 2 in the eight-oared shell. For some few months now the girls of Central High had been particularly enthusiastic about athletics of all kinds. They were rivals for all athletic honors with the two other high schools of Centerport--the East and West Highs--as well as with the high school girls of Lumberport and Keyport. Recently there had been a rowing race between these high school crews of eight, and the girls of Central High had been beaten. There were coming soon, however, the annual boat races and other aquatic sports on Lake Luna which were each year contested and supported by the athletic clubs of the three cities of the lake. It was an all-day tournament, and it always embraced swimming, rowing and paddling for prizes, as well as fun in the shape of "bunting," water-polo, marine hare and hounds, and other games. But if the truth were told, the main interest of the Lockwood twins and their girl friends was at present centered in the eight-oared shell race between the five high schools. As the twins swept on in their canoe, and turned Boulder Head, hiding the place where they had seen the bewhiskered poll of the individual whom Dora had called the lone pirate, she said: "Do you suppose, Dory, that anybody will be good enough to really present the crew with a new shell?" "Somebody's got to--if Central High is to win," declared Dorothy, vigorously. "That's so. We can never beat East High with our old tub--let alone the Lumberport or Keyport eight." "Leave it to Mother Wit," laughed Dorothy. "She has her thinking cap on." "But we can't leave everything to Laura Belding," declared Dora. "She shouldn't be called upon to do everything. She got Colonel Richard Swayne interested in our Girls' Branch Athletic League, and so we are to have a fine new field, they say. That's enough for Laura to do." "But Mother Wit is always turning up unexpectedly with something new," laughed Dorothy. "And she says we must have a new shell in time to use it in the race on the big day." "Who's launch is that, Dory?" asked her sister, suddenly. A motor-boat had just come into sight around a point of the island ahead. "Why--why----Isn't that Pretty Sweet's _Duchess_?" asked Dorothy. "Maybe. It's missing explosions dreadfully. Nasty thing! I don't like a motor boat." "Well, a canoe or a sailboat is more fun, I believe, unless you want to go fast," said the other twin. "Speed up, Dory. We can cross the bow of that boat. It _is_ Purt's boat." "And there are two other boys aboard." "Chet and Lance, I declare!" "Laura said she and Jess were coming over to the island to-day; funny the boys aren't with them." "Then somebody else would have to go with Purt, for he could never run that motor alone. Oh, look!" As Dorothy spoke there was a big puff of smoke from the middle of the launch and they heard the boys shouting excitedly. [Illustration: AS DOROTHY SPOKE THERE WAS A BIG PUFF OF SMOKE FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE LAUNCH.] "Now you've done it, Purt!" was an exclamation the twins heard. Then flames shot up where the smoke had been and the twins both cried out. "Their gasoline's afire! It's the tank!" exclaimed Dora. She had scarcely spoken when there came a muffled report, another great balloon of smoke, and the launch seemed to be afire from end to end. Out of the smoke and flames three figures, one after the other, leaped into the lake, while the burning launch darted on across the path of the girls' canoe. CHAPTER II MISSING: THE SHORT AND LONG OF IT "Oh! Oh!" cried Dora. "I hope they're not burned." "But they'll be drowned!" gasped her sister. "Chetwood Belding and Lance Darby won't drown, that's sure," returned Dora, but driving in her paddle vigorously. "No, they can swim." "And they won't let Prettyman Sweet drown, either." The girls swept on at a splendid pace, paying no attention to the runaway and burning launch. They were anxious to reach the struggling boys. "We can't take them aboard, Dora!" cried her sister. "Of course not; but they can cling to the gun-wales----" "And sink us." "No, they won't." "They'll tip us over. I don't want to get all wet," panted Dorothy. "Here's another canoe!" cried Dora. Out of a neighboring inlet shot a second cedar boat, also paddled by two girls. "It's Laura and Jess!" cried Dorothy. "Goody! now we can get the boys to shore all right," said Dora, with satisfaction. "Laura will know what to do. She always does." Laura Belding, who was Chetwood Belding's sister, and who rejoiced in the nickname at school of "Mother Wit," was a girl who possessed a very quick mind. Her mates expected a good deal of her, therefore, and it was not surprising that Dora and Dorothy Lockwood should consider that the rescue of the three boys in the lake was a simple matter now that Laura had appeared upon the scene. In the first volume of this series, entitled "The Girls of Central High; Or, Rivals for All Honors," Laura Belding's quick wit was displayed on several occasions--notably in her solving the problem of a fire that was discovered in the office of the principal of Central High School, Franklin Sharp. But in that initial volume was told, too, of the beginning of after-hour athletics in Central High and of the interest the girls began to take in all manner of sports and games approved by the Girls' Branch Athletic League. The girls of Central High had ever been loyal supporters of the boys' games--had "rooted" at all baseball, football, and rowing matches, and the like, for their particular colors; but now they were to take part themselves in various lines of athletics and sports, and their real interest in such things was, naturally, much increased. But to properly develop the idea of the Girls' Branch Athletic League, which was formed at Central High, the need of a modern girls' athletic field was plain to both the girls themselves and their instructors. Centerport, although a moderately wealthy town, could not supply fifty thousand dollars, off-hand, for such a purpose; and that was the least sum needed for the establishment of an up-to-date building and field for winter bathing, basketball grounds, tennis courts, a cinder track, and a dancing lawn. Perhaps Laura Belding was no more interested in the establishment of such a fine field than many other of the girls of the sophomore, junior, and senior classes. Laura was a soph herself; but she saw ways and means to an end more quickly than the others. By chance she interested a very wealthy man--one Colonel Richard Swayne. The Colonel thought that little Miss Belding was quite the quickest-witted girl he had ever met. And, later, when Laura's bright thought chanced to aid the Colonel's invalid daughter, the old gentleman began to take a deeper interest in the things that interested Laura. So that, finally, through Colonel Swayne's generosity, the idea of a fine field for girls' athletics became a possibility. This coming summer, during the long vacation, it would be built, and the girls of Laura's class were very proud indeed of "Mother Wit." Now the two canoes, propelled by the twins in one and Laura and her chum, Jess Morse, in the other, dashed toward the three boys in the water. The power launch, flaming merrily, was allowed to take its own sweet will across the lake. "Now, don't you tip either of those canoes over, Purt!" Chet Belding was angrily shouting as the girls reached the trio of water-soaked voyagers. "Easy! You're not drowned yet." "But, mercy, Chet!" squalled Prettyman Sweet, splashing madly. "I--I've swallowed--ugh!--so mu-mu-much water! Help!" He went under again, for he could not swim. But Chet brought him up with a jerk, having still a hand upon the boy's collar. "Stay up here!" growled Laura's brother. "Keep your face out of the water." "But I want to, deah boy--dontcher know!" gasped Purt. "Yes; you want to; but you want to talk, too. Keep your mouth shut, then you won't get water-logged," snapped Lance Darby, coming up on the other side. "Oh! don't be harsh with him, boys," begged Dorothy Lockwood. "He's lost his boat." "And that's his own fault. He _would_ smoke a cigarette," said Chet, "and I told him the gasoline leaked." "I wouldn't go in the old boat with him again for a farm down East with a pig on it!" declared Lance. "Now, easy! don't you dare swamp this canoe." They made the almost helpless Purt seize the sharp stern of Laura's canoe with both hands. Then Chet swam beside him to keep him from dragging the girls' craft down, as Laura and Josephine Morse paddled for the shore of the island. Lance followed on with the Lockwood canoe, and both reached the shore at about the same time. The Sweet boy struggled out upon the shore and lay down, almost overcome. But the other boys aided the girls in getting the cedar boats onto the shore, and out of harm's way. "Nice mess we're in," gasped Lance, flinging himself down upon the sod, too. "Look at us! Not fit to appear on board the _Lady of the Lake_." That was the little steamer that transported passengers from Centerport to the amusement park at the west end of Cavern Island. Down at this end of the island the land was hilly and wild; but around the boat landing a park was laid out, with carrousels, a small menagerie, swings, and the like. "Lo--lo--look at Purt!" burst out Jess, unable to hold in her laughter any longer. "What-what will his mo-mo-mother say when he gets home?" Prettyman Sweet was, as Chet often declared, "the very niftiest dresser" in Central High. And even when he went motor-boating he was the very "glass of fashion." His fancy waistcoat would never be seen in its pristine lustre again, and as for the gaudy striped shirt and cuffs he had worn, the stripes were surely "fast" colors, in that they had immediately run into the white ground-work of the garment! "I--I do-do-don't care," chattered Purt. "What are clothes, anyway? I'm dying of cold!" "And in June," snorted Lance, with disgust. "Let's build a campfire and warm him," suggested Laura. "Haven't a dry match," declared her brother. "I have. Don't catch me canoeing without a tightly corked bottle of matches. I've been upset too many times," laughed Laura. Chet and Lance gathered the wood; but Purt only lay and moaned and shivered. The adventure was a serious matter for the exquisite. "And I bet this settles Purt's motor-boating for all time," scoffed Jess Morse. "Got enough, haven't you, Pretty?" "Weally, Miss Morse, I am too exhausted to speak about it--weally!" gasped Purt. "And it was the only sport Purt would go into," grunted Chet. "He could get somebody to run his boat for him, you see. All he had to do was to sit tight and hold his ears on." Purt felt affectionately for his ears--they stuck out like sails from the side of his head, "trimmed flat across the masts"--and said nothing. He could not retort in his present condition of mind and body. But his schoolmates talked on, quite ignoring him. "What were you two boys doing out in the _Duchess_ this afternoon, anyway?" demanded Laura. "I thought you were going to see the game between Lumberport and the East High team?" "Why," said Chet, hesitating, looking at Lance, "if we tell you, you'll keep still about it--all you girls?" "Of course," said Jess. "All of you, I mean," said Chet, earnestly. "No passing it around with the usual platter of gossip on the athletic field this evening." "How horrid of you, Chet!" cried Josephine Morse. But Laura only laughed. "We can keep a secret as well as any crowd of boys--and he knows it," she said. "Well," said her brother, squatting before the campfire, that was now burning briskly, and spreading out his jacket to the blaze, while the legs of his trousers began to steam. "Well, it's about Short and Long." "Billy Long!" gasped Dorothy, looking at her sister. "Poor Billy!" added Laura. "What about him?" "He's missing," said Chet, gravely. "Missing: The Short and Long of It, eh?" chuckled Jess. "This is no laughing matter, Jess," declared Launcelot Darby, sharply. "Haven't you heard of the robbery?" "At Stresch & Potter's department store?" cried Jess. "Of course. What's that got to do with Short and Long?" "Nothing!" declared Chet, vigorously. "Anybody who says that Billy Long helped in that robbery deserves to be kicked. He's not that kind of a fellow." "But he's accused," said Laura, gravely. "Somebody said they saw him hanging about the rear of the store with some men Tuesday afternoon. The men appeared to be surveyors. They are supposed to be the robbers, for nobody seems to know anything about them at the city engineer's office," Chet continued. "A small boy had to be put through the little basement window where a screen was cut out. No man could have slipped through it and then opened that door for the men. Short and Long is accused--at least, he is suspected. A policeman went to his house Friday morning; but Billy had gone away over night." "That looks suspicious," declared Jess. "No, it doesn't. It looks as if Billy was scared--as of course he was," exclaimed Chet. "Who wouldn't be?" "That is so," murmured one of the twins. "Well," sighed Chet, "we heard that he had been seen to take a boat at Norman's Landing, and thought maybe he'd come over this way. So, as Purt wanted a sail----" "And a bath, it seems," chuckled Jess. "We came over this way, looking into the coves and inlets for the boat Billy is said to have borrowed. But we didn't see any sign of it, nor any sign of poor Billy. Of course he is innocent; but he's scared, and his folks are poor, and Billy was afraid to remain at home, I suppose, thinking he would get his father into trouble, too." "It's a mean shame," said Lance. "What if Stresch & Potter were robbed of ten thousand dollars? They oughtn't to have accused a perfectly innocent boy of helping in the robbery." "But that's it!" exclaimed Laura. "How is Billy to disprove the accusation if he runs away and makes it appear that he is guilty?" "Don't we see that?" demanded her brother. "That's what we want to get at Billy for. We want to catch and bring him back and make him face the music. Then we'll all prove him innocent and make these Smart Alecks take back what they've been saying about him. It's a shame!" cried Chet, again. "It _is_ a shame," agreed Laura. But just then both the Lockwood twins burst out with: "Maybe he _did_ come over to the island." "Huh! What for? To hide?" demanded Lance. "Perhaps," said Dorothy. "Maybe to find the robbers himself. Perhaps they are hiding here," said Dora. "Likely," grunted Chet. "We saw somebody hiding back yonder at the foot of Boulder Head," declared Dorothy. "So we did! The lone pirate!" cried her sister. "'The lone pirate'?" repeated Laura and Jess, in unison. "Who's that?" The twins told them what they had seen----the bewhiskered man who had hidden behind the boulder. But the boys scoffed at the idea of the stranger having anything to do with the men who robbed the department store safe, or anything to do with Billy Long. "No," said Chet, wearily, "He's gone somewhere. But we don't know where. And if the police catch him it will go hard with poor Short and Long." CHAPTER III TONY ALLEGRETTO Now, "Short and Long," as the boys called him (christened William Henry Harrison Long) was a jolly little fellow and extremely popular at Centerport's Central High School----not so much with the teachers and adults of his acquaintance, perhaps, as with his fellow pupils. He was full of fun and mischief; but to the boys who knew him to be perfectly fair and honest, the accusation now aimed against him seemed preposterous. It was true that his father was a poor man, and Billy Long seldom had any spending money. Naturally he was always on the outlook for "odd jobs" which would earn him a little something for his own pocket. He had been seen carrying the chain for the mysterious surveyors who had been in the vacant lot behind the department store that was robbed the Tuesday night previous to the opening of our story; but _that_ should not have made trouble for Short and Long. He did not let many such chances escape him when he was out of school. Billy was the short-stop on the Central High nine and as Chetwood Belding and Lance Darby were important members of that team, too, they were naturally particularly interested in the missing youth. The three boys who had so unceremoniously left the motor boat _Duchess_ still stood around the hot fire on the shore, drying their garments. Purt Sweet was really a pitiful sight, his fancy clothing looking so much worse than that of his two companions. The girls were in gales of laughter over his plight. Laura repeated in a sing-song voice: "Double, double, toil and trouble, Garments steam and Purt does bubble!" "Now, Miss Laura," complained the victim, "This is altogether too serious a matter, I assure you, for laughter. What ever shall we do to get home?" "Well, we can't walk," chuckled Lance. "Guess we'll have to appear on the _Lady of the Lake_" said Chet. "My goodness! In _this_ state?" mourned Purt. "Only fawncy!" "You can't fly home," said Jess. "Somebody is bound to see you." "Let's take off our shoes, wring out our socks, and put 'em on again, and then walk over to the amusement park," said Chet. "And if you girls will paddle over we'll treat you to ice cream," added Lance. "You are trying to bribe us----I see," declared Laura, laughing again. "Just so," said Lance. "We'll stand treat if you don't tell everybody how we had to jump out of Purt's old boat." There was a good deal of laughter at this; but finally the four girls agreed and the boys helped them into the water again with their canoes. It was not far to the amusement park at the west end of Cavern Island, and the three partially dried boys arrived there about the time that the two canoes reached the landing. There was a good deal of fun while the seven young folks were eating the cream. Purt Sweet slunk into his seat in the corner, striving to hide his bedraggled apparel. He tucked a paper napkin into the front of his waistcoat, and so hid the hideous color scheme of the gaudy shirt, the stripes of which had spread with wondrous rapidity. Then he buttoned his coat tightly to hide the ruined waistcoat; but the coat was tight anyway, and the ducking had done it no good. "I believe, on my life, Purt," chuckled Chet, "that the coat is shrinking on you. That tailor cheated you this time----I know he did. If the coat gets much smaller, and you eat much more ice cream, you'll burst through the coat at all the seams like a full-blown cotton-blossom." "Better let _me_ eat the ice cream for you, old man," advised Lance, seriously. "Don't make an exhibition of yourself here." "That's what I am," said Purt, sadly. "Fawncy meeting any of the Stricklands, or the Tarbot-Rushes, or General Maline's people, here when I'm in this condition. Weally, it is dweadful to contemplate." "It's tough, I allow," said Chet callously. "What you need is a mask and a blanket to disguise yourself." "You're not likely to meet any of Centerport's Four Hundred over here at Cavern Island Park," laughed Laura. "So you need not fear." "I should think you would be just as ashamed presenting yourself before _us_ as before those Maline girls," said Jess, tossing her head. "I am insulted. No! you cannot pay for my ice cream, Mr. Sweet. Chet will pay for it." "Gee, Jess," chuckled Lance Darby. "If you eat more'n two dishes Chet will go broke. I know the state of his finances to-day. And Purt always has plenty of money." "Weally, Miss Morse," urged Pretty, who was not usually prone to spend his money. "Weally, you must let me pay the check--for all. It is my treat, you know. And I assure you, I had no intention of saying anything to offend you." "But you consider those Maline girls--and they are the homeliest girls in Centerport--of more importance than Laura and Dora and Dorothy and me. You're not ashamed to appear before us with your outfit all smudged up!" "But, my dear Miss Morse!" gasped Pretty. "Don't you 'dear' me, Mister!" ejaculated Jess, with every appearance of anger. "If I'm not as good as Sissy Maline----" "Oh, you are! You are!" declared Purt, in haste. "You misunderstand. I am in this horrid state. But--you see--you saw it happen and realize that it was an unavoidable accident----" "Nothing of the kind!" snapped Jess, still apparently unyielding. "If you hadn't tried to smoke a nasty cigarette----" "Oh, I assure you it was a very mild one. I have them made extremely mild--and with my monogram on the paper. Weally, you know----" "Horrid thing! You're the only boy who smokes them that we know. What do you say, girls? Sha'n't we cut Purt right off of our calling lists if he doesn't give up monogrammed cigarettes?" "They're the worst kind," murmured Chet. "The monogram makes 'em so much more deadly." "I tried one of Purt's coffin nails once--ugh!" admitted Lance. "He calls 'em mild. But he's so saturated with nicotine that he doesn't know what 'mild' means. I believe they make his cigarettes out of rope-yarn and distilled opium. One puff made me ill all day." "Impossible, dear boy!" gasped Purt. "I believe it's as Lance says," said Laura, gravely. "And Purt sets a very bad example for the other boys." "Sure!" grinned her brother. "We're all likely to run off and send for a thousand monogrammed cigarettes." "What! what!" cried Jess. "Did Purt buy a _thousand_?" "I--I had to, Miss Josephine, to get the monogram printed on the wrapper, you know." "Come," said Laura, still with a serious air. "We must decide what is to be done with this culprit, girls." "I think he should not be allowed to associate with any of the girls of Central High," said one of the twins. "Or with the boys, either," suggested Lance. "His example _is_ dreadfully bad," said Jess. "Weally! I assure you----" panted Purt, wrigging all over, and not quite sure whether the girls meant it, or were "rigging" him. "Have you any more of those nasty cigarettes with you?" demanded Laura, sternly. Purt, looking greatly abashed, hauled out a saturated case of seal leather and displayed nine of the pulpy looking things. "So you only smoked one of them to-day?" was the next demand. "And he only just got that lit when the vapor from the gasoline caught fire. Like to have burned him to death," grunted Chet. "That single smoke was certainly a very expensive one for you, Master Purt," declared Laura. "For perhaps it has cost you your motor-boat At least, it has cost you more than the whole thousand cigarettes were worth. Kindly throw those disreputable looking things away!" Purt obeyed instantly by tossing case and all into the lake. "Ugh! now you'll poison the fish," complained Jess. "Never mind the fish," said Laura, still intent upon the victim. "Now, Purt, how many cigarettes have you left at home?" "Oh--I--ah----" "Do not prevaricate!" commanded the girl. "Answer at once." "Why--I--I have most of the thousand left," admitted Purt. "Say! you always carry around a full case to flash on the fellows--I see you," cried Lance. "Ye--es," admitted Purt. "Tell the truth, sir! How many of the horrid things have you left at home?" Purt looked up at her, blinked a couple of times, swallowed like a toad that has snapped up a live coal, and then blurted out: "Nine hundred and ninety!" At that a howl of laughter went up from the crowd. "And--and you--you've nev--never smoked even _one_?" gasped Laura, at last. "Not until to-day," replied the sadly abashed Purt. "Oh, hold me, somebody!" cried Lance. "And he's had those cigarettes for three months, I know!" "Purt, you'll be the death of us yet," declared Chet Belding, wiping his eyes. "I--I couldn't get used to the taste of them in my mouth," confessed the dude. "You're more fun than a box of monkeys!" declared Lance. "That reminds me, girls," said Chet, suddenly, and picking up the checks to pay the bill before Purt Sweet could get around to it. "There's an enormously funny monkey over here. Trained to a hair. I saw him over in Centerport when his owner brought him through----" "I saw that monkey--with a piano organ. And such a nice looking Italian with it," declared Laura. "Look out, Lance," whispered Chet, grinning, "she likes the romantic and dark complexioned style in heroes. Get some walnut stain and a black wig." "Why, he was playing in the streets, over in town," said Jess. "That was just to advertise his act before the season opened," declared Chet. "So he told me." "All right," Laura said. "The boat isn't due yet, so we might as well remain with you boys until it comes and so keep you out of mischief." "But I really look so badly----" began Purt. "Never mind. You won't meet the Maline girls here," snapped Jess, as though she were still very angry with him. "Come on, Purt--be a sport," whispered Lance, with a wicked grin. "It won't cost you anything except what you give to the monkey--and that's a private affair between you and the monk you know." It was true that Sweet was a "tight-wad," as the boys expressed it. He would spend any amount of money on himself, or to make a show; but liberality was not one of his virtues. The young folks were not long in finding the booth, across which was painted a straggling sign reading: TONY ALLEGRETTO AND HIS PERFORMING MONKEY "Which is the 'monk'?" demanded Lance, in a whisper, when they saw two very gaily dressed figures on the tiny platform before the booth. The Italian himself was a short, agile young man, but not ill-looking. He had splendid teeth, and they showed white and even behind his smile, for his face was dusky and his mustache as black as jet, as was his hair. He was dressed in a gay, if soiled, Neapolitan costume, and the monkey was dressed in an imitation of his master's get-up. It was a large monkey, with a long tail and a solemn face, not at all the ordinary kind of monkey that appears with organ grinders. The Italian began to grind his organ when he saw the accession of the young folk from Central High to his crowd of spectators. They made a goodly audience and Tony Allegretto--if that was his name--began his open-air performance. "Aria from 'Cavalleria Rusticana' to inaugurate the performance of a monkey," chuckled Jess. "How are the mighty fallen!" Suddenly Tony changed the tune and spoke a sharp word in Italian to the monkey. Instantly the creature went to the front of the platform, took off his cap, bowed to the audience with hand and cap upon his heart, and then began to dance. It was a rather melancholy dance, but he turned and twisted, while Tony scolded and threatened in a low voice. "Gee!" exclaimed Lance. "That's the monkey that put the 'tang' in 'tango'--eh, what?" "Poor little thing!" said the Lockwood twins together. "I don't believe he likes to do that," said Laura. "He ought to be taken away from that man and sent to school," declared Chet, with gravity in his face but a twinkle in his eye. "He'd do quite as well in his classes as some of you boys, I have no doubt," said Jess, quickly. "At least, Professor Dimp says you act like a lot of monkeys sometimes." "Old Dimple is prejudiced," declared Lance. "He ought to see _this_ monkey act. Phew! see him whirl. There! that's over. Now what next?" CHAPTER IV A SOLEMN MOMENT The dance of the performing monkey had ceased and its owner changed the tune on the piano-organ again. He handed the monkey a little toy gun with one hand while he still turned the crank with the other. The monkey threw the gun down petulantly at first, but Tony threatened him and finally the animal held it when it was thrust into his hands. "That monk certainly does understand Italian," admitted Lance. "I bet they are related." "Lance is 'sore' on the Italian because he thinks Laura admires Tony," chuckled Chet. "Be still!" commanded Laura. "You had better be nice to us girls or we won't keep the secret of how you boys took an involuntary bath to-day." "'Nuff said," growled Chet. "I'm dumb." The monkey was changing the gun from hand to shoulder, and holding it in different positions supposedly in imitation of a soldier's drill. But some of the audience laughed at its awkwardness. "The Italian army must drill differently from ours," said Dora Lockwood. "Did you ever see anything so funny?" laughed her twin. Tony overheard them and his eyes flashed. He boxed the poor monkey on the side of the head, and it ran chattering to the end of its line. "Aw, say!" exclaimed the good natured Lance. "Isn't that mean?" "It's not a very smart monkey at that," said a man in the crowd. "Hi!" exclaimed Tony, suddenly, "you think-a da monk can't do anything? He don't lik-a da silly treek--eh? Look now! I lock de door--so," and suiting his action to his words the Italian turned the big brass key in the lock of the booth door. He shook the door to show that it was fastened. Then he turned to the monkey again. "Bébé!" he commanded, harshly, pointing to the door, and rattled off some command in his own language which the audience did not understand. But the monkey seemed to understand it. He looked at his master, ran to the end of his line, looked back at Tony, chattered, and then seized the big key. He turned it carefully, still looking over his shoulder at Tony, who appeared not to notice him, and ground the organ furiously. The lock must have been well oiled, for the monkey turned the key very easily. Then he turned the knob of the door quite as carefully, all the time appearing to be afraid that he would be caught at it. For the first time the monkey actually betrayed some ability as an actor. He pushed open the door, still keeping a sharp watch upon his master. Slowly he wedged his way into the booth. In a moment he had snatched something from the table inside and was back again upon the platform, with his mouth full, and munching rapidly, with his face hidden from his master. The crowd laughed and applauded. Tony considered this a good time to take up the collection and he gave the monkey his cup. The little fellow made a polite bow to every person who dropped anything into the cup. At those who did not contribute Bébé chattered angrily. "He's just as cunning as he can be," said Dorothy, as they turned away. "But I don't believe that man treats the monkey kindly." "Here comes the boat!" exclaimed Chet. "We've got to leave you, girls. Don't get into any trouble, now, paddling home." "Don't you fear for us," returned Dora, confidently. "Let's race back to Centerport!" proposed Jess. "No," said Laura, as the girls tripped down to the landing where they had left their canoes. "It is too far and Mrs. Case warns us not to over-exert, paddling." "She's a fuss-budget," declared Jess, pouting. "She's the best physical instructor in Centerport, and we're lucky to have her at Central High," said Dorothy, loyally. "We're supposed to be in training for the boat races, too," said Dora. The girls got aboard nicely and started across the lake. It was a calm day and there were scarcely any ripples; therefore there was little likelihood of the girls getting into any trouble. Half way across they saw a second motor-boat towing the burned _Duchess_ toward the city. The fire was out, but the girls saw that poor Purt would have to spend some of his money in repairing the craft. The four girls reached the school boathouse and had their canoes drawn out and put carefully away. Then they separated, for the Lockwood twins did not live on the same street as Laura and her chum. The Lockwood cottage was set in a rather large plot of ground, which was mostly given up to Mr. Lockwood's nursery and hot-houses. The twins' father was wrapped up in his horticultural experiments, and as they had no mother the two girls were left much to their own devices. Mrs. Betsey Spink kept house for the Lockwoods, and had been the twins' nurse when they were little. She was a gentle, unassuming old lady, who "mothered" the girls as best she knew how, and shielded absent-minded Mr. Lockwood from all domestic troubles. The neighbors declared that the Lockwood household would have been a very shiftless establishment had it not been for Mrs. Betsey. Mr. Lockwood seldom knew how the bills were paid, what the girls wore, or how the house was run. His mind was given wholly to inventing new forms of plant life. He experimented with white blackberries, thornless roses, dwarf trees that bore several kinds of fruit on different limbs, and, of late, had tried to cultivate a seedless watermelon. He was always expecting to make a fortune out of some of his novel experiments; but as yet the fortune had not materialized. But he was a most lovable gentleman, and the twins were as proud of him as though he was the most successful man in Centerport. Mr. Lockwood had one cross to bear, however--a thorn in the flesh which troubled him on occasion very much. This was a certain very practical sister--the twins' Aunt Dora. Fortunately Aunt Dora lived in another city; but she was apt to make unexpected visits to her brother, and when she came to the Lockwood house there was no peace for any of the inmates while she stayed. As the twins on this occasion entered the premises by the back gate they saw certain windows on the second floor of the house wide open, and the curtains drawn back. They halted in something more than astonishment, and looked at each other solemnly. "That's Aunt Dora's room!" gasped Dora. "She's here!" returned Dorothy, in the same awe-struck voice. "Oh, dear!" sighed her twin. "_Now_ we're in for it," rejoined Dorothy. Then both together they exclaimed: "Poor papa!" It was a solemn moment for the whole household, and the twins felt it. CHAPTER V AUNT DORA "I feel just like running away," said Dora, "and staying until Auntie goes." "Don't do it," begged Dorothy, "for I shall have to go, too." "Poor papa!" they both exclaimed again. "No. We shall have to stay and brace papa up," admitted Dora. "We've just _got_ to," groaned her twin. "And if she begins to nag him again about giving one of us up----" "We won't leave him," declared Dorothy, very firmly. "_I_ wouldn't live at her house for a fortune!" repeated Dorothy. "Come on! let's see how the land lies," suggested Dora. "Perhaps the worst of it's over." "No such luck," groaned Dorothy. "There's Betsey." They ran up the winding path to the kitchen porch. The gentle, pink-faced old lady who met them at the door, had a worried brow. "Hush, girls! you're aunt is here," she whispered. "We know it. We saw the windows of the best room wide open. Is she making Mary clean the room all over again?" "Yes," sighed Mrs. Betsey. "Your aunt declared it smelled musty from being shut up. She has _such_ a nose," and the little old lady shook her head. "Interfering old thing!" snapped Dora. "Hush! you must not speak so," admonished Mrs. Betsey. "Well, she _is_," declared Dorothy, of course agreeing with her twin. "Where is she?" queried Dora. "With your father in the hot-house." "Come on, then," said Dora to her sister. "Let's get it over right away." They heard voices in the conservatory, for the sashes were open on this warm day. There was the stern, uncompromising tone of Aunt Dora, and the gentle, worried voice of Mr. Lockwood. The twins never liked to hear their father's voice when he was worried, and they saw to it--with Mrs. Betsey--that it did not occur frequently. But there was no help for it when Aunt Dora was about! First of all, the twins heard their aunt say: "You're no more fit to bring up girls, Lemuel, than I am to steer one of these dratted airships the papers are full of!" "No. You are right," said Mr. Lockwood. "The comparison is just. You would _not_ do well in an airship, Dora." "Huh! I should think not! And you're as little fit to bring up two girls--and twins, at that!" "But--but I don't really bring them up," said Mr. Lockwood, apologetically. "Mrs. Betsey does that." "Mrs. Betsey!" with a sniff. "And really, they get along very well, Sister." "They get along well because they are no trouble to you." "Well, isn't that as it should be? They are good girls--and loving girls." "I declare to man! Lemuel Lockwood, you haven't any more idea of what those girls need than a babe unborn." "What _do_ they need, Dora?" asked worried Mr. Lockwood. "They need a strong hand--a stern and uncompromising spirit to govern them--that's what they need!" declared the militant aunt. "But Dora, they are good girls and make me no trouble at all." "Of course they make you no trouble. You let them do exactly as they wish." "No, no!" urged Mr. Lockwood, hastily. "They don't always do as they wish. Sometimes we haven't the money to let them do _with_. I've heard Mrs. Betsey say so. And--and--why, there is one of them who likes three lumps of sugar in her coffee; but I always reprove her for it. That is extravagance." "Huh!" sniffed Aunt Dora. "Otherwise they are no trouble to me at all," said Mr. Lockwood, briskly. "They are not, I assure you. We live a very quiet and peaceful life here." "Yah!" exclaimed his sister. "That is all you want--peace." "I admit it--I admit it," returned her brother. "I am naturally retiring and of a peaceful disposition, Dora." "You're a natural born fool, Lemuel!" declared his sister, so sharply that the twins, who were inadvertently listening at the door, hesitating to go in, fairly jumped. "I want to tell you right now that you are a disgrace to manhood! You've never amounted to a row of beans since you were out of pinafores. If your little property wasn't tied up hard and fast so that you could only use the income of it, you would have frittered it all away long ago, and left these children penniless. You've never made a dollar in your life, Lemuel Lockwood!" "But--but there has never been any real necessity for me to make money," stammered the horticulturist. "And one of these days we are going to have a plenty. I've got a melon started here on the bench, Dora----" "You needn't show me any of your nasty plants. They're all ridiculous. And it isn't plants we're talking about. It's girls. Mercy knows how an inscrutable Providence ever came to allow two helpless girl babies to fall into your hands, Lemuel. But they're here and you've the burden of them. One would be more than you could manage properly; but two is ridiculous. I'd undertake, as I have told you before, to bring my namesake up as a girl _should_ be brought up--and that will leave more money for you to fritter away on your hot-beds and cold-frames, and the like," she added, slily. "Dora!" exclaimed Mr. Lockwood, with a quaver in his voice, "do you really think I am not doing my duty by Dora and Dorothy?" "Think it?" sniffed his sister. "I know it! And everybody else with sense knows it. How can a mere man bring up twin girls and give them a proper start in life?" "But Mrs. Betsey does her very best----" "And what does _she_ know?" demanded his sister. "Does she ever read papers upon the proper management of girls? Or magazine articles upon what a young girl should be taught by her parents? Or books upon the growth and development of the girlish mind?" "No--o," admitted Mr. Lockwood. "I am very sure Mrs. Betsey never has time for such reading." "Then what does she know about it?" demanded Aunt Dora, triumphantly. "But they are hardly ever sick--and how pretty they both are!" sighed the father of the twins. "Bah! never sick! pretty!" ejaculated Aunt Dora, staccato. "What about their souls, Lemuel Lockwood? What about the development of their minds? Have you done aught to make them stern and uncompromising when they meet the world on an equal footing--as all women shall in the time to come? Are you preparing them for their work in life? Are they prepared to take the helm of affairs and show Man how Woman can guide affairs of moment?" "I--I hope not!" murmured Mr. Lockwood, aghast. "They are just girls going to school, and studying, and having fun, and loving each other. No, Dora, the stern duties of life have not troubled them as yet, thank God!" "But they should be beginning to realize them, Lemuel," declared his sister. "Life is not fun. There is no time to dawdle around with plays, and athletics, and such foolishness. Where are they this minute, Lemuel Lockwood?" "Why--why, they went out on the lake." "In what?" "A canoe, I understand." "And what's a canoe?" gasped Aunt Dora. "Is _that_ a proper thing for young girls to ride in? Why! it's a savage boat--an Indian boat. A canoe, indeed!" "But I scarcely can think there is any harm in their paddling a canoe. Many of their schoolmates do so, and their physical instructor, Mrs. Case, approves." "It is no business for my namesake to be in," declared Aunt Dora. "You named her after me, Lemuel, and I feel that I have some right to her. She having no mother, and I being her godmother, she is more mine than anybody else's. And I am determined to take her home with me." "Take Dora?" gasped Mr. Lockwood. "Whatever should we do without her?" "Hah!" exclaimed his sister. "You have the other one." "But--but it doesn't seem as though one would be complete without the other," said Mr. Lockwood, thoughtfully. "They have always been together. Why, nobody knows them apart----" "And that's another foolish thing!" exclaimed Aunt Dora. "To allow two girls to reach their age and have nobody able to distinguish between them. Dressing them just alike, and all! It is ridiculous." "But they have always wished to be just alike, Sister," said the father of the twins. "_They_ wished!" exclaimed Aunt Dora. "Is it _their_ place to have their way in such affairs? That is exactly what I say, Lemuel--you're not fit to manage the girls. And I am determined to save one of them from the results of your mismanagement. I have always noticed," added Aunt Dora, a little less confidently, "that Dora is much more amenable in disposition than Dorothy. Naturally, being named after me, she may have taken on more reasonable and practical characteristics than her sister." Mr. Lockwood was a thin little man, with wisps of gray hair over his ears, a bald crown, on which he always wore a skullcap, and meek side whiskers. But now he stood and stared in perfect amazement at his sister, demanding: "Do you mean to tell me you have noticed such characteristics in Dora?" "Certainly," said his sister, complacently. "Then you know them apart?" "Well--er--when I have the opportunity of comparing their manner and speech----" "Here they are!" exclaimed the harassed father, suddenly spying the girls behind his sister. "If you can tell which is which, you are welcome to. I leave it to the girls themselves. If Dora wishes to go with you, she may. I--I wash my hands of the affair!" CHAPTER VI WHICH IS WHICH? Mr. Lockwood had a habit of getting out of difficulties in this way. He frequently "washed his hands" of affairs, finding that they adjusted themselves somehow without his aid, after all. But on this present occasion there was, perhaps, a special reason why he should tell his sister to go ahead, and leave the matter entirely with her and the twins themselves. Aunt Dora claimed to be able to tell the girls apart--something that nobody, not even Mrs. Betsey, had been able to do since they were little tots and Dora had worn a blue ribbon on her wrist, and Dorothy a pink. The twins, who had heard all the foregoing conversation, and understood the situation thoroughly, advanced when their Aunt Dora turned to meet them. "Kiss me, my dears," commanded the militant lady, opening her arms. "Dora, first!" But the twins ran in together and one kissed her on one cheek while the other placed her salute on the other--and at exactly the same moment. Aunt Dora adjusted her eyeglasses, stood off a yard or so, and stared at the girls. "Dora," she said, solemnly, "you are going home with me." Neither girls changed color, or showed in the least that the announcement was either a pleasant one, or vice versa. "Do you hear?" demanded their aunt. "Yes, ma'am," they replied, in chorus. "I spoke to Dora," said the lady, firmly. Not a word said the twins. "Which is which, Dora?" asked Mr. Lockwood, from the background, and perhaps enjoying his sister's discomfiture. "I declare nobody in _this_ house has been able to tell them apart since they were in their crib. Mrs. Betsey declares she believes they used to exchange ribbons when they were toddlers, for she used to find the bows tied in funny knots." The two girls looked at each other with dancing eyes, but said nothing. It had been their sport all their lives to mystify people about their several identities. And here was a situation in which they determined--both of them--to keep their aunt guessing. "This is no matter for flippancy," said Aunt Dora, sternly. "I intend to take my namesake home with me, and to bring her up, educate her, and finally share my fortune with her. Do you understand this fully?" "Yes, ma'am," replied the twins. "I am speaking to Dora," their aunt said tartly. The girls were silent. "I am separating Dora from her sister for her own good. As you girls grow older you will find that the income your father has remaining will barely support one girl in a proper manner. To divide his responsibility is a kindness to him----" "That is not so," interjected the mild Mr. Lockwood. "You are more than welcome, girls, to all I have. And--possibly--I might look about and get a little more money for you to use, as time goes on. If you need it----" "We know all about it, Papa," chimed the twins. "We are satisfied." "Does that mean you are satisfied to remain here, Dora?" demanded their aunt, insisting upon speaking as though but one girl heard her. "We are both satisfied," chorused the twins, quickly. "But I am _not_ satisfied with the affair," declared Aunt Dora. "It has long been both my intention and desire to take my namesake--my godchild--away from here. While you two girls were small it was all very well to declare it cruel to separate you. But you are old enough now----" "We shall never be old enough, Auntie, to wish to be separated," said one of the twins. "Nonsense, child!" exclaimed Aunt Dora, her eyes sparkling as she thought she had at last obtained an inkling to the identity of the two girls. "You will soon get over all that, Dora--of course you will." "I am sure I should not so soon get over separation from my sister," said the other girl. Her aunt wheeled on this one. "Do you mean to tell me that you scorn my offer?" "If I were Dora I should beg to be excused," returned the niece to whom she had spoken. Aunt Dora whirled again and transfixed the other with decided satisfaction and a sparkling eye. "But Dora, I feel sure, will go with her aunt gladly," cried the lady. "If I were Dora I should beg to be excused," repeated the girl at whom she looked, in exactly the same tone, and with an unmoved countenance, too. "I declare!" gasped Aunt Dora, in complete exasperation. "You've managed to get me puzzled, now. Which--which of you is t'other?" "That is for you to find out, Auntie," said both girls in unison. "You saucy minxes!" began the lady, but one of the girls said, quickly: "Oh, no. We don't mean to be saucy. But we have agreed not to tell on the other. Father leaves it to us and to you, Auntie. Neither of us wish to leave our dear, dear home. Therefore we shall not tell you which is Dora, and which is Dorothy." "That is quite true, Auntie," said the other twin. "Well, I declare to Nature!" exclaimed their Aunt "Here I come offering Dora everything that a girl of her age should count as worthy--a home of wealth, a better education than she can get here in Centerport--college to follow--the open sesame into society--real society----And do you two girls mean to tell me that neither will say which is Dora?" "That is exactly what we have agreed upon," said one of the twins, quietly. "Then, let me tell you, Miss, I shall find out for myself!" exclaimed the angry lady. "I consider you at fault for this, Lemuel. Shows your bringing up. It is sheer impudence!" "I--I have washed my hands of it, Dora," said her brother, weakly. "Well, you can wipe 'em, too!" snapped the lady. "But I mean to take Dora home with me when I go back--and that will be very soon," and she whisked away in her rustling skirts, leaving the father and his two daughters alone. They twined around the little man in a moment, the two winsome, loving girls--one upon one side, the other upon the other. "You don't want to lose Dora, do you, dear?" demanded Dorothy. "Nor Dorothy either?" demanded Dora. "I certainly do not, my dear girls," cried the much harassed Mr. Lockwood. "Then we shall not tell her. We shall tell nobody. Nobody shall know which is which--as long as Aunt Dora remains, that is sure," cried Dora. "Exactly," agreed her sister. "As long as papa doesn't wish us to go----?" "Never!" declared Mr. Lockwood. "Why, we're never even going to get married!" ejaculated the other twin. "Of course not," said her sister. "There couldn't possibly be two men just alike, and they'd have to be just alike to please us for husbands." Mr. Lockwood laughed. It was the first happy sound he had made in two hours. His sister had arrived exactly two hours before. "I know I can safely leave the whole affair to you girls," he said, gratefully. "Have it out with your auntie, if you must. But do, _do_ leave me in peace." CHAPTER VII HOW TO GET A NEW SHELL The Lockwood twins were members of the executive committee of the Girls' Branch of Central High and that Saturday an important meeting was to be held in one of the school offices. So Dora and Dorothy stole away after supper, with only a word to Mrs. Betsey as to their goal. They did not want any more words that night with their aunt, who had sat, like a graven image (providing a graven image has a very hearty appetite) all through the evening meal in an attitude of great offense. The committee, whose actions had to be passed upon by Mrs. Case, the physical instructor, and Franklin Sharp, principal of the school, numbered among its members Laura Belding and her chum, Josephine Morse; Nellie Agnew, Dr. Agnew's daughter; Hester Grimes and Lily Pendleton, all sophomores and in the classes at Central High with the Lockwood twins. Hester Grimes, who was the daughter of a wealthy wholesale butcher, was not so well liked by the twins as some of the other sophomores. Hester could be a very unpleasant person if she wished to be--and on occasions in the past (as related in the previous volume of this series) Hester had lived up to her unhappy reputation. Lily Pendleton, however, usually backed Miss Grimes up in everything the latter said or did. Although Laura Belding was only finishing her sophomore year at Central High, she had become so popular that she was chairman of this important committee, in which, in fact, the policy of the Girls' Branch Athletics was decided. The moment the old business had been disposed of and the way was open for new matters, Laura burst out with: "Oh, girls! I've got the most exciting thing to tell you!" "Don't tell us of any other big robbery," sighed Nellie Agnew. "We've heard nothing but robbery at our house ever since Stresch & Potter were broken into. And poor Billy Long!" "Humph!" muttered Hester Grimes. "I hope they catch him and that he gets all that is coming to him. He always was a mean little brat!" "Not at all!" cried one of the seniors. "Billy Long never did a mean thing in his life. But he is full of mischief." "He'll get it, I fancy if the police catch him," laughed Lily Pendleton, unpleasantly. "Order!" said Laura, gravely. "I did not introduce my subject in a very proper way, I know; but the trouble of Billy Long is far from our business to-night. As chairman of your committee I have received a communication which originally came from the Luna Boat Club. That is the wealthiest boat club on the lake, you know. They really have more to do with our Big Day than any other organization. And what do you think?" "Why don't you get to it?" demanded Hester. "You're as slow as cold molasses running up a hill in January." "Oh, give her a chance," admonished Jess, taking any criticism of her chum--but her own--in ill part. "Well," said Laura, unruffled, "the secretary of the Luna Boat Club writes that the club as a whole is much interested in the trial of speed between the eight-oared shells of the several Girls' Highs and as a trophy for that particular race will present to the winner a silver cup--and you can just bet, girls, if it is anything the Luna Club presents, it will be a handsome one. Isn't that fine?" "Oh, if we could only win it!" cried Jess, clasping her hands. "You've got about as much chance of winning over Keyport as I have of flying," said Hester Grimes. "If goodness is necessary to your wearing wings, Hester, I am afraid you really haven't much chance," said one of the seniors, sweetly, and there was a little giggle of approval from the younger girls. "It is a sure thing that we can't win with our old tub," agreed Laura, nodding a thoughtful head. "Pah!" snapped Hester. "You girls in that eight couldn't win anyway." "I don't know why you say that, Hester," complained Nellie Agnew, who pulled Number 15 in the eight-oared shell. "We do our very best." "That's what I say," laughed the Grimes girl. "And your 'very best' is about as slow as anything on the lake." "Let me tell you that doesn't sound very loyal to the school, Miss," spoke up another senior. "And who's to teach _me_ how to talk?" demanded Hester, tossing her head. "I am not asking you, Miss." "Order, please!" commanded Laura, firmly. "It is not a question of how badly or how well the eight rows. Not just now. We have received a notice of this prize. We must respond properly to the secretary of the Luna Club." This item was disposed of; but Laura had another thing connected with it on her mind. "It is quite true," she said, "that with the old shell we have been rowing in, it will be perfectly impossible for our eight to win the race. We are all agreed on that?" "And all the sane ones are agreed that you couldn't win in _any_ boat," declared Hester, in her very meanest way. "Now, I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Hessie," complained Nellie Agnew. "And it isn't so, either!" exclaimed Jess Morse. "Give us a good shell and we'll show you," said Dorothy Lockwood. "That is what we need," agreed her twin. "Of course we can win under any decent circumstances," said Laura, "now that we have Bobby Hargrew to be coxswain again." Hester was silenced for the time. "Bobby," or Clara Hargrew, had been in difficulties with the school authorities a few weeks before, and had been debarred from all the after-hour athletics--and Hester Grimes had been partly to blame for Bobby's trouble. "The point of the whole matter is," said Celia Prime, one of the older girls, who was on the point of graduating from Central High, "that the eight need and must have a new shell. Our present boat is a disgrace." "I object to our centering all our efforts upon that particular boat and crew," snapped Hester. "So do I," declared Lily, her chum. "The canoes and the single and double oars have better chances to win than the eight," pursued Hester. "We are centering on the eight because the bulk of the present crew are members of this committee." "That is not so, Hessie," declared Mary O'Rourke, another senior who rowed in the eight. "The whole school is interested," said a junior member of the executive board. "The girls talk more about the eight than about anything else." "And that talk is all very skilfully worked up by Laura, here, and her friends," declared Hester. "Oh! some of us have eyes and ears, I hope." "And a tongue that is hung in the middle and wags both ways!" whispered Jess. "We are wrangling without coming to any conclusion," said Laura, sighing. "What shall we do about the shell? Can we get a new one----" "Who'll buy it for us?" demanded Lily. "That's just it," agreed Laura. "Let's ask our folks to all chip in a quarter," said Jess. "If the parents of every girl at school did that we'd scarcely be able to buy a new shell," returned the chairman. "I know that my father will never give a penny toward a new shell--not while the crew remains as inefficient as it is at present," said Hester, tossing her head. "But if you were in Celia's place, at stroke," snapped Jess, who was rather peppery in temper, "I suppose he would go right down into his pocket and purchase a boat for us himself?" "Perhaps he would, Miss Smartie!" returned the butcher's daughter. "Any change in the crew is up to Mrs. Case and the girls of the association--you know that, Hessie," Laura said, gravely. "We all got our positions because the instructor thought we were the better rowers----" "Oh, bah!" ejaculated the angry Hester. "We all know how _you_ are favored in everything, Miss! As for the new shell--I sha'n't do a thing toward helping get one; make up your mind to that." "That certainly is a terrible stroke of bad news, Hester," drawled one of the older girls. "Now, you would better keep still and let some of the rest of us talk a while. For a sophomore, you have a lot to say that is inconsequential." Some of the younger girls chuckled at this. But the occasion and the dispute itself were too serious to engender much hilarity. The question of the new shell was exhaustively discussed, and it was finally decided that a subscription paper be drawn and presented to the parents and friends of Central High, and a sufficient sum be raised immediately, if possible, to pay for a new eight-oared shell. At the break-up of the meeting Laura Belding spoke to several of the girls, including the twins, of a little junket that had been planned for Monday afternoon after school. Dora and Dorothy, Jess Morse, Nellie Agnew, and several other sophomores were invited to come to school prepared to ride directly from the school gate in automobiles into the country beyond Robinson's Woods, to a farmer's, whose family some of the girls already knew. "Eve Sitz's father raises the most luscious berries, and they are right at their height, Eve telephoned me to-day," said Laura. "She wants to give us a real strawberry festival Monday evening--and there is a moon for us to come home by. Chet and Lance and a lot of the boys will go along, too. We're going to have Mr. Purcell's sight-seeing auto as well as our own, and they will hold all of us comfortably." "Goody!" cried Dora Lockwood. "You are always thinking up the most perfectly scrumptious things to do, Laura!" "'Most perfectly scrumptious,'" repeated Nellie, laughing. "If Gee Gee heard you say that, Miss----Ahem!--was it Dora or Dorothy?" The girls laughed, but the other twin shook her head seriously. "There is no Dora at present. We are both Dorothy Lockwood," and when their friends demanded an explanation, the story of Aunt Dora's determination to take her namesake home with her to live came out in a torrent. "I'm glad I'm not a twin," declared Jess Morse, laughing till her sides ached. "They're lots of fun, these twins; but it's no fun to _be_ one of them, after all!" The Lockwood girls really were in a serious mood when they made their way homeward. It was a tragedy, in their minds, to be separated; and Dora and Dorothy vowed to each other, whatever befell, that Aunt Dora should not discover which girl had been named in her honor. CHAPTER VIII HIDE AND SEEK The Lockwood twins were glad of an excuse--and a good one--for dodging Aunt Dora for one afternoon and evening, and they therefore welcomed the invitation to the strawberry festival at the Sitz farm with acclaim. But there intervened the long Sunday when Aunt Dora nagged them--and everybody else about the cottage--all day. Mary, the hired girl, who had been with them since she had landed at Ellis Island, and who loved the twins as though they were her own, and admired Mrs. Betsey more than anybody else living, came to the verge of "giving notice" whenever Aunt Dora came into view of the house. "Sure, I was a bogtrotter when Oi landed, and we _did_ kape the pig in the kitchen--I admit it," declaimed the faithful Mary. "But I've been bred to wor'rk under as clane a housekaper as ever wore shoes--God bless her! And to have that ould ormadoun come here and tell me me flures ar're not clane, and me bedrooms smell musty----Ah--h! bad 'cess to the loikes av her!" Mrs. Betsey, to save losing Mary altogether, gave her permission to take Sunday afternoon and evening off. That would free her from the "eagle eye" of Aunt Dora for a few hours, at least. "Aunt Dora is what old-fashioned people used to call 'nasty clean'," grumbled Mr. Lockwood, as he prepared to flee to his beloved plants, despite the sacredness of the day. "She's so clean that she makes everybody else unhappy about it. But have patience, children. It can't last forever." It was Mrs. Betsey who was put through the "third degree" early in the morning. Couldn't she really tell the twins apart? Wasn't there something in their voices dissimilar? Was there not some mark on their bodies by which Dora could be distinguished from Dorothy? Hadn't one child a scar that the other did not have? "My dear madam," declared the old housekeeper and nurse, in desperation. "I gave up the question as hopeless ten years and more ago. If those girls do not wish to own up, nobody can tell them apart, you may be sure of that. Yes, they _are_ stubborn--and they _are_ pert. They have never been governed by harshness or by fear. The only way that I know to make Dora tell you which she is, is to make her love you enough to tell you." "Nonsense!" snapped Aunt Dora. "They are children. They must obey." "In that particular, madam," said Mrs. Betsey, shaking her head, "I fail to see how you are to make them obey." "They both should be punished." "Even that would not make them obey you--no matter what the punishment. And you know," added the old lady, with eyes that began to brighten warningly, "Mr. Lockwood would not hear of the twins being punished." "If they were mine I'd spank them both!" declared Aunt Dora, spitefully. "And that is perhaps one reason why neither wishes to go home with you," returned Mrs. Betsey, pointedly. As Mary was gone for the day the twins agreed to get tea; and there being a certain famous recipe, which had been the Lockwood family property for generations, for tea-biscuit, the twins promised Mr. Lockwood he should have them. "Can't one of you make the biscuit, without the other?" demanded Aunt Dora, her gray eyes beginning to sparkle. "Dora really makes them the best, I believe," said Mrs. Betsey, placidly, stroking the front of her silk gown, as she sat in her low rocker by the front window. "Ha!" exclaimed the militant lady. "Then let Dora make them." "Oh, we'll both make 'em," exclaimed one of the twins, getting up with her sister to go to the kitchen. "One of us can sift the flour while the other is preparing the tins. We'll make you a double quantity, Papa," she added, over her shoulder, her own eyes dancing merrily. "Now! which was _that_?" demanded Aunt Dora. "Was it Dora--or Dorothy?" "I really couldn't say," murmured Mr. Lockwood. "Dorothy usually sifts the flour," offered Mrs. Betsey. "But Dora makes up the biscuit best," said Mr. Lockwood. Aunt Dora looked from one unruffled face to the other; then she got up quietly and stole from the room. She tiptoed through the hall to the pantry door. There she waited until she was sure the twins were busy at the dresser and stove. So she stepped into the pantry and pushed aside the white dimity curtain at the window in the door which opened into the kitchen. One twin was busily buttering the tins while the other was sifting the ingredients of the biscuits in the big yellow mixing bowl. "So Dorothy usually sifts the flour, does she?" muttered the determined old lady, staring hard at the back of the sifter's head. But one thing Aunt Dora did not know. Every time the girl sifting the flour glanced up from her work she looked straight into a mirror over the dresser, tipped at such an angle that it showed the pantry door. She saw the curtain drawn back and her aunt's nose appear at the window. At once she said to her sister: "Are you afraid of the wolf at the door?" "Eh?" jerked out the other twin, looking up quickly. "But if poor papa is so poor, you know, maybe one of us ought to go home with Aunt Dora." The girl buttering the tins saw her sister's wink and nod, and glanced slily in the mirror, too. "We will fight the wolf at the door and drive it away," she declared, with spirit. "We'll leave school and go to work rather than be separated. Isn't that the way you feel?" "I should feel that I'd rather work than go home with Auntie, if I were Dora," declared she who was sifting. "So should I if _I_ were Dora," agreed her sister. A minute later one of the girls, while testing the heat of the oven, screamed. "Oh, oh!" she cried. "Oh, oh! I'm burned! Look at that!" and she held up her wrist with a white mark across it. Her sister darted across the kitchen, crying: "I'll get the witch hazel--you poor dear!" She had forgotten Aunt Dora, hiding in the pantry, and she collided with her with considerable force. "What's the matter with you?" demanded the exasperated old lady. "Nothing with me," returned the hurrying girl. "It's _she_ who's burned." "Who's burned?" cried Aunt Dora. "Which of you is hurt?" The girl who had stopped recovered her self-possession. "Let me go, Auntie," she said, quietly. "_My sister_ has burned her wrist." And so the anxious and determined aunt did not catch the twins off their guard, neither in war nor peace. CHAPTER IX ONE IS A HEROINE When the girls invited to Evangeline Sitz's "party" hurried out of Central High on Monday afternoon, they found, as Laura Belding had promised, her father's automobile, as well as one of Mr. Purcell's big, three-seated "lumber barges," as the boys called Centerport's sight-seeing autos. There were three seats behind the driver's, each wide enough for four persons. Laura and Chet (the latter of whom drove the Belding machine) had their own close friends in the smaller auto, and it was well filled. Mr. Purcell stood by the chauffeur of the big car as the Lockwood twins whisked into the front seat, completely filling it. Dora and Dorothy always preferred to keep together, and nobody could get between them here. The girls heard the automobile owner ask the driver: "How do you feel now, Bennie? All right?" "Pretty good, Boss," said the man, who, the twins noticed, was pale. "Sure you can make it all right? If you feel bad, say so, and I'll take your place." "I'll be all right, Boss, once we get moving," said the chauffeur. "Oh, look who's here!" whispered Dorothy, suddenly, to her sister, pinching her arm to attract her attention. "It's Pretty!" gasped Dora. "Isn't he a vision of loveliness?" The dandy of the school came mincing along the sidewalk with the evident intention of joining the auto party. He had been excused from classes early to go home and "rig up" for the occasion; and he certainly was--as Lance Darby said from the head automobile--"a sight for gods and men!" Prettyman Sweet wore a white flannel coat and trousers, with a very fine line of blue running through the goods lengthwise. He wore a canvas hat and canvas shoes, cut low to show open-work crimson silk socks--oh, they were dreams of the hosier's art! He wore a flowing crimson tie, too, and around his waist, instead of an ordinary belt, he wore a new-fangled, knitted, crimson sash-belt, the like of which none of the boys of Central High had ever beheld before. "Oh, Purt! where did you get it?" cried Lance Darby. "You're fixed up to flag a freight, with all that red on you," said Chet. "And where _did_ you get that gorgeous sash, Mr. Sweet?" demanded "Bobby" Hargrew, who was a tease by nature, and had the sharpest tongue of any girl at Central High. "Oh, now, Miss Clara," said Purt Sweet, carefully climbing into the seat directly behind the twins. "This is the very latest thing--weally! I sent clear to New York for it. You see, it's not so stiff and hard looking as a leather belt. This--er--lends a softness to the whole costume that is--er--quite unobtainable with a belt." "Oh, gee!" gasped Bobby. "It's soft enough, all right, all right!" and the rest laughed as they piled into the machine. Purt sat with his back to the twins, and was explaining to the girl beside him that he did not mind riding backward at all. Bobby was still on the ground, and as Dora and Dorothy looked down at her they saw the mischievous one suddenly reach up her thumb and finger and pick at a little frayed place upon the edge of Purt's beautiful sash. The thing was knitted loosely of some kind of mercerized cotton, and when Bobby seized the end of a broken strand the sash began to unravel with marvelous rapidity. She grinned up at the twins delightedly, and continued to pull on the thread. "All aboard, young folks!" cried Mr. Purcell. "You ready forward, there, Mr. Chetwood?" "All right," returned Chet, tripping his self-starter. Mr. Purcell stooped to crank up his big machine. Bobby, her eyes dancing, also stooped beside the front wheel for a moment, and then whisked into her seat, facing Purt Sweet. But the twins saw what she had done. She had fastened the end of the crimson thread to the head of a bolt upon the wheelbox. "All right, Bennie!" said Mr. Purcell, stepping back and waving his hand. The big machine began to tremble and shake, and then they pulled out behind the Belding car. There was a lot of noise, and laughter, and fun; but nobody seemed so hilarious as Clara Hargrew and the Lockwood twins. "Can't you keep your eyes off Purt, Bobby?" demanded the girl sitting next to the Sweet boy. "What's the matter with him?" "No--nothing!" chortled Bobby, stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth. But she was watching that red thread shooting down to the wheel and winding around and around the box, faster and faster as the big machine got under way. By the time the auto turned into Market Street a great ball of the red worsted, or whatever it was, had formed on the inside of the wheel, and the perfectly unconscious Prettyman Sweet was fast losing his beautiful crimson sash. The knitted part of the sash overlaid a belt of canvas which really did the service of holding up the exquisite's trousers. But fast, fast indeed, the red thread was running out. Others saw the unraveling yarn, and joined Bobby and the twins in hilarious laughter. Then a man walking on the sidewalk espied the growing ball of thread on the wheel and followed the strand to its source. His happy chortles attracted the attention of other pedestrians, and soon the big automobile was being accompanied by a chorus of shouts from small boys in the streets, and laughter from an ever-increasing number of bystanders. "What do you suppose is the matter with all these people?" demanded the unconscious Purt. "I never did see the like. Weally! It's too widiculous." "That's what it is!" laughed Bobby. "Why!" exclaimed Purt, "they weally seem to see something about us to laugh at! What can it be?" "Must be you, Purt," said one of the boys. "Widiculous! There is nothing about me to laugh at, dear boy." "Huh!" grunted his schoolmate. "You're one big laugh all the time, Pretty, only you don't know it!" The way to the farm where the young people were bound was out Market Street to the east, and then through the winding road which bisected Robinson's Woods and up into the hills. Mr. Sitz was a Swiss, and had been used to hilly farms in his youth; therefore the "up hill and down dale" nature of his farming land near Centerport did not trouble him in the least. He and Otto, his son, and the hands he hired, made good crops upon the hilly farm, and the Sitzes were becoming well to do. In the front auto Laura was speaking about Eve Sitz. "She's such a big, muscular girl. If she comes to Central High next fall, as I want her to, she'll help us greatly in athletics. You see, she'll enter as a junior, and be in our classes. And she can pull an oar already--and what a fine guard she'd make at basketball! She's a lot lighter on her feet than Hester Grimes, or Mary O'Rourke, in spite of the fact that she's so big." "Bully!" exclaimed Jess. "She can cut out Hessie, then." Suddenly Lance, who looked back, raised a shout of surprise and terror. "Look at that! What's happened to the other car! Stop, Chet!" The young folks in the Belding car sprang up and looked back. They were just in time to see the man who drove the sight-seeing car fall sidewise from his seat, and slip down until half of his body lay upon the step. He had dropped the wheel and the heavy car was running wild. The two cars were out of the city now, and running upon a lonely bit of road. The Belding car was, indeed, half way down the long slope, which the heavier one had just begun to descend. The big auto began to wabble from side to side, and those ahead saw one of the Lockwood twins seize the man who had fallen and drag him back into the car. But, meanwhile, the car itself was running away. Faster and faster it rolled down the hill, and its course was so erratic that those in the first car almost held their breath. The expectation was that the big car would collide with a telegraph pole beside the road, or go into the ditch on the other side. "Stop, Chet!" yelled Lance again. But if Chet Belding stopped his car, he knew that the other might run them down. He dared not run that risk. "Grab the wheel! Shut off the power! Brake her!" yelled Lance, wildly waving his arms at the crowd behind. "Some of you fellows do something!" But the boy nearest to the steering gear of the big machine was Purt Sweet--and Purt scarcely knew enough about an automobile to keep from being run over by one! "Oh!" cried Laura, "they will be hurt! There! it's going to smash into that tree----" But suddenly they saw one of the twins dive into the chauffeur's seat. She seized the wheel and guided the big machine into the straight road again. Then she manipulated the levers and quickly brought the shuddering car to a stop. The driver still lay motionless. "Oh, oh!" cried Jess, hopping out of the Belding car when Chet stopped it, and running back. "She stopped it! You're a real heroine--Dorothy--Dora--whichever one you are." But the Lockwood twins looked at each other quickly and that understanding glance made the girl who had played the heroine say: "It doesn't matter which one of us did it, Jess. We'll divide the heroic act between us. But let's see what's the matter with this poor man; he's fainted, I believe." CHAPTER X BAKED IN A BISCUIT There wasn't a house in sight; but not far beyond was the inn at Robinson's Woods, the picnic grounds, and Lance took the management of the big car while the unconscious chauffeur was rushed ahead by Chet in the Belding car. The man was put to bed at the inn and a physician sent for; but Lance agreed to drive the big car himself on to the Sitz place. When the larger car reached the inn, however, another discovery was made. Even while the auto had followed its erratic course, untended, part way down the hill, Purt Sweet had sat tight and merely squealed. He had not offered to leave his seat. But now, by the merest chance, he happened to look down at his waist. The greater part of that beautiful crimson sash had disappeared! "Wha--wha--what's the matter with me?" gasped Purt. "I--I've lost it! Who's taken it?" He bobbed up suddenly and broke the strand that had been, all this time, winding around and around the wheelbox until there was now a big roll of it. "What's the matter with you, Purt?" demanded one of the boys, bursting with laughter. "Why--why--somebody's stolen my sash!" wailed the youth. "Did you see it? Isn't that a mean trick, now?" The shout that went up from the girls and boys who had been watching the unraveling process brought the crowd from the first automobile back, too. Poor Purt looked ruefully at his lost sash, wound around the wheel, and bemoaned his bad fortune most feelingly. But Lance cut off the ball of red worsted and threw it in the gutter. "I really wish you wouldn't be so careless, Purt," he said, as though the victim were at fault. "Mussing up the whole machine with your fancy fixin's. Don't you do that any more." "But, my dear boy, I had no idea of doing it--weally!" exclaimed the unfortunate Purt. "I don't for the life of me see how that could have become attached to that wheel." And as nobody explained the mystery to him, he was in low spirits all the rest of the way to the farmhouse. But the preparations at the Sitz farm were likely to raise the spirits of any boy or girl. In the first place the farmhouse was a very pleasant old house indeed, and its big grassy yard, with shade trees and vines, was a delightful spot for an open-air party. Under the grape arbors, now in full leaf, long tables had been spread, and as soon as the automobiles arrived Eve called the girls to the back porch to help hull berries already picked, while Otto, her rather slow-witted brother, took the boys down to the strawberry patch to help pick more of the fruit. Purt, who was greedy as could be, "picked into his mouth" until Chet and the other boys warned him that he'd be so full he would not be able to do justice to the berries and cream that would come later. The big kitchen of the farmhouse was a scene of great activity, too. Mother Sitz, who could scarcely speak a word of English, was happy in having the girls about, however; and she had made and frosted and decorated innumerable little cakes such as she had been used to in the old country. Eve put on a big apron and lent Laura one, and the two set about making the biscuit and the old-fashioned dough for the short-cakes. Laura Belding was fond of Eve for the country girl's own sake; but loyalty to Central High and Laura's deep interest in school athletics caused her to cultivate the girl, too. There was a very good district school which Eve had attended, in which the teacher had brought her older scholars along to a point that enabled them to take the examinations for the Junior grade of the city schools. These examinations were to be held in Centerport within a fortnight, and Laura wished Eve to come to Central High in the Fall, instead of to the Keyport High, which was somewhat nearer to the Sitz place. "You'll have to take train to Keyport, anyway, Eve," urged her friend, while they were busy making the biscuits. "There is a better train stops at your station, bound for Centerport; and you can get out at the Hill Station and then it is only a five-minute walk to our school." "I know, Laura," said the big girl. "But do you suppose I can pass?" "Why not?" "They say that Mr. Sharp is dreadfully _sharp_ on Latin, and that's my weak point." "Why, you can cram on Latin in a fortnight. I'll tell you a book to get that will help--and it costs but fifty cents. You can begin right away on it----" "But I haven't got the book yet." "You've got the fifty cents, haven't you?" returned her friend. "Yes." "Then--what time does your rural delivery man go by the end of the road?" Eve glanced at the big clock solemnly ticking on the wall. "In about three-quarters of an hour." "Run and write your letter to the Keyport bookseller. One of the boys will run out and give the letter to the mail carrier." "But a fifty cent piece won't be safe in a letter," said Eve, doubtfully. "We--ell----" "And I haven't time to run out there and stop Mr. Cheever, and make out a money order--for fifty cents, too!" exclaimed Eve. "Humph!" ejaculated Laura. "There's fifty ways of sending fifty cents----" "Sure," laughed Eve. "A penny at a time!" "No. I'm not joking. Write your letter. Give me the fifty cents. I'll find a safe way. Give me the half dollar now. I'll put the biscuits in the pans. Is the oven hot?" "Pretty near." "I'll try it--with one biscuit, anyway," chuckled Laura, seizing the half dollar her friend gave out of her purse. In ten minutes Eve came dancing back from her room with the letter written. "How you going to send the money, Laura?" she demanded. "Here's the letter--all ready." "And the money will be ready in a minute or two. That oven's good and hot," said Laura. "What do you mean?" gasped Eve. "You're not baking the half dollar?" "Yes, ma'am," laughed Laura. "That's what I'm doing." She dropped the range door and showed a small pan with one lonesome little biscuit in it. "It's baking fine, too. I want it to be a hard, crusty one----" "And you've baked the half dollar in the biscuit!" screamed Eve. "That's what I've done. You just add a line to your letter to that effect. Then we'll put the letter and biscuit in that little box, tie it up, address it, and Lance Darby will run out to the road and mail it for you. Be quick now," concluded Laura, whisking the pan out of the oven, "for the half-dollar biscuit is done!'" "What an original girl you are, Laura," said Eve, doing as she was bid. "Who'd have thought of _that_ way to send coin in the mail?" "Your Aunt Laura thought of it," laughed her friend. "For we want nothing to stand in your way of passing that examination, Eve. We need you at Central High." CHAPTER XI THE BOAT IS FOUND And that supper! It was something to be membered by the crowd from town. Such thick, luscious yellow cream that Mother Sitz lifted from the pans of milk in the cement block "milk-house" most of the town-bred folk had never seen before. The biscuits and "short-cake" came out of the oven with just the right brown to them. The big berries were heaped upon the wedges of buttered short-cake, and then cream poured over the berries, with plenty of sugar. "Yum! Yum!" mumbled Lance Darby, with a huge mouthful obstructing his parts of speech. "Isn't this the Jim-dandiest lay-out you ever saw, Chet?" "I never sat down to a better one," admitted his chum. "But please don't talk to me. Purt is getting more of the berries than I am--and he isn't talking at all. Just pass the sugar, Lance, and then shut up for a while." But there was enough serious talk during the supper to arrange a return treat for Eve and Otto Sitz. The farmer boy and his sister had seldom been on Lake Luna and Laura and her brother suggested a trip by boat and canoe to Cavern Island for the following Saturday. "And no picnic luncheon at the park. That's too common," declared Jess Morse, eagerly. "Let's do something different." "Trot out your 'different' suggestion, Josephine," said her chum. "Let's go to the caves. Let's picnic there." "Oh!" cried one of the Lockwood twins. "That's where we saw the 'lone pirate.'" "The lone _what_?" rejoined Nellie Agnew. "What do you mean by that?" The other twin explained how and when they had seen the bushy-headed, wild-looking man at the foot of Boulder Head. "There's where the caverns open onto the shore, exactly," remarked Chet Belding. "Are you afraid of meeting the pirate, girls?" "We'll capture him and make him walk the plank!" declared Bobby Hargrew. "Hurrah for the pirate!" So the trip to Cavern Island for the next Saturday was arranged, Eve and Otto promising to join the party at Centerport. And the run home by automobile in the moonlight was enlivened by plans for the coming good time on the Lake. Lance ran the sight-seeing automobile carefully and delivered it to Mr. Purcell, the owner, in good season. The man who should have driven it, but who was taken ill, had been removed to the hospital from the inn in the woods. "I understand one of those girls played the heroine and stopped the car," said the automobile owner. "Yes, sir," replied Lance. "That was one of the Lockwood twins." "Which one was it? I'd like to thank her, at least," said Mr. Purcell. "Couldn't tell you," laughed Lance. "Why couldn't you? Sworn to secrecy, young man?" demanded Mr. Purcell. "No, sir. But the twins themselves seem to be. Nobody knows them apart, and they won't tell on each other. One of them is the heroine, but which one nobody knows," and Lance Darby went off laughing. Meanwhile the twins themselves walked briskly home from the schoolhouse where the party of young folk had separated. On the way they met a girl a little older than themselves, hurrying in the opposite direction. "Here's Billy Long's sister, Alice," whispered Dora to Dorothy. "Oh, dear me!" replied Dorothy. "I suppose she has had to work late at the paper box factory. And how she must feel----" Her twin seized the factory girl's arm as she was hurrying past with just a little nod to the Lockwood twins. "Alice Long!" ejaculated Dora. "You're crying. What's the matter?" "Oh, girls! you know about Billy, don't you?" cried Short and Long's sister. "They haven't caught him?" cried Dorothy. "No, no! I almost wish they would," sobbed Alice Long. "We don't know where he is. I've just been down to Mr. Norman's to see if the boat has been found." "And it hasn't?" demanded one of the twins. "No. It was an old boat that Mr. Norman thought he was going fishing in, same as usual. Billy often brings home a mess of fish, or sells them. You know, he has always been a helpful boy." "We want to tell you, Alice dear," said Dorothy with a glance at her sister, "that we don't believe a word of what they say about Billy." "Thank you, Miss," said Alice, eagerly. "I was sure his schoolmates would stand by him. But he was very foolish to run away--if he has run away." "Otherwise, what has happened to him?" "That is what is worrying father and me. The boat was old. Something might have happened. He might be drowned," sobbed the sister. "Oh, no, Alice! Billy was a good swimmer." "I know that. But often good swimmers are taken with cramps. And if the boat overturned, or sank, out in the middle of Lake Luna----" "That's too dreadful a thing to think of!" cried Dora. "I believe he ran away because he was afraid of being arrested. Everybody was talking about his having a hand in that robbery." "Well, he never did it. I could testify that he wasn't out of his bed Tuesday night when the robbery took place. I told the policemen so. But, of course, Billy could have gone out of the window and down the shed roof--and got back again, too--without our knowing it. He has more than once, I suppose," admitted the troubled sister. "You see, on Wednesday Stresch & Potter sent their store detective to see Billy, and he bulldozed him and threatened him. I expect the boy was badly frightened, although the man was only a cheap bully. So we don't know what to think--whether Billy has deliberately run away, or that some accident happened to him on the lake." "Chet and Lance Darby were looking for him Saturday over at Cavern Island," said a twin. "But they met with an accident. We're all going over to the island again this coming Saturday, and we'll search the east end for him." "How would he live over there?" gasped his sister. "Oh, there are berries this time of year. And of course, he could fish," said Dora eagerly. "There's a man hiding there, anyway," added Dorothy, but then remembered that the information might add to Alice's fright, so said no more. "We'll do everything we can to find Short and Long," Dora assured the boy's sister. "And we are telling everybody that we don't believe Billy would do such a thing as they say. As though there wasn't any other boy in Centerport who could have crawled through that window at Stresch & Potter's." The twins parted from Alice Long, and ran home. They slipped to bed without encountering Aunt Dora and counted that day well spent because the old lady had not yet caught them so that she could identify Dora. But on Tuesday Aunt Dora appeared at Central High and met Miss Grace G. Carrington--otherwise "Gee Gee." "I wish to hear my nieces recite," she said, with sharply twinkling eyes behind her glasses. "It doesn't matter what class--any class will do." Miss Carrington politely asked the prim old lady to sit beside her on the platform, and Aunt Dora listened to the recitation then in progress. Both Dora and Dorothy took part; but for the life of her the near-sighted lady could not tell when Dora spoke, and when Dorothy answered! "I suppose you know them apart?" she ventured, to Miss Carrington. "Oh, no; but I believe they usually answer to their names. They stand about alike in their classes and we have put them on their honor not to answer for each other. They are good girls and give me little trouble," added Gee Gee, which was a concession from her. "So if you called one of them to the desk you could not be sure that the one you called really came?" asked Aunt Dora. "Not as far as physical appearances go," said Gee Gee, shaking her head. So Aunt Dora was thwarted again and went back to the cottage to invent some other method of tripping the twins. It had become a game, now, that both sides were determined to win; and Mr. Lockwood and Mrs. Betsey stood by and watched the play with amusement. A veritable fleet of canoes, pair-oared and four-oared boats gathered at Central High boat house, just before noon the next Saturday. It was a bright and calm day and the lake looked most inviting. The girls were in fine fettle, particularly. The subscription paper to raise the sum necessary for the purchase of a new eight-oared shell had gone about town briskly that week and Laura reported that already more than half of the sum necessary had been promised. She had written to the builders of such shells and they had replied that there was one in stock that they would be glad to send the girls of Central High, on approval, if the physical instructor agreed. "And Mrs. Case is writing to them to-day," concluded Laura. "They will send on the new boat and we can pay for it after the money is all in. And, oh, girls! We'll win that race from the Keyport and other crews, if such a thing is possible. After to-day the crew will be in training. We must try out the boat, and work in her just as soon as she arrives, and every other afternoon thereafter. So, you members of the crew make your preparations accordingly." "And for goodness sake, Bobby," urged Nellie Agnew, to the little "cox" of the crew, "don't you go to cutting capers in school so that Gee Gee can condition you. She's just waiting for a chance to fix it so you cannot steer for us." "Aw, pshaw!" said Clara Hargrew. "I don't do anything." "No; but Gee Gee does something to you," declared Jess Morse, laughing. "See that you don't give her a chance to stop your after-hour athletics again, Bobby," begged Laura. "All right; I'll be good," said Bobby, grinning. "But after school--well, when long vacation comes this time I think I'll have to set the old school house afire to celebrate!" "No. You had trouble over fires before," advised Dorothy Lockwood. "That's so," agreed Dora. "Don't mention fire again!" exclaimed Jess. "That's why we lost the race before--because you could not steer for us, Bobby." Laura and Lance Darby took Eve and Otto Sitz with them in Lance's nice boat. There were two pairs of sculls and Otto managed to row very well in the bow. Of course Chet took Jess in his boat, and the remainder paired off as fancy beckoned. But the twins paddled their cedar canoe. And few of the fleet of small craft were propelled to the island in better shape than Dora's and Dorothy's canoe. The others cheered the pretty girls as they forced their craft through the rippling water. The management of a canoe--especially a double canoe--is not so easy as it appears. But the Lockwood twins had taken to that form of aquatic sports very kindly, and there really were few canoe crews in Centerport who handled their craft as well. The fleet of boats crossed the lake in a short time and, headed by the twins' canoe, reached the eastern end of the island. They swept into the cove where the girls had seen, the previous Saturday, the rough-looking, bewhiskered man upon the shore. Right here under the Boulder Head was the mouth of the cavern from which the island obtained its name. As the twins swept their canoe on with easy strokes, Dora suddenly uttered a cry of excitement. "See there, Dory!" she said. "See where?" demanded her sister, craning her neck to see over Dora's shoulder. "There! Down in the water! The sunken boat!" The water in the cove was very clear, but it had considerable depth. The canoe was brought sharply up by the two girls and both peered down. Below them could plainly be seen a sunken rowboat. It did not appear to be damaged in any way, but had simply filled and sunk. "What have you found, girls?" demanded Lance Darby, whose boat was nearest to the twins' canoe at the moment. "Is there some deep sea monster down there?" "Come and look, Lance," cried Dora. The moment the young Darby saw the submerged craft he exclaimed: "Here it is, by gracious!" "Here is what?" demanded Laura. "The boat. Hey, Chet! we've found it!" he called to his chum, who quickly turned his own boat's prow in their direction. "What you found?" demanded Laura's brother, coming nearer. "Here's Mr. Norman's boat that he lent Short and Long," declared Lance, eagerly. "It was just as you said, Chet. Billy came over here to the island." "Oh, my!" cried Jess. "And if that is so, perhaps he is still here." "We must find him," said one of the twins, earnestly. "His sister Alice is just about worried to death about him; and the longer he remains in hiding, the worse it will be for him, anyway." CHAPTER XII IN THE CAVE The other boats of the flotilla began to make the cove and soon there was a loudly chattering crowd around the sunken boat. "Are you sure that's the old rowboat Billy got from Mr. Norman?" asked one of the other boys of Chet. "Yes, sir! I've been out in it more than once with Short and Long," declared Laura's brother. "But where can Billy be?" cried Josephine Morse. "Surely, the poor fellow isn't drowned?" queried Nellie Agnew. "Oh, don't suggest such a thing!" returned one of the twins. "If you'd seen how badly his sister felt about his absence----" "I expect the Longs are all broken up about it. And they have no mother," said Laura Belding, softly. "And Billy could swim like a fish," quoth Lance Darby. "No chance of his being drowned," declared Chet. "But, do you suppose he sank the boat here to hide it--sank it purposely?" cried another girl. "Maybe he's hiding here. Why don't they search the island for him?" "And the caves?" cried another. "_I'd_ like to get hold of him," Chetwood Belding said, gravely. "But Billy never in this world crawled through that basement window and opened the door for those burglars. I'll never believe it----" "Not even if Billy said so himself, dear boy?" interposed Prettyman Sweet. "I'd doubt it then," rejoined Chet, grimly. "And let me tell you fellows, this absence of Short and Long is a very bad thing for Central High. We lost the game with Lumberport just because Billy wasn't at short; you all know that. I'm mighty glad the game with West High was called off for to-day. Without Billy Long, Central High is very likely to win the booby prize on the diamond this season." "Right you are, Chet," declared Lance Darby. "I admit Billy is some little ball player," agreed another boy. "But it looks bad, his running away." "What would _you_ have done?" flashed out Dora Lockwood, for the twins had become strong partisans of the absent Billy since talking with Alice Long, "if that store detective had come and bullied _you_?" "Put him through the third degree, did he?" "Yes. And scared him by all sorts of threats. And then, everybody around the neighborhood got hold of it, and said that Billy was just the boy to do such a thing," Dorothy broke in. "He _was_ up to all sorts of mischief," Nellie Agnew observed. "Never did a mean thing in his life, Billy didn't," declared Chet. "Come on ashore," said Lance, he and Otto Sitz pulling their heavy boat in to a sloping landing. "No use gassing here about that old boat. We can't raise it. But I'll tell Mr. Norman where it is when I go back." "You're very right, Lance," said Purt Sweet. "It's time to have the luncheon--don't you think? I'm getting howwibly hungry, dontcher know?" "To see you eat strawberries up at Eve's house last Monday, I thought you would never be hungry again--if you recovered," laughed Jess. "Aw--now--Miss Josephine--weally, you know," gasped the dude. "You are too, too cwuel!" "Somebody throw that fellow overboard!" growled Chet. "He's getting softer and softer every day." "Never mind," whispered his sister, laughing, "he is dressed much less gaudily to-day. What Bobby did to that sash of his last Monday seems to have made Purt less vociferous in his sartorial taste." "Gee, Laura!" cried Bobby Hargrew, from the next boat, "if Mammy Jinny heard that, she sure would think that schools ought to teach only 'words of one syllabub.'" "Never mind Mammy Jinny," laughed Laura. "We've got some of Mammy's finest efforts in pie and cake in our hamper. And I admit, like Purt, I am hungry myself. Let's eat before we do another living thing!" That was indeed a hilarious picnic. The girls had brought paper napkins and tablecloths, as well as plenty of paper plates. No trouble about washing dishes, or packing them home again, afterward. Chet had bought a big tin pail and in this he made gallons of lemonade, and everybody ate and drank to repletion. "Now, if we were only at the park for just a little while, and could top off on ice cream," said Lance, lying back on the greensward with a contented sigh despite his spoken wish. "I'd rather see that monkey again," laughed Jess. "That's the cutest little beast." "It weally is surprising how much the cweature knows," said Purt Sweet. "It is weally almost human." "So are you!" scoffed Lance. "It's an ugly little animal. Never did like a monkey. And I think Tony Allegretto and his trained monkey are fakes. We didn't see him do anything wonderful." "Oh, they say that the monkey does lots of other tricks when Tony gets a big crowd into his booth," said Laura. "Now, who's for seeing the caves?" cried Chet, rising briskly. "You girls declared you wanted to go 'way through the hill." "Won't we get lost?" asked Nellie, timidly. "Not a bit of it. It's a straight passage--nearly," said Chet. "Lance and I have been through a couple of times. We come out into just the prettiest little valley in the middle of the island--and not far from the park, at that." "But people _have_ been lost in the caves," objected one girl. "Not of late years. There are side passages, I know, where a fellow could get turned around." "It's just like a maze, over at the east end," Lance observed. "But we won't go into that part." "And the way is marked along the walls of the straight cave in red paint. I've got a box of tapers," said Chet, and ran to the boat for them. "Gas lighters," said Dorothy. "Oh, Jolly!" ejaculated Bobby Hargrew. "You know what that new hired girl of ours said when mother showed her how to cook macaroni? She says: "'Sure, Mrs. Hargrew, do youse be atein' them things?' "And when mother told her yes, Bridget said: "'Well! well! Where I wor'rked last they used 'em to light the gas wid!'" The party of young folk had to follow a narrow path along the shore of the cove for some distance ere they came to the first opening into the caves. The sheer face of Boulder Head rose more than a hundred feet above their heads. There were shelves and crevices in the rock, out of which stunted trees and bushes grew in abundance; but there was no practicable path to the top of the cliff. "They say that, years ago, a man used to live on this island who could climb that cliff like a goat," Chet said. "Bet none of you boys could climb it," cried Bobby Hargrew. "And we're not going to try it, Miss! Not on a double-dare," laughed Chet. "We'll go through it, if you please. Now, here's the opening of the main passage. You see, there's an arrow in red painted on the rock just inside." "It looks awfully dark," said Nellie, quaveringly. "And suppose the 'lone pirate' should be hiding in there?" whispered Dora to her twin. "We--ell! I guess there are enough of us to frighten him away," said Dorothy. Chet took the lead with a lighted taper. Of course, when he was well inside the small flame gave a very pale glow; but those behind could see it. Then Lance followed with another light at about the middle of the Indian file, and Otto Sitz brought up the rear with a third. "You look out somebody doesn't creep up behind you and bite, Otto," laughed Bobby Hargrew, who was just ahead of the Swiss boy. "Dat don't worry me von bit," growled Otto. "It iss only ha'ants I am afraid of, and ha'nts don't live in caves." "No," said Bobby, shivering. "B--r--r--r! they'd freeze to death in here. Isn't it cold, after coming out of the warm sun?" But when they were once well into the passage through the rock, and the first 'shivery' feeling had worn off, the girls as well as the boys were hilarious. When they shouted in the high and vaulted chambers their voices were echoed thunderously in their ears. The flaming tapers were reflected in places from many points of quartz, or mica. The floor of the cavern was quite smooth, and rose only a little. In places the walls were worn as smooth as glass. In some dim, past age the center of this island must have been a great lake, and the water had found an outlet through these passages. At one point they found a little circular chamber at one side, in which was a bed of pine branches. It really looked as though the place had been used----and not so long before----as a camp. There were the ashes of a fire on the floor. "Here's where the pirate has been living," Dora declared to her sister. "It would scare the girls into fits if we should tell them so." "Hush!" said Dorothy. "Perhaps that man _is_ here somewhere," and she, at least, was glad to hurry on, although Chet searched the chamber with particular care. "What do you expect to find here, old man?" asked Lance, laughing. But his chum only shook his head and led the way toward the distant outlet of the passage. CHAPTER XIII THE STRANGE MAN AGAIN They came out of the cave into a hollow, grown to a wilderness of small trees, yet carpeted between with a brilliant sod of short grass. On the steep sides were larger trees; but evidently, at a time not then long past, the cup of the hollow had been cleared. And at one side was the ruin of a log hut. "The man who lived alone at this end of the island, and climbed up and down Boulder Head, used to occupy this hut," said Chet. "But those logs were cut a hundred years ago!" cried Dora Lockwood. "See how they have rotted at the ends." "I guess that's so. Nobody knows who built the cabin." "Indians!" cried Jess. "Indians didn't built log houses. The first settlers did that. Indians lived in wigwams," declared Laura. "Some old hunter lived here, maybe, when the woods were full of bears and wildcats," suggested her chum. "What's that!" suddenly shrieked Bobby. "There's a wildcat, now!" "Behave!" commanded Laura, shaking the smaller girl. "You can't scare us that way." "Nothing more ferocious inhabits these woods than a Teddy-bear," laughed Jess Morse. "Then it was a Teddy bear I saw in that tree," declared Bobby, pointing. "And it was a live one." The girls--some of them, at least--drew together. "What did you see, Clara?" demanded Nellie Agnew. "A little brown animal----" "A red squirrel!" cried Lance. "Hark!" cried Chet. "I hear him." There certainly did come to their ears a chattering sound. "That's no squirrel," announced Otto. "I haf been hunting enough for them alretty." "No squirrel was ever so noisy as that, Chet," said his sister. "There! I see it again," cried the quick-eyed Bobby. "My goodness, gracious me!" gasped Purt, who was craning his neck to see into the tree tops so that the back of his high collar sawed his neck. "I--I thought it looked like a blue-jay." "Say!" exclaimed Lance. "You're looking in the wrong direction." "It's a monkey!" cried Dora Lockwood, at that moment. "It's Tony Allegretto's monkey," added her twin. Some of the others caught sight of the animal then. It was truly the large monkey the friends had seen only the week before at the amusement park at the other end of the island. "He's run away!" cried Laura. "I hope he has," Dorothy Lockwood said. "That Italian didn't treat him kindly. What was his name?" "He called the monk 'Bébé'," said Lance. "Let's see if he will come down to us," suggested Laura, crossing the hollow. "Now, keep back, the rest of you," commanded Lance. "If anybody can get the little beast, Laura can do it." "Sure!" chuckled Bobby. "Mother Wit can charm either boys, or monkeys--and right out of the trees!" But they gave way to Mother Wit and she went alone to the foot of the tree in which Bébé was swinging. He chattered when she came near, and swung upright on the branch. But he did not appear to be much afraid. Laura found an apple in her pocket, and she offered it to the monkey, calling to him soothingly. Whether his monkeyship was fond of apples, or not, he was curious, and he began to descend the tree slowly. He was dressed in a part of his odd Neapolitan suit; but it was torn and bedraggled. A cord was fastened to his collar, but it had become frayed and so was broken. His queer, ugly face was wrinkled into an expression of doubt as he approached Laura, and his little eyes snapped greedily. The apple tempted him. "Come down, Bébé," coaxed Laura. "Talk Italian to him--he understands that better," giggled Jess. Bébé chattered angrily. "Hush!" commanded Lance. "She'll get him yet, if you'll let her alone." The monkey did seem, when all was quiet, to be about to leap into Laura's arms. "Come, Bébé," she coaxed, and finally the chattering creature timidly dropped from the branch of the tree and snuggled down into her arms, grabbing the apple on the instant and sinking his sharp teeth into it. At the very moment of her success there were crashing footsteps in the bushes and into the opening rushed Tony Allegretto, the monkey's master. "Ah-ah!" cried the Italian, his face glowing and his black eyes snapping. "You try-a to steal-a da monk! Come to me Bébé--or I break-a da neckl!" [Illustration: "AH-AH!" CRIED THE ITALIAN, "YOU TRY-A TO STEAL-A DA MONK!"] He rushed toward the girl holding the monkey. The animal chattered angrily and cowered in Laura's arms. "Hold on," said Chet, stepping forward. "Nobody's stealing your monkey, and don't you say we are. He was up the tree there and my sister got him down for you. I reckon if you treated him half decently he wouldn't run away from you." "You! Ha!" sputtered Tony. "You one o' dem fresh boys, eh? Give-a me da monk!" "Let him have the creature, Laura," said Chet. "He'll beat him. See how frightened poor Bébé is!" "Can't help it," said her brother. "He belongs to the dago----" "Calla me da dago, too!" stammered the angry Italian. "I fix-a you for dis!" and he shook his fist at Chet. "Come on and do your fixing right now," advised the big boy, easily. "You won't find me as easy as Bébé, I bet you!" "You 'Merican boys and girls want to steal my monk--want-a spoil-a da act!" cried Tony. He grabbed Bébé out of Laura's arms, although the monkey shrieked his protest at the exchange. But Tony did not beat the little beast, and it clung to him with one arm around Tony's neck while it finished the apple. "You ought to thank us for finding your monkey for you," said Lance Darby, in disgust. Tony growled something in Italian and started off up the side of the hollow. Before he got out of sight he was joined by a man who stepped out of hiding in a clump of brush. "Did you see that?" cried Lance, eagerly, in Chefs ear. "There's another of 'em here." "Another monkey?" laughed Chet. But Dora whispered to Dorothy: "That man has whiskers. Do you suppose he is our lone pirate?" "I'd like to see this piratical individual you girls are talking about," laughed Laura, who was nearest to the Lockwood twins. At that moment Lance and Chet were walking back toward the entrance to the cave. "Say, old man," Lance asked his chum, "what were you searching that chamber in the cavern for? What did you expect to find?" "I don't know that I expected to find anything," answered Chetwood Belding. "But I'll show you what I _did_ find," and he drew from his pocket an old knife and placed it in Lance's hand. The latter turned it over, and whistled under his breath. "I ought to know this old toad-stabber," he said. "Broken corkscrew--yes; small blade broken short off, too. Why, Chet, that's Short and Long's knife!" "That's right." "And you mean to say you picked it up in the cavern?" "Right in that place where somebody had been camping," declared his chum. "But don't say anything about it. We can't do anything toward finding him with all these girls about. But, later----" "You bet!" agreed Lance. So the boys rather hurried the departure of the crowd for the place where the boats had been left, and where they had lunched. The walk through the cove did not take long, and the party, happy and laughing, crowded out upon the shore of the cove in front of the subterranean passage. Instantly one of the twins drew the attention of all by uttering a startled little scream. "What's the matter with you--er--Sister?" demanded the other Lockwood girl, with a chuckle. "That wasn't the man we saw with Tony!" declared the girl who had cried out. "What man?" "The pirate," said the twin. "How do you know?" demanded Laura, laughing. "For I just saw him again. And he couldn't have gotten through the cave ahead of us." "There are prowlers about," declared Chet to Lance. "What sort of a looking man, Miss Lockwood?" demanded Lance. "Oh, he's all bushy black whiskers and hair. I only saw the upper part of his body again. He dodged down behind that boulder yonder." "Say! the other cave opening is over there," cried Bobby Hargrew. "And that's a fact," admitted Chet. "Let's see if the boats are all right," cried Lance, starting on a run for the landing. "And the rest of the lunch, dear boy!" cried Prettyman Sweet, following him. "Weally, if that has been stolen it is a calamity." CHAPTER XIV THE NEW SHELL The calamity had occurred! Soulful were the wails of Purt Sweet. Not a crumb of food left in the girls' hampers when the party set out through the cave for the middle of Cavern Island was now left to appease Mr. Sweet's appetite. "The lone pirate has done his fell work, sure enough," Laura Belding declared. "And how hungry he must have been, Nellie! He took that pie you made that none of us could eat." They all laughed at this hit, for the doctor's daughter was not much of a pastry cook and her lemon pie had been voted the booby prize at luncheon. "Ooh!" gasped Bobby. "Do you suppose it will kill him? Maybe it will give him such a terrible case of indigestion that he will steal a boat, raise the Jolly Roger again, and go to work making people walk the plank and all that sort of thing--and it will be your fault, Nellie Agnew!" "I'm only afraid he will eat it and die in terrible agony all alone here," wailed Nellie, who could take a joke as well as give one. "And then his ghost will haunt this end of the island----" "And Otto will never come here again," said Eve Sitz, poking fun at her brother, who had once been very much afraid of a supposed "haunt" in an old house in Robinson's Woods. "Never you mind," growled her brother. "There _iss_ ha'ants, undt you will findt oudt so some day--yes!" But Chet and Lance decided that there were altogether too many prowlers at this end of the island for the party to remain longer. Had they been alone, or with the other boys and no girls, they would surely have made an attempt to find the bewhiskered man whom the Lockwood twins had twice seen disappear into the far entrance of the caverns. "We ought to report him to the park police," said Nellie Agnew. "He may steal something more than food, next time." "Leave that to us," said Chet, hastily. "Lance and I will report it in proper time." But to his chum he whispered: "We don't want any police fooling around here. Suppose they found Short and Long?" "Right--oh!" agreed Lance. "Hope they'll all forget it and not mention the 'lone pirate' when they get home." But as events proved, some member of the party mentioned the robbery of the lunch--and in a quarter which brought a search of the eastern end of Cavern Island by the police, a happening that Chet would have given a good deal to avoid. Now, however, Laura's brother was busy inventing something to interest the party, and yet take them away from this end of the island. The twins were discussing with Eve Sitz the advantages of paddling over rowing, when Chet gave a shout which drew all attention to him instantly. "Come on!" said the big lad. "Let's get into the boats. We'll have a four-oared race. I'll choose a crew of boys and let Laura choose one of girls. I bet we boys, using my boat, can row around that channel buoy out yonder and back again, before Laura in Lance's boat can do it. And Lance has the lightest boat." "Done!" cried his sister. "And Lance's boat isn't so much lighter, either. What do you say, girls?" "Let's show 'em!" cried Bobby. "Let me steer, Laura." "All right," said Laura. "And Freddie Ackerman here will steer for us," said Chet. The crews were quickly chosen. Laura took Eve and the twins with her. Chet had Purt Sweet for Number 2 and pulled stroke himself. Lance arranged the start and was referee. "When I slap these two sticks together, you're to go," instructed Lance. "The line is right between where I stand here on this rock and the boulder at the far mouth of the cavern. I can see the whole course from here. Now, no bumping at the turn. The boat that has the inside at the buoy must be cleared by the other boat. Don't forget. Are you ready?" "Oh, wait a minute!" squealed Purt Sweet. "Yes, hold on!" grunted Chet. "Purt's back hair has come down." "I weally will have to remove my waistcoat--if you will allow me?" suggested the exquisite. "It might get splashed." "Go as far as you like," said Lance. "Chuck it ashore here. I'll stand on it so as to see better." But Purt entrusted the precious waistcoat to one of the girls in another boat, and then the two racing boats were brought into line. The referee asked if they were ready again, and, receiving no contrary answer, shouted: "Go!" Chet's crew certainly were a scrub lot, and he did not expect to get much speed out of them; but Otto was a strong oar and had Purt been able to keep the stroke the girls would have made a bad showing to the buoy. Up to that turn the boys kept ahead. Laura set an easy stroke, and found that Eve Sitz was not much inferior to either Dora or Dorothy. "They're going to beat!" gasped Bobby, swinging with the rowers. "Don't let them worry you," advised Laura, between her teeth. "The race isn't done until we cross the line." But in turning the buoy the boys came to grief. Or, rather, Purt Sweet came to grief. He managed to catch a most famous crab, and went over on his back, hitting his head a resounding crack upon the handle of Lance's oar, and waving his long legs in the air. "Now!" cried Laura, increasing her stroke, and the girls' boat went past their opponents' at a fast clip. The boys got together again after half a minute; but those thirty seconds told the story of the race. The best the boys could do brought them across the line several lengths behind. And the whole crowd were shouting with laughter over Purt's mishap. "I wish you'd kept your vest on, Purt," snarled Lance. "There'd been some satisfaction in your getting it wet. My goodness! what a lubber you are in a boat!" "Weally, I couldn't help it, dear boy," sighed Pretty. "Just the same, you crabbed the race," grunted Chet. "Now the girls have put it all over us." And the girls certainly did not spare the boys, and joked at their expense all the way home. But the day was voted a very merry one and Eve and Otto went home in the evening strongly of the opinion that the boys and girls of Central High were a jolly company indeed. Eve promised Laura before she went home that, if she could pass the exams, for junior classes under Principal Sharp, she would surely attend Central High in the fall. "We've got a splendid bit of athletic timber in Eve Sitz," Laura said, discussing the matter with Jess and the Lockwood twins. "I hope she'll take up rowing. We can put her into Celia's place on the eight for next year, and then there will be no danger of Hester Grimes getting it," said Jess, who was very outspoken. "She is better material for stroke than Hester," admitted Laura. "And enough sight better tempered," Dora observed. "You know what Hester is doing now?" demanded Jess, in anger. "What is it?" asked Dorothy. "She is trying to make the other girls think that the Executive Committee only cares about the eight-oared boat race, and that we'll put up no fight for Central High's entries in the other events." "She is going to make trouble if she can," declared Dora. "It isn't so," Laura said, firmly. "There is going to be a fine canoe race--we look to you twins to make good for Central High in that." "We'll do our best," said the twins together, nodding. Aunt Dora did not approve of the twins being on the lake so much; in her girlhood "young ladies" of the twins' age did not row, and paddle, and swim, and otherwise imitate boys. "And I remember that you never were any fun, as a girl, Dora," observed Mr. Lockwood, at the supper table that night, when his sister uttered her usual criticisms of the twins' conduct. "You squealed if you came across a caterpillar, and a garter snake sent you into spasms, and it tired you to walk half a mile, and----" "Thanks be! I was no tomboy," gasped Aunt Dora. "Far from it," said the flower lover. "And mother was always having the doctor for you, and you got cold the easiest of any person I ever saw--and do to this day----" "That is perfectly ridiculous, Lemuel." "I believe you're sitting in a draught now, Dora," said Mr. Lockwood, quickly. "Well--I----Achoo! I believe you! I never did see such a draughty place as this house, Lemuel. Ahem! Dora! get me my little knit shawl, will you, child?" "Oh, yes, Auntie," said one of the twins, as they both rose. "We're both through our suppers, Auntie," said the other. "We'll bring the shawl." "Now!" exclaimed the exasperated old lady, when the twins were out of the room. "Which of 'em went for it?" Her brother shook his head sadly, but his eyes were a-twinkle. "I could not undertake to say, Sister." It annoyed Aunt Dora very much to hear the girls talk continually of the coming Big Day on Lake Luna and the part the girls of Central High would take in the races. And that next week Dora and Dorothy certainly were full of the new eight-oared shell. It arrived at the boathouse early in the week, and proved to be the handsomest shell that had ever been launched in Luna waters. Even the wealthy Luna Boat Club did not own a shell like it. Every other afternoon Mrs. Case allowed the crew to go out for a spin, and Professor Dimp, who coached the boys' crews, looked after the girls' rowing, as well. Some of the girls' parents went down to the shore in the early evening to watch the practice work off Colonel Richard Swayne's estate; but would Aunt Dora go? Only once! By some inquiry she learned that each member of the crew of eight girls had her own particular seat in the big shell. Dorothy was supposed to row Number 2 and Dora Number 6. But the twins sometimes changed seats--and who was to know the difference? Not the coach, for Professor Dimp could tell them apart no better than other people. Had Aunt Dora been sure that her namesake rowed in her right place on the evening when she viewed the practice, she would have met the shell at the landing, seized Number 6 oar, and marched her home and locked her into her own room until tickets could be bought for Aunt Dora's home city. But in their natty-looking costumes the twins looked more alike than ever--were that possible! CHAPTER XV TOMMY LONG HAS A BAD DAY It was all in the papers one evening about detectives from Centerport's police headquarters, aided by the park police, beating the eastern end of Cavern Island, and the caves as well, for poor Short and Long. Reporters had accompanied the expedition; but they rather made fun of the crowd of police searching so diligently for one small boy. It was suggested in the news stories that the efforts of the officers might better be aimed at finding the burglars themselves instead of chasing a frightened youngster who was supposed to have helped the real criminals. The only thing the police succeeded in doing was to pick up two men who were fighting. These were Tony Allegretto, who had a concession at the amusement park, and another Italian. The fight might have been a serious matter had not the police came upon the men when they did. Tony had already drawn a knife. The papers reported that Tony and his monkey were shut up together in the park calaboose waiting for court to sit the next morning. The other Italian had been sent off the island and warned to keep away. But no trace of Short and Long was found during the police search. Mr. Norman, the boat builder, raised the sunken rowboat Billy had borrowed, however, and brought it back to his landing. The Lockwood twins chanced to be passing Mr. Norman's place when the old boat arrived, and they walked down the long dock to look at it. "No sign of anything wrong having happened to little Billy," said Mr. Norman. "He tied this old craft, and she filled after a time and sank, breaking the painter, which was a long one. That's all that happened. I don't care about the boat a mite; I only wish I knew what has become of the poor little chap." "They've just chased him away from home," said Dorothy. "Billy Long never helped those burglars." "Of course he didn't," said Mr. Norman. "That's what _I_ say. Only folks who don't know the boy will say they believe the police." "And don't you believe Billy is over there on the island?" asked Dora. "No. He's got away. He's a sharp boy, Billy is, and next thing you'll hear of him, he'll be off working somewhere and sending his folks home a part of his wages, believe me! I know Billy Long," said the boat-builder. The Longs lived not far from the Lockwood cottage, and the twins went around through their street. This was on one of those rare days when Alice Long, the oldest sister and the "mother" of the Long family, stayed at home from the box factory to "catch up" in her housework. Until Mrs. Long died, two years before, Alice had gone to Central High, too, and she was a smart and intelligent girl. But she was a faithful one, as well, and she kept the home together for Mr. Long and the younger children, despite the fact that she could spend only a day once in a while at home. A younger girl did many of the ordinary household tasks, as well as looking after Master Tommy Long, an active piece of mischief now four years old. As the twins came up the walk before the little cottage they heard Tommy bellowing at the top of his lungs--and they were perfectly sound lungs, too! "What have you got in here--a lion?" asked Dorothy, putting her head in at the open door. "Better say a monkey!" exclaimed Alice, much exasperated. She was just then hustling Tommy across the floor so rapidly that the toes of his shoes scarcely touched the carpet. Upstairs she went with struggling, roaring Master Tommy, and in another moment he was shut into a bedroom and the key turned in the lock. "There!" gasped Alice, coming back and sitting down, after placing chairs for her visitors. "You think I'm rather harsh with the little plague? You don't know what he's done to-day." "Has he been _very_ bad?" asked the tender-hearted Dorothy. "I should say he has!" "What's he done?" demanded Dora. "It has certainly been one of Tommy's 'bad days.' You'd think he was possessed. Poor mother! I can imagine the trouble she used to have with Billy." "But what did Tommy do?" asked Dorothy, bent on trying to plead for the culprit, who was now alternately roaring and kicking the panels of the door upstairs. "One thing he did was to pour sand into my tub of clothes that I had to leave this morning. He called the tub 'Lake Luna' and said he wanted to make an island in the middle of it, like Cavern Island where Billy is hidden." "Oh!" gasped Dorothy. "I had to clean out the tub and rinse the clothes half a dozen times to get the sand out." "But, Billy!" exclaimed Dora. "They say he isn't over at that island." "Well, I wish I knew where he was," sighed the worried sister. Just then Tommy stopped yelling and spoke in a shrill, but perfectly plain tone: "Sis! I'm a-goin' to bust a winder and fall out, I am!" "Oh!" ejaculated Dorothy, jumping up. "He'll be hurt." But Alice put forth a restraining hand to stop her before she could flee to the rescue. "Don't bother. He doesn't want to jump himself. Tommy is bluffing." "Bluffing!" gasped Dora. "Did you ever? I should be scared to death that the little scamp would do it." "I used to be," sighed Alice. "Now I know better. I came to realize that Tommy was taking advantage of my love for him--and he's got to learn better than that." "Isn't he a scamp?" whispered Dorothy. In a few moments, after silence from the "chamber of torture," the shrill voice cried again: "Sis! I've found the matches an' I'm a-goin' to set fire to the curtains--now you see!" The twins gazed upon the calm face of Alice with wide-open eyes. Alice went on talking without showing the first signs of fear that Master Tommy would keep his pledge. She was resting after a hard day's work, and she enjoyed having her old schoolmates drop in to see her. After further silence, the boy's shrill voice took up the cry again: "Sis! don't you smell sumfin burnin'?" "I _do_ believe I smell something burning--cloth, or something," whispered the nervous Dorothy, sniffing. "It's an old black rag I put in the kitchen fire, without opening the damper," said Alice, coolly. "Suppose he _has_ got the matches?" demanded Dora. "There are none in that room," returned Alice, placidly. "Goodness me!" gasped Dorothy. "I wouldn't have a boy around for a farm!" Again came the wail from above: "If you don't smell nothin', Sis, it's 'cause I pulled off all the match heads an' swallered 'em! I'm goin' ter die--I'se p'izened, Sis!" "Why! what a dreadful little scamp he is," gasped Dorothy. Alice jumped up, with her lips set tightly. She ran into the kitchen, from which she returned in a moment with a cup of warm water and mustard. "He's got to be taught a lesson," declared the much troubled sister, with decision, and she marched upstairs. "Now, Tommy, if you have swallowed matchheads, you must take this," declared Alice Long, and when Master Tommy, now rather disturbed by the prospect of the ill-smelling cup, tried to escape, she got his head "in chancery," held his nose until he opened his mouth, and made him swallow the entire mess. It was certainly a bad dose, and its effects were almost immediate and quite surprising to Master Tommy. The twins waited below stairs while the trouble continued; and finally down came Alice with Master Tommy--a much sadder, wiser, and humbled youngster--by the hand. "I--I'm going to be a good boy," announced Master Tommy, making a wry face. "I should think you would," Dora said, trying to be severe. "That's all right," grumbled Tommy, turning to Dorothy for comfort. "I didn't swaller any matchheads." "Why did you say you did?" asked Dorothy. "Just to plague Alice. But I won't do it again. Ugh! that was nasty stuff she gave me. That's what she'd give me if I _was_ p'izened. I don't want to be p'izened," declared the little fellow, frankly. "And you don't want to say what isn't so, either, eh?" queried Dora. "We-ell," said Master Tommy, slowly, "lots of things that _ain't_ so, is better than them that _are_ so. There's fairy stories." "Quite right," said Dora, quickly. "But there's nightmares, too--bad dreams, you know. They are not so, but they aren't pleasant to dream, are they?" "Oh, no!" cried Tommy. "And I had a turrible bad dream--onct! And I was scart--yes, sir! And Billy heard me crying and he took me out of my crib and took me into bed with him." Alice smiled. "I remember Tommy told about that. He said the cats got to fighting and were scratching and biting him." "And Billy woked me up and took me to bed with him," said Tommy, placidly. "I wish Billy would come home again." "When did this happen?" asked Dorothy, quickly, trying to turn the conversation from an unpleasant topic, as Alice's eyes filled with tears. "Just the other night," said Tommy. "But Billy's been away two weeks." "It was jes' afore he went-ed away." "It wasn't long before Billy went," agreed Alice, nodding. "I know when!" cried Tommy. "It was the night afore I felled and scraped my knee on the doorstep." "Why, Tommy!" cried his sister, springing out of her chair. "Are you sure of that?" "Yes'm. I be sure," declared Tommy. "I dreamed the cats were scratchin' me; an' then that very nex' mornin' the old doorstep scratched me!" cried the small boy. Alice turned to her visitors, her face pale in her earnestness. "Oh, girls!" she cried. "I remember that night of Tommy's dream very well. He hurt his knee on Wednesday--the morning following the burglary. Billy took Tommy into bed with him before midnight, and they slept together all night. Doesn't that prove that Billy was not out of the house on the night of the burglary? Doesn't it?" Dora and Dorothy looked at each other, and each slowly shook her head. "Do you suppose the police would accept Tommy's testimony?" Dora asked, sadly. CHAPTER XVI THE CANOE RACE The twins were very sorry for Alice and the other Longs and they did not believe the absent Billy guilty as charged; but who in authority would believe the testimony of such a little boy as Tommy? The fact that Billy had been at home, and in his bed, all the night of the burglary at Stresch & Potter's store was established in the minds of Billy's friends only. The twins saw Chet Belding on the way home and heard some news, after telling Billy's friend of what Tommy had said. "Of course Billy hadn't any hand in that robbery," Chet declared. "But I wish he hadn't run away. Father and Mr. Hargrew say they'd both go his bail. I wish I knew where he was." "Didn't you think he was hiding somewhere on Cavern Island?" asked Dora, shrewdly. "Yes, I did. I found his knife Saturday when we were in that cave," admitted Chet, frankly. "Don't you girls tell anybody. But Lance and I were through all the caverns with a man who knows them like a book--that was after the police searched. He couldn't be found. "Oh, and I say! did you hear about Tony and his monkey?" "We read that Tony had been fighting and was arrested," Dorothy said. "Yep. And it was a near thing he didn't get sent to jail. The judge only fined him. The other man the police drove out of Centerport altogether. They thought he was the worse of the two. And Tony had paid for his concession at the park, and promised to be good. "But the joke of it is," continued Chet, laughing, "the police don't want Tony to tell all he knows. You see, they shut him into the calaboose at the park and when they went to take him across on the boat to court, Tony wasn't there." "He had escaped?" interrupted Dorothy. "That's what," said Chet. "And how do you suppose he'd done it?" "We couldn't guess," cried the girls. "Why, the monkey unlocked the door of the cage and let his master out. The jailer had left the key in the lock while he went to breakfast, and the monkey did the rest. You know, that was one of the tricks we saw him do," continued Chet. "Tony didn't think he had to stay in jail if the door was unlocked, so he walked down to his booth and got his own breakfast. And the police found him there and took him along to court. But they were easy on Tony for fear he would make the park police the laughing stock of the city. Lance and I happened to be over there early--it was when we searched for Billy in the caves--and we saw Tony rearrested." "That Italian must be a bad one," Dora said. "How did he get off?" "Tony said the man he was fighting with cheated him out of his share of some money," replied Chet. "And that man is gone, so who is to know the truth?" The stretch of placid Lake Luna between the boat landing of Central High and the easterly end of Cavern Island was dotted with craft of various kinds and sizes, several afternoons later, when the twins slipped away from Aunt Dora and--with a word to their father in a whisper as to their goal--ran down to the dock and got their canoe into the lake. Aunt Dora was suffering from what she called a "grumbly head"--which meant that she had a mild attack of neuralgia. "But mercy, sirs!" Mrs. Betsey said, in a tone of exasperation rather strange for that dear old lady, "she has a 'grumbly' tongue all the time. I don't know what I shall do about keeping Mary if she stays much longer, girls." "For the good of the family I may have to admit my identity and go home with her," groaned Dora. "No, you sha'n't!" cried her twin. "You shall not be sacrificed. If Mary goes, we'll divide the work between us, and hire a laundress once a week to relieve Mrs. Betsey." "My! what a bright girl you are, Dory," laughed Dora. "You've got it all fixed, haven't you? But what about after-hour athletics? No canoeing, and other fun. We'd have all our time out of school taken up with the housework." "I don't care, Dora!" said Dorothy, firmly. "You could never live with Auntie. Why, she'd nag you to death." "Dear old thing!" sighed Dora. "I wish she could see herself as others see her. How do you suppose papa came to have such a sister?" "He has all the mildness of his generation of Lockwoods, and Aunt Dora has all the militancy." "Oh, see there!" exclaimed her sister. "Hester Grimes and Lily Pendleton out in Hessie's canoe." "That's a fine canoe," said Dorothy. "It's better than ours." "But I believe we can beat them just the same." "I shouldn't wonder if Hessie and Lily were intending to try for the honor of representing Central High in the girls' canoeing contest next month." "I bet you!" returned her sister. "But Mrs. Case and the girls will have something to say about that." "Mrs. Case has our records; but I heard that she will time us all again before the Big Day." "We must do our very best, then," Dora declared, earnestly. "True as you live!" her twin agreed. They launched their canoe, stepped in lightly, knelt on the cushions, and dipped their paddles in the water. The craft shot away from the landing amid the approving remarks of the bystanders. The twins certainly did manage their canoe in admirable style. The rhythm of their bodies, as they swayed to the paddling, was perfect. Their strokes were deep and in unison. The drops that flashed from their paddles as they came out of the water shone like jewels in the sun. The twins had a splendid reach and at every stroke the light canoe leaped ahead and trembled through all its frame. Other boating parties saw them coming and gave the twins a clear way--all but Hester and Lily. They seemed to be waiting, and Hester flung a backward look every now and then as the Lockwood girls drew farther out into the lake. "They're speeding up, too," said Dorothy to her sister. "Let's race them, if they want to," Dora returned. "Who's afraid?" "You know Mrs. Case would rather we did not race crews that intend to compete for the trophies." "We--ell! The lake's free. And we're going the same way Hester and Lily are. If they race us, what's the odds?" Dorothy was just as eager for a trial of speed as her sister. She nodded, and increased the power of her stroke, for she chanced to have the bow. Immediately Hester and Lily redoubled their efforts and the handsome canoe belonging to the butcher's daughter shot ahead at a swifter pace. But the twins were in fine fettle, and their craft gradually crept up on the one in the lead. It was evident to everybody who was near that Hester and Lily were putting forth all their strength to keep the Lockwoods from passing them, and some of the nearby boating parties cheered the race on. Dora and Dorothy kept steadily at work, speaking no word, but gradually increasing their stroke until their craft was fairly flying through the calm water. Hester and Lily were older girls, and heavier; but they hadn't the lithe strength and skill of the twins. Nearer and nearer the latter's canoe drew to Hester Grimes's boat. The twins were breathing easily, but to their full lung capacity, when they drew beside the other canoe; but they could hear Hester pant and Lily groan as they strained at the paddles. On and on crept the second canoe, its bow soon at the middle of Hester's boat. Only a couple of yards divided the contestants. Several four-oared boats and the boys' eight-oared shell kept pace with them, and cheered the race. The twins weaved back and forth like a perfect piece of mechanism. It was a pretty sight to watch them. The paddling of Hester and her chum was more ragged; but they were making a good fight. The twins' canoe, however, continued to forge ahead. There was little doubt that they would soon pass their rivals. And just then Hester uttered an angry cry, dipped her paddle more deeply, swerved her canoe, and its side came directly in the path of the twins' boat. "Look out!" shrieked Lily. "You'll run us down!" And that is what the twins did. Crash went their canoe into that of Hester: both boats tipped alarmingly, and in a moment all four girls were struggling in the lake. CHAPTER XVII MISS CARRINGTON IN JUDGMENT "Oh! Oh! I'm drowning!" shrieked Lily Pendleton. And then the water filled her mouth and she went down with a "blub, blub, blub" that sounded most convincing. Hester was sputtering threats and cries, too, and she paid no attention to her chum, who, although she could swim pretty well, lost her head very easily in moments of emergency. The twins said never a word. They had gone under at the first plunge, but they were up again, shook the water from their eyes, and each took hold of their boat to right it. When Lily screamed and went under, however, the Lockwoods chanced to be even nearer to her than was Hester. "We've got to get her!" gasped Dorothy. "Sure we have!" agreed Dora. And together, leaving their canoe, they dived after the sinking girl. Lily was not unconscious, and the moment one of the twins grabbed her, Lily tried to entwine her in her arms. But thanks to Mrs. Case's earnest efforts in the swimming pool, the twins knew well how to break the grasp of a drowning person, and the girl who had been seized by Lily did not lose her head, but immediately broke the frightened girl's hold and quickly brought her to the surface. Lily was between Dora and Dorothy, and when she had gotten rid of some of the water, and opened her eyes, she became amenable to advice. Together the twins towed her to a launch that came shooting up, and Lily was hauled inboard. Dora and Dorothy were intending to go back and right their canoe; but some of the boys had done that for them, and rescued their paddles and other boat furnishings. "Let us help you in here, young ladies; then we'll go after that other girl," offered those on the launch. "The boys will take the canoes back to the boathouse, and that's where you would better be. There's a cool wind blowing." So the twins hoisted themselves over the gunwale of the launch as handily as boys, and the next time Hester Grimes was dragged in. And a madder girl than Hester it would have been hard to find! "It's all your fault!" she concluded, shaking her sleek, black head at the Lockwood twins. "You bumped right into us." "And you turned your canoe so that we should bump you," said Dora, tartly. "You were afraid of being beaten. I wish we'd smashed your old canoe!" "You'll have to pay for it if it's damaged," declared Hester, nodding with determination. But the boys who brought in the two canoes pricked the bubble of Hester's rage: They told Mrs. Case and the professor just how the trouble had occurred. "You have no complaint, Hester," said Mrs. Case, later. "There are too many witnesses against you. I am afraid you are not over-truthful in this. However, I shall report the four of you for demerits. You had no business to race. I have forbidden it. And you can see yourselves how unfortunate interclass trials of speed may be. Now! no more of it, young ladies!" Hester went off with her nose in the air after somebody had brought her dry clothing from home; but Lily Pendleton was grateful to the twins for helping her. "Though I declare! I don't know which of you to thank," she said, giggling. "And one's just as wet as the other. Anyhow, I'm obliged." "You're welcome, Lily," said one of the twins. "We are sworn to solemn secrecy never to tell on each other; so you will have to embalm us both in your gratitude." Miss Pendleton was not quite all "gall and wormwood," as Bobby Hargrew said Hester was; but the girls of Central High as a whole did not care much for Lily because she aped the fashions of her elders, and tried to appear "grown up." And when she came in from her unexpected dip in the lake it was noticeable that her cheeks were much paler than they had been when she started with her chum in the canoe. Because she had a naturally pale complexion, Lily was forever "touching it up"--as though even the most experienced "complexion artist" could improve upon Nature, or could do her work so well that a careful observer could not tell the painted from the real. The twins went home in borrowed raincoats over their wet garments; nor did they escape Aunt Dora's sharp eyes--and of course, her sharp tongue was exercised, too. "Now!" complained Dora, in their own room, "if our athletic field and the building were constructed, we wouldn't have been caught. Every girl is to have a locker of her own, and there will be dressing rooms, and a place to dry wet clothing, of course--and everything scrumptious!" "Never mind," said her twin. "It's coming. Such fine basketball courts! And tennis courts! And a running track, too! I heard somebody say that they would begin the excavation for the building next week. I tell you, Central High will have the finest field and track and gym in the whole State." "And East and West Highs are just as jealous as they can be," Dora remarked: "They've got to wake up, just the same, to beat the girls of Central High." "Thanks to Mother Wit," added Dorothy. "Yes. We must thank Laura Belding for interesting Colonel Swayne and his daughter in our athletics," agreed Dora. The next morning the twins went to school in some trepidation. There was no knowing what Miss Grace G. Carrington, their teacher, would do about the four girls whom the physical instructor had reported. The Lockwood girls never curried favor with any teacher, save that they were usually prompt in all lessons, and their deportment was good. But even Gee Gee seldom had real fault to find with them. When they came into the classroom before Assembly, however, they found Hester Grimes at the teacher's desk, and Hester did not seem to be worried over any punishment. The twins looked at each other, and Dora whispered: "I bet you she's up to some trick. Trust Hessie for getting out of a scrape if there's any possible chance for it." "Well, I don't see how Miss Carrington can make an exception in her case. All four of us were in it." "All four of us were in the lake, all right," giggled Dora; "but I bet Hessie isn't punished for her part of it." "I declare it was her fault," said Dorothy, hotly. "She turned her boat right in our path." "Wait!" whispered her twin, warningly. Miss Carrington looked upon them coldly, and after they had returned from the morning exercises in the main hall she called Dora and Dorothy to her desk. "Mrs. Case reports your rough and unladylike conduct on the lake yesterday," said the teacher, rather grimly. "Of course, it was out of school hours, but as long as you accept the use of the school paraphernalia and buildings for after-hour athletics, you are bound by the school rules. You understand that?" "Yes, Miss Carrington," said Dora. "But if you will let us explain----" "I have the report," interposed Gee Gee, in her very grimmest manner. "In fact, I consider your running into and overturning the other canoe a very reprehensible act indeed. You might have all been drowned because of the recklessness of you two girls." "But Miss Carrington! it was not our fault," gasped Dorothy. "Your canoe ran the other one down, didn't it?" "But----" "Yes, or no, young ladies!" snapped Gee Gee. The twins nodded. Miss Carrington's mind was evidently made up on this point. "Very well, then. No after-hour athletics for you for a month. That is all," and the teacher turned to the papers on her desk. CHAPTER XVIII MOTHER WIT'S DISCOVERY "And that shuts us out of the races!" Dora broke another rule when she whispered this to her twin as they took their seats. Dorothy was almost in tears. But the twins could not tell the other girls of Gee Gee's proclamation until the first intermission. "She's just as mean as she can be!" proclaimed Bobby Hargrew who, as Jess said, always blew up at the slightest provocation. "Hester did it. She's always doing something mean," declared Jess herself. "Well, there was an infraction of Mrs. Case's rules," said Laura Belding. "But it does seem as though Miss Carrington delights in setting obstacles in the way of Central High winning an athletic event. She is, deep down in her heart, opposed to after-hour athletics." "She's just as much opposed to them," said Dorothy, "as our Aunt Dora." "It's a mean shame!" declared Nellie Agnew, who was not usually so vigorous of speech. "And you see, Hester Grimes and Lily Pendleton aren't penalized," said the furious Bobby. "They have crawled out of it. And I saw the whole race, and know it was Hester's fault that there was a spill." "Let's take it to Mr. Sharp," cried Jess. "That would do no good. You know he will not interfere with Miss Carrington's mandates. She has judged the case to the best of her knowledge and belief," said Laura. "Hester is her favorite," complained Bobby. "And we have no right to say that. She is punishing the twins for breaking a plain rule. If we tried to expose the whole affair, and bring the witnesses to prove our side, we would only be getting Hester and Lily into trouble, too, without making the twins' case any better," said the wise Laura. "They ought to be conditioned as well," declared Nellie, who had a strong sense of justice. "It looks so. But Miss Carrington probably thinks, believing that Dora and Dorothy are at fault for the spill, that the others were enough punished by being swamped. Of course, they should not have raced canoes without the race being arranged by either Mrs. Case or Professor Dimp." "Huh! Old Dimple could come forward and save Dora and Dorothy from the penalty. Why, whatever will we do?" cried Bobby. "It spoils our chance for the cup again." "And it's such a beauty!" sighed Jess Morse. For a week the handsome silver cup offered as a prize to the High School eight-oared crews on the Big Day had been on exhibition in the window of Mr. Belding's jewelry store. Later it would be exhibited both in Keyport and Lumberport for a week each. It was one of the handsomest trophies to be raced for in the coming aquatic sports. "But, see here!" cried Bobby. "Here's another thing. Hester has played her cards well, I must say." "What now, Clara?" asked Nellie Agnew. "Why, Hester and Lily are not conditioned. They can still practice canoeing under the rules. And they will be the best crew for Central High to put forward for the canoe race. Now, what do you think of that?" "And Dora and Dorothy would surely have won _that_ race!" wailed Jess. "Of course, Hessie always gets the best of it!" "I wish we'd smashed her old canoe all to flinders!" ejaculated Dora, desperately. But, "if wishes were horses beggars might ride," as Laura pointed out The milk was spilled. There was nothing to do but to abide by Miss Carrington's decision and help Mrs. Case pick two of the best rowers for the twins' places in the eight-oared shell. And that was not an easy matter, for to arrange a well-balanced crew of eight is not the easiest thing in the world. That very afternoon the physical instructor and Professor Dimp worked out the crew in the new shell with two other girls in the twins' places. Dora and Dorothy would not even go down to the boathouse; they were heartbroken. And Mrs. Case intimated to the other girls that she was very sorry she had been obliged to report the twins' infringement of the rules. Of course, she would not criticise Miss Carrington's harsh punishment; but she would not heed Hester Grimes's request for permission to be "tried out" in the shell. "You are too heavy, Miss Grimes, for either Number 2 or Number 6 oar," said the physical instructor, shortly, and Hester complained to some of the girls who would listen to her that the physical instructor "showed favoritism." "Never mind," scoffed Bobby Hargrew, "you've got Gee Gee on your side. You have spoiled the chance of Central High winning that cup. I wish you went to another school, Hessie. You're never loyal to this one!" Although the girls of Central High were giving so much thought to the coming boat races, other athletics were not neglected at this time, nor were their text books. Indeed, a very wise precaution of the Girls' Branch Athletic League was that which provided that no girl could take part in after-hour athletics, or compete for trophies and pins, who did not stand well in both classes and deportment. That rule was the one that hit the Lockwood twins so hard at this time. And Miss Carrington's harsh interpretation of it caused them much sorrow. The regular school gymnastics, and the like, were all the activities they might indulge in at present, under the league rules. Of course they owned their own canoe and spent much time improving their stroke in a borrowed rowboat. But they were debarred from even the walks conducted by Mrs. Case. There was one scheduled for the following Saturday afternoon, and it promised to be most interesting. Some of the girls were taking botany as a side study, and Mrs. Case was an enthusiastic botanist herself. Therefore a "botanic junket," as Bobby Hargrew called it, was promised for this present occasion. The teacher did not often lead her pupils through the city, if that could be helped; usually the girls rode to the end of some electric car line and there began their jaunt. But this time they gathered at the boat landing where the _Lady of the Lake_ transported visitors to Cavern Island. There were nearly thirty of the girls present, including Bobby Hargrew. Nellie Agnew was eating an apple, but she had only had a few to distribute to her friends who had arrived first, and Bobby missed her share. "Gimme the core!" exclaimed Bobby, grinning in her impish way. "Ain't going to be no core!" quoted Nellie, laughing, as she offered that succulent morsel to a truck horse standing by the curb. "Hah!" exclaimed Bobby, "you're just as generous as Tommy Long." "What has he done now?" demanded Nellie. "He certainly is a little scamp. Just as full of mischief as poor Billy." "Why, Tommy wasn't as generous with some fruit or other that he had, and Alice took him to task for it. She gave him a lecture on generosity. 'I'm goin' to be awful gen'rous with you, Kit,' he told his little sister, Katie, afterward. 'I is always goin' to give you the inside of the peaches and the outside of the owanges!' And that's about your idea of generosity, Nellie," laughed Bobby. Mrs. Case arrived just then and they took the steamer across to the amusement park. But they did not linger. There was a good path through the "woodsy" part of the island, and the party set out on this way almost immediately. There were some open fields on Cavern Island as well as woods, and the superintendent of the park cultivated a little farm. As the party skirted the ploughed fields some crows, doing all the damage they could among the tender corn sprouts, rose and swept lazily across the vista to the woods, with raucous cawings. "Oh, Mrs. Case!" cried Bobby. "What now, Clara?" was the teacher's response. "You know something about birds, don't you?" "A little," replied Mrs. Case, cautiously, although the girls knew that she was really much interested in bird-lore. "Then tell me something I've long wanted to know," cried Bobby, her eyes dancing. "And what is that?" "What really is the cause of the crow's caws?" "A bone in his throat, I expect, my dear," replied the teacher, amid the laughter of the other girls. "But this is a botanical expedition, not ornithological. What was your question about the anemone, Nellie?" They passed the farm and mounted the hillside toward the upper plateau above the caverns at Boulder Head. From this point they could see from end to end of Luna Lake, and the greater part of the island itself. But just below them, on the shore at the foot of the rugged cliff, it was not so easy to see; and, when Laura Belding and Jess, walking with arms around each other's waists, on the very verge of the cliff, heard a sound which startled them below, they could not at first see what caused it. "It was a human voice!" gasped Jess. "Somebody groaning," admitted Laura. "I--I bet it is a ghost, after all," giggled Jess. "Otto Sitz won't want to come here again if we tell him----" "Hush!" commanded Laura. "There is somebody below--in trouble. Wait! Cling to my belt, Jess--and to that sapling with your other hand. Now, don't let me fall." "Go ahead," said Jess, between her teeth, as Laura swung her body out over the brink of the hundred-foot drop. "I can hold you." "I can see him!" gasped Laura, after a moment. "It is somebody lying on a narrow shelf half way down the cliff. It's a boy--yes! I see his face---- "Billy! Billy Long! what is the matter with you, Billy?" she demanded the next moment. CHAPTER XIX THE RESCUE The other girls--and even Mrs. Case--came running to the spot. The teacher kept the other girls back and herself took Josephine Morse's place and gripped Laura firmly as the latter hung over the brink of the cliff. Laura continued to call; but although she thought she had seen the boy on the shelf below move, he did not reply. His face was very white. "He's unconscious! He's hurt!" Laura gasped. "How do you suppose he ever got there?" demanded Jess. "The question is: How shall we get him up?" demanded Mrs. Case, briskly. "I can get down to him--I know I can," cried Laura. "You'll break your neck climbing down there!" declared the doctor's daughter. "I wouldn't risk it." "But he's helpless. He may be badly hurt," reiterated Laura. "My dear! it would be very dangerous climbing down to the ledge," warned Mrs. Case. "And how would you get back?" "But somebody has got to go down to get Billy," declared Laura. "And perhaps moments may be precious. We don't know how long he has been there, or how badly he is hurt." "Laura can climb like a goat," said her chum, doubtfully. "And I'm going to try it If we only had a rope----" "I'll run back to that farmhouse and get a rope--and some men to help, perhaps," suggested Jess. "Good!" exclaimed Laura. "Go ahead, and I'll be getting down to Billy meanwhile." "That would be best, I suppose," admitted their teacher. "But be very careful, Laura." Jess had started on the instant, and her fleet steps quickly carried her out of sight. Laura swung herself down to the first rough ledge by clinging to the bushes that grew on the edge of the cliff. "Oh, perhaps I am doing wrong!" moaned Mrs. Case, at this juncture. "I may be sending her to her death!" "Don't worry!" called up Laura, from below. "It is not so hard as it looks." But there were difficulties that those above could not see. Within twenty feet the girl came to a sheer wall which extended all along the face of the cliff, and fifteen feet in height. It looked for a minute as though she were balked. But a rather large tree grew just above this drop, and its limbs extended widely and were "limber." Laura climbed into this tree as well as any boy, worked herself along the bending limb, which was tough, and finally let herself down and swung from it, bearing the lithe limb downward with her weight. Her feet did not then touch the shelf below, however, and she really overhung the abyss. It was a perilous situation and she was glad that Mrs. Case could not see from above what she was doing. To make matters worse, it was doubtful if she could climb back upon the limb. Muscular as she was, _that_ was a feat that took real practice to accomplish. She swung there, like a pendulum, neither able to get up, nor daring to drop. Suddenly something snapped above her. She cast up a fearful glance and saw that the limb was giving with her weight. Dragged down so heavily, the bark and fibres of the wood were parting. There was already a white gash across the tree-trunk where the limb was attached to the tree. She was falling. The splitting wood warned her that the entire branch was separating from the trunk! With a crash she fell. Fortunately the splitting flung her toward the face of the cliff. She landed upon her feet, and held her position, letting go of the branch, which whirled down the cliff side to the sea. Laura, trembling a good deal, gazed down upon the shelf where Billy Long was. He had not been disturbed, but lay as when she first saw him from the top of the cliff. "But we'll never be able to get up _this_ place," murmured Laura, looking up at the sheer wall down which she had come so perilously. But from this point where she stood to the spot where Billy lay was only a rough scramble. She was beside the youth in a very few moments. Billy lay senseless, the stain of berries on his lips, and one foot drawn under him. When Laura shook him, he moaned. Then she saw that the shoe had been removed from the hurt foot and the stocking, as well. Billy's ankle was painfully bruised and wrenched; it was colored blue, green and yellow, in streaks, and had evidently been bruised for some time. "Billy! Billy!" cried Laura, shaking him by the shoulder. "I--I fell. Oh! Water!" moaned Billy, without opening his eyes. He was very weak, and completely helpless; nor did he regain consciousness. Laura had to await Josephine's return before she could do anything to aid him. Then Jess produced nothing but a clothesline; there had been no men at the farm, and she had taken the only rope they had, and run all the way back. But it was a strong line, and there was more than a hundred feet of it. "You can never raise either of us to the top of the cliff, Mrs. Case," shouted Laura from below. "I am going to take the line, double it, and lower Billy to the shore myself. Somebody can go back to the park and hire that launch that is to let there, and bring it around to this cove. The man will come with it. The rest of you can go through the cave and meet us on the shore, or go back to the park landing." And so it was arranged. Laura, with the expenditure of considerable ingenuity and muscle, got Billy safely to the foot of the cliff, and then worked her own way down by the rope without cutting her hands. She made a sling of her dress skirt in which to lower Billy, and had she not been a very strong and determined girl she would have dropped him. The adventure broke up the walking party for that afternoon; but Short and Long, after being three weeks away from home, in hiding, was returned to his father and sister, and the doctor was called to attend him. He was too weak and confused, as yet, to tell his story. CHAPTER XX BILLY'S STORY The Lockwood twins were among the first of Short and Long's school friends who called at the cottage the following morning for news of the injured boy. The physician had kept even the department store detective at a distance. The latter was an officious individual who would have put Billy in jail at once had he had the power to do so. The regular police, however, seemed to have their doubts about Billy's complicity in the burglary of Stresch & Potter's store, and they kept away from the house, only the patrolman on beat inquiring how he was. As they had promised, either Mr. Belding, the jeweler, or Mr. Hargrew, the grocer, was ready to go bail for Billy Long, if he was arrested. Of course the boy denied the accusation made against him. As little Tommy had said, he was certainly at home all the night of the robbery. Whether any court would accept Tommy's testimony was another thing. Billy admitted helping the surveyors in the lot behind the department store. He understood they were surveying for a railroad siding, not for a new street. Information of such engineers might be had at the offices of one of the railroads entering Centerport--if the surveyors had not been the burglars who later broke into the store and burst the safe. "But those fellows were surveyors, all right, all right," declared Billy Long, weakly. "And they were not the fellows I saw afterward----" "After what, Billy?" demanded Dora Lockwood, eagerly. "Yes; do tell us all about it," urged Dorothy. "I don't know anything about their old robbery," said the boy, angrily. "That man from the store kept coming here and threatening to put me in jail. And I didn't want to go to jail. I guess I wouldn't have had any worse time than I _did_ have. For when Laura found me I hadn't eaten anything but a handful of berries that I could reach on that ledge, for 'most two days!" "Oh, oh! How dreadful!" cried the twins. "Guess I should have died," Billy said, more cheerfully, enjoying the sensation he was creating. "And you bet that stuff I swiped out of your boats last Saturday a week ago, just came in handy." "Oh, Billy! was that you?" demanded Dora. "The lone pirate!" gasped Dorothy. "And all those whiskers----" Short and Long laughed weakly. "That wig and whiskers I had last Hallow E'en; don't you remember? I saw you girls a couple of times, too." "And we saw you and thought you might be one of the robbers, after all." "That's all right; I didn't do any robbing, except of your boats," said Billy. "But there were two fellows over on the island who I believe _did_ rob that store." "No!" cried the girls. "Yes." "Oh, tell us all about it," urged the girls again, just as eager to hear the particulars as though it were a story out of a book. And it _did_ sound like a story; only Billy Long was much too much in earnest to make it up. Besides, he had learned a lesson during his weeks of "hiding out." "I was scart--of course I was," he said. "What fellow wouldn't be? That detective from the store said they'd put me in jail till I'd told--and I'd been tellin' him the truth right along. "So I got up early that morning to go fishing. I knew where the white perch were thick as sprats. I got Mr. Norman's boat; but I knew he wouldn't mind. And I went over to Boulder Head. As I was starting to fish I heard two men talking just in the mouth of the old cavern. They were quarreling. I guess they must have been foreigners; I couldn't understand all they said. But I got enough of their broken-English talk to understand that one of them had hidden some money in a tight-covered lard can, and part of the money the other fellow claimed." Dora pinched Dorothy, and looked at her knowingly. But it wasn't until afterward that Dorothy understood what her twin meant by _that_. "So I got interested in them, believing that they might be the real burglars, and I forgot the boat. When they went away and I went back to the boat, the old thing had filled and sunk. You never could row that boat to the island without bailing her out a couple of times; and I ought to have dragged her ashore. "So I couldn't get the boat up, and I thought I'd stop there. I had some fishing tackle, and matches, and some crackers. I camped in the cave for a couple of days, and had fires, and cooked fish. But, my goodness! fish gets awful tasteless when you don't have any salt and pepper. "There were berries," continued Billy, "and I managed to get along. Then, I washed out my old bait bucket and at night I went down to the pasture of that park superintendent and milked his old mooley cow. I got along. "One of those men was always hanging about in the woods, though, and that kept me scared. But I tried to watch him. Didn't know but he'd go to the place where he'd buried the money in the lard can. But he went off after a while and I didn't see him again. "Then I tried to climb that cliff to get some berries, and I slipped down and twisted my ankle. I guess I'd have starved to death there if Mother Wit han't found me and got me down." This was all Billy's story; but when the twins got out of the house, Dorothy demanded of her sister: "What did you pinch me for? What did you mean?" "You're so slow!" cried Dora, with some disgust. "Those two foreign men Billy heard talking about the money were Tony Allegretto and his friend that the police drove off the island. They weren't the burglars at all!" CHAPTER XXI IN PRACTICE AGAIN All the time the twins had been forbidden to row in the new shell the crew had been getting on very badly. Professor Dimp was hopeless, and Mrs. Case could not find two girls to take the twins' places who worked well with the other members of the crew. Dora and Dorothy could only walk on the bank of the lake and watch the crew struggle to make the time that was its former record. Hester Grimes and her particular friends scoffed at the practice. Hester and Lily paddled almost daily in their canoe, and they seemed pretty sure of being chosen to represent the girls of Central High in the canoe race instead of the Lockwood twins. Aunt Dora wished to know why Dora and Dorothy were not giving so much "precious time," as she expressed it, to athletics as formerly, and the twins had to tell her. "Humph!" was the old lady's comment; but perhaps she did not feel all the satisfaction that exclamation implied when she saw how down-hearted the girls seemed when she walked with them again along the gravel walk that skirted the waterfront of Colonel Swayne's estate. The girls' eight-oared shell was out and the crew were practicing. One of the new girls caught an awful crab and the shell came near being swamped. "Mercy me!" ejaculated Aunt Dora. "Is that the best they can do without you girls to help them?" This rather amused the twins, despite their sore-heartedness; but their aunt really began to "take up cudgels" for them. She objected to the punishment Gee Gee had meted out to her nieces. "I didn't like the looks of that four-eyed teacher, anyway," declared the old lady, with some asperity. "I'm going to see about it. Your father would just let you be driven from pillar to post--he's got no spunk. What you Lockwoods need in this town is a woman in the family!" Dora and Dorothy thought this was only a threat. But Aunt Dora actually appeared at Central High the next morning and obtained an audience with Mr. Sharp, the principal. Whatever she said to him bore fruit in a quiet investigation on the principal's part into the pros and cons of the canoe bumping that had brought the Lockwood twins to grief. He heard the testimony of eye witnesses of the collision--something that Miss Carrington had not done. All that he said to the severe teacher will never be known; but Bobby heard him say for one thing: "Loyalty--even in school athletics--is a very good thing, Miss Carrington. You will admit that, yourself. And these girls are loyal students. I think they have been punished enough, don't you? Besides, I fear the testimony you chanced to hear was prejudiced. This Hester Grimes has been in trouble before for giving untruthful testimony against a fellow-classmate. Am I not right?" "And very honorably she admitted her fault afterward," Miss Carrington declared. "True. But let us not punish these two girls any longer; for Miss Grimes may have a change of heart again--when it is too late." It was with rather ill grace that Gee Gee ever owned up that she was wrong, even on minor points. She therefore simply called the twins to her desk after school, and said: "It has been represented to me that you are needed in these rowing contests for the good of the school. Personally I believe that athletics is occupying the minds of all you girls too much. But as your conduct during the past fortnight has been very good, I will remove the obstacle to your rowing with your schoolmates again. That is all." There was what Bobby called "a regular love feast" at the boathouse that afternoon. It was not practice day; but when Professor Dimp heard of the return of the Lockwood twins to the crew he was delighted. Public interest in Billy Long and his possible connection with the robbery of the department store had rather died out by this time. The friends of Short and Long had rallied around him, and he was not arrested. When his ankle was better he hobbled to school on crutches; but the boys missed him greatly on the ball field. Billy told his chums that he was sure the two men he saw had hidden money somewhere about the caverns of the island; and not only were the boys of Central High interested in this "buried treasure," but their sisters as well. "I tell you what," said Bobby Hargrew, on the Beldings' porch one evening when Laura had been having one of her "parties"; "let's organize and incorporate 'The Central High Treasure Hunting Company, Limited,' and go over to Cavern Island and just dig it up by the roots till we find Billy's treasure in a lard kettle." "Sounds terribly romantic," said Jess Morse. "We had a scrumptious time over there at the other picnic," said Dorothy. "I vote for another Saturday at the caverns, anyway," said Chet. "Me, too," added Lance Darby. "Well, you folks can guy me all you want to," said Short and Long, who was getting about with a cane now instead of his crutches. "But those fellers talked of money, and of burying it in a lard can." "Say!" exclaimed Lance, "a lard can will hold a lot of money." "All right. You laugh. I'm going to have another look for it when I get over there," said Billy. "And I'm with you, Billy," said Josephine Morse, with a sigh. "Goodness me! I need to find a buried treasure, or something of the kind." Jess's mother was a widow and in straitened circumstances, and sometimes Jess was cramped for clothing as well as spending money. She lived at the "poverty-stricken" end of Whiffle Street, just as the Beldings lived at the "wealthy" end. So the party for the next Saturday was made up in this impromptu fashion, without one of the members realizing what an important occasion that outing would prove. It looked to Dora and Dorothy, when they reached home that evening, as though they might have to "cut" the "treasure hunt," however. Aunt Dora had gone to bed quite ill, and before morning Mr. Lockwood telephoned for the doctor. He came and the family was up most of that night. Aunt Dora had caught cold and it had settled into a severe muscular rheumatic attack. The poor lady suffered a great deal during the next few days, having considerable fever, and being quite out of her head at times. She called for "Dora" then, almost incessantly, and no matter which twin responded she declared it wasn't her namesake, but Dorothy, and that they "were trying to fool her!" "And, oh, dear, me," said Dorothy, "I wish we hadn't done it, Dora." "I wish so, too. When I tell her that _I'm_ Dora she doesn't believe me." "Poor Auntie!" sighed Dorothy. "I expect she has had her heart set on taking you home with her." "Yes, it's preyed on her mind." "I tell you what!" ejaculated Dorothy. "What now?" "Let me take your place. I'll go home with her--for a while, at least." "No you won't! I'm Dora. I'll go with her," said the other twin, decisively. "And just think how she went to Mr. Sharp and got us off from Gee Gee's decision." "But you mustn't go with her to stay all the time, Dora. That would kill me!" cried Dorothy. "No. But I'll go a little while this summer. We'll have to do something for her. I expect she's lonely in her big house with nobody but servants." Thus the twins tried to quiet their consciences--they really had _two_ of those unfortunate arrangements. And the consciences would not be quieted easily. The girls ran home from school the next afternoon before they went to the boathouse; and were prepared to cut practice had Aunt Dora needed them. But fortunately the patient was asleep, and the twins hurried down to take their places in the shell. The Big Day was now approaching. There were not many more afternoons on which the girls might practice for the races. "We mustn't disappoint the other girls, and the whole school, and give up the eight-oared shell practice," Dora said to Dorothy. "No; but if Aunt Dora is going to be ill long we will have to give up our canoe work. Let Hester Grimes and Lil Pendleton beat us in that, if they will. Aunt Dora needs us--and we owe her some gratitude, if nothing more," agreed her twin. CHAPTER XXII THE STOLEN SHELL The very next morning Bobby Hargrew came screeching into the rear gate of the Lockwood premises as though she was being chased by a bear. "For the land of pity's sake!" gasped Mrs. Betsey, appearing on the back porch, while Mary put her red head out of the kitchen window, and both of them waved admonitory hands at Bobby to still her shrieks. "What is the matter with that girl of Tom Hargrew's?" demanded the old housekeeper. The twins came flying. Fortunately Aunt Dora was asleep, but they all feared Bobby's calliope-like voice would awaken the patient. "Listen here! Listen here!" cried Bobby, smothering some of the upper register, but still quite "squally" enough, in all conscience, as Mrs. Betsey said. "We're listening, Bobby! Do tell us what it is," cried the twins in unison. "The shell is gone!" cried Bobby. "Gone where?" "What shell?" "Our new shell. And if I knew where it was gone I wouldn't be telling you about how it was stolen, for it would be an old story then," said Bobby, panting. "You don't mean to say that the new shell has been taken out of the boathouse--and a watchman there?" "That's what I mean. It's gone," said Bobby, solemnly. "Mike, the watchman, doesn't know when it was taken. One of the big doors was forced open and our beautiful shell has disappeared. There are two launches out searching the lake for it." "But who would have done such a thing?" cried Dorothy. "And what could be their object?" demanded her sister. "Ask me an easier one," said the grocery-man's daughter. "I only know it's gone, and the intention evidently is to make us Central High girls lose the race." "Oh, who would be so mean?" gasped one of the twins. "There are four other contestants in the eight-oared class," said Bobby, grimly. "You don't believe any of the other girls have stolen the shell?" cried Dora, in horror. "Why, Bobby! how could they do it? And in the night, too?" demanded Dorothy. "I don't say who did it. But it may have been somebody hired to do it by some other crew." "Keyport?" suggested Dora, doubtfully. "They're the very best crew on the lake--next to ours," added Dorothy. "And they probably think themselves the better of the two," said the shrewd Bobby. "I'd suspect either of the other three first." "But it's just awful to suspect any of the other Highs. What a mean, mean trick!" "If they'd only taken the old shell," wailed Dorothy. "That's it. They knew we had little chance to beat them in the old shell. But some spy must have watched us and timed us in the new boat," said Bobby with decision. "And so--it went!" "I can scarcely believe it," sighed Dorothy. "But it must be found before the Big Day!" cried Dora. "I guess that's what all the girls of Central High will say. But Lake Luna is a large body of water, and there are plenty of wild pieces of shore where the shell could be hidden, in the mouth of a creek, or some such place. Or, perhaps it has been removed from the lake altogether. Oh, it may have been already destroyed." "Dreadful!" groaned Dorothy. "And we haven't paid for it, yet," added Dora. The news of the shell's disappearance was well circulated over the Hill before schooltime. The girls of Central High could scarcely give proper attention to their textbooks that morning. Some of the members of the crew actually wept. It was the afternoon for practice, and there were only a few more such opportunities. There was no news of the lost boat when school was out. The police had been notified, and the police launch had taken up the search. The watchman at the boat houses was made to admit that it had been his custom to sleep most of the night. There had never been any robbery of the school boathouses before. But, as Principal Sharp of Central High said, another watchman would doubtless be able to keep awake better than Mike, and the old man received his notice. This stringent measure did not bring the lost shell back, however. Professor Dimp had the girls out in the old shell that afternoon, and although they did their very best, they fell back more than forty seconds in half a mile. And from what they knew about Keyport, the girls of Central High knew very well that they could not afford to drop those forty seconds if they were to win the Luna Boat Club's cup. There wasn't a girl in Central High--unless it was Hester Grimes--who did not consider the loss of the new shell a calamity. Theories of the wildest nature were put forward to explain the robbery. That the shell had been stolen for the sake of profit was hardly likely. Eight-oared shells cannot be pledged at a pawn shop; nor would any other rowing club purchase such a boat without knowing just where the craft came from. Really, Bobby Hargrew's belief that one of the competing crews had caused the shell to be spirited away gained ground among the school pupils as a body. Yet there was no trace of the course of the robbers, and the search of the borders of the lake was fruitless. The newspapers took it up and the theory that one of the competing crews had caused the shell's disappearance was printed. This forced some discussion of the matter before the Board of Education, and the minority which had always been against competitions between the schools gained some strength. Above all, it looked bad for the Central High crew. They all knew in their hearts that with the heavy and lubberly old shell which was left them, they could not win the race on the Big Day. This thought took the heart out of them and on Friday afternoon, when they practiced, their showing was even worse than it had been before. Saturday the "Treasure Hunters" had their outing at Cavern Island. They went in several small boats, and the twins, finding Aunt Dora much improved (or seemingly so) joined the party at the last moment and paddled their canoe with the rest. "Oh, my, my!" cackled Lance Darby as he slid into a seat in Chet's boat that Josephine Morse had been about to take. "Awful accident on the Lake! Terrible Catastrophe While Boating on Luna! Lady had Her Eye on a Seat and a Gent Sat on It! My, my!" "You needn't think you're so smart," returned Jess. "Now you're there, you can row--both you and Chet. Laura and I will sit here in the stern and watch you both work. Work is good for boys, anyway." "Yes," growled Chet. "It's like what they say about the fleas on dogs. A certain number of fleas are good for a dog; helps him keep his mind off the fact that he _is_ a dog!" Short and Long balanced the big boat by sitting in the bow, and the fleet got under way. "We're going right to Boulder Head, aren't we?" demanded Short and Long. "Is that where the treasure is buried?" asked Laura, laughing. "It's somewhere around there; or in the caves. You folks can laugh," said Billy, "but those foreigners talked enough English for me to understand that the money----" "In a lard kettle," put in Bobby, chuckling. "In a lard can," corrected Billy, "was hidden on the island, and was not far from the caves." "Maybe when the man you said was hanging around so long disappeared, he took the treasure with him," laughed Dorothy Lockwood. "And I bet I know who the two men were whom Billy heard quarreling over a lard can," cried Dora. "You know, do you?" demanded Billy. "Well, who were they?" "Tony Allegretto and the man the police found him fighting with," said Dora promptly. "Great Scott!" gasped Chetwood Belding. "Do you hear that, Lance?" "Never thought of 'em!" answered his chum. "Buried treasure, too!" said Chet, thoughtfully. "Tony said they were quarreling over money." "There is something that needs looking into about Tony Allegretto," declared Mother Wit, seriously. "Don't you think so, Chet?" "It might be well to find out what the money was, and where they got it to quarrel over," agreed Chet, slowly. "Pirate gold, of course!" laughed Bobby Hargrew, from another boat. "Don't spoil all the romance of this treasure hunt by suggesting that the buried loot is merely the proceeds of the sale of a banana stand that the two Italians owned in partnership." CHAPTER XXIII BILLY'S GREAT DIVE But both Chet and Laura Belding were thoughtful for the rest of the way to the island. The others seemed to see nothing significant in what Billy had said about the two Italians, or the suggestion the twins had made that the quarreling men were identical with Tony Allegretto, the trained monkey's master, and his fellow countryman, whom the police had driven away from Cavern Island. "We ought to find some clue to the buried treasure, something like Poe's 'Gold Bug,'" suggested Nellie Agnew. "Sure!" cried Lance. "So many fathoms from a certain tree with arms like a gibbet, on a line with a stone on which is scratched the outline of a skull. Then dig straight down--so far--till you strike----" "A lard kettle!" cried Jess. "Sounds just like Poe, doesn't it?" "Just like Poe's ravin'," chuckled Bobby, the only one who dared make such an atrocious pun. They piled out of the boats at the usual landing and Billy took them to the several "hide-outs," or camps, he had found while he was living like a castaway on the island. The twins were as eager to see Billy's camps as anyone; the big boulder before the mouth of the farther cavern, into which they did not dare to venture without a guide, had been the boy's lookout. That was where he was perched in his wig and whiskers when Dora and Dorothy had first seen him and nicknamed him "the lone pirate." "And how under the sun did you chance to have that Hallow E'en disguise with you, Billy boy?" demanded Dora. Short and Long grinned. "I didn't know but one of those fresh detectives was hanging around the house when I went off fishing that morning; so I put on the wig and whiskers before I slid down the woodshed roof." "By jolly!" laughed Lance. "You must have looked like a gnome when you went through the streets." "Nobody saw me. It was before sun-up," said Billy. Dorothy had scrambled to the top of the big rock. Suddenly she uttered a loud screech. "What's bit you now?" demanded Chet, starting up. "Oh! my trophy pin! It's dropped off my blouse directly into the water. Oh, dear me! I won that in the relay races this spring." "And the water's deep there," declared Bobby. "It's a regular diving hole." "Now, you've lost it!" cried Dora, sadly. "But you can wear mine sometimes." "Don't you fret, Miss--which is it, Dora, or Dorothy?" demanded Billy. "I'm Dorothy," admitted the twin in question, climbing sadly down to the shore again. "That's all right, Dorothy," said Short and Long. "Leave it to me. I put my bathing trunks in my pocket and while you girls are spreading the luncheon over yonder I'll dive and see if I can get the pin. It's some muddy down there, I guess; but I can stay under water nearly two minutes--can't I, Chet?" "So you have, Billy. You try it. And if you can't, maybe Lance or I can get it." Billy retired into the nearest cave to remove his clothing and the girls returned to the landing. In five minutes Billy made a famous dive into the deep hole under the boulder. He did not stay down two minutes, for Lance timed him. And he came up without the pin, but when he got his breath, he gave voice to a shout that started the echoes. "What's the matter with you, Billy?" demanded Chet. "I've found it!" cried the small boy. "Good! give it to me and I'll run with it to Dorothy," said Lance. "Oh! I haven't found her old pin," said Billy. "What's the matter with you, then?" demanded Chet. "You said you'd found it." "And so I have," proclaimed the diver. "Then hand it over," said Lance. "But it's down there--and it's hitched to a chain," gasped Billy. "What are you talking about?" cried both his boy friends together. "_I've found the lard can!_" shrieked Billy, dancing up and down on the rock. "Great Scott!" spoke Chet, staring at him. "You don't mean it?" cried Lance. "The lard can with the money?" demanded Chet, shaking the smaller boy by the arm. "How do I know whether there is money in it or not?" returned Billy. "Lemme find where the end of that chain is hitched, and we'll drag it out of the mud and see." "Say! Talk about treasure hunting!" gasped Lance. "This beats 'em all!" Splash! went Billy again into the water, like a huge frog. In a minute he was at the surface again, with the end of a trace chain in his hand. "Catch hold here, fellows, and pull!" he gasped. Chet and Lance obeyed. With a strong heave they brought the weight ashore. It certainly _was_ a lard can; but the cover was soldered on. "How we going to cut it open?" demanded Lance, eagerly, as Billy crawled out on shore again. "We're not going to open it," declared Chet, decisively. "This can is going directly to police headquarters. And all of us want to keep our mouths close shut about it until the police have examined the contents." And this he impressed rigidly upon the rest of the party when Billy had dressed and the three boys went back to the landing. Unfortunately Dorothy's pin was not recovered. But, as she said herself, she didn't mind that, seeing that her loss of the pin brought about the discovery of the buried treasure. "It beats Captain Kidd, and 'Treasure Island,' and Poe's 'Gold Bug,' all rolled into one!" declared Bobby, as a final comment upon the whole adventure. The party was eager to get across to the city again and deliver the sealed can to the authorities. So the picnic was considerably shortened. Nevertheless, the Central High Treasure Hunting Company, Limited, was pronounced an overpowering success! CHAPTER XXIV THE BIG DAY But the boys and girls of Central High learned nothing that day about the contents of the sealed lard can. Whatever was discovered inside it the police kept very close about. Chet had a private interview with the Chief of the Centerport Bureau of Detectives, and so did Billy Long. Short and Long wished that he could get through with police interference in his affairs, and grumbled some; but the detectives treated him pretty nicely this time, and the two boys went home wondering what would be the outcome of the "treasure hunting expedition." "Just the same, we found something!" ejaculated Chet. "And it is important, I feel sure." "Wish it was the money stolen from Stresch & Potter. The firm has offered five hundred dollars reward for the recovery of the money and the apprehension of the burglars," said Short and Long. "Say! that would be great for you," his friend said. "Wouldn't it?" "We'd take Alice out of that factory and let her finish High," said Billy, quickly. "That's what we'd do at the Long domicile." "I hope it _is_ the stolen money, then," said Chet. "Hot chance of that," scoffed Billy. "Those fellows that 'burgled' the store got away weeks ago and have probably spent the money by this time." The discovery of the sealed can on the island did not banish from the minds of the girls of Central High, however, the mystery of the stolen shell. This was a tragedy that loomed bigger and bigger as the day of the races approached. And it was very near now. The twins were delighted to be able to row with their mates on the eight-oared crew; but like the other members, they were quite hopeless of winning the race if they had to use the old boat. "Somebody who owed us a big grudge turned that trick of stealing the shell," Bobby Hargrew declared, again and again. "But we never did anything to the crews of the other schools to make them hate us so," cried the doctor's daughter. "Only threatening to beat them in the race," said Laura, doubtfully. "That shouldn't be a sufficient reason for them to hate us," one of the Lockwood twins declared. "It does just seem as though it was done out of spite." "And who's so spiteful toward the Central High eight?" demanded Bobby, keenly. "Now, Bobby!" cautioned Laura. "That's all right, Mother Wit. You see the point just as clearly as I do," declared Bobby. "You know who's been 'knocking' our crew all the time----" "Why--you don't mean----" began Jess, in wide-eyed wonder; but Laura said: "Hush! Don't say such a thing. We must not accuse people without some ground for suspicion." "How much ground do you want--the whole earth?" snapped Bobby, in deep gloom. So the name of the suspected culprit was not mentioned; but the little coterie of friends looked wisely at each other, and nodded. For, you see, when a girl is disloyal to her school and classmates, how can they help suspecting her if evil should arise? A girl who will not accept the decision of the majority in school affairs, who scoffs at the efficiency of the various athletic teams--who never will be contented unless she is in the lead of everything--can neither be popular nor trusted. Disloyalty is a crime that every right-minded person abhors; and although these girls did not mention the name of the person they suspected, all realized who was meant when Bobby said: "Well, the time is coming when she'll fly her kite too high! Everybody will see what she is, and then she'll never be able to fool anybody again--neither teachers, nor students of Central High. That's one satisfaction." "And yet, not very satisfactory at present," returned Laura Belding, thoughtfully. "Put on your thinking cap, then, Mother Wit, and catch her," said Bobby, in a whisper. "You did it before, you know." The parents of some of the girls were intensely interested in the outcome of the races on the Big Day, too; and somebody with influence had induced the Chief of Police to put detectives on the trail of the lost shell. This, however, beside a search of the lake shore by the police launch, as already reported, did nothing toward uncovering the hiding place of the shell, or the identity of the thieves. It seemed ridiculous to suppose that one girl--no matter how spiteful she might feel--could have accomplished the crime of stealing the eight-oared shell alone. Yet Bobby Hargrew's insistence had impressed Laura Belding. Perhaps, too, the fact that the other girls of Central High expected something brilliant in the way of detective work from Mother Wit spurred the jeweler's daughter to attempt to find the lost shell. Instead, she attempted to make the guilty person return the new boat in time for the boat race. And to do this she tried a scheme that might have been fruitless had the culprit not been an amateur in deceit and wrongdoing. No real thief would have fallen into Laura Belding's trap. She caused to be printed and posted upon the bulletin boards all over the Hill section of Centerport a quarter-sheet handbill which read in part that the person having caused the disappearance of the new eight-oared shell belonging to the Girls' Branch Athletic League of Central High was known, and that person would be publicly exposed if the shell was not returned, or the place of its hiding revealed, in season for the races. And she signed the bill with Professor Dimp's name, he having agreed to lend it for the occasion. This was not many hours before the dawning of the day of the races; but Laura saw to it that the way to and from school for the person suspected was fairly plastered with those notices! Printed in their black type, they could not fail to be seen by the right eyes. "What do you expect will come of _that_?" demanded Chet, rather inclined to scoff at his sister's plan. "I hope it will cause a change of heart on the part of the person guilty of the outrage," declared Laura, laughing. "Huh! If I knew who it was that stole the shell I'd go to 'em with a policeman." "And then it would be denied, and we'd never get our shell back in time. We don't know where it is," said Laura. "And you evidently don't know just who is guilty," responded Chet. "Moral certainty would not hold good in court," his sister returned, slily. "Bet you nothing comes of it!" growled Chet. But Laura would not wager anything with him. Perhaps she was not very certain in her own mind, at that, that she had gone about the matter in the right way. The night before the Big Day arrived, and nothing was heard of the shell. The girls were hopeless. Even Bobby lost her last atom of cheerfulness. They were confident that, if they had to row in the old boat, Keyport, at least, would beat them in the race. But when the new watchman opened the boat-House doors early on the morning of the race day he found pinned to the door a paper which bore in scraggly lettering this admonition: "_Look under the east float._" He proceeded to do this at once; and there was the shell, missing for so many anxious days, somewhat scraped by being washed by the current against the timbers underneath the float, but otherwise quite fit for use! All the girls of Central High did not hear this welcome news until noon, when the schools of Centerport let out for the day. The afternoon was to be given up to the aquatic contests, and troops of boys and girls, as well as grown folks, went to the shore, or crowded the boats that were stationed along the racing course. After all the Lockwood twins did not have to give up the canoe contest. Aunt Dora would not hear of their losing practise; and she was so much improved that Mr. Lockwood hired an easy carriage and took her to the races that she might see Dora and Dorothy do their best to win both the canoeing and eight-oared trophies. "They are real good girls, after all, Lemuel," said Aunt Dora, reflectively. "Now both of them have offered to go home with me." "No!" cried the flower lover. "I can't spare them, Dora." "I know you can't," admitted his sister, rather mildly for her. "And although they only said they would come to me for a little while, one at a time, I am not going to accept their sacrifice. I see plainly how much they are to each other--and to you. I guess they are yours, Lemuel, and if you have made mistakes in bringing them up, they are too sweet of disposition naturally to be spoiled by your foolishness. "No," said Aunt Dora, conclusively, "the place for Dora is with Dorothy, and the place for Dorothy is with Dora. Besides," she added, "it would certainly trouble me to have them about I never _could_ be sure whether my namesake was visiting me, or the other one!" CHAPTER XXV THE RACE IS WON Lake Luna was a blaze of glory between Centerport and Cavern Island--the June sunshine over all and every boat along the racing course bright with pennants and streamers. The two fussy little launches bearing the officers who managed the races puffed up and down the open water, and the big police launch kept the spectators' boats back of the line. Ashore the highlands were black with spectators, while the driveway was crowded with vehicles of every description. Keyport and Lumberport had been drawn upon to swell the crowds of lookers-on. The railroads and steam-boats had brought crowds to the race. It was indeed a gala day. Promptly at one o'clock the events began. The trial of speed between the boys' eight-oared shells was the first of the juvenile contests, and these latter trials gained almost as much interest from the crowds as did the first races. The boys of Central High, with Chet and Lance and six others at the sculls, and Short and Long to steer, pulled a splendid race, and came in second--the junior crew of the famous Luna Boat Club being the winner. At least the boys of Central High won over the crews of all the other high schools on the lake. The canoe race was a mixed event, for there was no sex limitation in canoeing. The Lockwood twins had been chosen, after all, to represent Central High, and Hester Grimes and Lily Pendleton were not even among the spectators at the races. They had accused Mrs. Case of "favoritism," although their record for speed was much below that of the twins. Dora and Dorothy did their very best; but they could scarcely expect to win over all comers in this race. Like the boys' eight, however, they came in ahead of all the other school crews, being Number 3 at the finish. The race was won by grown men belonging to the Luna Boat Club. After that the interest centered in the trial of speed between the girls' eights of the five high' schools. They had already been flashing about the lower course, "warming up," and as the five came into line at the signal of the starter, they presented a pretty sight. Blue and white and crimson and white were the prevailing colors of the girls' blouses and skirts; but the East High girls wore black and gold. Blue blouses and skirts, with narrow white trimming, was the costume of Central High, and the nine girls in the graceful, polished cedar shell were cheered again and again as they came opposite the grandstand and boathouses. There was Colonel Richard Swayne, who used to be so much opposed to girls' athletics, waving his cap, his bald head shining in the sun. And Principal Sharp was beside him, likewise cheering for his own crew. Back on the driveway Aunt Dora actually stood up and waved her umbrella in recognition of the twins as the shell belonging to Central High came easily to the line. There were Laura's and Chet's parents, too, in the automobile; with Mrs. Morse and the doctor's wife; and even Alice Long, with Tommy, the irrepressible, and Katie and May, were all there, shouting and waving handkerchiefs, all hoping that the girls in the eight-oared shell would notice them. Eve and Otto Sitz had ridden in to view the race; but they were in Prettyman Sweet's repaired launch, and Laura could hear the voice of the Swiss girl calling to her. The twins saw Aunt Dora and their father standing up in the carriage; but it was against the rules for the participants to notice the cheering crowd. "Eyes in the boat, girls! Make ready!" snapped Bobby, bending forward in her seat. "He's getting ready to fire that pistol." Celia Prime settled herself for the first stroke. "All ready?" she asked, and the girls behind her--Jess Morse, Dorothy Lockwood, Mary O'Rourke, Roberta Fish, Nellie Agnew, Dora Lockwood and Laura Belding--all murmured their acquiescence. The starter looked along the line of shells and got a nod from each coxswain. The pistol spoke, and "They're off!" shouted the crowd. Like five huge water-spiders, the eight-oared shells darted along the course. With a strain and a heave at the end of every stroke, the boats were propelled in a magnificent burst of speed. For some rods there was scarcely any difference in the standing of the five crews. Then, as in old times, Keyport drew ahead. "Hang to 'em! Like bulldogs!" shouted Bobby Hargrew through the megaphone she wore strapped to her mouth. Instantly Celia stretched out a little more and the clack of the oars in Central High boat sounded quicker. The new shell sped on and its bow was almost instantly at the stern of Keyport's boat. Behind, the other three crews were spread out badly. Only Lumberport was coming up at all. East and West Highs were no-where from the start. The Keyport crew were pulling with all their might and main then, and they were still a long way from the line. "Steady!" said Celia, through her teeth. "This will pass them." Bobby gave the order to increase the stroke. The crew of Central High responded nobly. The bow of their boat crept up, slowly but surely, along the side of the Keyport craft. They could have passed the rival boat more quickly; but Celia was holding back reserve force for a spurt if such a thing became necessary. The twins' toughened muscles did not feel the strain at first; but before the end of the course was sighted they were working blindly, like the other girls--mere pieces of mechanism engaged in a task that, as it continued, became a punishment! But that was what all the long weeks of practice and exercise had been for. Their bodies had learned to endure strains like this--and their wills, too. The crowds in the boats and along the banks had never ceased to cheer and shout encouragement to their favorite crews. The race ended in a whirlwind finish, for Keyport endeavored to rally at the last. But then Central High with their new shell were a boat's length ahead, and they had kept that lead until they crossed the line. Central High had won! The race had been a better one than that rowed a few weeks before between the same crews. The beautiful cup presented by the Luna Boat Club would have the place of honor in the Girls' Branch Athletic League house, when the latter structure was completed. "We sha'n't have a chance to row with you infants again," said Mary O'Rourke, one of the seniors, who would be graduated from Central High in a few days; "but see that you do as well next term." "And keep all friction out of the crew,'" advised Celia, as they pulled easily back to the boathouse. "That means keep out Hester Grimes," said Bobby, _sotto-voce_. "We want to keep her out of all athletics if we are to win over the other schools. She'll queer our basketball team next." Whether Bobby's prophecy was correct, or no, must be judged by the perusal of the next volume of this series, entitled "The Girls of Central High at Basketball; Or, The Great Gymnasium Mystery." When the crew of the eight-oared shell reached the boathouse they learned of a happening which interested them deeply. The minute the boys' eight-oared shell of Central High had come in, a policeman had beckoned Chetwood Belding and Billy Long away. The boys were highly excited by this incident, and naturally their girl friends were, too. But it was not until the last event of the day had been decided and the crowd of spectators had broken up and gone their ways that the young folk learned the mystery. Chet and Billy had been called to the Detective Bureau, where the chief met them with rather a severe countenance. "So you two boys had no idea what was in that lard can you brought in here the other day?" he demanded. "No, sir," said Chet, manfully. "Billy heard those two men talking about it. And he found it. He says he thinks there is money in it." "And I should say there was!" ejaculated the police detective, with disgust. "Those Italians had us all fooled. We got the big fellow, who was sneaking back to try and get on the island again, and of course Tony Allegretto and his monkey has always been right under our eyes. "By the way, Master Long!" "Yes, sir?" answered Billy, wondering what was coming. "You said you thought those men surveying back of Stresch & Potter's the day before the burglary, were working for the railroad?" "That's what I thought, sir. I gathered it from what they said." "And so they were. They were from the engineer's office of the C, P. & L. We found 'em. They had nothing to do with the robbery." "I didn't think they had. These two dagoes know about the robbery, though!" exclaimed Short and Long, his eyes twinkling. "I guess they do! I guess they do!" repeated the detective. "And the money stolen from Stresch & Potter was in that soldered can. We got it. We got the men. And the five hundred dollars will be divided between this office and you boys." "Not me!" cried Chet. "It belongs to Billy. He dived and found the can. And--and I rather think he's paid for his reward by what he went through over there on Cavern Island." "Perhaps that's so," said the official, chuckling. "But tell me, sir!" cried Billy, eagerly, "who got through that little window and opened the door for the Italians?" "Ha! that puzzled us a bit until one of our sharp young men watched Tony putting that monkey of his through its tricks. Then we all saw a great light." "Great Scott! And so do I see a light!" cried Chet. "Me, too," grumbled Billy. "But why didn't I guess it before and save myself all that trouble I had?" "The monkey is the guilty party," said the detective. "The bigger Italian is a famous safe-cracker. He hired Tony Allegretto and his monkey to help him get into the building, and to watch outside. Then the two men quarreled as to the division of the loot after it was hidden. But they are both in jail, now--and the monkey, too. But Mr. Monk will never have a chance to open his master's cell-door again. Now, you'll hear all about this later, boys, and you will both have to testify when the case comes to trial. That's all." "Huh!" exclaimed Short and Long, as he went away with Chet, "looks like as though! everybody had the laugh on me--eh?" "How's that?" queried Chet, in some surprise. "Why, I needn't have made such a Jack of myself as to run away and hide over there on the island. Father's said a-plenty to me about it. He says that any boy who runs away instead of, facing the music makes himself appear guilty right at the start." "Well--I--don't--know," said his friend, slowly. "Certain sure you worried your folks a whole lot--and worried your friends, too." "I never thought of that." "I s'pose not. That detective chasing you up so, was what scared you." "And you'd have been scared, too. He said he could put me in jail. Now, I'd just as soon be half starved over there on Cavern Island as to be in jail," declared Billy, with conviction. "Say! One thing you got out of it young fellow," said Chet, suddenly, with a laugh. "And you wouldn't have got that if you hadn't run away." "Oh! do you really think they'll give me part of the reward?" "Of course they will. They'll have to. Father will have his lawyer 'tend to that for you, Billy. The police sha'n't cheat you out of your rights." "Then," cried Billy, delight showing in his face. "I tell you what's going to happen if I get all that money." "What?" asked Chet, curiously. "Alice is going back to Central High to finish out her last year. You know, she would have graduated two years ago this June if it hadn't been for her having to stay home to 'tend to the kids. She shall come back. I know she wants to be a teacher, and without her High School certificate she cannot go to Normal." "Well, you're a good kind of a kid, after all, Billy," said Chet Belding. "Even if you are full of tickle," and he grinned at the small boy. "Thanks," sniffed Billy Long. "Did you think that nobody but _you_ appreciates a good sister? Lemme tell you, Mother Wit isn't the only girl around these corners that's as good as any boy alive!" Chet laughed aloud at this. "That's sure a backhand compliment," he said. "Most of the girls of Central High think they're a whole lot better than the boys." "And gee! Ain't they?" rejoined Billy, with feeling. They were back at the landing in time to escort the winning girls' crews up to the athletic field and listen to the speeches. Colonel Swayne made the best one of the day, and certainly the one that was most appreciated by the girls of Central High when he announced that the contracts for the building of the new gymnasium were closed and that the building was bound to surpass anything of the kind in the State. "And I declare you deserve it!" said Colonel Swayne, in conclusion. "You certainly are the finest class of girls I ever did see. You are not like what girls were when I was a boy--I must say that. But, I guess different times breeds different folks. It must be all right for girls now to be athletic and be able to row like boys, and play ball, and all that. "And I certainly was proud that I lived on the Hill to-day, and that my neighbors' daughters were such strong and healthy young ladies. It has been the greatest day we've seen on Lake Luna for many a year. I'm proud of you all!" There was a reception that evening at the chapter house of the M. O. R.'s, Central High's very popular secret society, and the girls who had taken part in the aquatic events were feasted and made much of by the members of the society and the teachers and friends invited for the occasion. It was a very Happy time for the girls of Central High. Even Miss Carrington was in an especially gracious mood; but Aunt Dora, who had come with the twins, refused to speak to "that four-eyed teacher." Bobby Hargrew was there, although she could never hope to be a member of the M. O. R.'s herself, unless she changed her mischievous ways. "But," as Laura quoted, "can the leopard change his spots?" "He most certainly can--unless he goes dead lame," cried Bobby, grinning. "You wait till I'm a junior! I'm going to make the M. O. R.'s and be Gee Gee's prize scholar next year." "Better practice a little now, Bobby," advised Nellie Agnew. "Then it won't come so hard to begin in September." Dora and Dorothy went home early from the "party" with Aunt Dora. The old lady was still afraid of the night air. "And I'll come to see you--for a while--right after graduation," Dora said to her aunt, cheerfully. "And then Dorothy will take my place----" "No. You can both come--come together. I couldn't stand you more than a week at a time, I'm sure," said Aunt Dora, with a sigh. "You girls of the new generation are too much for me; though I must admit that you are pretty nice girls, at that! But your father needs you most of the time--needs you to help him cultivate that seedless watermelon, I expect! "Girls aren't what they were when _I_ was a girl. You twins don't know how to knit, or to make tatting, or to embroider. It seems a shame--for you'll never have any tidies for your chairs in your house. "But I must admit that you are well and strong, you two girls. And your ma was that delicate! For those that like 'em I s'pose these athletics are good. I only hope we won't have women pugilists and seven-day bicycle riders! "When girls like you and your friends race in boats and--ahem!--I hope you won't let any club of girls from the other High Schools take that handsome silver cup away from you, girls," concluded Aunt Dora, with sudden asperity. "That _would_ be a pretty dido, I must say! Don't you let me hear of its passing out of the possession of the girls of Central High." "We'll do _our_ best, Auntie," replied Dora and Dorothy, their bright eyes dancing at the good old lady's emphasis. THE END BY GERTRUDE W. MORRISON THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH SERIES THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH Or, Rivals for All Honors THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON LAKE LUNA Or, The Crew That Won THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH AT BASKETBALL Or, The Great Gymnasium Mystery THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON THE STAGE Or, The Play That Took the Prize THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD Or, The Champions of the School League By LAURA LEE HOPE AUTHOR OF THE EVER POPULAR "BOBBSEY TWINS BOOKS" THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES These tales take in the various adventures participated in by several bright, up-to-date girls who love outdoor life. They are clean and wholesome, free from sensationalism, absorbing from the first chapter to the last. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE Or Camping and Tramping for Fun and Health. Telling how the girls organized their Camping and Tramping Club, how they went on a tour, and of various adventures which befell them. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE Or Stirring Cruise of the Motor Boat Gem. One of the girls becomes the proud possessor of a motor boat and at once invites her club members to take a trip with her down the river to Rainbow Lake, a beautiful sheet of water lying between the mountains. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A MOTOR CAR Or The Haunted Mansion of Shadow Valley. One of the girls has learned to run a big motor car, and she invites the club to go on a tour with her, to visit some distant relatives. On the way they stop at a deserted mansion, said to be haunted and make a most surprising discovery. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A WINTER CAMP Or Glorious Days on Skates and Ice Boats. In this story, the scene is shifted to a winter season. The girls have some jolly times skating and ice boating, and visit a hunters' camp in the big woods. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN FLORIDA Or Wintering in the Sunny South. The parents of one of the girls have bought an orange grove in Florida, and her companions are invited to visit the place. They do so, and take a trip into the wilds of the interior, where several unusual things happen. * * * * * THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS SERIES The adventures of Ruth and Alice DeVere. Their father, a widower, is an actor who has taken up work for the "movies." Both girls wish to aid him in his work. At first, they, do work in "parlor dramas" only, but later on, visit various localities to act in all sorts of pictures. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS Or First Appearance in Photo Dramas. Having lost his voice, the father of the girls goes into the movies and the girls follow. Tells how many "parlor dramas" are filmed. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS AT OAK FARM Or Queer Happenings While Taking Rural Plays. Full of fun in the country, the haps and mishaps of taking film plays, and giving an account of two unusual discoveries. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS SNOWBOUND Or The Proof on the Film. A tale of winter adventures in the wilderness, showing how the photo-play actors sometimes suffer. The proof on the film was most convincing. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS UNDER THE PALMS Or Lost in the Wilds of Florida. How they went to the land of palms, played many parts in dramas before the clicking machine, and were lost and aided others who were also lost. THE MOVING PICTURE GIRLS AT ROCKY RANCH Or Great Days Among the Cowboys. All who have ever seen moving pictures of the great West will want to know just how they are made. This volume gives every detail and is full of clean fun and excitement. By GERTRUDE W. MORRISON THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH SERIES Here is a series full of the spirit of high school life of to-day. The girls are real flesh-and-blood characters, and we follow them with interest in school and out. There are many contested matches on track and field, and on the water, as well as doings in the classroom and on the school stage. There is plenty of fun and excitement, all clean, pure and wholesome. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH Or Rivals for all Honors. A stirring tale of high school life, full of fun, with a touch of mystery and a strange initiation. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON LAKE LUNA Or The Crew That Won. Telling of water sports and fun galore, and of fine times in camp. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH AT BASKETBALL Or The Great Gymnasium Mystery. Here we have a number of thrilling contests at basketball and in addition, the solving of a mystery which had bothered the high school authorities for a long while. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON THE STAGE Or The Play That Took the Prize. How the girls went in for theatricals and how one of them wrote a play which afterward was made over for the professional stage and brought in some much-needed money. THE GIRLS OF CENTRAL HIGH ON TRACK AND FIELD Or The Girl Champions of the School League. This story takes in high school athletics in their most approved and up-to-date fashion. Full of fun and excitement. By VICTOR APPLETON THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS SERIES Moving pictures and photo plays are famous the world over, and in this line of books the reader is given a full description of how the films are made--the scenes of little dramas, indoors and out, trick pictures to satisfy the curious, soul-stirring pictures of city affairs, life in the Wild West, among the cowboys and Indians, thrilling rescues along the seacoast, the daring of picture hunters in the jungle among savage beasts, and the great risks run in picturing conditions in a land of earthquakes. The volumes teem with adventures and will be found interesting from first chapter to last. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS Or Perils of a Great City Depicted. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE WEST Or Taking Scenes Among the Cowboys and Indians. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS ON THE COAST Or Showing the Perils of the Deep. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN THE JUNGLE Or Stirring Times Among the Wild Animals. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS IN EARTHQUAKE LAND Or Working Amid Many Perils. THE MOVING PICTURE BOYS AND THE FLOOD Or Perilous Days on the Mississippi. * * * * * THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS SERIES In these stories we follow the adventures of three boys, who, after purchasing at auction the contents of a moving picture house, open a theatre of their own. Their many trials and tribulations, leading up to the final success of their venture, make very entertaining stories. THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS' FIRST VENTURE Or Opening a Photo Playhouse in Fairlands. The adventures of Frank, Randy and Pep in running a Motion Picture show. They had trials and tribulations but finally succeed. THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS AT SEASIDE PARK Or The Rival Photo Theatres of the Boardwalk. Their success at Fairlands encourages the boys to open their show at Seaside Park, where they have exciting adventures--also a profitable season. THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS ON BROADWAY Or The Mystery of the Missing Cash Box. Backed by a rich western friend the chums established a photo playhouse in the great metropolis, where new adventures await them. THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS' OUTDOOR EXHIBITION Or The Film that Solved a Mystery. This time the playhouse was in a big summer park. How a film that was shown gave a clew to an important mystery is interestingly related. THE MOTION PICTURE CHUMS' NEW IDEA Or The First Educational Photo Playhouse. In this book the scene is shifted to Boston, and there is intense rivalry in the establishment of photo playhouses of educational value. * * * * * THE TOM SWIFT SERIES These spirited tales convey in a realistic way the wonderful advances in land and sea locomotion. Stories like these are impressed upon the youthful memory and their reading is productive only of good. TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR CYCLE Or Fun and Adventure on the Road TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR BOAT Or The Rivals of Lake Carlopa TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP Or The Stirring Cruise of the Red Cloud TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT Or Under the Ocean, for Sunken Treasure TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT Or The Speediest Car on the Road TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE Or The Castaways of Earthquake Island TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS Or The Secret of Phantom Mountain TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE Or The Wreck of the Airship TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER Or The Quickest Flight on Record TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE Or Daring Adventures in Elephant Land TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD Or Marvellous Adventures Underground TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDER Or Seeking the Platinum Treasure TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY Or A Daring Escape by Airship TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA Or The Perils of Moving Picture Taking TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT Or On the Border for Uncle Sam TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNON Or The Longest Shots on Record TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE Or The Picture that Saved a Fortune By CAPTAIN QUINCY ALLEN The Outdoor Chums Series The outdoor chums are four wide-awake lads, sons of wealthy men of a small city located on a lake. The boys love outdoor life, and are greatly interested in hunting, fishing, and picture taking. They have motor cycles, motor boats, canoes, etc., and during their vacations go everywhere and have all sorts of thrilling adventures. The stories give full directions for camping out, how to fish, how to hunt wild animals and prepare the skins for stuffing, how to manage a canoe, how to swim, etc. Full of the very spirit of outdoor life. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS Or, The First Tour of the Rod, Gun and Camera Club. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE LAKE Or, Lively Adventures on Wildcat Island. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS IN THE FOREST Or, Laying the Ghost of Oak Ridge. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE GULF Or, Rescuing the Lost Balloonists. THE OUTDOOR CHUMS AFTER BIG GAME Or, Perilous Adventures in the Wilderness. By GRAHAM B. FORBES THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH SERIES Never was there a cleaner, brighter, more manly boy than Frank Allen, the hero of this series of boys' tales, and never was there a better crowd of lads to associate with than the students of the School. All boys will read these stories with deep interest. The rivalry between the towns along the river was of the keenest, and plots and counterplots to win the championships, at baseball, at football, at boat racing, at track athletics, and at ice hockey, were without number. Any lad reading one volume of this series will surely want the others. The Boys of Columbia High; Or The All Around Rivals of the School. The Boys of Columbia High on the Diamond; Or Winning Out by Pluck. The Boys of Columbia High on the River; Or The Boat Race Plot that Failed. The Boys of Columbia High on the Gridiron; Or The Struggle for the Silver Cup. The Boys of Columbia High on the Ice; Or Out for the Hockey Championship. By ARTHUR W. WINFIELD THE FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES American Stories of American Boys and Girls THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL Or The Cadets of Putnam Hall THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN Or A Chase for a Fortune THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE Or Stirring Adventures in Africa THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST Or The Search for a Lost Mine THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES Or The Secret of the Island Cave THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS Or A Hunt for Fame and Fortune THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA Or The Crusoes of Seven Islands THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP Or The Rivals of Pine Island THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER Or The Search for the Missing Houseboat THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS Or The Mystery of Red Rock Ranch THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS Or The Deserted Steam Yacht THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM Or The Last Days at Putnam Hall THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE Or The Strange Cruise of the Steam Yacht THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE Or The Right Road and the Wrong THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST Or The Struggle for the Stanhope Fortune THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR Or From College Campus to the Clouds THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK Or Saving Their Father's Honor THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA Or Lost in the Fields of Ice * * * * * The Putnam Hall Series Companion Stories to the Famous Rover Boys Series Open-air pastimes have always been popular with boys, and should always be encouraged. These books mingle adventure and fact, and will appeal to every manly boy. THE PUTNAM HALL MYSTERY Or The School Chums' Strange Discovery The particulars of the mystery and the solution of it are very interesting reading. THE PUTNAM HALL ENCAMPMENT Or The Secret of the Old Mill A story full of vim and vigor, telling what the cadets did during the summer encampment, including a visit to a mysterious old mill, said to be haunted. The book has a wealth of fun in it. THE PUTNAM HALL REBELLION Or The Rival Runaways The boys had good reasons for running away during Captain Putnam's absence. They had plenty of fun, and several queer adventures. THE PUTNAM HALL CHAMPIONS Or Bound to Win Out In this volume the Putnam Hall Cadets show what they can do in various keen rivalries on the athletic field and elsewhere. There is one victory which leads to a most unlooked-for discovery. THE PUTNAM HALL CADETS Or Good Times in School and Out The cadets are lively, flesh-and-blood fellows, bound to make friends from the start. There are some keen rivalries, in school and out, and something is told of a remarkable midnight feast and a hazing that had an unlocked for ending. THE PUTNAM HALL RIVALS Or Fun and Sport Afloat and Ashore It is a lively, rattling, breezy story of school life in this country written by one who knows all about its pleasures and its perplexities, its glorious excitements, and its chilling disappointments. By HOWARD R. GARIS THE DICK HAMILTON SERIES A SERIES THAT HAS BECOME VERY POPULAR DICK HAMILTON'S FORTUNE Or The Stirring Doings of a Millionaire's Son. Dick, the son of a millionaire, has a fortune left to him by his mother. But before he can touch the bulk of this money it is stipulated in his mother's will that he must do certain things, in order to prove that he is worthy of possessing such a fortune. The doings of Dick and his chums make the liveliest kind of reading. DICK HAMILTON'S CADET DAYS Or The Handicap of a Millionaire's Son. The hero is sent to a military academy to make his way without the use of money. Life at an up-to-date military academy is described, with target shooting, broadsword exercise, trick riding, sham battles etc. Dick proves himself a hero in the best sense of the word. DICK HAMILTON'S STEAM YACHT Or A Young Millionaire and the Kidnappers. A series of adventures while yachting in which our hero's wealth plays a part. Dick is marooned on an island, recovers his yacht and foils the kidnappers. The wrong young man is spirited away, Dick gives chase and there is a surprising rescue at sea. DICK HAMILTON'S FOOTBALL TEAM Or A Young Millionaire on the Gridiron. A very interesting account of how Dick developed a champion team and of the lively contests with other teams. There is also related a number of thrilling incidents in which Dick is the central figure. DICK HAMILTON'S AIRSHIP Or A Young Millionaire in the Clouds. Tells how Dick built an airship to compete in a twenty thousand dollar prize contest, and of many adventures he experiences. BY ALLEN CHAPMAN. The Railroad Series Ralph Fairbanks was bound to become a railroad man, as his father had been before him. Step by step he worked his way upward, serving first in the Roundhouse, cleaning locomotives; then in the Switch Tower, clearing the tracks; then on the Engine, as a fireman; then as engineer of the Overland Express; and finally as Train Dispatcher. In this line of books there is revealed the whole workings of a great American railroad system. There are adventures in abundance--railroad wrecks, dashes through forest fires, the pursuit of a "wildcat" locomotive, the disappearance of a pay car with a large sum of money on board--but there is much more than this--the intense rivalry among railroads and railroad men, the working out of running schedules, the getting through "on time" in spite of all obstacles, and the manipulation of railroad securities by evil men who wish to rule or ruin. Books that every American boy ought to own. RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER Or The Mystery of the Pay Car. RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS Or The Trials and Triumph of a Young Engineer. RALPH ON THE ENGINE Or The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail. RALPH OF THE ROUND HOUSE Or Bound to Become a Railroad Man. RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER Or Clearing the Track. 
27985	----	[Illustration: MARY KNELT ON THE DRIVEWAY AND GATHERED CHARLIE INTO HER ARMS. _Marjorie Dean High School Sophomore._] MARJORIE DEAN High School Sophomore By PAULINE LESTER AUTHOR OF "Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman" "Marjorie Dean, High School Junior" "Marjorie Dean, High School Senior" A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Copyright, 1917 BY A. L. BURT COMPANY MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE CHAPTER I WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE "Come on in, Connie. The water's fine!" invited Marjorie Dean, beckoning with one round, dripping arm to the girl on the sands, while with the other she kept herself lazily afloat. The sun of a perfect August morning poured down upon the white beach, dotted here and there with ambitious bathers, who had grasped Time firmly by his venerated forelock, and fared forth with the proverbial early bird for a morning dip in a deceitfully dimpled and smiling sea. It was not yet nine o'clock, but, fearful of losing a minute of her precious seaside vacation, Marjorie Dean had come down to her favorite playground for her usual early morning swim. "I know it's fine," laughed Constance Stevens, "but this nice white sand is even finer." "You'll never learn to swim if you just sit on the beach and dream," reminded Marjorie. "I feel that it's my stern duty to see that your education as a water paddler is not neglected. So here goes!" With a few skilful strokes she brought up in shallow water. There was a quick rush of lithe feet, the sound of sweet, high laughter, then a little, good-natured gurgle of protest from the golden-haired, blue-eyed girl curled up on the sand as she found herself being dragged into the water by a pair of sturdy young arms. "Now--sink or swim, survive or perish!" panted Marjorie, as the lapping shallows broke over the yielding figure of her friend. "You'll simply have to be a water baby, Connie, dear. It's as important as being a sophomore in Sanford High, and you know just how important that is! Now, watch me and do likewise." Her day dream thus rudely interrupted, Constance Stevens laughingly resigned herself to Marjorie's energetic commands, and, now thoroughly awake to the important business at hand, tried her best to follow her friend's instructions. A fifteen minutes' lesson in the art of learning to float followed, and at the end of that time, by common consent, the two girls waded ashore and flung themselves on the warm sand. "I'll never learn to swim. I feel it in my bones," asserted Constance, as she lazily rose, wrung the water from her bathing suit and seated herself on the white beach beside Marjorie, who lay stretched at full length, her head propped upon her elbows, her alert gaze upon the few bathers who were disporting themselves in the water. "Then your bones are false prophets," declared Marjorie calmly. "You know how to float already, and that's half the battle. We'll rest a little and talk some more, and then we'll try it again. Next time I'll teach you an easy stroke. Isn't it funny, Connie, we never seem to get 'talked out.' We've been here together five whole weeks and yet there always seems to be something new to say. You are really a most entertaining person." "That's precisely my opinion of you." Constance's blue eyes twinkled. The two girls laughed joyously. Two wet hands stretched forth and met in a loving little squeeze. "It's been wonderful to be here with you, Marjorie. Last year at this time I never dreamed that anything so wonderful could possibly happen to me." The golden-haired girl's voice was not quite steady. "And I've loved being here with you. What a lot of things can happen in a year," mused Marjorie. "Why, at this time last year I never even knew that there was a town called Sanford on the map, and when I found out there was really such a place, and that I was going to live there instead of staying in B---- and going to Franklin High, I felt perfectly _awful_ about it." It had, indeed, been a most unhappy period for sunny, lovable Marjorie Dean when the call of her father's business had made it necessary for him to remove his family from the beautiful city of B----, where Marjorie had been born and lived sixteen untroubled years of life, to the smaller northern city of Sanford, where she didn't know a soul. All that happened to Marjorie Dean from the first day in her new home has been faithfully recorded in "MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN." In that narrative was set forth her trials, which had been many, and her triumphs, which had been proportionately greater, as a freshman in Sanford High School. How she had become acquainted with Constance Stevens and how, after never-to-be-forgotten days of storm and sunshine, the friendship between the two young girls had flowered into perfect understanding, formed a story of more than ordinary interest. Now, after several happy weeks at the seashore, where the Deans had rented a cottage and were spending their usual summer outing with Constance as their guest, the two friends were enjoying the last perfect days of mid-summer before returning to Sanford, where, in September, Constance and Marjorie were to enter the delightful realm of the sophomore, to which they had won admission the previous June. There had been only one shadow to mar Marjorie's bliss. She had hoped that her childhood friend and companion, Mary Raymond, might be with them at the seashore, but, owing to the ill-health of Mary's mother, the Raymonds had been obliged to summer in the mountains, where Mary was needed at her mother's side. That Constance and Mary should meet and become friends had ever been Marjorie's most ardent desire. It was Constance's remarkable resemblance to Mary that had drawn her toward the girl in the very beginning. "It's all been so perfectly beautiful, Connie." Marjorie gave a little sigh of sheer happiness. "I've only one regret." "I know--you mean your chum, Mary," supplemented Constance, with quick sympathy. Marjorie nodded. "It seems strange I haven't heard from her. She hasn't written me for over two weeks. I hope her mother isn't worse." "No news is good news," comforted Constance. "Perhaps there will be a letter for me from her when we get back to the cottage. Suppose there should be! Wouldn't that be glorious?" "Perhaps we'd better go up now and see," suggested Constance. "It must be time for the postman." "We're not going until after you've had fifteen more minutes' instruction in the noble art of swimming, you rascal," laughed Marjorie. "See how self-sacrificing I am! You don't appreciate my noble efforts in your direction." "Of course I appreciate them, Marjorie Dean." Constance's habitually wistful expression broke up in a radiant smile that set her blue eyes dancing. "But I must confess, this minute, that I can live and be happy if I never learn to swim." "That settles it. In you go again." Marjorie sprang energetically to her feet, and began dragging her protesting friend down the beach to the water. Another fifteen minutes' instruction followed, punctuated by much laughter on the part of the two girls. "There! I'll let you off for to-day," conceded Marjorie, at last. "Now, come on. I have a hunch that there _is_ a letter for me. I haven't had any letters for two whole days." It was only a few rods from the bathing beach to the "Sea Gull," the cottage in which the Deans were living. As they neared it, a gray-uniformed figure was seen hurrying down the walk. "It's the postman! What did I tell you?" Marjorie broke into a run, Constance following close at her heels. The two girls brought up flushed and laughing at the pretty, vine-covered veranda, where Mrs. Dean sat, in the act of opening a letter. Half a dozen other postmarked envelopes lay in her lap. "Oh, Captain," Marjorie touched a hand to her bathing cap, "how many of them are for me?" "All of them except this, Lieutenant," smiled her mother, holding up the letter she had been reading. "But why all this haste? I hardly expected you back so soon. Five minutes before luncheon is your usual time for reappearing," she slyly reminded. "Oh, I had an unmistakable hunch that there was a letter here for me from Mary, so I let Connie off easy on her lesson. I'll make up for it to-morrow." By this time Marjorie held in her hand the half-dozen envelopes, each bearing its own special message from the various friends who held more or less important places in her regard, and was rapidly going over them. "Here's one from Jerry and one from Hal." The pink in her cheeks deepened at sight of the familiar boyish hand. "One from Marcia Arnold, another from Muriel Harding. Here's a tiresome advertisement." She threw the fifth envelope disdainfully on the wicker table at her side. "And--yes, here it is, in Mary's very own handwriting!" Laying the other letters on the table with a carefulness that bespoke their value, Marjorie hastily tore open the envelope that contained news of her friend and drawing out a single closely written sheet of paper said apologetically, "You won't mind if I read this now, will you, Connie and Mother?" "Go ahead," urged Constance. "We couldn't be so hard-hearted as to object." Mrs. Dean smiled her assent. Marjorie's thoughtfulness of others was always a secret source of joy to her. Marjorie read down the page, then uttered a little squeal of delight. "Mother!" she exclaimed joyously, "just listen to this: "DEAREST MARJORIE: "You will wonder, perhaps, what has happened to me. I know I have owed you a letter for over two weeks, but I have been so busy taking care of mother that I haven't had very much time to write. Of course, we have a nurse, but, still, there are so many little things to be done for her, which she likes to have me do. She is much better, but our doctor says she must go to a famous health resort in the West for the winter. She will start for Colorado in about two weeks, and now comes the part of my letter which I hope you will like to read. I am going to make you a visit. Father and I are coming to see you on a very mysterious mission. I won't tell you anything more about it until I see you. Part of it is sad and part of it glad, and it all depends upon three persons whether it will ever happen. There! That ought to keep you guessing. "You wrote me that you would be at home in Sanford by the last of next week. Please writs me at once and let me know just exactly when you expect to reach there. We shall not try to come to the seashore, as father prefers to wait until you are back in Sanford again. With much love to you and your mother, "Yours Mysteriously, "MARY." Marjorie finished the last word with a jubilant wave of the letter. "What do you think of that, Captain? What do you suppose this mysterious mission can be?" Marjorie's face was alight with affectionate curiosity. "I am not good at guessing," Mrs. Dean smiled tolerantly. The ways of schoolgirls were usually shrouded with a profound mystery, which disappeared into nothingness when confronted with reality. "It must be something extraordinary. She says it's part sad and part glad. I hope it's mostly glad. I know _I'm_ glad that I'm going to see her. Why, it's almost a year since we said good-bye to each other! Oh, Connie," she turned rapturously to Constance, "you two girls, my dearest friends, who look alike, will actually meet at last! You'll love Mary. You can't help yourself, and she'll love you. She can't do anything else." "I hope she will like me," said Constance a trifle soberly. "I know I shall like her, because she is your friend, Marjorie." "You'll like her for yourself, Connie," predicted Marjorie loyally, and secure in the belief that neither of these two girls, whose friendship she held above rubies, could fail her, Marjorie Dean dreamed of a kingdom of fellowship into which the three were fated to enter only after scaling the steep and difficult walls of misunderstanding. CHAPTER II THE SHADOW "Listen, Connie! Do you hear that train whistling? I'm sure it's Mary's train." Marjorie Dean peered anxiously up the track in the direction of the sound. In the distance her alert eyes spied the smoke of the approaching train before it rounded the bend and appeared in full view, and her heart beat high with the thought that the longer-for moment had come at last. Since her return to Sanford, five days before, Marjorie had been in a quiver of affectionate impatience. How slowly the days dragged! She read and re-read Mary's latest letter, stating that she and her father would arrive at Sanford on Wednesday on the 4.30 train and her impatience grew. It was not alone that she desired to see Mary. There was the "mysterious mission" to be considered. What girl does not love a mystery? And Marjorie was no exception. At that moment, however, as she waited for her childhood's friend, all thought of the mystery was swept aside in the longing to see Mary again. As the train rumbled into the station and after many groans and shudders stopped with a last protesting creak of wheels, Marjorie's anxious gaze traveled up and down its length. Suddenly, at the far end, she spied a tall, familiar figure descending the car steps. Close behind him followed a slender girl in blue. With a cluck of joy and a "There she is!" Marjorie fairly raced up the station platform. Constance followed, but proceeded more slowly. To Marjorie belonged the right to the first rapturous moments with her chum. In her girlish soul lurked no trace of jealousy. She understood that with Marjorie, Mary must always be first, and she was filled with an unselfish happiness for the pleasure of the girl who had braved all things for her and would forever mean all that was best and highest to her. "Mary!" Marjorie exclaimed, her clear voice trembling with emotion. "Oh, Marjorie, it's been ages," quavered Mary Raymond. Then the two became locked in a tempestuous embrace. "Here, here, where do I come in?" asked an injured voice, as the two young women continued to croon over each other, all else forgotten. Marjorie gently disengaged herself from Mary's detaining arms and turned to give her hand to Mr. Raymond. "I'm so glad to see you," she said fervently. "Mother is waiting in our car, just the other side of the station. But first, let me introduce my friend, Constance Stevens. Why, where is she? I thought she was right behind me. Oh, here she comes. Hurry up, Connie!" Constance approached rather shyly. In spite of the fact that the old days of poverty and heartache lay behind her like a bad dream, she was still curiously reserved and diffident in the presence of strangers. The decision of her aunt, Miss Susan Allison, to take up her abode in Sanford in order that Constance might finish her high school course with Marjorie had brought many changes into the life of the once friendless girl. Miss Allison had purchased a handsome property on the outskirts of Sanford, and, after much persuasion, had, with one exception, induced the occupants of the little gray house to share it with her. Soon afterward Mr. Stevens, Constance's foster-father, whose name she still bore and refused to change, had accepted a position as first violin in a symphony orchestra and had gone to fulfill his destiny in the world of music which he loved. Uncle John Roland and little Charlie, once puny and crippled, but now strong and rosy, had, with Constance, come into the lonely old woman's household at a time when she most needed them, and, in her contrition for the lost years of happiness which she had so stubbornly thrust aside, she was in a fair way to spoil her little flock by too much petting. The fact that from a mere nobody Constance Stevens had become the social equal of Sanford's most exclusive contingent did not impress the girl in the least. Naturally humble and self-effacing, she had no ambition to shine socially. Her one aim was to become a great singer, and it was understood between herself and her aunt that when she was graduated from high school she was to enter a conservatory of music and study voice culture under the best masters. It seemed to Constance that she now had everything in the world that she could possibly hope for or desire, but of the great good which had come to her in one short year she felt that above all she prized the friendship of Marjorie Dean and in whatever lay Marjorie's happiness, there must hers lie also. This was her thought as she now stepped forward to meet Mary Raymond. She was prepared to give this girl who was Marjorie's dearest friend a loyalty and devotion, second only to that which she accorded Marjorie herself. "At last my dearest wish has come true!" exclaimed Marjorie when Constance had been presented to Mr. Raymond and she and Mary had clasped hands. "I've been so anxious for you two to know each other. Now that you're here together I can see that resemblance I've told you of. Connie, you look like Mary and Mary looks like you. You might easily pass for sisters." Constance smiled with shy sweetness at Mary and Mary returned the smile, but in her blue eyes there flashed a sudden, half-startled expression, which neither Constance nor Marjorie noted. Then she said in a tone intended to be cordial, but which somehow lacked heart, "I'm awfully glad to know you, Miss Stevens. Marjorie has written me often of you." "And she has talked to me over and over again of you," returned Constance warmly. "Now that you know each other, you can postpone getting chummy until later," laughed Marjorie. "Mother will wonder what has happened to us. She'll think you didn't come on that train if we don't put in an appearance." Possessing herself of Mary's traveling bag she led the way with Mary through the station and out to the opposite side where Mrs. Dean awaited them. Constance followed with Mr. Raymond. In her heart she experienced an odd disappointment. Was it her imagination, or did Mary's cordiality seem a trifle forced? Perhaps it would have been better if she had not accompanied Marjorie to the station to meet Mary. Perhaps Mary was a trifle hurt that her chum had not come alone. She decided that she would not ride to Marjorie's home with the party, although she had been invited to dine with them that night. She could not bear to think of intruding. She managed to answer Mr. Raymond's courteous remarks, but her thoughts were not centered upon what he was saying. Without warning, her old-time diffidence settled down upon her like an enveloping cloak, and her one object was to slip away as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. "I think I had better not go home with you, Marjorie," she said in a low voice. They had reached the waiting automobile and Mary and Mrs. Dean were exchanging affectionate greetings. "Oh, why not, Connie?" Marjorie's happy face clouded. "You know we'd love to have you, wouldn't we, Mary?" "Of course." Mary again smiled at Constance, but again her smile lacked warmth. Constance shook her head almost obstinately. "I think I had better not come," she repeated, and in her speech there was a shadowy return of the old baffling reserve that had so greatly disturbed Marjorie in the early stages of their friendship. "But you promised to take dinner with us to-night," remarked Marjorie. "I--I have changed my mind. It will be best for me to go home, I think. I'll come over to-morrow." Mrs. Dean added her persuasions, but Constance was firm, and, after bidding a courteous farewell to the Deans' guests, she hurried away, more agitated than she cared to admit. "Why, what ails Constance, Marjorie?" asked Mrs. Dean in surprise. "Nothing--that is, I don't know." Marjorie looked after her friend's rapidly disappearing figure, a puzzled expression in her brown eyes. Mary Raymond viewed Marjorie with a faint frown. It was rather provoking in Marjorie to express so much concern over this Constance Stevens. After their long separation she felt that her chum's every thought ought to be for her alone. And in that instant a certain fabled green-eyed monster, that Mary had never believed could exist for her, suddenly sprang into life and whispered to her that, perhaps, after all, she was not first in Marjorie Dean's heart. CHAPTER III SOWING THE SEED OF DISCORD "Before you talk of another single thing, Mary Raymond, please tell me what you mean by a 'mysterious mission' that is 'part sad and part glad,'" exclaimed Marjorie. Mr. Raymond was occupying the front seat of the automobile, beside Mrs. Dean, who drove the car, a birthday present from her husband, and the two girls had the tonneau of the automobile to themselves. They had scarcely deposited Mary's luggage on the floor of the car and settled themselves for the short ride to the Deans' home when Marjorie had made her eager inquiry into the nature of the "mysterious mission" that had so aroused her curiosity. "Well," began Mary, brightening, "father and I _have_ come to see you on a mission, but the only mystery about it is that you don't as yet know why we've come. I thought 'mysterious mission' looked rather well on paper so I set it down." "But you're going to tell me about it this instant, you wicked, tantalizing girl," insisted Marjorie with pretended sternness. "I thought perhaps you might be able to guess certain things from my letter," continued Mary. "You see, I wrote you that mother would have to go to Colorado for the winter and----" "You are going with her," supplemented Marjorie. "No, that's a wild guess. I'm not going west with her. Father says I must stay in the East and go through my sophomore year in high school." "But you can't stay at home by yourself, Mary. Just think how dreadful that would be for you, with your father away most of the time," reminded Marjorie. Mary's father was a traveling salesman for a large furniture manufactory, and spent the greater part of his time on the road. "That's just the point," responded Mary. "I know I can't stay at home alone. Mother's illness and what is to become of me when father goes on the road again is the sad part of it, but the glad part is--oh, Marjorie, can't you guess now?" Mary caught Marjorie's hand in hers. "We've come all the way to Sanford to see if," her voice rose high with excitement, "there isn't a little corner in the Dean barracks that a certain lieutenant can call her own for this year and----" "Mary!" It was Marjorie's turn to become excited. "Do you really mean that you wish to come to live with me and enter Sanford High? That we'll be sophomores together?" Mary clung to Marjorie's hand and nodded. For a moment she was too near to tears for speech. But they were tears of happiness. Marjorie really desired her for a best friend after all. Her sudden jealousy of Constance Stevens vanished. "I should say that was a _glad_ part of your mission," laughed Marjorie happily. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve such good fortune. Mother will be glad, too. She loves you almost as much as she loves me." "Oh, Mother," Marjorie leaned impulsively forward, "Mary's coming to live with me this year while her mother is in Colorado. You'll have two lieutenants instead of one to look after. We are going to win sophomore honors together and be promoted to be captains next June!" "There," declared Mr. Raymond with comical resignment, "now you have let the cat out of the bag with a vengeance, Mary Raymond. All this time I had been planning to ask Mrs. Dean, in my most ingratiating manner, if she thought she might possibly make room for a certain very frisky member of my family for a while. I had intended to proceed carefully and diplomatically so that she wouldn't be too much shocked at such a prospect, but now----" "It's all settled, isn't it, Mother?" interrupted Marjorie. "You are just as anxious as I for Mary to come and live with us, aren't you?" "Shall I stop the car in the middle of the street and assure you of my willingness to increase my regiment?" laughed Mrs. Dean. "No, no," protested Marjorie. "Let's hurry home as fast as we can and talk it over. We're only two squares from our house now. Besides, I've planned everything already. Mary can have the spare bedroom next to my house." Marjorie always referred to her room as her "house." "There's only the bath between and we'll use that together, and have a regular house of our own. Oh, Mary, won't it be perfectly splendid?" Regardless of what passersby might think, Mary and Marjorie embraced with an enthusiasm that threatened to land them both in the tonneau of the rapidly moving car, while their elders smiled at this reckless display of affection. The automobile had hardly come to a full stop on the broad driveway, that wound through the wide stretch of lawn that was one of the chief beauties of the Deans' pretty home, when Marjorie swung open the door and skipped nimbly out of the car with, "Welcome home, Mary!" Mary was only an instant behind Marjorie in leaving the car, and the two hugged each other afresh out of pure joy of living. "Take Mary up to her room at once, dear," directed Mrs. Dean. "I'm sure she must be tired and hungry after her long ride in the train. We will have an early dinner to-night. I expect Mr. Dean home at almost any moment," she continued, turning to Mr. Raymond. "Come on, Mary." Marjorie had lifted Mary's bag from the automobile. Now she stretched forth an inviting hand to Mary, and piloted her across the lawn and up the short stretch of stone walk to the front door. The door opened and a trim, rosy-cheeked maid appeared as by magic. She reached for Mary's bag, but Marjorie waved her gently aside. "I'll do the honors, Delia. You can look after mother and Mr. Raymond. We are very self-sufficient persons who don't need anything except a chance to go upstairs and talk ourselves hoarse." A wide smile irradiated the maid's goodnatured face, as she stepped aside to allow Marjorie and Mary to enter the hall. "What a darling house!" Mary's glance traveled about the pretty Dutch hall to the large, comfortable living room beyond. "You have oceans of room here, haven't you?" Marjorie nodded. "Yes; when first we came here I felt lost. It was actually lonesome. It took me a whole week to grow accustomed to looking out without seeing rows of brick houses across the street and on each side of me. Don't you remember, I wrote you all about it? You see, I didn't enter high school until we'd been here almost two weeks, and in all that time I never met a single girl. I felt like a shipwrecked sailor on a great, big, lonely, old island. Shall we go upstairs now? I'm so anxious to have you see my 'house.' It's a house within a house, you know. Mother had it all done up in pink and white for me, and I spent hours in it. Your house is blue. I made general and captain let me have one of the spare bedrooms done in blue, so that when you came to visit me you'd feel at home. And now it's going to be your very own for a whole year! It's too good to be true." Releasing Mary's hand, Marjorie led the way up the stairs to the second floor and down the short hall to her "house." Mary cried out in admiration at her friend's dainty room. She walked about, exclaiming over its perfect details after the manner of girls, then three minutes later the two somehow found themselves seated side by side on Marjorie's pretty white bed, their arms about each other's waists, and fairly launched into one of the good, old-time confabs they were wont to indulge in when the top step of the Deans' veranda in B---- had been their favorite trysting place. Half an hour later Mrs. Dean entered the room to find them still talking at an alarming rate, the rest of their world apparently forgotten. "I might have known it," she smiled. "Why, you haven't even taken off your hats, and dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Marjorie, you are a most neglectful hostess." "Oh, we don't mind having dinner with our hats on," returned Marjorie cheerfully. Then, rising, she took off her broad-brimmed Panama, and began gently pulling the pins from Mary's hat. "Make it fifteen minutes, instead of ten, Captain, and we'll be as spick and span as you please." "Discipline seems to be very lax in these barracks," commented Mrs. Dean. "I am afraid I ought to call upon General to help me enforce my orders. Under the circumstances I'll be lenient, though, and stretch the time to fifteen minutes. There, I hear General downstairs now!" She disappeared from the doorway and immediately a great scurrying about began, punctuated with much talk and laughter. To Marjorie it seemed as though she had not been so happy for ages. It was wonderful to know that her beloved Mary was actually with her once more, and still more wonderful that she would continue to be with her indefinitely. At dinner she beamed joyously across the table at the little blue-eyed girl, while their elders discussed and settled her destiny for the coming year. Mr. and Mrs. Dean met Mr. Raymond's request in behalf of his daughter with the whole-heartedness that so characterized them. In fact, they were highly in favor of receiving Mary as a member of their little household. "Two soldiers are better than one," asserted Mr. Dean humorously. "I believe in preparedness. 'In times of peace prepare for war,' you know. With such a valiant army under my command I could do wonders if attacked by the enemy." After dinner they all repaired to the living room, where the discussion of the all-important subject was continued, and when at eleven o'clock two sleepy, but blissfully happy, lieutenants climbed the stairs to bed, Mary Raymond lacked nothing except actual adoption papers, signed and sealed, to admit her into the Deans' hospitable fold. Yet there was one tiny drawback to Mary's joy. Try as she might she could not forget Constance Stevens and Marjorie's too evident fondness for her. From Marjorie's early letters she had formed the conclusion that Constance was merely a poor nobody, whom her chum, with her usual spirit of generosity had tried to befriend. Marjorie's later letters had contained little pertaining to Constance. Mary had not known of the long period of estrangement between Constance and Marjorie that had so nearly wrecked their budding friendship, and of the many changes that time had wrought in the life of the girl who looked like her. She had, therefore, been quite unprepared to meet the dainty, well-dressed young woman whom Marjorie appeared to hold in such strong affection. She reflected that night, a trifle resentfully, after Marjorie had kissed her good-night and left her, that it was very strange in Marjorie not to have put her in possession of the real facts of the case. Still, it was really not her affair. If Marjorie chose to become chummy with Constance without even writing a word of it to her, there was nothing to do except to be silent over the whole affair. Perhaps Marjorie would tell her all about it later. Certainly she would ask no questions. And then and there, little, blue-eyed Mary Raymond made her first mistake, and sowed a tiny seed of discord in her jealous heart that was fated later to bear bitter fruit. CHAPTER IV INTRODUCING MARY TO THE GIRLS "We've come for a last inspection, Captain. How do we look?" Marjorie Dean danced into her mother's room, her brown eyes sparkling with anticipation, her charming face all smiles. Mary Raymond followed her excited chum. "Halt! Company, attention!" commanded Mrs. Dean, as she turned from her dressing table to pass an opinion upon the waiting brigade of two. Her brown eyes rested approvingly upon the trim figures drawn up in their most soldierly attitude before her. Marjorie's frock of pink linen, with its wide lace collar and cuffs, exactly suited her dark eyes and hair, while Mary's gown of pale blue of the same material served to accentuate the fairness of her skin and the gold of her curls. "Shall we do, Captain? Are we absolutely spick and span?" Marjorie turned slowly about, then made a laughing dive at her mother and enveloped her in a devastating embrace. "Now see the havoc you've wrought," complained Mrs. Dean. "I shall have to do my hair over again. Never mind. I'll forgive you, and, being magnanimous, will state that I am very proud of the appearance of my army." "You're a gallant officer and a dear, all in one." Marjorie caught her mother's hand in hers. "Now, we must be on our way. We are going to school early because Mary will have to see Miss Archer. Besides, I'm anxious for her to meet Jerry Macy and some of the other girls. If only she had come to Sanford sooner, I'd have loved to give a party for her. Then she'd know every one of my friends. Oh, well, there is plenty of time for that. Good-bye, Captain. We'll be back before long. There is never very much to do in school on the first day." Dropping a gay little kiss on her mother's smooth cheek, Marjorie left the room, followed by Mary, who stopped just long enough to kiss Mrs. Dean good-bye. Three weeks had slipped by since Mr. Raymond and Mary had come to Sanford upon the so-called mysterious mission that had made Mary Raymond a member of the Dean household. They had returned to the city of B---- the following day. From there Mr. Raymond had gone directly to the mountains, for his wife, who, in spite of her ill-health, had insisted on returning to her home to oversee the making of Mary's gowns and the choosing of her wardrobe in general. Two days before coming to Sanford, Mary had seen her mother off on her journey to Colorado in quest of health. She had put on a brave face and smiled when she wished to cry, and it was alone the thought that she was going to live with Marjorie during her mother's absence that kept her from breaking down at the last sad moment of farewell. It was a sober-faced, sad-eyed Mary that Marjorie had met at the train, but, under the irresistible sunniness of Marjorie's nature, Mary had soon emerged from her cloud, and now the prospect of entering Sanford High School filled her with lively anticipation. As Marjorie and Mary emerged from the house and swung down the stone walk in perfect step, they beheld a stout, and to Marjorie, a decidedly familiar figure turning in at the gate. In the same instant a joyous "Hello" rent the air, and the stout girl cantered up the walk at a surprising rate of speed. There was a delighted gurgle from Marjorie, that ended in a fervent embrace of the two young women. "Oh, Jerry, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid you wouldn't be back in Sanford before school opened. I saw Irma day before yesterday and she said she hadn't heard a word from you for over a week." "We didn't get here until last night at ten o'clock Maybe I'm not glad to see _you_." Jerry beamed affectionately upon Marjorie. "This is my friend, Mary Raymond, Jerry," introduced Marjorie. "She is going to live with us this winter and be a sophomore at dear old Sanford High. There will be six of us instead of five now." "I'm glad to know you." Jerry smiled and stretched forth a plump hand in greeting. "I've heard a lot about you." "I've heard Marjorie speak of you, too. I'm ever so pleased to meet you." Mary exhibited a friendliness toward Jerry Macy that had been quite lacking in her greeting of Constance Stevens. As the three stood for a moment at the gate Jerry's eyes suddenly grew very round. "Why, Marjorie, your friend looks like Connie, doesn't she?" "Of course she does," replied Marjorie happily. "Don't you remember I told you long ago that that was why I felt so drawn toward Connie in the first place?" "Yes, I remember it now. Isn't it funny that your two dearest friends should look alike? Have you met Constance, Mary? I'm going to call you Mary. I never call a girl 'Miss' unless I can't bear her. I'm sure I'm going to like you. Not only because you're Marjorie's chum, but for yourself, you know. If you turn out to be even one half as nice as Constance Stevens, I'll adore you. Connie is a dear and no mistake about it." The shadow of a frown touched Mary's forehead. Why must she be compelled to hear continually of Constance Stevens? And why should this Jerry Macy place her and Constance on the same plane in Marjorie's affection? She did not propose to share her place in her chum's heart with anyone. Of course, this girl could not possibly know just how much she and Marjorie had always been to each other. Later on they would understand. They would soon see that Marjorie preferred her above all others. Comforted by this reflection the shadow passed from Mary's face and the trio started down the street for school, chatting and laughing as only carefree schoolgirls can. Once inside the school building, Jerry said good-bye to them and turned down the corridor toward the study hall. Marjorie smiled with tender reminiscence as she and Mary climbed the familiar broad stairway to the second floor. She was thinking of another Monday morning that belonged to the past, when a timid stranger had climbed those same stairs and diffidently inquired the way to the principal's office. How far away that day seemed, and how much had happened within those same walls since that fateful morning. "I'll never forget my first morning here," she said to Mary, as they walked down the corridor toward their destination--the last room on the east side. "Captain had a headache and couldn't come with me. I had to march into Miss Archer's office all by myself. I felt like a forlorn stranger in a strange, unfriendly land. Then I met such a nice girl, Ellen Seymour, a friend of mine now, and she took me to the office and introduced me to Miss Archer." Before Mary had time to reply they had entered the cheerful living-room office that had so greatly impressed Marjorie on her first introduction to Sanford High. A tall, dark girl, seated at a desk at one end of the room, glanced up at the sound of the opening door. She hurried forward with a little exclamation of delighted surprise. "Why, Marjorie!" she exclaimed. "I was just thinking of you. I was wondering if you'd be in for the first day. I had made up my mind to run down to the study hall a little later and see." She now had Marjorie's hands in an affectionate clasp. "I've been wondering about you, too," nodded Marjorie. "You are another stray who didn't come back until the last minute." "I'm a working girl, you know," reminded Marcia. "Doctor Bernard was dreadfully disappointed because I wouldn't give up high school and keep on being his secretary. But I couldn't do that." "Of course you couldn't," agreed Marjorie, "especially now that you are a senior." Mary Raymond had drawn back a little while Marjorie and Marcia Arnold, Miss Archer's once disagreeable secretary, but now a changed girl through the influence of Marjorie, exchanged greetings. Marjorie turned and drew her chum forward, introducing her to Marcia, who bowed and extended her hand in friendly fashion. "Is Miss Archer busy, Marcia?" asked Marjorie, after she had explained that Mary was to become a pupil of Sanford High School. "Wait a moment, I'll see." Marcia went into the inner office, returning almost instantly with, "Go right in. She is anxious to see you, Marjorie." Miss Archer's affectionate welcome of Marjorie Dean brought a blush of sheer pleasure to the girl's cheeks. Her heart thrilled with joy at the thought that there was now no veil of misunderstanding between her and her beloved principal. "And so this is Mary Raymond." Miss Archer took the newcomer's hand in both her own. "We are glad to welcome you into our school, my dear. Your principal at Franklin High School has already written me of you. How long have you been in Sanford?" Mary answered rather shyly, explaining her situation, while Marjorie looked on with affectionate eyes. She was anxious that Miss Archer should learn to know and love Mary. "I will put you in Marjorie's hands," declared Miss Archer, after a few moments' pleasant conversation. "She will take you to the study hall and see that you are made to feel at home. We wish our girls to look upon their school as their second home, considering they spend so much of their time here. Please tell your mother, Marjorie," she added, as the two girls turned to leave the room, "that I shall try to call on her this week." "How do you like Miss Archer? Isn't she splendid?" were the quick questions Marjorie put, as they retraced their steps down the long corridor. "I know I'm going to love her," returned Mary fervently. "I hope I'll be happy here, Marjorie." There was a wistful note in her voice that caused Marjorie to glance sharply at her friend. Mary's charming face was set in unusually sober lines. "Poor Mary," was her reflection. "She's thinking of her mother." But Mary Raymond's thoughts were far from the subject of her mother. Instead, they were fixed upon what Jerry Macy had said that morning about Constance Stevens. Miss Archer had asked about Constance, too. She had spoken of her as though she and Marjorie were best friends. What had she meant when she said, "Well, Marjorie, you and Constance deserve fair sophomore weather after last year's storms." The flame of jealousy, which Mary had sought to stifle after her first meeting with Constance, was kindled afresh. "What did Miss Archer mean when she spoke of you and Miss Stevens--and last year's storms?" she asked abruptly. "Oh, I can't explain now. It's too long a story. Here we are at the study hall." Her mind occupied with school, Marjorie had not caught the strained note in Mary's voice. "She doesn't wish me to know," was Mary's jealous thought. "She is keeping secrets from me. All right. Let her keep them. Only I know one thing, and that is--I'll _never_, _never_, _never_ be friends with Constance Stevens, not even to please Marjorie!" CHAPTER V AN UNCALLED-FOR REBUFF The great study hall which Marjorie and Mary entered had little of the atmosphere supposed to pervade a hall of learning. A loud buzz of conversation greeted their ears. It came from the groups of girls collected in various parts of the hall, who were making the most of their opportunities to talk until called to order. Marjorie gave one swift glance toward the lonely desk on the platform. It had always reminded her of an island in the midst of a great sea. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Her pet aversion, Miss Merton, was not occupying the chair behind it. This, no doubt, accounted for the general air of relaxation that pervaded the room. Her alert eyes searched the room for Constance Stevens. She was not present. She gave another sigh, this time it was one of disappointment. She had seen Constance only twice since Mary's arrival. On one occasion she had taken dinner at the Deans' home. The three girls had spent, what seemed to Marjorie, an unusually pleasant evening. Constance, feeling dimly that Mary did not quite approve of her, had dropped her usually reticent manner and exerted herself to please. So well had she succeeded that Mary had rather unwillingly succumbed to her charm and grown fairly cordial. Totally unconscious of the shadow which had darkened the pleasure of Constance's first meeting with Mary, and equally ignorant of Mary's secret resentment of her new friend, Marjorie had retired that night inwardly rejoicing in both girls and planning all sorts of good times that they three might have together. Several days later Constance had entertained them at luncheon at "Gray Gables," the beautiful, old-fashioned house Miss Allison had purchased, on the outskirts of Sanford. Mary had been secretly impressed with its luxury and had instantly made friends with little Charlie. The quaint child had gravely informed her that she looked like Connie and immediately taken her into his confidence regarding his aspirations toward some day playing in "a big band." He had also obligingly favored her with a solo of marvelous shrieks and squawks on his much tortured "fiddle." Mary loved children, and this, perhaps, went far toward stilling the jealousy, which, so far, only faintly stirring, bade fair to one day burst forth into bitter words. "I'll see you in school on Monday," Marjorie had called over her shoulder, as she and Mary had taken their departure from Constance's home that afternoon. But now Monday had come and there was no sign of the girl Marjorie held so dear in the study hall. "Connie had better hurry. It's five minutes to nine. She'll be late." Marjorie's gaze traveled anxiously toward the door. An unmistakable frown puckered Mary's brows, but Marjorie did not see it. "Oh, Marjorie Dean, here you are at last. We've been waiting for you." Susan Atwell left a group of girls with which she had been hob-nobbing and hurried down the aisle. "Come over here, you dear thing. We've been looking our eyes out for you." She stopped short and stared hard at Mary. "Why, I thought----" she began. "You thought it was Connie, didn't you?" laughed Marjorie. She introduced Mary to Susan. "The girls over there thought you were Constance Stevens, too," smiled Susan, showing her dimples. "You see, Marjorie and Connie are inseparable, so, of course, we naturally mistook you for her. I never saw two girls look so much alike. If we have a fancy dress party this year you two can surely go as the Siamese Twins. Wouldn't that be great?" Mary smiled perfunctorily. She had her own views in the matter, and they did not in the least coincide with Susan's. A moment later they were hemmed in by an enthusiastic bevy of girls, each one trying to make herself heard above the others. Marjorie was besieged on all sides with eager inquiries. The girls had discovered, as she neared them, that her companion was not Constance Stevens. Marjorie, at once, did the honors and Mary found herself nodding in quick succession to half a dozen girls. "You fooled us all for a minute, Miss Raymond," cried Muriel Harding. "She didn't fool me," announced Jerry Macy, who had joined them just in time to hear Muriel's remark. "I knew she was coming, but I kept still because I wanted to see you girls stare." "Look around the room, Marjorie," observed Irma Linton in a guarded tone. "Do you miss anyone? Not Constance. I wonder where she is?" "I don't know." Marjorie's eyes took in the big room, then again sought the door. "She said she would meet me here this morning. Let me see. Do I miss anyone? Do you mean a girl in our class, Irma?" Irma nodded. Marjorie cast another quick look about her. "Why, no. Oh, now I know. You mean Mignon." Again Irma nodded. Under cover of a burst of laughter from the others she murmured, "Mignon won't be with us this year. You will observe, if you look hard, that I'm not weeping over our loss." Marjorie was silent for a moment. The past rode before her like a panorama, as the thought of the elfish-faced French girl and of how deeply she had caused both herself and Constance Stevens to suffer. Her pretty face hardened a trifle as she said, in a low voice, "I'm not sorry, either, Irma. But why won't she be in high school this year? Has she moved away from Sanford? I haven't seen her since we came home from the beach." "She has gone away to boarding school," answered Irma. "Between you and me, I think she was ashamed to come back here this year. Susan told me that her father wanted her to stay in high school and go to college, but she teased and teased to go away to school, so finally he said she might. She left here over two weeks ago. One of the girls received a letter from her last week. In it she said she was so glad she didn't have to go to a common high school and that the girls in her school were not milk-and-water babies, but had a great deal of spirit and daring." Marjorie's lip curled unconsciously. "I'd rather be a 'milk-and-water baby' than as cruel and heartless as she. I'll never forgive her for the way she treated Connie. Let's not talk of her, Irma. It makes me feel cross and horrid, and, of all days, I'd like to be happy to-day. There's so much to be happy over, and I'm so glad to see all of you. Life would be a desert waste without high school, wouldn't it?" Marjorie's soft hand found Irma's. She was very fond of this quiet, fair-haired girl, who, with Jerry Macy, had stood by her so resolutely through dark days. "Here she comes--our dear teacher. Look out, girls, or you'll be ushered out of Sanford High before you've had a chance to look at the bulletin board," warned Muriel Harding's high-pitched voice. Her sarcastic remarks carried farther than she had intended they should, as a sudden hush had fallen upon the study hall. Miss Merton, Marjorie's pet aversion, had stalked into the great room. She cast a malignant glance, not at Muriel, but straight at Marjorie Dean. "Oh," gasped Muriel and Marjorie in united consternation. "That's the time you did it, Muriel," muttered Jerry Macy. "I always told you that you ought to be an orator or an oratress or something. Your voice carries a good deal farther than it ought to. Only Miss Merton didn't think it was you who made those smart remarks. She thought it was Marjorie. Now she'll have a new grievance to nurse this year." "I'm awfully sorry." Muriel was the picture of contrition. "I didn't intend she should hear me--but to blame you for it! That's dreadful. I'll go straight and tell her that I said it." Muriel made a quick movement as though to carry out her intention. Marjorie caught her by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Muriel Harding. My sophomore shoulders are broad enough to beat it. Perhaps she didn't really hear what you said. She can't dislike me any more for that than she did before she thought I said it." "Young ladies, I am waiting for you to come to order. Will you kindly cease talking and take seats?" Miss Merton's raucous voice broke harshly upon the abashed group of girls. They scuttled into the nearest seats at hand like a bevy of startled partridges. "What a horrid woman," was Mary Raymond's thought, as she slipped into a seat in front of Marjorie, and stared resentfully at the rigid figure, so devoid of womanly beauty, in its severe brown linen dress, unrelieved by even a touch of white at the neck. With a final glare at Marjorie, the teacher proceeded at once to the business at hand. Within the next few minutes she had arranged the girls of the freshman class in the section of the study hall they were to occupy during the coming year. Marjorie awaited the turn of the sophomores to be assigned to a seat with inward trepidation. She had had no opportunity to introduce Mary to Miss Merton. What should she do? She half rose from the seat, then sat down undecidedly. Miss Merton had arranged the freshmen to her satisfaction. Now she was calling for the sophomores to rise. Perhaps she would not notice Mary. If she did not, then Mary could pass with the sophomores to their section. As soon as the session was dismissed, she would introduce her to Miss Merton. But Miss Merton was lynx-eyed. "That girl there in the blue dress," she blared forth. "You were not in the freshman class last year." Mary turned in her seat and shot a glance of appeal to Marjorie. The girl rose bravely in friend's behalf. "Miss Merton," she said in her clear, young voice, "I brought Miss Raymond here with me. She----" "You are not supposed to bring visitors to school, Miss Dean," was the teacher's sarcastic reminder. Marjorie's eyes kindled with wrath. Then, mastering her anger, she made courteous reply. "She is not a visitor. She expects to enter the sophomore class." "Come down to this front seat, young woman," ordered Miss Merton, ignoring Marjorie's explanation. "I'll attend to you later." Mary sat still, surveying Miss Merton out of two belligerent blue eyes. "Do as she says, Mary," whispered Marjorie. Mary obeyed. Walking down the aisle with maddening deliberation, she seated herself on the bench indicated. "No talking," rasped Miss Merton, as a faint murmur went up from the girls in the sophomore section. Once the classes had been assigned to their places for the year there was little more to be done. Nettled by her recent resentment against Marjorie, Miss Merton took occasion to deliver a sharp lecture on good conduct in general, making several pointed remarks, which caused Marjorie to color hotly. More than one pair of young eyes glared their resentment of this harsh teacher who had never lost an opportunity in the past school year of censuring their favorite. The moment the short session was over the girls of her particular set gravitated toward Marjorie. "Well, of all the old cranks!" scolded Geraldine Macy. "She's the most hateful teacher in the world," was Muriel Harding's tribute. "I wouldn't pay any attention to her, Marjorie. I'd go straight to Miss Archer," advised Susan Atwell. "Just see her now! She looks as though she'd actually snap at your friend." Miss Merton was engaged in interviewing the still belligerent Mary, who stood listening to her, a sulky droop to her pretty mouth. "Oh, I must go and help Mary out. Wait for me outside, girls." "Do you need any help?" inquired Jerry. "I never was afraid of Miss Merton, if you'll remember." "Oh, no." Marjorie hurried toward her friend, and stood quietly at Mary's side. "Well, Miss Dean, what is it?" Miss Merton eyed Marjorie with her most disagreeable expression. "I came to tell you, Miss Merton," began Marjorie in her direct fashion, "that Miss Raymond saw Miss Archer this morning before we came to the study hall. She sent us----" "That will do, Miss Dean," interrupted Miss Merton. "I hope Miss Raymond is capable of attending to her affairs without your assistance. I should greatly prefer that you go on about your own business and leave this matter to me. I believe I have been a teacher in Sanford High School long enough to be trusted to manage my own work." A bitter retort rose to Marjorie's lips. She forced it back and with a dignified bow to Miss Merton and, "I will wait for you in the corridor, Mary," walked from the room, her head held high, her eyes burning with resentful tears. CHAPTER VI MARY'S DISTURBING DISCOVERY Once outside the study hall Marjorie Dean's proud manner left her. Her recent joy in returning to high school gave place to a feeling of deep dejection. Everything had certainly gone wrong. She had had so many pleasant little thrills of anticipation that she had quite forgotten Miss Merton and the teacher's unreasoning dislike for her, which she had never taken pains to conceal. Muriel's injudicious remarks had made a bad matter worse. Marjorie knew that from now on she would have to be doubly on her guard. It was evident that Miss Merton intended to take her to task whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. Marjorie even had her suspicions that Miss Merton had known that it was Muriel instead of herself who had uttered those distinctly unflattering words. "I'll have to be very careful not to offend Miss Merton," she ruminated gloomily, as she stood waiting for Mary, her eyes fastened on the big study-hall door. Then her thoughts switched from Miss Merton to Constance Stevens. Why hadn't Connie come to school? Surely she could not be ill. Perhaps Charlie was sick. The opening of the study-hall door interrupted her worried reflections. Mary emerged from the hall, looking like a young thundercloud. She closed the door after her with a resounding bang, which conveyed more than words. "Of all the hateful old tyrants!" she exclaimed, as she hurried toward Marjorie. "I despise her. How dared she treat you so?" "Oh, never mind," soothed Marjorie. "Let us forget her. Tell me, are you or are you not a sophomore? Or must we go to Miss Archer to straighten things?" "I'm a sophomore all right enough," said Mary grimly. "I told her what Miss Archer said, and after that she treated me more civilly. Such a teacher is a disgrace to a school. Why is she so bitter against you, Marjorie?" Marjorie shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. She has always acted like that toward me. It's just a natural dislike, I suppose. Sometimes, after a teacher has taught school a great many years, she takes sudden likes and dislikes. I've been in her black books since my very first day in Sanford High." "Poor old Lieutenant." Mary patted Marjorie's hand with sympathetic affection. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I don't really care much. There are so many nice teachers here who _do_ like me that I'm not going to worry over Miss Merton. Come along." She linked her arm in Mary's. "The girls will be waiting for us outside. We are all going down to Sargent's for ice cream. Then we'll go home and report to Captain. After luncheon, I think we had better walk over to Gray Gables. I am afraid Connie or, perhaps, little Charlie is sick. You know Connie promised us, when we were there on Friday, that she'd see us at school." Mary's face clouded. "I--I think I won't go to Gray Gables with you. I must write to mother. Besides, you and Constance may wish to be by yourselves." Marjorie's brown eyes opened wide. "Why should we?" she asked. "You know you are always first with me. I haven't any secrets from you." Mary's face brightened. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her conclusions. "I wish you would tell me all about yourself and Constance," she said slowly. "You promised you would." "Well, I will," began Marjorie. Then she paused and flushed slightly. It had suddenly come to her that perhaps Constance would not care to have Mary know of the clouds of suspicion that had hung so heavily over her freshman year. "I'd love to tell you about it now, Mary, but I think I had better ask Constance first if she is willing for me to do so. You see, it concerns her more than me. I am almost sure she wouldn't mind, but I'd rather be perfectly fair and ask her first. You know Captain and General have always said to us, 'Never break a confidence.'" A hurt look crept into Mary's face. "Oh, never mind," she managed to say with a brave assumption of indifference. "I don't wish to know about it if you don't care to tell me." "But I _do_ care to tell you, and I will if Connie says I may," assured Marjorie earnestly. Mary had no time for further remark. They had reached the double entrance doors to the building and were hailed by a crowd of girls at the foot of the steps. "Oh, Connie," Marjorie Dean cried out delightedly. She had spied her friend among them. Constance ran forward to meet Marjorie and Mary. "I couldn't come before. I've been to the train. Father is here. He's going to be at home for two days. And what do you think he wishes me to do?" "You are not going away with him?" asked Marjorie in sudden alarm. "No, indeed. I couldn't give up my sophomore year here, even for him. It isn't anything so serious. He proposed that as long as he was here to play for us, it would be a good idea to----" "Give a dance," ended Jerry Macy. "Hurrah for Mr. Stevens! Long may he wave!" "Yes, you have guessed it, Jerry," laughed Constance. "I'm going to give a party in honor of Mary. I was so excited over it that I left him to go on to Gray Gables by himself, while I rushed over here as fast as I could come. I wanted to catch you girls together so I could invite you in a body. Jerry, do you suppose Hal would be willing to see Lawrie and the Crane and some of our boys? It will have to be a strictly informal hop, for I haven't time to send out invitations." "Of course he'll round up the crowd," assured Jerry slangily. "If he doesn't, I will. I guess I won't go to Sargent's with you. What is mere ice cream when compared to a dance? Besides, it's fattening--the ice cream, I mean. I've lost five pounds this summer and I'm not going to find them again at Sargent's if I can help it. So long, I'll see you all to-night." Jerry bustled off on her errand, leaving her friends engaged in an eager discussion of the coming festivity. A little later they trooped down the street to their favorite rendezvous, where most of their pocket money found a resting place. "We won't have a single bit of appetite for luncheon," commented Marjorie to Mary, when, an hour later, they set out for home. "I suppose not," assented Mary indifferently. Her thoughts were far from the subject of luncheon. Her jealousy of Constance Stevens was thoroughly aroused and flaming. She wished Marjorie had never seen nor heard of this hateful girl. And to think that Constance had announced that she was going to give a party in honor of _her_, the very person she had robbed of her best friend! It was insufferable. What could she do? If she refused to go, Marjorie and all those girls would wonder. She could give no reasonable excuse for declining to go at this late day. She told herself she would rather die than have Marjorie know how deeply she had hurt her. Oh, well, she was not the first martyr to the cause of friendship. She would try to bear it. Perhaps, some day, Marjorie, too, would know the bitterness of being supplanted. It was an unusually quiet Mary who slipped into her place at luncheon that day. "What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Dean, noting the girl's silence. "Don't you feel well?" "Oh, I am all right," she made reply, torturing her sober little face into a smile. "Mary had troubles of her own this morning, Captain," explained Marjorie. Then she launched forth into an account of the morning's happenings. Mrs. Dean looked her indignation as her daughter's recital progressed. She had met Miss Merton and disliked her on sight. "I have no wish to interfere in your school life, Marjorie," she said with a touch of sternness, when Marjorie had finished, "but I will not hear of either of you being imposed upon. If Miss Merton continues her unjust treatment I shall insist that you tell me of it. I shall take measures to have it stopped." "Captain won't stand having her army abused," laughed Marjorie. "At least you must admit that I'm a conscientious officer," was her mother's reply. "To change the subject, would you like to go shopping with me this afternoon?" "Oh, yes," chorused the two. Even Mary forgot her grievances for the moment. As little girls they had always hailed the idea of shopping with their beloved captain. The shopping tour took up the greater part of the afternoon, and it was after five o'clock when the two started for home. "No lingering at the dinner table to-night for this army," declared Marjorie, finishing her dessert in a hurry. "It's almost seven, Mary. We'll have to hurry upstairs to dress for the dance." "You didn't apply to me for a leave of absence," reminded Mr. Dean. "You know the penalty for deserting." "We've forgotten it, General. You can tell us what it is to-morrow," retorted Marjorie. "Come on, Mary. Salute your officers and away we go." In the excitement of dressing for the dance Mary almost forgot that she was about to enter the house of the girl she now believed she disliked. Marjorie's praise of her pretty white chiffon evening frock almost restored her to good humor. Marjorie herself was radiant in a gown of apricot Georgette crepe and filmy lace. Mrs. Dean had elected to drive them to their destination in the automobile, and when they alighted from the machine at the gate to Gray Gables, waving her a gay good night, Mary felt almost glad that she had come and that the dance was to be given in her honor. "I've been watching for you." A slender figure in pale blue ran down the steps to meet them. Out of pure sentiment Constance Stevens had chosen to wear the blue chiffon dress--Marjorie's gracious gift to her. She had taken the utmost care of it, and it looked almost as fresh as on the night she had first worn it. Mary Raymond stared at her in amazement Could it be--yes, it was the very gown that Marjorie's aunt had given her a year ago as a commencement present. Had not Marjorie declared over and over again that she would never part with it? And now she had deliberately given it to Constance. This proved beyond a doubt where Marjorie's true affection lay. Mary was obsessed with a wild desire to turn and run down the drive and away from this hateful girl. This was, indeed, the last straw. CHAPTER VII THE PROMISE Mary Raymond wondered, as she walked up the steps of Gray Gables, between Constance and Marjorie, and into the brightly lighted reception hall, how she could manage to endure the long evening ahead of her. She was seized with an insane desire to break from Marjorie's light hold on her arm and rush out of the house of this girl who had stolen her dearest possession, Marjorie's friendship. How well she remembered the day on which Marjorie had received the blue dress which Constance was wearing so unconcernedly. It had come by express in a huge white pasteboard box, while she and Marjorie were seated on the Deans' step engaged in one of their long confabs. How excited they had been over it! How they had exclaimed as Marjorie drew the blue wonder from its pasteboard nest. Then a great trying-on had followed. She recalled with jealous clearness how great Marjorie's disappointment had been when she found it too small for her. Then Marjorie had said as she lovingly patted its soft folds, "Never mind, I'll keep it always, just to look at. It was awfully dear in Aunt Louise to send it to me and I wouldn't let her know for worlds that it doesn't fit me." And now, after all she had said, she had lightly given it away--and to Constance Stevens. Mary forced herself to smile and reply to the friendly greeting of Miss Allison, who stood in the big, old-fashioned hall helping to receive her niece's guests. A moment more and she was surrounded by Geraldine Macy, Irma Linton and Susan Atwell, who had come forth in a body from the long, palm-decorated parlor off the hall to welcome her, accompanied by a singularly handsome youth, a very tall, merry-faced young man and a black-haired, blue-eyed lad, with clean cut, sensitive features. She was presented in turn to Harold Macy, Sherman Norwood, known as the Crane to his intimate associates, and Lawrence Armitage. "So, _you_ are Marjorie's friend, Mary Raymond, of whom she has spoken to me so often," smiled Hal Macy. "We are very glad to welcome you to Sanford, Miss Raymond." "Thank you," Mary returned, almost forgetting her first bitter moment. Hal Macy's direct hand-clasp and frank, bright smile of welcome stamped him with sincerity and truth. She liked equally well Lawrence Armitage's deferential greeting and she found the Crane's wide, boyish grin irresistible as he bowed low over her small hand. Yes, the Sanford boys were certainly nice. She was not so sure that she liked the girls. They made too much of Marjorie, and Marjorie had proved herself disloyal to her sworn comrade and playmate of years. Once inside the drawing-room, which had been transformed into an impromptu ball-room by taking up the rugs and moving the piano to one end of it, introductions followed in rapid succession. "Mary, you must meet my foster father." Constance slipped her arm through Mary's and conducted her to the piano where stood a man with an immense shock of snow-white hair, sorting high piles of music arranged on top. "Father." The man at the piano wheeled at the sound of the soft voice. His stern, almost sad face broke into a radiant smile that completely transformed it. "This is Mary Raymond. Mary, my father, Mr. Stevens," introduced Constance. "And this is my uncle, Mr. Roland." Both men bowed and took Mary's hand in turn, expressing their pleasure at meeting her. Old John Roland's faded blue eyes contained a puzzled look. "You are very familiar," he said. "Where have I seen you before?" "Look sharply, Uncle John," laughed Marjorie, who had joined them. "You have never seen Mary before. She is like someone you know." "'Someone you know,'" repeated the old man faithfully. He would never outgrow his quaint habit of repetition, although he had improved immensely in other ways since the change in Constance's fortune had released him from the clutch of poverty. Mary eyed him curiously. Then her gaze rested on Mr. Stevens. What peculiar persons they were. And Marjorie had never written her of them. They must have a strange history. She made up her mind that she would never ask her fickle chum about them. She would find out whatever she wished to know from others. Now that she was a pupil of Sanford High she would soon become acquainted with girls of her class other than those she had already met. Perhaps she might learn to like some one better than---- Her sober reflections stopped there. She could not bring herself to the point of breaking her long comradeship with the girl who had failed her. Uncle John Roland was still staring at her and smilingly shaking his gray head. "I don't know. I can't think, and yet----" Suddenly a jubilant little shout rent the air, causing the group about the piano to smile. In the same instant Mary felt a small hand slip into hers. "I knew you comed to see Charlie again. Charlie wouldn't go to bed because Connie said you'd surely come. Charlie loves you a whole lot. You look like Connie." "Look like Connie," muttered Uncle John. Then his faded eyes flashed sudden intelligence. "I know. Of course she's like Connie. I guessed it, didn't I?" He glanced triumphantly at Marjorie. "So you did, Uncle John," nodded Marjorie brightly. Mr. Stevens gazed searchingly at the young girl so like his foster daughter. Mary felt her color rising under that penetrating gaze. It was as though this dreamy-eyed man with the dark, sad face had read her very soul. For a brief instant she sensed dimly the ignobleness of her jealousy of his daughter. She felt that she would rather die than have him know it. Perhaps, after all, she was in the wrong. She would try to dismiss it and do her best to enter into the spirit of the merry-making. An impatient tug at her hand caused her to remember Charlie's presence. "Talk to me," demanded the child. "Connie says I have to go to bed in a minute, so hurry up." Mary stooped and wound her arms about the tiny, insistent youngster. She clasped Charlie tightly to her and kissed his eager face. And that embrace sealed the beginning of an affection between them, the very purity of which was one day to lead her from the terrible Valley of Doubt into the sunlight of belief. "Now you've done it," was Marjorie's merry accusation. "You've stolen my cavalier. Oh, Charlie, I thought I was your very best girl." She made reproachful eyes at Charlie, who, delighted at receiving so much attention, sidled over to her with a ridiculous air of importance and took her hand. "Everybody likes Charlie," he observed complacently. "Now he can stay up all night and listen to the band." "You'd go to sleep and never hear the band at all," laughed Constance. "No, Charlie must go to bed and sleep and sleep, or he will never grow big enough and strong enough to play in the band." The half pout on Charlie's babyish mouth, born of Constance's dread edict, died suddenly. Even the joys of staying up all night were not to be compared with the glories of that far-off future. "All right, I'll go," he sighed. "But you and Marjorie must come again soon in the daytime when I don't have to go to bed. I'll play a new piece for you on my fiddle. Uncle John says it's a marv'lus compysishun." A burst of laughter rose from the group around him at this calm statement. After kissing everyone in his immediate vicinity, Charlie made a quaint little bow and marched off beside Constance, well pleased with himself. "Isn't he a perfect darling?" was Mary's involuntary tribute. "Yes, I adore Charlie," returned Marjorie. "I used to feel so dreadfully for him when he was crippled. Isn't it splendid, Mr. Stevens, to see him so well and lively?" She turned radiantly to the white-haired musician. His face lighted again in that wonderful smile. He was about to answer Marjorie, when Constance, who had seen Charlie to the door where he had been taken in charge by a white-capped nurse, returned to them, saying: "What shall we have first, girls, a one step?" "Oh, yes, do!" exclaimed Jerry Macy, who had come up in time to hear Constance's question, in company with a mischievous-eyed, freckled-faced youth who rejoiced in the dignified cognomen of Daniel Webster Seabrooke, but who was most appropriately nicknamed the Gadfly. "Mr. Seabrooke, Miss Raymond," introduced Jerry. The freckled-faced boy put on a preternaturally solemn expression and begged the pleasure of the first dance with Mary. Mr. Stevens had already handed the old violinist the music for the dance and placed his own score in position upon the piano. The slow, fascinating strains of the one step rang out and a great scurrying for partners began. Marjorie found herself dancing off with Hal Macy, while Lawrence Armitage swung Constance into the rapidly growing circle of dancers. Irma Linton and the Crane danced together, while Jerry Macy, who danced extremely well for a stout girl, was claimed by Arthur Standish, one of her brother's classmates. Once the hop had fairly begun, dance followed dance in rapid succession. Much to Mary's secret satisfaction there were no gaps in her programme. As it was, there were no wall flowers. An even number of boys and girls had been invited and every one had put in an appearance. At eleven o'clock a dainty repast, best calculated to suit the appetites of hungry school girls and boys, was served at small tables on the side veranda, which extended almost the length of the house. It was not until after supper, when the dancing was again at its height, that Marjorie and Constance found time for a few words together. The two girls had slipped away to Constance's pretty blue and white bedroom to repair a torn frill of Marjorie's gown. "Isn't it splendid that we can have a minute to ourselves?" laughed Constance. "I'm glad you happened to need repairing. I hope Mary is having a good time. As long as it's her party I'm anxious that she should enjoy herself." "Of course she's having a good time. How could she help it?" returned Marjorie staunchly. "All the boys have been perfectly lovely to her and so have the girls. I knew everyone would like her. You and Mary and I will have lots of fun going about together this winter." Constance smiled an answer to Marjorie's joyous prediction. Then her pretty face sobered. "Marjorie," she said, then paused. Marjorie glanced up from the flounce she was setting to rights. Something in Constance's tone commanded her attention. "What is it, Connie?" "Have you ever said anything to Mary about you--and me--and things last year?" "Why, no. I wouldn't think of doing so unless I asked you if I might. I----" "Please don't, then," interrupted Constance. "I had rather she didn't know. It is all past, and, as long as so few persons know about it, don't you think it would be better to let it rest?" Marjorie bent her head over her work to conceal the sudden disturbing flush that rose to her face. She had intended telling Constance that very night of the remark that Miss Archer had made in Mary's presence about their freshman year. She had felt dimly that, perhaps, Mary ought to be put in possession of the story, although she had not the remotest suspicion of the jealousy that was already warping her chum's thoughts. Her one idea had been to answer all her questions as freely as she had done in the past. She intended to put the matter to Constance in this light. But now Constance had forestalled her and was asking her to be silent on the very matters she wished to impart to Mary. "It isn't as though it is something which Mary ought to know," continued Constance, quite unaware of Marjorie's inward agitation. "It wouldn't make her happier to learn it and--and--she might not think so well of me. I wish her to like me, Marjorie, just because she is your dearest friend. Don't you think I am right about it? You wouldn't care to have even the friend of your best friend know all the little intimate details of your life. Now, would you?" Constance slipped to her knees beside Marjorie, one arm across her shoulder, and regarded her with pleading eyes. Marjorie stared thoughtfully into the earnest face of the girl at her side. What should she say? If she told Constance that Mary had twice asked questions regarding her affairs, Constance might think Mary unduly curious. Perhaps, after all, silence was wisest. Mary might forget all about it, and, in any case, she was far too sensible to feel hurt or indignant because she, Marjorie, was not free to tell her of the private affairs of another. "Promise me, Marjorie, that you won't say anything," urged Constance. Her natural reticence made her dread taking even Mary into confidence regarding herself. "I promise, Connie," said Marjorie with a half sigh. "There, I guess that flounce will stay in place. I've sewed it over and over." The two girls returned to the dance floor arm in arm. Mary Raymond's blue eyes were turned on them resentfully as they entered the room. They had been having a talk together, and hadn't asked her to join them. Then her face cleared. She thought she knew what that talk was about. Marjorie had been asking Constance's permission to tell her everything. She would hear the great secret on the way home, no doubt. Her spirits rose at the prospect of the comfy chat they would have in the automobile and for the rest of the evening she put aside all doubts and fears, and danced as only sweet and seventeen can. CHAPTER VIII THE LATEST SOPHOMORE ARRIVAL Though the evening of the dance had been deceitfully clear and balmy, dark clouds banked the autumn sky before morning and the day broke in a downpour of rain. It was a doubly dreary morning to poor little Mary Raymond and over and over again Longfellow's plaintive lines, "Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary," repeated themselves in her brain. Yes, rain had indeed fallen into her life. The bitter rain of false friendship. All the days must from now on be dark and dreary. Last night she had danced the hours away, secure in the thought that Marjorie would not fail her. And Marjorie had spoken no word of explanation. During the drive home she had talked gaily of the dance and of the boys and girls who had attended it. She had related bright bits of freshman history concerning them, but on the subject of Constance Stevens and her affairs she had been mute. Mary fancied she had purposely avoided the subject. In this respect she was quite correct. Marjorie, still a little disturbed over her promise to Constance, had tried to direct Mary's mind to other matters. Deeply hurt, rather than jealous, Mary had listened to Marjorie in silence. She managed to make a few comments on the dance, and pleading that she was too sleepy for a night-owl talk, had kissed Marjorie good night rather coldly and hurried to her room. Stopping only to lock the door, she had thrown herself on her bed in her pretty evening frock and given vent to long, tearless sobs that left her wide awake and mourning, far into the night. It was, therefore, not strange that lack of sleep, coupled with her supposed dire wrongs, had caused her to awaken that morning in a mood quite suited to the gloom of the day. A vigorous rattling of the door knob caused her to spring from her bed with a half petulant exclamation. "Let me in, Mary," called Marjorie's fresh young voice from the hall. "Whatever made you lock your door? I guess you were so sleepy you didn't know what you were about." Mary turned the key and opened the door with a jerk. Marjorie pounced upon her like a frolicsome puppy. Wrapping her arms around her chum, she whirled her about and half the length of the room in a wild dance. "Let me alone, please." Mary pulled herself pettishly from Marjorie's clinging arms. "Why, Lieutenant, what's the matter? You aren't sick, are you? If you are, I'm sorry I was so rough. If you're just sleepy, then I'm not. You needed waking up. It's a quarter to eight now and we'll have to hustle. Captain let us sleep until the last minute. Now, which are you, sick or sleepy?" "Both," returned Mary laconically. "I--that is--my head aches." "Poor darling. Was Marjorie a naughty girl to tease her when her was so sick?" Marjorie sought to comfort her chum, but Mary eluded her sympathetic caress and said almost crossly, "Don't baby me. I--I hate being babied and you know it." Marjorie's arms dropped to her sides. "I didn't mean to tease you. I'm sorry. I'll go down and ask Captain to give you something to cure your headache." She turned abruptly and left the room, deeply puzzled and slightly hurt. What on earth ailed Mary? The moment the door closed Mary pattered into the bathroom and banged the door. She hurried through her bath and was partly dressed when Marjorie returned with a little bottle of aspirin tablets. "One of these will fix up your head," she declared cheerily. "I don't want it," muttered Mary. "My head is all right now." "That is what I would call a marvelous recovery," laughed Marjorie. "I wish Captain's headaches would take wing so easily. You know what dreadful sick headaches she sometimes has. She had one on the first day I went to Sanford High, and I had to go alone." "I remember," nodded Mary carelessly. "That was one of the things you _did_ write me." "I wrote you lots of things," retorted Marjorie lightly, failing to catch the significance of Mary's words. "But now you are here, I don't have to write them. I can _say_ them." "Then, why don't you?" was on Mary's tongue, but she did not say it. Instead, she maintained a half sulky silence, as she walked to the wardrobe and began fingering the gowns hung there. Selecting a blue serge dress, made sailor fashion, she slipped into it and began fastening it as she walked to the mirror. Marjorie stood watching her, with a half frown. She did not understand this new mood of Mary's. The Mary she had formerly known had been sunny and light-hearted. The girl who stood before the mirror, grave and unsmiling, was a stranger. "I'm ready to go downstairs." Mary turned slowly from the mirror and walked toward the door. Beneath her quiet exterior, a silent struggle was going on. Should she speak her mind once and for all to Marjorie, or should she go on enduring in silence? Perhaps it would be best to speak and have things out. Then, at least, they would understand each other. Then her pride whispered to her that it was Marjorie's and not her place to speak. Marjorie must know something of her state of mind. At heart she must be just the least bit ashamed of herself for shutting her out of her personal affairs. Had they not sworn long ago to tell each other their secrets. _She_ had always kept her word. It was Marjorie who had failed to do so. No, she would not humble herself. Marjorie might keep her secrets, for all _she_ cared. She was sorry that she had ever come to Sanford. Now that she was here she would have to stay. If she wrote her father to take her away, her mother would have to be told. Mary was resolved that no matter what happened to her, her mother must be spared all anxiety. She would try to bear it. Marjorie should never know how deeply she was wounded. She would pretend that all was as it had been before. Mrs. Dean looked up from her letters, as the two girls entered the dining room. "Hurry, children," she admonished. "You haven't much time to spare. These social affairs completely break up army discipline. Look out you don't go to sleep at your post this morning." "Who's sleepy? Not I," boasted Marjorie. "I feel as though I'd slept for hours and hours. Your army is ready for duty, Captain. Lieutenant Mary's headache has been put to rout and everything is lovely." "Are you sure you feel quite well, dear?" questioned Mrs. Dean anxiously. She noted that Mary was very pale and that her eyes looked strained and tired. "I'm quite well now, thank you." The ghost of a smile flickered on her pale face. "Did you enjoy the dance? It was nice in Connie to give it in your honor. We are all very fond of her and of little Charlie." Mary's wan face brightened at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't he dear?" she asked impulsively. "Mary has stolen Charlie from me," put in Marjorie. "He adores her already. I don't blame him. So do I, and so does Connie, too. We three are going to have splendid times together this winter." During the rest of the breakfast Marjorie regaled her mother with an account of the dance. Mary said little or nothing, but amid her friend's merry chatter her silence passed unnoticed. "Wear your raincoats," called Mrs. Dean after them, as, their breakfast finished, they ran upstairs for their wraps. Fifteen minutes later they had joined the bobbing umbrella procession that wended its way into the high school building. "You'll have to go to Miss Merton, Mary, and be assigned to a seat. She didn't give you one yesterday, did she?" asked Marjorie. "You can put your wraps in our locker. We are to have the same lockers we had last year. Connie and I have a locker together. There is lots of room in it for your things, too. I'll task Marcia Arnold to let you in with us. She has charge of the lockers." Mary's first impulse was to decline this friendly offer. On second thought she closed her lips tightly, resolved to make no protest. Later--well, there was no telling what might happen. "Don't be afraid of Miss Merton," was Marjorie's whispered counsel, as they crossed the threshold of the study hall. "She can't eat you." "I'm not afraid." Mary's lip curled a trifle scornfully. Marjorie treated her as though she were a baby. "I have come to you for my seat," was her terse statement, as she paused squarely before Miss Merton's desk. Miss Merton glanced up to meet the unflinching gaze of two purposely cold blue eyes. Something in their direct gaze made her answer with undue civility, "Very well. I will assign you to one. Come with me." She stalked down the aisle, Mary following, to the last seat in one of the two sophomore rows, and paused before it. "This will be your seat for the year," she said. "Thank you." Mary sat down and took account of her surroundings. Across the aisle on one side, Susan Atwell's dimpled face flashed her a welcome. On the other side sat a tall, severe junior who wore eye-glasses. The seat in front of her was vacant. Marjorie sat far down the same row. Mary could just see the top of her curly head. It still lacked five minutes of opening time and the students were, for the most part, conversing in low tones. Now and then an accidentally loud note caused Miss Merton to raise her head from her writing and glare severely at the offender. Susan Atwell leaned across the aisle and patted Mary's hand in friendly fashion. "I'm so glad you are going to sit here," she said in an undertone. "I was afraid Miss Merton would put some old slow-poke there who wouldn't say 'boo' or pass notes or do anything to help the sophomore cause along." "I'm glad she put me near you," returned Mary affably. She had made up her mind to win friends. They would be indispensable to her now that all was over between her and Marjorie. "I don't imagine that tall girl is very sociable." "She's a dig and a prig," giggled Susan. "You'd get no recreation from labor from that quarter." Mary echoed Susan's infectious giggle. "Who sits in front of me?" she asked. "No one, yet. Who knows what manner of girl is in store for us? That's the only vacant seat in the section. The first late arrival into our midst will get it. I don't believe we'll have any more girls, though, unless someone comes into school late as Marjorie came last year. It's too bad. It makes an awkward stretch if one wants to pass a note. I always am caught if I throw one. Last year I threw one and hit Miss Merton in the back. She was standing quite a little way down the aisle. I thought it was a splendid opportunity. I'd been waiting to send one to Irma Linton, who sat two seats in front of me. The girl between us wouldn't pass it. So I threw it, and it went further than I thought." Susan's fascinating giggle burst forth anew. She rocked to and fro in merriment at the recollection. Mary found herself laughing in concert. Just then the opening bell clanged forth its harsh note of warning. The low buzz of voices in the great study hall died into silence. Every pair of eyes faced front. Miss Merton rose from her chair to conduct the opening exercises. A sudden murmur that swept the hall caused her to say sternly, "Silence." Then, noting that the eyes of her pupils were fixed in concerted gaze on the study-hall door, she turned sharply. A black-haired, black-eyed girl, whose elfish face wore an expression of mingled contempt and amusement, advanced into the room with a decided air of one who wishes to create an impression. "Mignon!" gasped Susan. "Well, _what_ do you think of that?" CHAPTER IX THE BLINDNESS OF JEALOUSY At sight of the newcomer Miss Merton's severe face underwent a lightning change. She stepped from the platform and hurried toward the dark-eyed girl with outstretched hand. Her harsh voice sounded almost pleasant, as she said, "Why, Mignon, I am delighted to see you!" Mignon La Salle tossed her head with an air of triumph as she took Miss Merton's hand. In her, at least, she had a powerful ally. Lowering her voice, the teacher asked her several questions. Mignon answered them in equally guarded tones, accompanied by the frequent significant gestures which are involuntary in those of foreign birth. A subdued buzzing arose from different parts of the study hall. Apparently engrossed in her conversation with the girl who had been her favorite pupil during her freshman year, Miss Merton paid no attention to the sounds provoked by Mignon La Salle's unexpected arrival. As a matter of fact, she was quite aware of them, but chose to ignore them solely on Mignon's account. To rebuke the whisperers would tend toward embarrassing the French girl. "There is just one vacant place in the sophomore section," she informed Mignon. "I think I must have reserved it specially for you." She contorted her face into what she believed to be an affable smile. Mignon answered it in kind, with an inimitable lifting of the eyebrows and a significant shrug. "Look at her," muttered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear. "Miss Merton is taffying her up in great style. She always puts on her cat-that-ate-the-canary expression when she's pleased. And to think that we've got to stand for _her_ again this year!" Jerry gave a positive snort of disgust. "Shh! They'll hear you, Jerry," warned Marjorie. "Don't care if they do. Wish they would," grumbled the disgruntled Jerry. "I'll bet you ten to one she was sent home from boarding school." There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks as Miss Merton conducted Mignon down the aisle to the vacant seat in front of Mary Raymond. There was a brief exchange of low-toned words between the two, then Mignon seated herself, while Miss Merton marched stolidly back to her desk and without further delay began the interrupted morning exercises. Mary Raymond viewed the black, curly head and silken-clad shoulders of the newcomer with some curiosity. The subdued ripple of astonishment that had passed over the roomful of girls told her that here was no ordinary pupil. Mignon's expensive frock of dark green Georgette crepe, elaborately trimmed, also pointed to affluence. Mary reasoned that she must be known to the others. A stranger would not have created such a buzz of comment. Then, she remembered Susan's amazed exclamation. She turned to the latter and made a gesture of inquiry, Susan shook her head. Her lips formed a silent, "After school," and Mary nodded understandingly. "Young ladies, you will arrange your programme of recitations this morning as speedily as possible," was Miss Merton's command the moment opening exercises were over. "You will be given until ten o'clock to do so. Then there will be twenty-minute classes for the rest of the morning. Classes will occupy the usual period of time during the afternoon. Try to arrange your studies so that you will not have to waste valuable time in making changes. Please avoid asking unnecessary questions. The bulletin board will tell you everything, if you take pains to examine it carefully. Let there be no loud talking or personal conversation." Miss Merton sat down with the air of one who has done her duty, and glared severely at the rows of attentive young faces. She was not in sympathy with these girls. Their youth was a distinct affront to her narrow soul. The business of arranging the term's studies began in quiet, orderly fashion. The majority of the pupils had long since decided upon their courses of study. Their main duty now lay in making satisfactory arrangements of their classes and the hours on which their various recitations fell. Marjorie Dean studied the bulletin board with a serious face. She had successfully carried five studies during her freshman year. She decided that she would do so again, provided the fifth subject held interest enough to warrant the extra effort it meant. Plane geometry, of course, she would have to take. Then there was second year French. She and Constance intended to go on with the language of which they were so fond. Her General had insisted that she must begin Latin. She should have begun it in her freshman year. That made three. Then there was chemistry. Should she choose a fifth subject? Yes, there was English Literature. It would not be hard work. She was sure she would love it. Besides, she wished to be in Miss Flint's class. Once she had decided upon her subjects, she studied the board anew for a proper arrangement of her recitation hours. For a wonder they fitted into one another beautifully, leaving her that last coveted period in the afternoon, free for study. She sat back at last with a faint breath of satisfaction. She wondered how Mary was getting on and what she intended to study. They had agreed beforehand on Chemistry. Only the day before Mr. Dean had half-promised to fit out a tiny laboratory for them in a small room at the rear of the house. Mary, however, was frowning darkly at the board. She wondered in which section Marjorie intended to recite geometry. She had been so busy with her own woes that gloomy morning that she had quite forgotten to plan with Marjorie. Oh, well, she reflected, what difference did it make? Marjorie wouldn't care whether they recited together or not. Very likely she had already made plans with that odious Constance Stevens that would leave her out. Marjorie had already said that she and Constance intended to go on with French together. Then there were Cæsar's Commentaries. She had finished first-year Latin. She would have to take them next. Suddenly a naughty idea came into her perverse little brain. Why not purposely leave Marjorie out of her calculations? Marjorie had wished her to take chemistry. Very well. She would disappoint her by choosing something else. Then if Mr. Dean fitted out a laboratory, his daughter would have the pleasure of working in it all by herself. She would show a certain person what it meant to cast aside a lifelong friendship. Oh, yes, Marjorie was anxious for her to take English literature. She would take rhetoric instead. She would go still further. If when classes assembled she found herself in the same geometry section with her chum she would make an excuse and change to another period of recitation. The frown deepened on her smooth forehead as she jotted down her subjects on the sheet of paper before her. Suddenly conscious of the intent regard of someone, she raised her head. A pair of elfish black eyes were fixed upon her in curious intent. "Who are you?" asked Mignon La Salle with cool impudence. "You look like that priggish Miss Stevens. I hope for your sake you are not a relative of hers." "Most certainly I am not," retorted Mary, flushing angrily. It was too provoking. Why must she be constantly reminded of her resemblance to one she disliked so intensely? In her annoyance at the nature of the French girl's remarks, she quite overlooked the impertinence of her address. A gleam of satisfaction flashed across Mignon's face. "Then there is hope," she returned, holding up her forefinger in an impish imitation of a world-wide advertisement. "Say it again. I can't believe the evidence of my own ears." "I am not a relative of Miss Stevens," repeated Mary a trifle stiffly. The French girl's mocking tones were distinctly unpleasant. "Why do you ask?" "Because I wish to know," shrugged Mignon Then she added tactfully, "Please don't think me rude. I am always too frank in expressing my opinions. If I dislike anyone I can't smile deceitfully and pretend them to be my dearest friend." Mary's sullen face cleared. Here at last was a girl who seemed to be sincere. She unbent slightly and smiled. Mignon returned the smile in her most amiable fashion. "Pardon me for a moment." Mignon turned in her seat and began fumbling in a little leather bag that lay on her desk. Mary felt a quick, light touch on her arm. Susan Atwell began making violent signs at her behind Mignon's back. She desisted as suddenly as she began. The French girl had turned again toward Mary with the quick, cat-like manner that so characterized all her movements. "Here is my card," she offered, placing a bit of engraved pasteboard on Mary's desk. The latter picked it up and read, "Mignon Adrienne La Salle." "What a pretty name!" was her soft exclamation. "I'm glad you like it," beamed Mignon. "But you haven't told me yours." "I haven't any cards with me," apologized Mary. "My name is Mary Raymond." "Have you lived long in Sanford?" inquired Mignon suavely. She had already decided that a girl who was in sympathy with her on one point might prove to be worth cultivating. "Only a short time. My mother is in Colorado for her health and I am living in Marjorie Dean's home until Mother returns next summer." Mary's innocent words had an electrical effect on the French girl. Her heavy brows drew together in a scowl and her dark face set in hard lines. "Then that settles it," she said coldly. "You and I can _never_ be friends." She switched about in her seat with an angry jerk. Mary leaned forward and touched her on the shoulder. "I don't understand," she murmured. "Please tell me what you mean." The French girl swung halfway about. She regarded Mary with narrowed eyes. Was it possible that Marjorie Dean had never mentioned her to her friend? "Hasn't Miss Dean ever spoken to you of me?" she asked abruptly. Mary shook her head. "No, I am sure I never before heard of you. I don't know many Sanford girls yet. I have met Miss Atwell and Miss Macy and a few others who were at Miss Stevens' dance last night." "So, Miss Stevens is doing social stunts," sneered Mignon. "Quite a change from last year, I should say. I used to be friends with Susan Atwell and Jerry Macy, but this Stevens girl made mischief between us and broke up our old crowd entirely. Your friend, Miss Dean, took sides with them, too, and helped the thing along. She made a perfect idiot of herself over Constance Stevens. Oh, well, never mind. I'm not going to say another word about it. I'm sorry we can't be friends. I'm sure we'd get along famously together. It is impossible, though. Miss Dean wouldn't let you." Mary suddenly sat very erect. She had listened in amazement to Mignon's recital. Could she believe her ears? Had her hitherto-beloved Marjorie been guilty of trouble-making? And all for the sake of Constance Stevens. Marjorie must indeed care a great deal for her. She had not been mistaken, then, in her belief that she had been supplanted in her chum's heart. And now Mignon was suggesting that Marjorie would not allow her to be friends with the girl whom she had wronged. Mary did not stop to consider that there are always two sides to a story. Swayed by her resentment against Constance, she preferred to believe anything which she might hear against her. "Please understand, once and for all, that Marjorie has nothing to say about whoever I choose to have for a friend," she said with decision. "I hope I am free to do as I please. I shall be very glad to know you better, Miss La Salle, and I am sorry that you have been so badly treated." The ringing of the first recitation-bell broke in upon the conversation. "Oh, gracious, I haven't looked at the bulletin board. Excuse me, Miss Raymond. I'll see you later and we'll have a nice long talk. I'm sure I shall be pleased to have _you_ for a friend." "Are you going to recite geometry in this first section?" asked Mary eagerly. The students were already filing out of the great room. "Let me see." Mignon consulted the bulletin board. "Why, yes, I might as well." "Oh, splendid!" glowed Mary. "Then you can show me the way to the geometry classroom." "Delighted, I'm sure," returned Mignon. Her black eyes sparkled with triumph. At last she had found a way to even her score with Marjorie Dean. With almost uncanny shrewdness she had divined what Marjorie herself had not discovered. This blue-eyed baby of a girl, for Mignon mentally characterized her as such, was jealous of Marjorie's friendship with the Stevens girl. Very well. She would take a hand and help matters along. Of course there was a strong chance that it might all come to nothing. Marjorie might take Mary in charge the moment school was over and tell her a few things. Yet that was hardly possible. Much as she hated the brown-eyed girl who had worsted her at every point, in her own cowardly heart lurked a respect for Marjorie's high standard of honor. So far Mary knew nothing against her. Perhaps she would never know. Perhaps if Marjorie and Jerry and Irma tried to prejudice Mary against her, the girl would rebel and send them about their business. She had looked stupidly obstinate when she said, "I hope I am free to do as I please." Mignon smiled maliciously as she walked down the long aisle ahead of Mary. Marjorie had risen from her seat at the sound of the first bell. Now she gazed anxiously up the aisle toward Mary's seat. She looked relieved as she saw her chum approaching. She bowed coldly to Mignon as she passed. "Oh, Mary," she said, "I was looking for you. If you are going to recite geometry now, then please don't go. Wait and recite in my section. You know, we said we'd recite it together." Mary's blue eyes glowed resentfully. "I've made up my programme," she answered with cool defiance. "I can't change it now. Miss La Salle is going to show me the way to the geometry classroom. I'll see you later." Without waiting for a reply she marched on, leaving Marjorie to stare after her with troubled eyes. CHAPTER X THE VALLEY OF MISUNDERSTANDING For a brief instant Marjorie continued to stare after the retreating form of her chum, oblivious to the steady stream of girls passing by her. Then, seized with a sudden idea, she slipped into her seat and hastily consulted the bulletin board. The ringing of the third bell found her hurrying from the aisle toward the door. That brief survey of the schedule had resulted in an entire change of her programme. She had decided to recite geometry in the morning section. It meant giving up the cherished last hour in the afternoon which she had reserved for study. She would have to recite Latin at that time. Well, that did not matter so much. Reciting geometry in the same section with Mary was what counted. She had experienced a curious feeling of alarm as she had watched Mary and Mignon La Salle disappear through the big doorway side by side. Mignon was the last person she had supposed Mary would meet. To be sure, there was nothing particularly alarming in their meeting. As yet they were comparative strangers to each other. She had noted that Miss Merton had assigned the French girl to the seat in front of Mary. It was, therefore, quite probable that Mary had inquired the way to the geometry classroom and Mignon had volunteered to conduct her to it. Marjorie's sober face lightened a little as she hastened down the corridor to the geometry room. Miss Nelson, the instructor in mathematics, was on the point of closing the door as she hurriedly approached. She smiled as she saw the pretty sophomore, and continued to hold the door open until Marjorie had crossed the threshold. The latter gave an eager glance about the room. The classrooms were provided with rows of single desks similar to those in the study hall. Mary was occupying one of them well toward the front of the room. Directly ahead of her sat the French girl. On one of the back seats was Jerry Macy, glaring in her most savage manner, her angry eyes fixed on the black, curly head of the girl she despised. There was no vacant seat near Mary. Marjorie noted all these facts in that one comprehensive glance. It also seemed to her that the French girl's face wore an expression of mocking triumph. And was it her imagination, or had Mary glanced up as she entered and then turned away her eyes? What did it all mean? Marjorie took the nearest vacant seat at hand, the prey of many emotions. Then, as Miss Nelson stepped forward to address the class, she resolutely put away all personal matters and, with the fine attention to the business of study which had endeared her to her various teachers during her freshman year, she strove to center her troubled mind on what Miss Nelson was saying. After a short preliminary talk on the importance of the study the class was about to begin, Miss Nelson proceeded to the business of registering her pupils and giving out the text books. Miss Nelson laid particular stress on the thorough learning of all definitions pertaining to the study in hand. "You must know these definitions so well that you could say them backward if I requested it," she emphasized. "They will be of greatest importance in your work to come." Then she heartlessly gave out several pages of them for the advance lesson. The rest of the period she spent in going over and explaining these same definitions in her usual thorough manner, ending with the stern injunction that she expected a letter-perfect recitation on the following morning. "Miss Nelson doesn't want much," grumbled Jerry Macy in Irma Linton's ear, as they filed out of class at the ringing of the bell which ended the period. Then, before Irma had time to reply, she continued: "_What_ do you think of Mignon? Isn't it a shame she's back again? And did you see her march in here with Mary Raymond? It's a pretty sure thing that neither of them knows who is who in Sanford. I suppose Mary, poor innocent, asked her the way to the classroom. Where was Marjorie all that time, I wonder? I'll bet you a box of Huyler's that they won't walk into geometry again to-morrow morning. Hurry up, there's Marjorie just ahead of us with Mary now. The fair Mignon has vanished. I can see her away ahead of them. I guess Marjorie didn't know who piloted Mary into class. She came in last, you know." Irma laid a detaining hand on Jerry's arm. "Oh, wait until after school, Jerry," she counseled. This quiet, unobtrusive girl was a keen observer. She had noted Marjorie's half-troubled expression as she entered the room. The suspicion that Marjorie knew and was not pleased had already come to her. "All right, I will. Wish school was out now. Those geometry definitions make me tired. I'm worn out already and school hasn't fairly begun yet. I hate mathematics. Wouldn't look at a geometry if I could graduate without it." But while Jerry was anathematizing mathematics, Marjorie was saying earnestly to Mary, whom she had joined at the door, "I am so sorry I didn't come back to your seat in the study hall before the first bell rang. I really ought to have asked permission to do so, but I was afraid Miss Merton would say 'no.' She never loses a chance to be horrid to me. When you said you were going to recite in this section I hurried and changed my programme to make things come right for us." Marjorie's earnest little speech, so full of apparent good will, brought a quick flush of contrition to Mary's cheeks. She experienced a swift spasm of regret for her bitter suspicion of Marjorie. Her tense face softened. Why not unburden herself to her chum now and find relief from her torture of doubt? "Marjorie," she began, laying her hand lightly on her friend's arm, "I wish you would tell me something. Miss La Salle said that Constance Stevens----" "Mary!" Marjorie's sunny face had suddenly grown very stern. "I am sorry to have to speak harshly of any girl in Sanford High, but as your chum I feel it my duty to ask you to have nothing to do with Mignon La Salle, or pay the slightest attention to her. She made us all very unhappy last year, particularly Constance and myself. I can't help saying it, but I am sorry that she has come back to Sanford. I understood that she was at boarding school. I am sure I wish she had stayed there." Marjorie spoke with a bitterness quite foreign to her generous nature. Mary's lips tightened obstinately as she listened. Her brief impulse toward a frank understanding died with Marjorie's emphatic utterance. She was inwardly furious at her chum's sharp interruption. "I am very well aware that you would stand up for Miss Stevens, whether she were in the right or in the wrong," she said with cold sarcasm. "I've been seeing that ever since I came to Sanford. But just because she is perfect in _your_ eyes is not reason why _I_ should think so. For my part, I like Miss La Salle. She was awfully sweet to me this morning, and I don't think it is nice in you to talk about her behind her back." In the intensity of the moment both girls had stopped short in the corridor, oblivious of the passing students. Mary's flashing blue eyes fixed Marjorie's amazed brown ones in an angry gaze. "Why, Ma-a-ry!" stammered Marjorie. "What _is_ the matter? I don't understand you." Her bewilderment served only to increase the rancor that had been smouldering in Mary's heart. Now it burst forth in a fury of words. "Don't pretend, Marjorie Dean. You know perfectly well what I mean. It isn't necessary for me to tell you, either. When I came to Sanford to live with you I thought I'd be the happiest girl in the world because I was going to live at your house and go to school with you. If I had known as much when Father and I came to see you as I know now--well, I wouldn't--ever--have come back again!" Her anger-choked tones faltered. She turned away her head. Then pulling herself sharply together, she turned and hurried down the corridor. For a second Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could she believe her ears? Was it really Mary, her soldier chum, with whom she had stood shoulder to shoulder for so many years, who had thus arraigned her? Her instant of inaction past, she darted down the corridor after Mary. But the latter passed into the study hall before she could overtake her. She could do nothing now to straighten the tangle in which they had so suddenly become involved until the morning session of school was over. She glanced anxiously toward Mary's seat the moment she stepped across the threshold of the study hall, only to see her friend in earnest conversation with Mignon La Salle. An angry little furrow settled on her usually placid brow. Mignon had lost no time in living up to her reputation. Mary must be rescued from her baleful influence at once. When they reached home that day she would tell her chum the whole story of last year. Once Mary learned Mignon's true character she would see matters in a different light. But what had the French girl said about Constance? If only she had held her peace and not interrupted Mary. Even as a little girl Marjorie remembered how hard it had been, once Mary was angry, to discover the cause. In spite of her usual good-nature she was unyieldingly stubborn. When, at rare intervals, she became displeased or hurt over a fancied grievance, she would nurse her anger for days in sulky silence. "I'll tell her all about last year the minute we get into the house this noon," resolved Marjorie. "When she knows how badly Mignon behaved toward Connie----" The little girl drew a sharp breath of dismay. Into her mind flashed her recent promise to Constance Stevens. She could tell Mary nothing until she had permission to do so. That meant that for the day, at least, she must remain mute, for Constance was not in school that morning, nor would she be in during the day. She had received special permission from Miss Archer to be excused from lessons while her foster father was at Gray Gables. It was a very sober little girl who wended her way to the French class, her next recitation. Out of an apparently clear sky the miserable set of circumstances frowned upon her dawning sophomore year. But it must come right. She would go to Gray Gables that very afternoon and ask Constance to release her from her promise. Connie would surely be willing to do so, when she knew all. Comforted by this thought, Marjorie brightened again. "_Bon jour_, Mademoiselle Dean," greeted the cheerful voice of Professor Fontaine as she entered his classroom. "It is with a great plaisure that I see you again. Let us 'ope that you haf not forgottaine your French, I trost you haf sometimes remembered _la belle langue_ during your vacation." The little man beamed delightedly upon Marjorie. "I am afraid I have forgotten a great deal of it, Professor Fontaine." Marjorie spoke with the pretty deference that she always accorded this long-suffering professor, whose strongly accented English and foreign eccentricities made him the subject of many ill-timed jests on the part of his thoughtless pupils. "I'm going to study hard, though, and it will soon come back to me." "Ah! These are the words it makes happiness to hear," he returned amiably. "Some day, when you haf learned to spik the French as the English, you will be glad that you haf persevered." "I'm sure I shall," smiled Marjorie. Then, as several entering pupils claimed the little man's attention, she passed on and took a vacant seat at the back of the room. Professor Fontaine had begun to address the class when the door opened and Mignon La Salle sauntered in. She threw a quick, derisive glance at his back, which caused several girls to giggle, then strolled calmly to a seat. A shade of annoyance clouded the instructor's genial face. He eyed his countrywoman severely for an instant, then went on with his speech. Marjorie received little benefit that morning from the professor's gallant efforts to impress the importance of the study of his language on the minds of his class. Her thoughts were with Mary and what she had best say to conciliate her. She had as yet no inkling of the truth. She did not dream that jealousy of Constance had prompted Mary's outburst. She believed that the whole trouble lay in whatever Mignon had told Mary. She was more hurt than surprised when at the last period in the morning she failed to find Mary in the chemistry room. Of course she might have expected it. Nothing would be right until she had chased away the black clouds of misunderstanding that hung over them. Still, it grieved her to think that Mary had not trusted her enough to weigh her loyalty against the gossip of a stranger. The hands of the study hall clock, pointing the hour of twelve, brought relief to the worried sophomore. The instant the closing bell rang she made for the locker room. It would be better to wait for Mary there, rather than in the corridor. If Mary's mood had not changed, she preferred not to run the risk of a possible rebuff in so prominent a place. There were too many curious eyes ready to note their slightest act. It would be dreadful if some lynx-eyed girl were to mark them and circulate a report that they were quarreling. Arrived at the locker-room, she opened her locker and took out her wraps. A faint gasp of astonishment broke from her. Only one rain-coat, one hat and one pair of rubbers were there, where at the beginning of the morning there had been two. Mary Raymond's belongings were gone. CHAPTER XI CHOOSING HER OWN WAY Marjorie stood staring at her locker as one in a dream. "Hurry up, Marjorie!" Jerry Macy's loud, matter-of-fact tones broke the spell. Behind her were Irma Linton and Susan Atwell. The faces of the three were alive with suppressed excitement. Jerry caught sight of the tell-tale locker and emitted an indignant snort. "Mary took her advice, Susie! If I were the President of the United States I'd have that Mignon La Salle deported to the South Sea Islands, or Kamchatka, or some place where she couldn't get back in a hurry. It would be a good deal farther than boarding school, I can just tell you," she ended with an angry sputter. Marjorie faced the battery of indignant young faces. "What is the trouble, girls?" She tried to keep her voice steady, though she was at the point of tears. "What's the matter with your friend, Mary Raymond, Marjorie?" continued Jerry in a slightly lower key. "Has she gone suddenly crazy or--or----" Jerry hesitated. She could not voice the other question which rose to her lips. "Girls," Marjorie viewed her friends with brave, direct eyes, "you know something that I don't about Mary. What is it?" "It's about Mignon," blurted Jerry. "Susie says that the minute she landed in her seat she began talking to Mary." "I made signs to Mary to pay no attention to her," broke in Susan Atwell, "but she didn't understand what I meant and I couldn't explain, with Mignon sitting right there. The next thing I saw, they were walking down the aisle together as though they'd known each other all their lives." "Yes, and they came into geometry together, too," supplemented Jerry. "But that's not the worst. Tell Marjorie what you overheard, Susie." "Well," began Susan, looking important, "when I came back to the study hall just before the last class was called, they were both there ahead of me. Just as I was going to sit down at my desk I heard Mignon tell Mary she'd love to have her share her locker. Mary was looking awfully sober and pretty cross, too, as though she were mad about something. I heard her say, 'How can I get my wraps?' and Mignon said, 'Go to Marcia Arnold and see if you can borrow Miss Stevens' key for a minute. If she hasn't come back to school yet, very likely Marcia has it. Tell her you want to take something from it and don't care to bother Miss Dean. You can easily do it, because you haven't a recitation at this hour. I'd get it for you, but I haven't any good reason for asking her for it.' I couldn't hear what Mary said, but she left her seat and I saw her stop at Miss Merton's desk. Miss Merton nodded her head and Mary went on out of the study hall. Mignon saw me looking after her and smiled that hateful smile of hers. I was so cross I made a face at her. Then the third bell rang and I had to go to class. I wasn't sure whether Mary did as Mignon told her to do until we saw you staring into your locker and Jerry called my attention to it." Marjorie listened gravely to Susan's recital. She stood surveying the three girls in silence. "What has happened, Marjorie?" questioned Jerry impatiently. "Or isn't it any of our business? If it isn't, then forget that I asked you." "Girls," Marjorie's clear voice trembled a little, "I think I'd better tell you about it. At first I thought I couldn't bear to tell anyone, but as long as you all know something of what happened to Connie and I last year, you might as well know this, too. Miss Archer made a remark to me about our misunderstanding yesterday when Mary was with me. Mary asked me afterward what she meant. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't feel as though I had the right to, until I asked Connie if I could. I was going to ask her last night, but before I had a chance she asked me not to tell Mary about it. She was afraid Mary might not understand and--and blame her. Of course, I knew that Mary wouldn't mind in the least, but Connie seemed so worried that I promised I wouldn't." Jerry Macy's frown deepened. Susan Atwell made a faint gesture of consternation, while Irma Linton looked distressed and sympathetic. "I thought perhaps Mary would forget about Constance," went on Marjorie. "I never dreamed that Mignon was coming back, let alone she and Mary becoming friendly. I saw them go down the aisle to geometry class together and followed them. You see, Mary and I had planned to recite in the same section. I asked her to wait and recite later, but she wouldn't. Then I changed my hour so as to be in her class. After class I caught up with her. She began to tell me something about what Mignon had said of Connie. It made me so cross that I interrupted her, almost before she had started. I told her she must have nothing to say to Mignon and--she--I guess I hurt her feelings, for she walked off and--left--me." Marjorie ended with a half sob. She turned her face to the locker and leaned against it. The tears that she had bravely forced back now came thick and fast. "What a shame!" burst forth Jerry. "Don't cry, dear. We'll straighten things out for you. I'll go to Mary my own self and give her Mignon's history in a few well chosen words." She patted the shoulder of the weeping girl. "You might know that Mignon would bring trouble, hateful girl," was Susan's indignant cry. "Never mind, we'll fix her." "I'll do all I can to help you, Marjorie," soothed Irma, who was known throughout the school as a peace-maker. With a long, quivering sigh Marjorie turned slowly and faced her friends. "You are very sweet to me, every one of you," she said gratefully, "but, girls, you mustn't say a word. I promised Connie, and I'll keep my word until she releases me from that promise. I'm going over to see her to-night to ask her to do that very thing. She'll say 'yes,' I know. Then I can tell Mary and it will be all right. I'm sorry I made such a baby of myself, but Mary and I have been chums for years--and----" Her voice broke again. Jerry wound her plump arms about the girl she adored. "You poor kid," she comforted slangily. "If you must cry, cry on my shoulder. It's nice and fat and not half so hard as that old locker." "You are a ridiculous Jerry," Marjorie laughed through her tears. "There, I feel better now. I'm not going to cry another tear. Are my eyes very red? I don't care to have the public gape at my grief. Come on, children. It must be long after twelve. I suppose Mary is home by this time. Naturally she wouldn't wait for me," she added wistfully. As a matter of fact, Mary had waited. Once she had removed her wraps to Mignon's locker she had been seized with a sharp attack of conscience. She felt a trifle ashamed of herself and decided that she would ask her chum to forgive her and allow her to put her wraps in Marjorie's locker again. At the close of the session she made a hasty excuse to Mignon, seized her belongings and hurrying out of the building, took up her stand across the street. When at twenty minutes past twelve Marjorie did not appear, her good resolutions took wing, and sulkily setting her face toward home, Mary left the school and the chance for reconciliation behind, and angrily went her way alone, thus widening the gap that already yawned between herself and Marjorie. It was twenty minutes to one when the latter ran up the steps of her home in an almost cheerful frame of mind. The hall door yielded to her touch and she rushed into the hall, her clear call of "Mary!" re-echoing through the quiet house. "I'll be down in a minute," answered a cold voice from the head of the stairs. "I'll be up in a second," laughed Marjorie, making a dive for the stairs. The next instant she had caught the immovable little figure at the landing in an impulsive embrace. "Poor old Lieutenant, I'm so sorry," was her contrite cry. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Listen, dear. I'm going over to see Connie this afternoon after school and ask her to let me tell you everything you wished to know about last year. Then you will understand why----" Mary freed herself from the clinging arms with a jerk. "If you say a word to Constance Stevens, I'll never forgive you!" she cried passionately. "I won't be made ridiculous. Do you understand me? You could tell me without asking her, if you cared to. I'd never say a word and she'd never know the difference." "But, Mary, I promised her----" Marjorie stopped in confusion. She had not meant to mention her promise to Constance. She had spoken before she thought. "So _that's_ the reason, is it?" choked Mary, her cheeks flaming with the humiliating knowledge. "Thank you, I don't care to hear your old secrets. You may keep them, for all I care!" She whirled and started toward her room. Marjorie caught her arm. "I haven't any secrets that I wish to keep from you, Mary," she said with quiet dignity. "Last night at the dance Constance asked me to promise I wouldn't say anything to you about the trouble she had with Mignon La Salle during our freshman year. We were upstairs in her room. I was mending my flounce. It got torn when we were dancing. I had intended asking her permission then to tell you, and when she spoke of it first I hardly knew what to do. I didn't like to let her think that you were curious and----" "How dare you call me curious!" Mary stamped her foot in a sudden fury of temper. "I'm not. I wouldn't listen to your miserable secret if you begged me to. Now I truly believe what Miss La Salle told me. You and your friend Constance ought to be ashamed of the way you treated that poor girl last year. I'm sorry I ever came to your house to live. I'd write to Father to come and take me away, but Mother would have to know. She sha'n't be worried, no matter what I have to stand. You needn't be afraid, I'll not make a fuss, either, so that General and Captain will know. I'll try to pretend before them that we're just the same chums as ever, and you'd better pretend it, too. But we won't be. From to-day on I'll go _my_ way and choose _my_ friends and you can do the same." "Mary Raymond, listen to me." Marjorie's hands found the shoulders of her angry chum. The brown eyes held the blue ones in a long, steadfast gaze. "Mignon La Salle is only trying to make trouble. If you knew her as well as I know her, you wouldn't pay any attention to her. We've been best friends and comrades since we were little tots, Mary, and I think you ought to trust me. No one can ever be so dear to me as you are." "Except Constance Stevens," put in Mary sarcastically, twisting from Marjorie's hold. "Why, that very first day when you came to the train to meet me I could see you liked her best. You can imagine how I felt when even your friends spoke of it. If you really cared about me, you would have written to me of every single thing that happened last year. You promised you would. You are very anxious to keep a promise to Constance, but you didn't care whether you kept one to me. As for what you say of Miss La Salle, I don't believe you. I'd far rather trust her than your dear Miss Stevens!" "What has happened to my brigade?" called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the stairs. "It is five minutes to one, girls. Come to luncheon at once." "We are coming, Captain," answered Marjorie in as steady a tone as she could command. Then she said sorrowfully to her companion, "Mary, I feel just the same toward you as always, only I am terribly hurt. I wish your way to be my way and your friends mine. If you are sure that you would like Mignon for a friend, then I am going to try to like her for your sake. But we mustn't quarrel or--not--not speak--or--let General and Captain know--that----" Marjorie's words died in a half-sob. "It doesn't make any difference to me whether you like Miss La Salle or not," retorted Mary, ignoring Marjorie's distress, "but if you say a single word to either General or Captain about us, I'll never speak to you again." With this threat the incensed lieutenant ran heartlessly down the stairs, leaving her sadly wounded comrade to follow when she would. Luncheon was a dismal failure as far as Marjorie was concerned. She tried to talk and laugh in her usual cheery manner, but she was unused to dissembling, and it hurt her to play a part before her Captain, of all persons. Mary, however, found a certain wicked satisfaction in the situation she had brought about. Now that she had spoken her mind she would go on in the way she had chosen. Marjorie would be very sorry. There would come a time when she would be only too glad to plead for the friendship she had cast aside. But it would be too late. The moment the two girls left the house for the afternoon session of school, a blank silence fell upon them. It was broken only by a cool "Good-bye" from Mary as they separated in the locker room. But during that silent walk Marjorie had been thinking busily. Hers was a nature that no amount of disagreeable shocks could dismay for long. No sooner did a pet ideal totter than she steadied it with patient, tender hands. True always to the highest, she was laying a foundation that would weather the stress of years. Now she dwelt not so much upon her own hurts, but rather on how she should bind up the wounds of her comrades. What had been obscure was now plain. Mary was jealous of her friendship with Constance. She had completely misunderstood. If only she, Marjorie, had known in the beginning! And then there was Mignon. If she had stayed away from Sanford, all might have been well in time. Mary was determined to be friends with her. Marjorie knew her friend too well not to believe that Mary would now cultivate the French girl from sheer obstinacy. There was just one thing to do. She had said to Mary that she would try to like Mignon for her sake. She stood ready to keep her promise. Perhaps, far under her mischief-making exterior, Mignon's better self lay dormant, waiting for some chance, kindly word or act to awaken it into life. What was it her General had said about the worst person having some good in his nature that sooner or later was sure to manifest itself? How glorious it would be to help Mignon find that better self! But she could not accomplish much alone. She needed the support of the girls of her own particular little circle. She was fairly sure they would help her. But how had they better begin? Suddenly Marjorie's sober face broke into a radiant smile. She gave a chuckle born of sheer good-will. "I know the very way," she murmured, half aloud. "If only the girls will see it, too. But they _must_! It's a splendid plan, and if it doesn't work it won't be from lack of trying on my part." CHAPTER XII THE COMPACT "DEAR IRMA," wrote Marjorie, the moment she reached her desk, "will you meet me across the street from school this afternoon? I have something very important to say to you. "MARJORIE." She wrote similar notes to Muriel Harding, Susan Atwell and Jerry Macy, managing in spite of the watchful eyes of Miss Merton to convey them, through the medium of willing hands, to her schoolmates. This done, she made a valiant effort to dismiss her personal affairs from her thoughts and settled down to her lessons. The first period in the afternoon was now her study hour, due to the change she had made in her geometry recitation. Marjorie managed to study diligently for at least twenty minutes, on the definitions in geometry given out by Miss Nelson as an advance lesson. Then her attention flagged. She found herself wondering what she had better do in regard to asking Constance to release her from her promise. She was sure Connie would do it. Then, if Mary could be coaxed to listen to her, she would---- Marjorie took a deep breath of sheer dismay. Of what use would it be to plan to help Mignon find her better self, then deliberately turn the one girl who liked her against her by relating her past misdeeds? Here indeed was a problem. She knitted her brows in troubled thought over this new knot in the tangle. One thing she was resolved upon, however. She would open her heart to Connie. Perhaps she might be able to suggest a satisfactory adjustment. The afternoon dragged interminably to the perplexed sophomore and she hailed the ringing of the closing bell with thankfulness. She had caught distant glimpses of Mary during the session and in each instance had seen her in conversation with the French girl. Mignon was losing no time. That was certain. As Marjorie rose from her seat to leave the study hall she had half a mind to wait just outside the door for Mary. Then a flash of wounded pride held her back. Mary would undoubtedly pass out with Mignon. If she spoke to her chum, she was almost sure to be rebuffed. She could imagine just how delighted Mignon would look at her discomfiture. Unconsciously lifting her head, Marjorie left the study hall without so much as a backward glance. Outside the door she encountered Jerry Macy. "Your note said, 'Wait across the street,' but this is a lot better," greeted Jerry. "Let's hurry and get our wraps. Irma and Susie will probably steer straight for your locker. I haven't seen Muriel to speak to this afternoon, but she'll be on the scene, I guess. The sooner we collect the sooner we'll hear what's on your mind. I can just about tell you what you're going to say, though." "Then you're a mind-reader," laughed Marjorie. Nevertheless, a quick flash rose to her face at Jerry's significant speech. "I can add two and two, anyhow," asserted Jerry. True to Jerry's prediction, three curious young women stood grouped in front of Marjorie's locker, impatiently awaiting her arrival. "Wait until we are outside, girls. I'll be ready in a jiffy." Marjorie slipped into her raincoat and pulled her blue velour hat over her curls. "We can't talk here. Miss Merton is likely to wander down, and then you know what will happen." "Oh, bother Miss Merton!" grumbled Jerry. "I can stand anything she says and live. Still, I don't blame you, Marjorie. It tickles her to pieces to get a chance to snap at you. Now if Mignon La Salle wanted to sing a solo in front of her locker at the top of her voice, Miss Merton would encore it." Susan Atwell giggled. "I can just hear Mignon lifting up her voice in song with Miss Merton as an appreciative audience." The quartette thoughtlessly echoed her merriment. So intent were they upon their own affairs that they did not notice the two girls who were almost hidden behind an open locker at the end of the room. The black eyes of one of them gleamed with rage. She turned to the fair-haired girl at her side with a gesture which said more plainly than words, "You see for yourself." The other nodded. Mignon laid a finger on her lips. Then noiselessly as two shadows they flitted through the open door without having been observed by the group at the other end. For the moment Marjorie's back had been turned toward that end of the room. She whirled about just too late to see Mignon and Mary as they hurried away. Unusually sensitive to impressions, she had perhaps felt their presence, for she asked abruptly, "Girls, have you seen Mary? She can't have gone, for I'm sure I left the study hall before she did. I ought to wait for her, but I don't know what to do." She glanced irresolutely about her. Then, her pride again coming to her rescue, she said, "Never mind. Suppose we go on. Perhaps I'd better not try to see her now, because I must tell you my plan and I--well--I can't--if she is with us." Muriel Harding elevated her eyebrows in surprise. Of the four girls who had received Marjorie's notes, she alone had no suspicion of the purpose which had brought them together. Five pairs of bright eyes scanned the street across from the school building as the little party came down the wide stone steps. "The coast is clear," commented Jerry. "Now do tell us what's the matter, Marjorie. No, wait a minute." Jerry fumbled energetically in a small leather bag. "Hooray! Here's a real life fifty-cent piece! I can see it vanishing in the shape of five sundaes, at ten cents per eat. We can't go to Sargent's. They cost fifteen----" "I've a quarter," insinuated Irma. "All contributions thankfully received," beamed Jerry. "On to Sargent's! We'll talk about the weather until we get there. It's been such a lovely day," she grimaced. "If it rains much more we'll have to do as they do in Spain." "What do they do in Spain?" Susan Atwell rose to the bait, despite a warning poke from Irma. "They let it rain," grinned Jerry. "Aren't you an innocent child?" Well pleased with her success in putting over this time-worn joke on one more victim, Jerry continued with a lively stream of nonsense that lasted during the brief walk to Sargent's. Once seated about a small round table at the back of the room, which from long patronage they had come to look upon almost as their own, an expectant murmur went the round of the little circle as Marjorie leaned forward a trifle and began in a low, earnest tone. "Girls, I am going to ask you to do something for me that perhaps you won't wish to do. All of you know what happened last year to Connie and me. You know, too, that if anyone has good reason to cut Mignon La Salle's acquaintance, we would be justified in doing it. I was awfully surprised to see her come into the study hall this morning, and I said to myself that aside from bowing to her if I met her on the street, I would steer clear of her. But since then something has happened to make me change my mind. Mary wishes Mignon for a friend, and so----" "What a little goose!" interrupted Jerry disgustedly. "I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but I can't help saying it." "This _is_ news!" exclaimed Muriel Harding. "Come to think of it, I _did_ see your friend Mary walking into geometry with Mignon, Marjorie. Why don't you enlighten her on the subject of Mignon and her doings?" "That's just it." Marjorie repeated briefly what she had said to the others at noon. "I'm going to Gray Gables to see Constance before I go home," she continued, addressing the group. "You see, it's like this. Even if Connie says I may tell Mary everything, will it be quite fair to Mignon? And now I'm coming to the reason I asked you to come here with me. Sometimes when a girl has done wrong and been hateful and no one likes her, another girl comes along and begins to be friendly with her. That makes the girl who has done wrong feel ashamed of herself and then perhaps she resolves to be more agreeable because of it." "Not Mignon, if you mean her," muttered Jerry. "I do mean Mignon," was Marjorie's grave response. "Every girl has a better self, I'm sure, but if she doesn't know it she will never find it unless someone helps her. We've never even stopped to consider whether Mignon had any good qualities. We've judged her for the dishonorable things she has done. I can't help saying that I don't like her very well. You can't blame me, either. Still, if we are going to be sophomore sisters we must all stand together." She glanced appealingly about her circle, but on each young face she read plain disapproval. "You might as well try to carry water in a sieve as to reform Mignon," shrugged Muriel Harding. "You can't tame a wildcat," commented Susan Atwell. "Look here, Marjorie," burst forth Jerry Macy. "We know that you are the dearest, nicest girl ever, but you are going to waste your time if you try to go exploring for Mignon's better self. She never had one. If you try to be nice to her she'll just take advantage of your goodness and make fun of you behind your back. Let me tell you something. You know Miss Elkins, who sews for people. Well, she's at our house to-day. She is making some silk blouses for me, and when I went upstairs to the sewing-room for a fitting to-day she asked me if Mignon was in school. Her sister is the housekeeper at the La Salle's and she told Miss Elkins that Mignon was expelled from boarding school because she wouldn't pay attention to the rules. She was threatened with dismissal twice, and the other night she coaxed a lot of the girls to slip out of the dormitory and go to the city to the theatre without a sign of a chaperon. One of the girls had a key to the front door and she lost it. They didn't get home until after one o'clock, and then they couldn't get into the dormitory. The night watchman finally had to let them in and he reported them. She and two others were expelled because they planned the affair. I don't know what happened to the rest of them. Anyway, that's why our dear Mignon is with us once more. I only wish that girl hadn't lost the key." Jerry's face registered her disgust. "I don't believe Mother would like to have me associate with Mignon." This from gentle Irma Linton, who was usually the soul of toleration. "And you, too, Irma!" was Marjorie's reproachful cry. "Then there isn't much use is asking you girls to help me." This was too much for the impulsive Jerry. "Don't look at us like that. As though you had lost your last friend. Just let me tell you, you haven't. I take it all back. I'll promise to go on a hunting expedition for Mignon's better self any old time you say." "Sieves _have_ been known to hold water," acknowledged Muriel, not to be outdone by Jerry's burst of loyalty. "And wildcats have sometimes become household pets," added Susan with her infectious giggle. "So have mothers been known to change their minds," put in Irma. "I'm ashamed of myself for being a quitter before I've even heard your plan." Marjorie's dark eyes shone with affection. "You are splendid," she praised with a little catch in her voice. "I can't help telling you now. After all, it isn't a very great plan, but it's the best I could think of just now, and this is it. Mother said I might give a party for Mary when she first came to live with us, but I wished to wait until she got acquainted with the girls in school. Then Connie gave her dance. So I thought it would be nice to have mine in about two weeks, after we were settled in our classes and didn't have so much to worry us. But now I've changed my mind. I'm going to give my party next week and I shall invite Mignon to it You girls can help me by being nice to her and making her have a pleasant evening. If we are really determined to carry out our plan we will have to invite her to our parties and luncheons, too, and ask her to share our good times. The only way we can help her is to make her one of us. If we draw away from her she will never be different. She will just become more disagreeable and some day we might be very sorry we didn't do our best for her." The eloquence of Marjorie's plea had its effect on her listeners. "I guess you are on the right track," conceded Jerry Macy warmly. "I am willing to try to be a busy little helper. We might call ourselves the S. F. R. M.--Society For Reforming Mignon, you know." This proposal evoked a ripple of laughter. "Irma, do you suppose your mother wouldn't like you to--to--be friendly with Mignon?" asked Marjorie anxiously. "We mustn't pledge ourselves to anything to which our mothers might say 'no.'" "I think I can fix that part of it," said Irma slowly. "If I explain things to Mother, she'll understand." "Perhaps we all ought to talk it over with our mothers," suggested Susan. "I guess we'd better," nodded Jerry. "But what about Connie? Suppose she shouldn't be in favor of the S. F. R. M.? You couldn't blame her much if she wasn't." "I'm going to see her to-night, after dinner. I intended to go to Gray Gables after school, but you see me here instead," returned Marjorie. "I am almost sure she'll say 'yes.'" "How are we going to begin our reform movement?" asked Muriel Harding. "That's what I'd like to know. Who is willing to be the first martyr to the cause? Let me tell you right now, I'd just as soon make friends with a snapping turtle. Only the snapper would probably be more polite." "You are a wicked Jerry," reproved Marjorie smilingly, "and you know you don't mean half you say." "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't. Anyhow, on in the cause of Mignon! I feel like one of the knights of old who buckled on his armor and went forth to the fray with his lady's colors tied to his sleeve, or his lance, or some of his belongings. I've forgotten just what the style was. We are gallant knights, going forth to battle, wearing Marjorie's colors, and Mignon will have to look out or she'll be reformed before she has time to turn up her nose and shrug her shoulders." "Suppose we start by being as nice to her as we can in school to-morrow," proposed Irma Linton thoughtfully. "If she meets us in the same spirit, maybe something will happen that will show us what to do next." "That wouldn't be a bad idea," declared Susan Atwell. "I sit near her, so I'll be the first one to hold out the olive branch. But if you hear something drop on the floor with a dull, sickening thud, you'll know that my particular variety of olive branch was rejected." "Somehow, I have an idea she won't be so very scornful," said Marjorie hopefully. "Being expelled from boarding school may have a soothing effect on her," agreed Jerry grimly. "I suppose it really isn't very knightly to say snippy things about a person one intends to reform." "I think you are right, Jerry," broke in Marjorie with sweet earnestness. "We must try to think and say only kind things of Mignon if we are to succeed." Taking in the circle of girls with a quick, bright glance, she asked: "Then you are agreed to my plan? It is really a compact?" Four emphatic nods answered her questions. "Hurrah for the S. F. R. M.!" exclaimed Jerry. "Long may it wave! Only there's one glorious truth that I feel it my duty to impress on your minds. The way of the reformer is hard." CHAPTER XIII IN DEFENCE OF MIGNON "Here are two letters for you, Lieutenant," called her mother, as Marjorie burst into the living-room, her cheeks pink from a brisk run up the drive. After leaving her schoolmates Marjorie had set off for home as fast as her light feet would carry her. She managed to keep to a decorous walk until she had swung the gate behind her, then she had sped up the drive like a fawn. "Oh, lovely!" cried Marjorie. "Your permission, Captain." She touched her hand to her hat brim in a gay little salute. Her spirits had been rising from the moment she had left the girls, carrying with her the precious security that they were now banded together in a worthy cause. Surely the snarl would straighten itself in a short time. Mary would soon see that she intended to keep her word about being friends with Mignon. Then she would understand that she, Marjorie, was loyal in spite of her unjust accusations. Then all would be as it had been before. Perhaps Mary wouldn't be quite her old, sunny self for a few days, but the shadow would pass--it must. "Why, it's from Connie!" she cried out in surprise, as her eyes sought the writing on the upper-most envelope. It was in Constance's irregular, girlish hand. She hastily tore it open and read. "DEAREST MARJORIE: "Last night at my dance I didn't know that father was to be concertmeister in the symphony orchestra. It is a great honor and we are all very happy over it. He kept it to himself until the last minute, because he knew that if he told me, I would insist on going back to New York with him for his opening concert. But I'm going with him just the same. I shall be away from Sanford for a week or so, for I want to be with him until he goes to Boston. I'll study hard and catch up in school when I come back. I wish you were going, too, but later in the season he will be in New York City again. Then Auntie says she will take you and Mary and me there to hear him play. Won't that be glorious? I'll write you again as soon as I reach New York and you must answer with a long letter, telling me about school and everything. I am so sorry I can't see you to say good-bye, but I won't have time. Don't forget to answer as soon as I write you. "Lovingly, "CONSTANCE." Marjorie's cheerful face grew blank. Certainly she was glad that Connie would experience the happiness of hearing her father play before a vast assemblage who would gather to do him honor. Nevertheless she was just a trifle cast down over the unexpected flight of her friend to New York. With a start of dismay she remembered that she had intended going to see Constance with the object of clearing away the clouds of misunderstanding. Now she would have to wait until Connie returned. And then, there was Mignon. She felt that it would be hardly fair to begin her crusade without consulting the girl whom Mignon had wronged most deeply. She had perfect faith in the quality of her friend's charity. Constance was too generous of spirit to hold a grudge. Through suffering she had grown great of soul. Still, it was right that she should be asked to decide the question. If she refused outright to sanction the proposed campaign for reform, or even demurred at the proposal, Marjorie was resolved not to carry it forward, even for Mary's or Mignon's sake. Suddenly she recollected her adjuration to the girls to gain their mothers' consent before going on with their plan. Her brows drew together in a perplexed frown. Had not Mary threatened, in the heat of her anger, that if Marjorie told her mother of their disagreement she would never speak to her again? How could she inform Captain of the compact she and her friends had made without involving Mary in it? Her mother would naturally inquire the reason for this rather remarkable movement. She might be displeased, as well as surprised, over Mary's strange predilection for the French girl. Her Captain knew all that had happened during her freshman year. On that memorable day when she had leaped into the river to rescue Marcia Arnold, and afterward come home, a curious little figure clad in Jerry Macy's ample garments, the recital of those stormy days when she had doubted, yet clung to Constance, had taken place. She recalled that long, confidential talk at her mother's knee, and the peace it had brought her. All at once her face cleared. She would tell her mother about the compact, but she would leave out the disagreeable scenes that had occurred between herself and Mary. "I'll tell her now and have it over with," she decided. "What makes you look so solemn, dear?" Her mother had glanced up from her embroidery, and was affectionately scanning her daughter's grave face. "Does your letter from Connie contain bad news? I hope nothing unpleasant has happened to the child." "Oh, no, Captain. Quite the contrary. It's something nice," returned Marjorie quickly. "Let me read you her letter." She turned to the first page and read aloud rapidly Constance's little note. "I'm so glad for her sake," she sighed, as she finished, "but I shall miss her dreadfully." "I suppose you will. Good fortune seems to have followed the Stevens family since the day when my lieutenant went out of her way to help a little girl in distress." "Perhaps I'm a mascot, Captain. If I am, then you ought to take good care of me, feed me on a special diet of plum pudding and chocolate cake, keep me on your best embroidered cushion and cherish me generally," laughed Marjorie, with a view toward turning the subject from her own generous acts, the mention of which invariably embarrassed her. "And give you indigestion and see you ossify for want of exercise under my indulgent eye," retorted her mother. "I guess you had better go on cherishing me in the good old way," decided Marjorie. "But you won't mind my sitting on one of your everyday cushions, just as close to you as I can get, will you?" Reaching for one of the fat green velvet cushions which stood up sturdily at each end of the davenport, Marjorie dropped it beside her mother's chair and curled up on it. "I've something to report, Captain," she said, her bantering tone changing to seriousness. "You remember last year--and Mignon La Salle?" Mrs. Dean frowned slightly at the mention of the French girl's name. Mother-like, she had never quite forgiven Mignon for the needless sorrow she had wrought in the lives of those she held so dear. Marjorie caught the significance of that frown. "I know how you feel about things, dearest," she nodded. "Perhaps you won't give your consent to the plan I--that is, we--have made. But I have to tell you, anyway, so here goes. Mignon La Salle went away to boarding school, but she--well she was sent home, and now she's back in Sanford High again. This afternoon Jerry, Irma, Susan, Muriel Harding and I went together to Sargent's for ice cream. While we were there we decided that we ought to forgive the past and try to help Mignon find her better self. The only way we can help her is to treat her well and invite her to our parties and luncheons. If she finds we are ready to begin all over again with her, perhaps she'll be different. We made a solemn compact to do it, provided our mothers were willing we should. So to be very slangy, 'It's up to you, Captain!'" "But suppose this girl merely takes advantage of your kindness and involves you all in another tangle?" remarked Mrs. Dean quietly. "It seems to me that she proved herself wholly untrustworthy last year." "I know it." Marjorie sighed. She would have liked to say that Mignon had already tied an ugly snarl in her affairs. But loyalty to Mary forbade the utterance. Then, brightening, she went on hopefully: "If we never try to help her, we'll never know whether she really has a better self. Sometimes it takes just a little thing to change a person's heart." "You are a dear child," Mrs. Dean bent to press a kiss on Marjorie's curly head, "and your argument is too generous to be downed. I give my official consent to the proposed reform, and I hope, for all concerned, that it will turn out beautifully." "Oh, Captain," Marjorie nestled closer, "you're too dear for words. There's another reason for my wishing to be friendly with Mignon. Mary has met her and likes her." "Mary!" Mrs. Dean looked her astonishment. "By the way, Marjorie, where is Mary? I had quite forgotten her for the time being. You didn't mention her as being with you at Sargent's." "She wasn't there," explained Marjorie. "She didn't wait for me after school. She must have gone on with--with someone and stopped to talk. I--I think she'll be here soon." A hurt look, of which she was entirely unconscious, had driven the brightness from the face Marjorie turned to her mother. Mrs. Dean was a wise woman. She discerned that there had been a hitch in the programme of her daughter's daily affairs, but she asked no questions. She never intruded upon Marjorie's little reserves. She knew now that whatever her daughter had kept back had been done in accordance with a code of living, the uprightness of which was seldom equalled in a girl of her years. She, therefore, respected the reservation and made no attempt to discover its nature. "What are you going to do first in the way of reform, Lieutenant?" she inquired brightly. "Well, I thought I would invite Mignon to my party, the one you said I could give for Mary. I'd like to have it next Friday night. Friday's the best time. We can all sleep a little later the next morning, you know." "Very well, you may," assented Mrs. Dean. "Does Mary know of the contemplated reform?" "No. You see I hated to say much to her about Mignon, because it wouldn't be very nice to discredit someone you were trying to help. Don't you agree with me?" "I suppose I must. But what of Constance?" "That's the part that bothers me," was Marjorie's troubled reply. "I'm going to write her all about it. I know she'll be with us. She's too splendid to hold spite. I think it would be all right to invite Mignon to my party, at any rate. But there's just one thing about it, Captain, if Connie objects, then the reform will have to go on without me. You understand the way I feel, don't you?" "Yes. I believe you owe it to Constance to respect her wishes. She was the chief sufferer at Mignon's hands." The confidential talk came to a sudden end with the ringing of the doorbell. "It's Mary." Marjorie sprang to her feet. "I'll let her in." Hurrying to the door, Marjorie opened it to admit Mary Raymond. She entered with an air of sulkiness that brought dread to Marjorie's heart. "Oh, Mary, where were you?" she asked, trying to appear ignorant of her chum's forbidding aspect. "I was with Mignon La Salle," returned Mary briefly. "Will you come upstairs with me, please?" "I'd love to, Lieutenant Raymond. Thank you for your kind invitation." Marjorie assumed a gaiety she did not feel. Without further remark Mary stolidly mounted the stairs. Marjorie followed her in a distinctly worried state of mind. The quarrel was going to begin over again. She was sure of that. Mary stalked past the half-open door of Marjorie's room and paused before her own. "I'd rather talk to you in _my_ room, if you please," she said distantly. "All right," agreed Marjorie, with ready cheerfulness. She intended to go on ignoring her chum's hostile attitude until she was forced to do otherwise. Mary closed the door behind them and faced Marjorie with compressed lips. The latter met her offended gaze with steady eyes. "I heard you and your friends making fun of Miss La Salle this afternoon, and I am going to say right here that I think you were all extremely unkind. She heard you, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Dean!" "Why, I don't remember making fun of Mignon!" exclaimed Marjorie. "What do you mean?" "Then your memory is very short," sneered Mary. "But I might have expected you to deny it." It was Marjorie's turn to grow indignant. "How can you accuse me of not telling the truth?" she flashed. "I did not----" She stopped, flushing deeply. She recalled Jerry Macy's humorous remark about Mignon as they stood talking in front of her locker. "I beg your pardon, Mary," she apologized. "I _do_ remember now that Mignon's name was mentioned while we were standing there. But it was nothing very dreadful. We were saying that if Miss Merton heard us talking she would scold us, and Jerry only said that if Mignon chose to sing a solo at the top of her voice, in front of _her_ locker, Miss Merton wouldn't mind in the least. Everyone knows that Mignon has always been a favorite of Miss Merton. I am sorry if she overheard it, for truly we hadn't the least idea of making fun of her. It was Jerry's funny way of saying it that made us laugh. I'll explain that to her the first time I see her." Mary's tense features relaxed a trifle. She was not yet so firmly in the toils of the French girl as to be entirely blind to Marjorie's sincerity. Her good sense told her that she was making a mountain of a mole hill. There was a ring of truth in Marjorie's voice that brought a flush of shame to her cheeks. Still she would not allow it to sway her. "It wasn't nice in you to laugh," she muttered. "She was dreadfully hurt. She feels very sensitive about being sent home from school. Of course, she knows she deserved it. She said so. But----" "Did she really say that?" interrupted Marjorie eagerly. "I am not in the habit of saying what isn't true," retorted Mary coldly. "Listen, Mary." Marjorie's face was aglow with honest purpose. "I said to you, you know, that if you wished Mignon for a friend I would be nice to her, too. Captain has promised to let me give my party for you on next Friday night. I am going to invite Mignon to it, and we are all going to try to make her feel friendly toward us." "She won't come," predicted Mary contemptuously. "I wouldn't, either, if I were in her place. I shall tell her not to come, too." "Then you will be proving yourself anything but a friend to her," flung back Marjorie hotly, "because you will be advising her against doing something that is for her good." With this clinching argument Marjorie walked to the door and opened it. "Whether I say a word or not, she won't come," called Mary after her. But Marjorie was halfway down the stairs, too greatly exasperated to trust herself to further speech. CHAPTER XIV THE COMMON FATE OF REFORMERS Nevertheless the session behind closed doors had one beneficial effect. It broke the ice that had lately formed over the long comradeship of the two girls, and, although nothing was as of old, they were both secretly relieved to still be on terms of conversation. Out of pure regard for Mary, Marjorie treated her exactly as she had always done, and Mary pretended to respond, simply because she had determined that Mr. and Mrs. Dean should not become aware of any difference in their relations. She affected an interest in planning for the party and kept up a pretty show of concern which Marjorie alone knew to be false. Privately Mary's deceitful attitude was a sore trial to her. Honest to the core, she felt that she would rather her chum had maintained open hostility than a farce of good will which was dropped the moment they chanced to be alone. Still she resolved to bear it and look forward to a happier day when Mary would relent. The invitations to the party had been mailed and duly accepted. Much to Mary's secret surprise and chagrin, Mignon had not declined to shed the light of her countenance upon the proposed festivity, but had written a formal note of acceptance which amused Marjorie considerably, inasmuch as the acceptances of the others had been verbal. Despite her hatred for Marjorie Dean and her friends, Mignon had resolved to profit by the sudden show of friendliness which, true to their compact, the five girls had lost no time in carrying out. Ignoble of soul, she did not value the favor of these girls as a concession which she had been fortunate enough to receive. She decided to use it only as a wedge to reinstate herself in a certain leadership which her bad behavior of last year had lost her. She had no idea of the real reason for their interest in her. She preferred to think that they had come to a realization of her vast importance in the social life of Sanford. Was not her father the richest man in the town? She had an idea that perhaps Mary Raymond might be responsible for her sudden accession to favor. She had taken care to impress her own importance upon Mary's mind, together with certain vague insinuations as to her wrongs. After her first brief outburst against Marjorie and Constance Stevens, she had decided that she would gain infinitely more by playing the part of wronged innocence. When she received her invitation she had already heard that Constance was in New York and likely to remain there for a time. This influenced her to accept Marjorie's hospitality. Her own consciousness of guilt would not permit her to go to any place where she would meet the accusing scorn of Constance's blue eyes. Then, too, she had still another motive in attending the party. She had always looked upon Lawrence Armitage with eyes of favor. He had never paid her a great deal of attention, but he had shown her less since the advent of Constance Stevens in Sanford. She resolved to show him that she was far more clever and likable than the quiet girl who had taken such a strong hold on his boyish interest, and with that end in view Mignon planned to make her reinstatement a sweeping success. Friday afternoon was a lost session, so far as study went, to the Sanford girls who were to make up the feminine portion of Marjorie's party. "Good gracious, I thought half-past three would never come!" grumbled Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear as they filed decorously through the corridor. "Let's make a quick dash for the locker-room. I've a pressing engagement with the hair-dresser and I'm dying to get through with it and sweep down to dinner in my new silver net party dress. It's a dream and makes me look positively thin. You won't know me when you see me." "You're not the only one," put in Muriel Harding. "You won't be one, two, three when I appear to-night in all my glory." "Listen to the conceited things," laughed Irma Linton. "'I won't speak of myself,' as H. C. Anderson beautifully puts it." "Who's he?" demanded Jerry. "I know every boy in Sanford High, but I never heard of him." A shout of laughter greeted her earnest assertion. "Wake up, Jerry," dimpled Susan Atwell. "H. C. stands for Hans Christian. Now does the light begin to break?" "Oh, you make me tired," retorted Jerry. "Irma did that on purpose. That's worse than my favorite trap about letting it rain in Spain. How was I to know what she meant?" "That's all because you don't cultivate literary tastes," teased Muriel. "I do cultivate them," grinned Jerry. "I've read the dictionary through twice, without skipping a page!" "It must have been a pocket edition," murmured Marjorie. "Stop teasing me or I'll get cross and not come to your party," threatened Jerry. "You mean nothing could keep you away," laughed Irma. "You're right. Nothing could. I'll be there, clad in costly raiment, to spur the reform party on to deeds of might." "Do come early, all of you," urged Marjorie as she paused at her corner to say good-bye. "We'll be there," chorused the quartette after her. "I hope everyone will have a nice time," was Marjorie's fervent reflection as she hurried on her way. "I do wish Mary would walk home with me once in a while, instead of always waiting for Mignon. I wouldn't ask her to for worlds, though." To see Mary walk away with Mignon at the end of every session of school had been a heavy cross for Marjorie to bear. Surrounded as she always was with the four faithful members of her own little set, she was often lonely. If only Constance had been in school she could have better borne Mary's disloyalty, although the latter could never quite fill the niche which years of companionship had carved in her heart for Mary. But Connie was far away, so she must go on enduring this bitter sorrow and make no outward sign. Usually ready to bubble over with exhilaration when on the eve of participating in so delightful an occasion as a party, it was a very quiet Marjorie who tripped into the living-room that afternoon. The big, cosy apartment had undergone a marked change. It was practically bare, save for the piano in one corner, which had been moved from the drawing-room, and a phonograph which was to do occasional duty, so that the patient musicians might now and then rest from their labor. Mrs. Dean was giving a last direction to the men who had been hired to move the furniture about as Marjorie entered. "Everything is ready, Lieutenant," smiled her mother. "We have all done a strenuous day's work in a good cause." "Thank you over and over again, Captain. It's dear in you to take so much trouble for me. I'm afraid you've worked too hard." Her lately pensive mood vanishing as she viewed the newly waxed floor, Marjorie executed a gay little _pas-seul_ on its smooth surface and made a running slide toward her mother, striking against her with considerable force. "Steady, Lieutenant." Her mother passed an arm about her and gave her a loving little squeeze. "Please have proper respect for the aged." "There are no such persons here," retorted Marjorie, "I see a young and beautiful lady, who----" "Must go straight to the kitchen and see what Delia is doing in the way of dinner," finished Mrs. Dean. "Remember, we are to have it at half-past five to-night, so don't wander away and be late. Your frock is laid out on your bed, dear. You had better run along and dress before dinner. Then you will be ready. The time will fairly fly afterward. Where is Mary? Why doesn't she come home with you in the afternoon? For the past week she has come in long after school is out." "Oh, she stops to talk and walk with Mignon," replied Marjorie, with an air of elaborate carelessness. "They are very good friends." Mrs. Dean seemed about to comment further on the subject when Delia appeared in the doorway and distracted her attention to other matters. Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief as she went upstairs. She was glad to escape the further questions concerning Mary which her mother seemed disposed to ask. Her gaiety had been evanescent and she now experienced a feeling of positive gloom as she entered her pretty room and prepared to bathe and dress for the evening. She could not resist a thrill of pleasure at the sheer beauty of the white chiffon frock spread out on her bed. She wondered if Mary would wear her pale blue silk evening frock, or the white one with the lace over-frock. They were both beautiful. But she had always loved Mary in white. She wondered if she dared ask her to wear the white lace gown. While she was dressing, through her half-opened door she heard Mary's voice in the hall in conversation with her mother. Hastily slipping into her pretty frock, she went to the door hooking it as she walked. Mary was just appearing on the landing. "Oh, Mary," she called genially, "do wear your white. You will look so lovely in it." "I'm going to wear my blue gown," returned Mary stolidly, and marched on down the hall to her room, closing the door with a bang. "Just as though I'd let her dictate to me what to wear," she muttered. The two young girls made a pretty picture as they took their places at the dinner table. "I wish General were here to see you," sighed Mrs. Dean. Mr. Dean had been called away on a business trip east. "So do I," echoed Marjorie. "Things won't be quite perfect without him." Neither girl ate much dinner. They were far too highly excited to do justice to the meal. In spite of their estrangement they were both looking forward to the dance. At half-past seven o'clock Jerry and the rest of the reform party arrived, buzzing like a hive of bees. "Is she here yet?" whispered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear, after paying her respects to Mrs. Dean and Mary, who, with Marjorie, received their guests in the palm-decorated hall. "No, she hasn't come. I suppose she will arrive late. You know she loves to make a sensation." Marjorie could not resist this one little fling, despite her good resolutions. The guests continued to arrive in twos and threes and Marjorie was kept busy greeting them. True to her prediction, it was after eight o'clock when Mignon appeared. She wore an imported gown of peachblow satin that must have been a considerable item of expense to her doting father. Her elfish face glowed with suppressed excitement and her black eyes roved about, with lightning glances, born of a curiosity to inspect every detail of her unfamiliar surroundings. "I am glad you came," greeted Marjorie graciously, and presented Mignon to her mother. The French girl acknowledged the introduction, then turning to Mary began an eager, low-toned conversation, apparently forgetting her hostess. Mrs. Dean betrayed no sign of what went on in her mind, but her thoughts on the subject of Mignon were not flattering. Ill-bred, she mentally styled her, and decided that she would look into the matter of her growing friendship with Mary. The dancing had already begun when, piloted by Mary, who had apparently forgotten that she was of the receiving party, the two girls strolled into the impromptu ballroom. Mary was immediately claimed as a partner by Lawrence Armitage, who tried to console himself with the thought that, at least, she looked like Constance. Mignon's face darkened as they danced off. Lawrie had merely bowed to her. But he had asked Mary to dance. That was because she resembled that odious Stevens girl. Her resentment against Constance blazed forth afresh. She hoped Constance would never return to Sanford. Thanks to a long lecture which Jerry had read to her brother Hal, Mignon was not neglected. Although none of the Weston High boys really liked her, she was asked to dance almost every number. Later in the evening Lawrence Armitage asked her for a one-step, and she vainly imagined that, after all, she had made an impression on him. Radiant with triumph over her social success, Mignon saw herself firmly entrenched in the leadership she dreamed would be hers. But her triumph was to be short-lived. After supper, which was served at two long tables in the dining-room, the guests returned to their dancing with the tireless ardor of first youth. Chancing to be without a partner, Mignon slipped into a palm-screened nook under the stairs for a chat with Mary, who had followed her about all evening, more with a view of hurting Marjorie than from an excess of devotion. From their position they could see all that went on about them, yet be quite hidden from the unobservant. The unobservant happened to be Marjorie and Jerry Macy, who had come from the ballroom for a confidential talk and taken up their station directly in front of the alcove. Save for the two girls behind the palms, the hall was deserted. "Well, I guess Mignon's having a good time," declared Jerry Macy in her brisk, loud tones. "She ought to. I nearly talked myself hoarse to Hal before he'd promise to see that the boys asked her to dance. This reform business is no joke." "Lower your voice, Jerry," warned Marjorie. "Someone might hear you." Mary Raymond made a sudden movement to rise. Stubborn she might be, but she was not so dishonorable as to listen to a conversation not intended for her ears. Mignon pulled her back with sudden savage strength. She laid her finger to her lips, her black eyes gleaming with anger. "Oh, there's no one around. Say, Marjorie, do you think it's really worth while to go out of our way to reform Mignon? Look at her to-night. You'd think she had conquered the universe. She was all smiles when Laurie Armitage asked her to dance. He can't bear her, he told me so last Hallowe'en, after she made all that fuss about her old bracelet. If we hadn't banded ourselves together to find that better self which you are so sure she's carrying around with her, I'd say call it off and forget it. None of us really likes her. You know that, even if you won't say so. She is----" The waltz time ended in a soft chord and the dancers began trooping through the doorway to the big punch-bowl of lemonade in one corner of the hall. They were just in time to see a lithe figure in pink spring out, catlike, from behind the palm-screened alcove and hear a furious voice cry out, "How dare you insult a guest by talking about her, the moment her back is turned?" CHAPTER XV AN IRATE GUEST Jerry Macy and Marjorie Dean whirled about at the sound of that wrathful voice. Mignon La Salle confronted them, her eyes flashing, her fingers closing and unclosing in nervous rage, looking for all the world like a young tigress. "Oh, for goodness' sake, some one lead her away!" muttered the Crane to Irma Linton. "I told Hal to-day that, with Mignon aboard the good old party ship, we'd be sure to have fireworks. Real dynamite, too, and no mistake. I wonder what's upset her sweet, retiring disposition?" His boyish face indicated his deep disgust. "I heard every word you said!" screamed Mignon. Rage had stripped her of the thin veneer of civilization. She was the same young savage who had kicked and screamed her way to whatever she desired when years before she had been the terror of the neighborhood. "So, that's the reason you invited me to your old party! You got together and picked me to pieces and decided to reform me! Just let me tell you that you had better look to yourselves. I don't need your kind offices. You are a crowd of hateful, deceitful, mean, horrible girls! I despise you all! Everyone of you! Do you hear me? I despise you! And _you_, Jerry Macy, had better be a little careful as to what you gossip about me. I can tell you----" There came a sudden interruption to the tirade. Through the amazed groups of young people who could not resist lingering to find out what it was all about, Mrs. Dean resolutely made her way. "That will do, Miss La Salle," she commanded sternly. "I cannot allow you to make such a disgraceful scene in my home, or insult my daughter and her guests. If you will come quietly upstairs with me and state your grievance, I shall do all in my power to rectify it. Marjorie," she turned to her daughter, who stood looking on in wide-eyed distress, "ask the musicians to start the music for the next dance." Marjorie obeyed and, somewhat ashamed of their curiosity, the dancers forgot their thirst for lemonade and flocked into the ballroom. Only Jerry Macy and Mary Raymond remained. "It's all my fault, Mrs. Dean," began Jerry contritely. "I didn't know Mignon was in the alcove. I can't help saying she had no business to listen, but----" "It _is_ my business," began Mignon furiously. "I have a right----" "Don't begin this quarrel all over again." Mrs. Dean held up her hand for silence. "I repeat," she continued, regarding Mignon with marked displeasure, "if you will come upstairs with me----" "Mrs. Dean, it's a shame the way Mignon has been treated to-night," burst forth Mary Raymond, "and I for one don't intend to stand by and see her insulted. Miss Macy said perfectly hateful things about her. I heard them. Marjorie is just as much to blame. She listened to them and never said a word to stop them." "Mary Raymond!" Mrs. Dean's voice held an ominous note that should have warned Mary to hold her peace. Instead it angered her to open rebellion. "Don't 'Mary Raymond' me," she mocked in angry sarcasm. "I meant what I said, every word of it. Mignon is my dear friend and I shall stand up for her." "Oh, let me alone, all of you!" With an agile spring, Mignon gained the stairway and sped up the stairs on winged feet. Two minutes later, wrapped in her evening coat and scarf, she reappeared at the head and ran down the steps two at a time. "Thank you so much for a delightful evening," she bowed ironically. "I'm so sorry I haven't time to stay and be lectured. It's too bad, isn't it, Miss Mary, that the reform couldn't go on?" To Mary she held out her hand. "Come and spend the day with me to-morrow, Mary. You may like it so well, you'll decide to stay. If you do, why just come along whenever you feel disposed. I can assure you that our house is a pleasanter place to live in than the one you are in now." With this pointed fling she bowed again in mock courtesy to the silent woman who had offended her and flounced out the door and into the starlit night to where her own electric runabout was standing. "Can you beat that?" was the tribute that fell from Jerry Macy's lips. Mrs. Dean looked from one to the other of the three girls. "Now, girls, I demand an explanation of all this. Who of you is at fault in the matter?" "I told you it was I," answered Jerry. "Marjorie and I were talking about Mignon and saying that she was having a good time. Then I had to go on and say some more things that I don't take back, but that weren't intended for listeners. I didn't know Mignon and Mary were hidden in that alcove. Do you suppose I'd have spoiled our reform, after all the trouble we've had making it go, if I'd known they were there?" Mrs. Dean could not repress a faint smile at Jerry's rueful admissions. She liked this stout, matter-of-fact girl in spite of her rough, brusque ways. "No, I don't suppose you would, but you were in the wrong, I am afraid. You must learn to curb that sharp tongue, Jerry. It is likely, some day, to involve you in serious trouble." "I know it." Jerry hung her head. "But, you see, Marjorie understands me. That's why I say to her whatever I think." "Mary," Mrs. Dean gravely studied Mary's sulky face, "I am deeply hurt and surprised. Later I shall have something to say to you and Marjorie. Now go back to your friends, all of you, and try to make up to them for this unpleasantness." Marjorie, who all this time had said nothing, now began timidly. She had seldom seen her beloved Captain so stern. "Captain, we are----" "Not another word. I said, 'later.'" Jerry and Marjorie turned to the ballroom. Mary however, with a scornful glance at Mrs. Dean, faced about and went upstairs. She had been imbued with a naughty resolve and she determined to proceed at once to carry it out. The dancing went on for a little, but the disagreeable happening had dampened the ardor of the guests and they began leaving for home soon afterward. It was midnight when the last sound of the footsteps of the departing youngsters echoed down the walk. Side by side, Marjorie and her mother watched them go, then the latter slipped her arm through that of her daughter and said, "Now, Marjorie, we will get to the bottom of this affair. Come with me to Mary's room." They reached it to find the door closed. Mrs. Dean knocked upon one of the panels. "What do you want?" inquired an angry voice. "We wish to come in, Mary," was Mrs. Dean's even response. There was a muttered exclamation, a hurry of light feet, then the door was flung open. "You can come in for all I care," was Mary's rude greeting. "You might as well know now that I'm not going to live here after to-night. I'm going to Mignon's house to live." Piles of clothing scattered about and a significantly yawning trunk bore out the assertion. Mrs. Dean knew that the time for action had come. Walking over to the girl, she placed deliberate hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me, Mary Raymond," she said decisively. "You are _not_ going one step out of this house without my consent. Your father intrusted you to my care, and I shall endeavor to carry out his wishes. You know as well as I that he would be displeased and sorry over your behavior. I had intended to talk matters over with you and Marjorie now, but you are in no mood for reason. Therefore we will allow this affair to rest until to-morrow. But, once and for all, unless your father sanctions your removal in a letter to me, you will stay here, under my roof. Come, Marjorie." With a sorrowful glance toward the tense, angry little figure, Marjorie followed her mother from the room. CHAPTER XVI THE PENALTY Marjorie awoke the next morning with a dull ache in her heart. It was as though she had been the victim of a bad dream. She stared gloomily about her, struggling to recollect the cause of her depression. Then remembrance rushed over her like a wave. No, she had not dreamed. Last night had been only too real. If anyone had even intimated to her beforehand that the party which had promised so much was fated to end so disagreeably, she would have laughed the prediction to scorn. If only Jerry had kept her unpleasantly candid remarks to herself! Yet, after all, she could hardly blame her very much. What Jerry had said had been intended for her ears alone. As hostess, however, she should not have permitted Jerry to continue. Marjorie blamed herself heavily for this. To be sure, it had been hardly fair in Mary and Mignon to listen. They should have made known their presence. She wondered what she would have done under the same circumstances. Her sense of honor answered her. She knew she would have immediately come forward. She could not understand why Mary had not done so. Loyal to the core, Marjorie's faith in her chum refused to die. The Mary she had known for so many years had not been lacking in honor. What she had feared from the first had come to pass. Mary had been swayed by Mignon's baleful personality. The much-talked-of reform had ended in a glaring fizzle. For some time Marjorie lay still, her thoughts busy with the disquieting events of the previous night. She had longed to turn and comfort the tense little figure standing immovable in the middle of her room, but her Captain's word was law, and Marjorie could but sadly acknowledge to herself that her mother had acted for the best. So she could do nothing but follow her from the room with a heavy heart. What was to be the outcome of the affair she dared not even imagine. A reconciliation with Mary was her earnest desire. This, however, could hardly be brought about. Perhaps they would never again be friends. A rush of tears blinded her brown eyes. Burying her face in the pillow, Marjorie gave vent to the sorrow which overflowed her soul. The sound of light, tapping fingers on the door caused her to sit up hastily. "Come in," she called, trying to steady her voice. The door opened to admit Mary Raymond. Her babyish face looked white and wan in the clear morning light. For hours after her door had closed upon Marjorie and her mother she had sat on the edge of her bed in her pretty blue party frock, brooding on her wrongs. When she had finally prepared for sleep, it was only to toss and turn in her bed, wide-awake and resentful. At daylight she had risen listlessly, then fixing upon a certain plan of action, had bathed, put on a simple house gown and knocked at Marjorie's door. A single glance at Marjorie's face was sufficient for her to determine that her chum had been crying. She decided that she was glad of it. Marjorie had made _her_ unhappy, now she deserved a similar fate. "Why, Mary!" Marjorie sprang from the bed and advanced to meet her. Involuntarily both arms were outstretched in tender appeal. Mary took no notice of the mutely pleading arms, save to step back with a cold gesture of avoidance. "I haven't come here to be friends," she said with deliberate cruelty. "I've come to ask you what you intend to say to your mother." "What _can_ I say to her?" Marjorie's voice had a despairing note. "You can say nothing," retorted Mary. "That is what _I_ intend to do. Your friend, Jerry Macy, said too much last night. I cannot see why our school affairs should be discussed in this house. I am sorry that Mignon made a--a--disturbance last night. I didn't intend to listen, but----" Her old-time frankness had almost overcome her newly hostile bearing. She was on the point of saying that she had been ready to step forth from behind the palms at Jerry's first speech. Then loyalty to Mignon prevailed and she paused. Marjorie caught at a straw. "I _knew_ you didn't intend to listen, Mary." The assurance rang out earnestly. "I couldn't make myself believe that you would. I wanted to stay last night and tell you how sorry I was for--for everything, but I owed it to Captain to obey orders. Mary, dear, can't we start over again? I'm sure it's all been a stupid mistake. Let's be good soldiers and resolve to face that dreadful enemy, Misunderstanding, together. Let's go to Captain and tell her every single thing! Think how much better we'll both feel. It almost broke my heart, last night, when you said you were going to Mignon's to live. If Captain thinks it best, I'll break my promise to Connie and tell you----" At the mention of Constance Stevens' name Mary's face darkened. Touched by Marjorie's impassioned appeal she had been tempted to break down the barrier that rose between them and take the girl she still adored into her stubborn heart again. But the mere name of Constance had acted as a spur to her rancor. "Don't trouble yourself about begging permission of Miss Stevens on _my_ account," she sneered. "I know a great deal too much of her already. What do you suppose the girls and boys of Franklin High, who gave you your butterfly pin, would say if they knew that you let the girl who stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever." Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. "Mary Raymond, you don't know what you are talking about," she flamed. "I can guess who told you that untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was _not_ Constance who took my butterfly pin. It was----" Again she remembered her promise. "Well," jeered Mary, "who was it, then?" "I shall not say another word until I see Captain." Marjorie's tones were freighted with decision. "You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty," cut in Mary scornfully. "Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more. You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain--I mean Mrs. Dean," she corrected haughtily. "If you do, then I repeat what I said the other day. I'll never speak to you again--no, not if I live here forever. But I won't have to do that, for I shall write to Father and ask him to let me go to Mignon's to live. So there!" With this dire threat Mary flounced angrily from the room, well pleased with the stand she had taken. It was a most unsociable trio that gathered at the breakfast table that Saturday morning. Mary carried herself with open belligerence. Marjorie looked as though she was on the point of bursting into tears, while Mrs. Dean was unusually grave. A delicate task lay before her and she was wondering as she poured the coffee how she had best begin. Still she had determined to thresh the matter out speedily, and as soon as Delia had served the breakfast and retired to the kitchen, she glanced from one to the other of the two principals and said, "Now, girls, I am waiting to hear about last night." A blank silence fell. Marjorie fixed her eyes on Mary. To her belonged the first word. The silence continued. "Well, Mary," Mrs. Dean spoke at last, "what have you to say for yourself?" "Nothing," came the mutinous reply. "I am sorry that you won't meet me frankly," commented Mrs. Dean. "I had hoped to find you on duty." Her searching gaze rested on Marjorie "Lieutenant, it is your turn, I think." Marjorie flushed with distress. She was between two fires. Obedience won. She related what had transpired in the hall in a few brief words, shielding Mary as far as was possible. "But I know all this," said Mrs. Dean, a trifle impatiently. "Jerry told me last night. There is more to this affair than appears on the surface. What has happened to estrange you two, who have been chums for so many years? I have seen for some time that matters were not progressing smoothly between you. Things cannot go on in this way. You must take me into your confidence. It is evident that a reform is needed here at home." Mary stared fixedly at her plate. She was resolved not to be a party to that reform. If Marjorie failed her, well--she knew the consequences. Marjorie saw the sullen, mutinous face through a mist of tears. She tried to speak, but speech refused to come. "I am ashamed of my soldiers." Mrs. Dean spoke sadly. "What would General say, if he were here?" The grave question rang like a clarion call in Marjorie's soul. A vision of her father's merry, quizzical eyes grown suddenly sober and hurt over the stubborn resistance of his little army was too much for her. One mournfully appealing glance at the unyielding Mary and she burst forth with, "I can't stand it any longer. I must speak. Last year, when--when--Connie and I had so many unhappy days over my lost butterfly pin I didn't write Mary about what was happening, because I felt terribly and wished her to know only the pleasant side of my school life. So she hadn't the least idea that Connie and I had become such friends. She thought Connie was just a poor girl whom I tried to help because I was sorry for her. When I asked Connie to come with us to the station to meet Mary I was so happy to think they were going to meet that I am afraid I made Mary believe that Connie had taken her place with me. You know, Captain, that it couldn't be so. Mary has been and always will be my dearest friend. I never dreamed she would become----" Marjorie hesitated. She could not bring herself to say "jealous." A smile of contempt curved Mary's lips. "Why don't you say 'jealous'? That's what you mean," she supplemented. "Very well, I will say it," rejoined Marjorie quietly. "I never dreamed Mary would become jealous of my friendship with Connie. Before long I noticed she was not quite her own dear self. Then she said something that made me see that I ought to tell her all about last year, but I didn't feel that it would be right until I had asked Connie's permission. I told Mary I would do that very thing, but at Connie's dance before I ever had a chance _she_ asked me not to say anything. She was still so hurt over that affair of my pin that she was afraid Mary might not like her so much if she knew. I didn't know what to do, then. If I were to say that Mary had asked me to tell her, well--I thought Connie might think her curious." Mary made a half-stifled exclamation of anger. Then she shrugged her shoulders with inimitable contempt and fixed her gaze on the opposite wall, assuming an air of boredom she was far from feeling. "Go on," commanded Mrs. Dean. Marjorie had hesitated at the interruption. "There isn't much more to tell," continued Marjorie bravely, "only that Mignon came back to school and met Mary and made mischief. You know the rest, Captain. You remember what I said to you the other day----" "Then you _had_ told your mother things about me, already!" burst forth Mary furiously. "Very well. You know what I said this morning. Just remember it." Marjorie gazed piteously at the angry girl. She could not believe that Mary intended to carry out her threat of the morning. "What did you say to Marjorie this morning?" inquired Mrs. Dean in cold displeasure. She was endeavoring to be impartial, but her clear mental vision pointed that it was not her daughter who was at fault. Mary's reply was flung defiantly forth. "I said I'd never speak to her again, and I won't! I won't!" If Mary had expected Mrs. Dean either to order her to reconsider her rash words or plead with her for reconciliation, she was doomed to disappointment. "We will take you at your word, Mary," came the calm answer. "Hereafter Marjorie must not speak to you unless you address her first. Of course, it will be unpleasant for all of us, but I can see nothing else to be done. You may write to your father if you choose. He will undoubtedly write me in return, and naturally I shall tell him the plain, unvarnished truth, together with several items of interest concerning Mignon La Salle which cannot be withheld from him. I shall not forbid you to continue your friendship with her. You are old enough now to know right from wrong. So long as she does nothing to break the conventions of society, I can condemn her only as a trouble-maker. My advice to you would be to drop her acquaintance. When Constance returns it would be well for you and Marjorie to invite her here and clear up this difficulty. However, that rests with you. So far as General and I are concerned, nothing is changed. We shall continue to the utmost to fulfill your father's trust in us. Now, once and for all, we will drop the subject. I must insist on no more bickering and quarreling in my house. That applies to both of you." "Please let me say just one thing more, Captain." Marjorie turned imploring eyes upon her mother. "If Mary will let me bring Connie here, when she comes back, I'm sure every cloud can be cleared away. Mary," her vibrant tones throbbed with tender sympathy, "won't you take back what you've said and believe in me?" For answer Mary Raymond rose from the table and left the room, obstinately trampling friendship and good will under her wayward feet. She had begun to keep her vow. CHAPTER XVII A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION The days following the final break in the friendship between the two sophomores were dark indeed for Marjorie. The tale of Mignon's stormy outbreak at her party had been retailed far and wide. It furnished material for much speculative gossip among the students of Sanford High School, and, as is always the case, grew out of proportion to truth with each subsequent recital. Although the five girls who had banded themselves together in the reform that met with such signal failure refused to commit themselves, nevertheless the purpose of their compact, revealed by Mignon's sarcastic tirade at the party, was no longer a secret. Regarding the conscientiousness of their motives, opinions were divided. Certain girls who had a wholesome respect for wealth, personified in Mignon, murmured among themselves that it was a shame she had been so badly treated, while under the Deans' roof. A few still bolder spirits went so far as to criticize Mrs. Dean for interfering in a school-girl's quarrel. They asserted that Mary Raymond had behaved wisely in openly defending her. Marjorie Dean was a great baby to allow her mother to run her affairs. There was no one quite so tiresome as a goody-goody. On the other hand, Marjorie possessed many firm friends who defended her, to the last word. For the time being discussion ran rife, for youth loves to take up arms in any cause that promises excitement, without stopping to consider dispassionately both sides of a story. After the party Mignon had lost no time in imparting to those who would listen to her that the Deans had treated their guest with the utmost cruelty and it was for her invalid mother's sake alone that Mary had resigned herself to remain under their roof and go on with her school. Her distortion of the truth grew with each recital and, as the autumn days came and went, she found she had succeeded in dividing the sophomore class far more effectually than she had divided it the preceding year, when in its freshman infancy. At the Hallowe'en dance which the Weston boys always gave to their fair Sanford schoolmates, dissension had reigned and broken forth in so many petty jealousies that the boyish hosts had been filled with gloomy disgust "at the way some of those girls acted," and vowed among themselves never to give another party. There were exceptions, of course, they had moodily agreed. Marjorie Dean and _her_ crowd were "all right" girls and "nothing was too good for them." As for some others, well--"they'd wait a long time before the fellows broke their necks to show 'em another good time." After a three weeks' absence Constance Stevens had returned to Sanford and school. To her Marjorie confided her sorrows. So distressed was the latter at the part she had unwittingly played in the jangle that she wrote Mary Raymond an earnest little note, which was read and contemptuously consigned to the waste-basket as unworthy of answer. Long were the talks Constance and Marjorie had on the sore subject of Mary's unreasonable stand, and many were the plans proposed by which they might soften her stony little heart, but none of them were carried out. They were voiced, only to be laid aside as futile. To Marjorie it was all a dreadful dream from which she forlornly hoped she might at any moment awaken. Three times a day she endured the torture of sitting opposite Mary at meals, of hearing her talk with her mother and father exactly as though she were not present. Mr. Dean had returned from his Western trip. His wife had immediately advised him of the painful situation, and, after due deliberation, he had decided that the only one who could alter it was Mary herself. "Let her alone," he counseled. "She has her father's disposition. You cannot drive her. You were right in leaving her to work out her own salvation. It is hard on Marjorie, poor child, but sooner or later Mary will wake up. When she does she will be a very humble young woman. I wouldn't have her father and mother know this for a good deal, and neither would she. You can rest assured of that. Still you had better keep an eye on her. I don't like her friendship with this La Salle girl. Mark me, some day she will turn on Mary, and then see what happens! I'll have a talk with my sore-hearted little Lieutenant and cheer her up, if I can." Mr. Dean kept his word, privately inviting his sober-eyed daughter to meet him at his office after school and go for a long ride with him in the crisp autumn air. Once they had left Sanford behind them, Marjorie, who understood the purpose of the little expedition, opened her sorrowing heart to her General. Sure of his sympathy, she spoke her inmost thoughts, while he listened, commented, asked questions and comforted, then repeated his prediction of a happy ending with a positiveness that aroused in her new hope of better days yet to come. Marjorie never forgot that ride. They tarried for dinner at a wayside inn, justly famous for its cheer, and drove home happily under the November stars. As she studied her lessons that night she experienced a rush of buoyant good fellowship toward the world in general which for many days had not been hers. Yes, she was certain now that the shadow would be lifted. Sooner or later she and Mary would step, hand-in-hand, into the clear sunlight of perfect understanding. She prayed that it might dawn for her soon. As is usually the case with persons innocent of blame, she took herself sharply to task for whatever part of the snarl she had helped to make. She did not know that the stubborn soul of her friend could be lifted to nobler things only by suffering; that Mary's moment of awakening was still far distant. But while Marjorie prayed wistfully for reconciliation, Mary Raymond sat in the next room, her straight brows puckered in a frown over a sheet of paper she held in her hand. On it was written: "DEAR MARY: "Be sure to come to the practice game to-morrow. I think you will find it interesting. If it is anything like the last one, several persons are going to be surprised when it is over. I won't see you after school to-day, as I am not coming back to the afternoon session. "MIGNON." Mary stared at the paper with slightly troubled eyes. Estranged from Marjorie, she and Mignon had become boon companions. Since that eventful morning when she had chosen her own course, she had discovered a number of things about the French girl not wholly to her liking. First of all she had expected that her latest sturdy defiance of the Deans would elicit the highest approbation on the part of Mignon. Greatly to her disappointment, her new friend, in whose behalf she had renounced so much, had received her bold announcement, "I'm done with Marjorie Dean forever," quite as a matter of course. She had merely shrugged her expressive shoulders and remarked, "I am glad you've come to your senses," without even inquiring into the details. Ignoring Mary's wrongs, which had now become an old story to her and therefore devoid of interest, she had launched forth into a lengthy discussion of her own plans, a subject of which she was never tired of talking. After that it did not take long for the foolish little lieutenant, who had so unfeelingly deserted her regiment, to see that Mignon was entirely self-centered. Other revelations soon followed. Mignon was agreeable as long as she could have her own way. She would not brook contradiction, and she snapped her fingers at advice. She was a law unto herself, and to be her chum meant to follow blindly and unquestioningly wherever she chose to lead. Mary tried to bring herself to believe that she had made a wise choice. It was an honor to be best friends with the richest girl in Sanford High School. She owned an electric runabout and wore expensive clothes. At home she was the moving power about which the houseful of servants meekly revolved. All this was very gratifying, to be sure, but deep in her heart Mary knew that she would rather spend one blessed hour of the old, carefree companionship with Marjorie than a year with this strange, elfish girl with whom she had cast her lot. But it was too late to retreat. She had burned her bridges behind her. She must abide by that which she had chosen. To give her due credit, she still believed that Mignon had been misjudged. She invested the French girl with a sense of honor which she had never possessed, and to this Mary pinned her faith. Perhaps if she had not been still sullenly incensed against Constance Stevens, the scales might have fallen from her eyes. But her resentment against the latter was exceeded only by Mignon's dislike for the gentle girl. Thus the common bond of hatred held them together. She had only to mention Constance's name and Mignon would rise to the bait with torrential anger. This in itself was an unfailing solace to Mary. To-night, however, her conscience troubled her. For the past three weeks basket ball had been the all-important topic of the hour with the students of Sanford High School. It was the usual custom for the instructor in gymnastics to hold basket ball try-outs among the aspiring players of the various classes. Assisted by several seniors, she culled the most skilful players to make the respective teams. But this year a new departure had been declared. Miss Randall was no longer instructor. She had resigned her position the previous June and passed on to other fields. Her successor, Miss Davis, had ideas of her own on the subject of basket ball and no sooner had she set foot in the gymnasium than she proceeded to put them into effect. Instead of picking one team from the freshman and sophomore classes, she selected two from each class. Then she organized a series of practice games to determine which of the two teams should represent their respective classes in the field of glory. Marjorie, Susan Atwell, Muriel Harding, a tall girl named Esther Lind, and Harriet Delaney made one of the two teams. Mignon La Salle, Elizabeth Meredith, Daisy Griggs, Louise Selden and Anne Easton, the latter four devoted supporters of Mignon La Salle, composed the other. There had been some little murmuring on the part of Marjorie's coterie of followers over the choice. Miss Davis was a close friend of Miss Merton and it was whispered that she had been posted beforehand in choosing the second team. Otherwise, how had it happened to be made up of Mignon's admiring satellites? Miss Davis had decreed that three practice games between the two sophomore teams should be played to decide their prowess. The winners should then be allowed to challenge the freshmen, who were being put through a similar contest, to play a great deciding game for athletic honors on the Saturday afternoon following Thanksgiving. She also undertook to make basket ball plans for the juniors and seniors, but these august persons declined to become enthusiastic over the movement and balked so vigorously at the first intimation of interference with their affairs that Miss Davis retired gracefully from their horizon and devoted her energy to the younger and more pliable pupils of the school. Not yet arrived at the dignity of the two upper classes, the sophomores and freshmen were still too devoted to the game itself to resent being managed. To find in Miss Davis an ardent devotee of basket ball was a distinct gain. Miss Archer, although she attended the games played between the various teams, was not, and had not been, wholly in favor of the sport since that memorable afternoon of the year before when Mignon had accused Ellen Seymour, now a junior, of purposely tripping her during a wild rush for the ball. Privately, Miss Archer considered basket ball rather a rough sport for girls and they knew that a repetition of last year's disturbance meant death to basket ball in Sanford High School. Two of the three practice games had been played by the sophomore teams. The squad of which Marjorie was captain had easily won the first. This had greatly incensed Captain Mignon and her players. A series of locker and corner confabs had followed. Mary, who did not aspire to basket ball honors, had been present at these talks. In the beginning the discussions had merely been devoted to the devising of signals and the various methods of scoring against their opponents. But gradually a new and sinister note had crept in. Mignon did not actually counsel her team to take unfair advantages, but she made many artful suggestions, backed up by a play of her speaking shoulders that conveyed volumes to her followers. It began to dawn upon Mary that these "clever tricks," as Mignon was wont to designate them, were not only flagrant dishonesties but dangerous means to the end, quite likely to result in physical harm. Her sense of honor was by no means dead, although companionship with Mignon had served to blunt it. She had remonstrated rather weakly with the latter on one occasion, as they walked toward home together after leaving the other girls, and had been ridiculed for her pains. She now stared at Mignon's irregular, disjointed writing, which in some curious way suggested the girl's elfish personality, with unhappy eyes. Just what did Mignon mean by intimating that several persons were "going to be surprised" when to-morrow's practice game was over? It sounded like a threat. No doubt it was. Suppose--some one were to be hurt through this tricky playing of Mignon's team! Suppose that some one were to be Marjorie! Mary shuddered. She remembered once reading in a newspaper an account of a basket-ball game in which a girl had been tripped by an opponent and had fallen. That girl had hurt her spine and the physicians had decreed that she would never walk again. Mary put her hands before her eyes as though to shut out the mental vision of Marjorie, lying white and moaning on the gymnasium floor, the victim of an unscrupulous adversary. What could she do? She could not warn Marjorie to be on her guard. She had now passed out of her former chum's friendship of her own free will. She could not go privately to Muriel or Susan or the other members of the team. No, indeed! Yet, somehow, she must convey a message of warning. Seized with a sudden impulse to carry out her resolve, she picked up a pencil and began to scrawl on a bit of paper in a curious, back-handed fashion, quite different from her neat Spencerian hand. Over and over she practiced this hand on a loosened sheet from her note-book. At length she rose and, going to her chiffonier, took from the top drawer a leather writing case. Tumbling its contents hastily over, she selected a sheet of pale gray paper. There was a single envelope to match. Long it had lain among her stationery, the last of a kind she had formerly used. She was sure Marjorie had never seen it, so if it fell into her hands she could not trace it to her. Once more she practiced the back-handed scrawl. Then, with an energy born of the remorse which was to serve as a continual penance for her folly, she wrote: "TO THE SOPHOMORE TEAM: "Be on your guard when you play to-morrow. If you are not very careful you may be sorry. Beware of 'tricks.' "ONE WHO KNOWS." Folding the warning, Mary slipped it into its envelope. But now the question again confronted her, "To whom shall I send it?" After a moment's frowning thought she decided upon Harriet Delaney as the recipient. But dared she trust it to the mail service? Suppose it were not delivered until afternoon? Then it would be too late. The Delaneys lived only two blocks further up the street. It was not yet ten o'clock. Mrs. Dean had gone to a lecture. Marjorie was in her room. If she met General she would merely state that she was going to post a letter. That would be entirely true. She would run all the way there and back. Once she had reached Harriet's house she must take her chance of being discovered. Drawing on her long blue coat, Mary crept noiselessly down the stairs. General was not in sight. The living room was in darkness. Only the hall lights burned. It took but an instant to softly open the door. Mary sped down the walk and on her errand of honor like a frightened fawn. Fortune favored her. No eye marked her cautious ascent of the Delaney's steps. She breathed a faint sigh of relief as she slipped the envelope into the letter slot in the middle of the front door. Then she turned and dashed for home like a pursued criminal. She had hardly gained the shelter of her room when she heard the front door open to the accompaniment of cheerful voices. Mr. Dean had evidently gone forth to bring his wife home from the lecture. Mary threw herself on the bed, her heart pounding with excitement and the energy of her brisk run. And though she was conscious only of having done a good deed for honor's sake, nevertheless she had faced about and taken a long step in the right direction. CHAPTER XVIII A MYSTERIOUS WARNING "Good-morning, Mrs. Dean. Is Marjorie here?" There was a hint of suppressed excitement in the clear voice that asked the question. "Good morning, Harriet. Come in." Mrs. Dean smiled pleasantly upon her caller, as she ushered her into the hall. "You are out early this morning. Yes, Marjorie is here. She hasn't come downstairs yet. She is a little inclined to linger in bed on Saturday morning." "I can't blame her," laughed Harriet. "I am fond of doing the same. But I've a special reason for being out early this morning. It's about basket ball. You may be sure of that." "Basket-ball is enjoying its usual popularity. I hear a great deal about it of late," returned Mrs. Dean. "Pardon me." Raising her voice, she called up the stairway, "Mar-jorie!" "Coming down on the jump, Captain!" answered Marjorie's voice. Verifying her words, she bounded lightly down the stairs, still in her dressing gown, her hair falling in long loose curls about her lovely face. "I knew who was here. I heard Harriet's voice." "Oh, Marjorie," burst forth Harriet, taking a quick step forward. "I--something awfully queer has happened!" She glanced nervously about her, but Mrs. Dean had already vanished through the doorway, leading into the dining room. She rarely intruded upon Marjorie's callers longer than to welcome them. "What is it, Harriet?" fell wonderingly from Marjorie's lips. Her friend's early call, coupled with her agitated manner, betokened something unusual. "Read this!" Harriet thrust a sheet of pale gray note paper into Marjorie's hand. "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of!" Marjorie swept the few scrawling lines of which the paper boasted with a keen, comprehensive glance. As its import dawned upon her, her brown eyes grew round with amazement. She re-read it twice. "Where did you receive it?" came her sharp question, as she continued to hold it in her hand. "I don't know when it came. Mother found it on the floor in the vestibule this morning. I was still in bed. She sent Nora, our maid, upstairs with it. You can imagine I didn't stop to finish my nap. I hurried and dressed, ate about three bites of breakfast and started for your house as fast as I could travel. I thought you ought to see it first. What do you make of it?" "I hardly know what to think." Marjorie's glance strayed from Harriet's perturbed face to the mysterious letter of warning. "Somehow, I don't believe it was written for a joke. Do you?" "No, I don't." Harriet shook her head positively. "I think it was intended for just what it is, a warning to be on our guard to-day. I'll tell you something, Marjorie. I never mentioned it before because--well--you know I've never liked Mignon La Salle since she nearly broke up basket ball at Sanford High last year, and I was afraid it might sound hateful on my part, but the girls of Mignon's squad are as tricky as can be. Twice, in the first practice game we played, I had my own troubles with them. Once Daisy Griggs nearly knocked me over. She pretended it was an accident, but it wasn't. Then, in the second half, Mignon poked me in the side with her elbow. We were bunched so close that not even the referee saw her. I almost had the ball, but my side hurt me so that I missed it entirely. Susan Atwell was awfully cross about something that day, too. I asked her what had happened, but she only muttered that she hoped she'd get through the game without being murdered. She wouldn't say another word, but you can guess from what I've told you that she must have had good reason for getting mad. Did she say anything to you?" "No; I wish she had." A flash of anger darkened Marjorie's delicate features. "The girls of Mignon's team have played fairly enough with me. They are rough, I'll say that, but, so far they've not overstepped the rules." "They know better than to try their tricks on _you_!" exclaimed Harriet hotly, "or on Muriel, either. Mignon's afraid of you because you are everything that's good and noble!" "Nonsense," Marjorie grew red at this flattering assertion. "It's true, just the same. She's afraid of Muriel, too, because she knows that Muriel would report her to Miss Archer in a minute. She thinks she can harass Esther and Susan and me and that we won't dare say anything for fear Miss Archer will make a fuss. She knows how crazy we are to play and that we'd stand a good deal of knocking about rather than spoil everything. It's different with Muriel. If _she_ got mad, she would walk off the floor and straight to Miss Archer's office, and those girls know it." Marjorie was silent. What Harriet said in regard to Muriel was undoubtedly true. Since the latter had turned from Mignon La Salle to her, she had been the soul of devotion. She had never forgiven Mignon for her cowardly conduct on the day of the class picnic. Muriel reverenced the heroic, and Mignon had disgraced herself forever in the eyes of this impulsive, hero-worshipping girl. "We had better show this letter to the other girls," Marjorie said with sudden decision. "Come upstairs to my house. I'll hurry and dress. Suppose you have a few more bites of breakfast with me. Your early morning rush must have made you hungry, and you ought to be well fed, if you expect to do valiant work on the field of battle this afternoon." "I _am_ hungry," conceded Harriet, "and I won't wait to be urged. I'd love to take breakfast with you." Then, lowering her voice, she asked: "Is Mary going to the game?" A faint wistfulness tinged Marjorie's voice as she said slowly. "I don't know. I haven't asked her. I suppose she is, though." Although it was whispered among Marjorie's close friends that the unpleasant scene at her party had left a yawning gap between the two friends, never, by so much as a word, had Marjorie intimated the true state of affairs to any one except Constance and Jerry Macy. Not even Susan Atwell and Muriel Harding knew just how matters stood. Harriet remembered this in the same moment of her question, and, flushing at her own inquisitiveness, remarked hurriedly, "Everyone in school is coming to see us play." "I'm glad of that." Marjorie had recovered again her usual cheerfulness, and answered heartily. She kept up a lively stream of talk as she completed her dressing. Tucking the letter inside her white silk blouse she led the way downstairs to the dining room. She was slightly relieved to see Mary's place at the table vacant. She guessed that the latter had heard Harriet's voice and had purposely remained in her room. She had not gone astray in this supposition. Mary _had_ heard Harriet speak and knew only too well what had brought her to the Deans' house so early that morning. It was nine o'clock when Marjorie and Harriet left the house to call on Susan Atwell, who lived nearest. Susan read the mysterious warning and was duly impressed with its significance. She was equally at sea as to the writer. It soon developed, however, that Harriet had been correct in assuming that Susan's wrath at the first game played against Mignon's team had been occasioned by their unfair tactics. She had been slyly tripped by Louise Selden, she asserted, and had fallen heavily. "All this is news to me," declared Marjorie, frowning her disapproval. "It must be stopped." "How?" inquired Susan almost sulkily. "If necessary, we must have an understanding with our opponents," was the quiet response. "That is easy enough to say," retorted Susan, "but if we were to accuse those girls of playing unfairly, they would simply laugh at us and call us babies." "I'd rather be laughed at and called a baby than allow such unfairness to go on." There was a ring of determination in Marjorie's reply. "Let us hurry on to Muriel and hear her views," suggested Harriet. "She lives next door to Esther Lind, so we can call them together and show them the letter." Once the team were together they spent an anxious session over the letter left by an unseen hand. Discussion ran rife. With her usual impetuosity Muriel announced her intention of taking Mignon to task before the game. "I'm not afraid of her," she boasted. "I'd rather not play than to feel that at any minute I might be laid up for repairs. I'm much obliged to the one who wrote this. He or she must have had a troubled conscience." Marjorie cast a startled glance at Muriel. Could it be possible that Mary had written the note? And yet something about the gray stationery had seemed familiar. She was not sure, but she thought she had at some time or other received a letter from her chum written on gray note paper. She resolved to look through Mary's letters to her as soon as she reached home. If Mary had, indeed, sent the warning, it was because she felt constrained to do the only honorable thing in her power. Association with Mignon had not entirely deadened her sense of right and wrong. A wave of love and longing brought the tears to Marjorie's eyes. She winked them back. She must not betray herself to her schoolmates. "Listen to me, girls," she began earnestly. "We mustn't say a word to our opponents before the game. I know I just said that we ought to have an understanding, and I meant it. But we had better wait until the end of the first half. If everything is all right, then so much the better. If it isn't--well--we shall at least have given them their chance." The players lingered in the Hardings' living room to discuss the coming contest, go over their signals and prepare themselves as effectually as possible for the fray. It was almost noon when Marjorie sped up the stairs to her room, there to put into execution the search she had decided to make. Mary's letters to her, tied with a bit of blue ribbon, reposed in a pretty lacquered box designed especially to hold them. Marjorie untied the ribbon and fingered them with a sigh of regret for the happy past. Most of them were written on white paper, a few were on pale blue, Mary's color. Almost at the bottom of the box was one gray envelope. The searcher drew a quick breath as she separated it from its fellows. Drawing the envelope from her blouse, she compared the two. They were identical. The mysterious warning was no longer a mystery to her. CHAPTER XIX A BOLD STAND FOR HONOR Thrilled with the discovery she had just made, Marjorie's first impulse was to seek admittance to the room so long denied her and confront Mary with the knowledge of her good deed. Remembering her General's injunction, "Let her alone," she refrained from yielding to that impulse. Her pride, too, asserted itself. It was not her place to make advances, all too likely to be rebuffed. No, she must keep her secret until time had done its perfect work. Reconciliation lay in Mary's hands, not hers. She decided, however, that the girls must never know who had been the author of the warning. So far as she was concerned, it must remain a mystery to them. "Where is Mary?" she inquired of her mother, as they sat down to luncheon a little later. Mary's place at the table was vacant. "Oh, she was invited to luncheon at her friend Mignon's home," returned Mrs. Dean, frowning slightly. "I suppose she is hoping that Mignon's team will win the game this afternoon." "I suppose so," returned Marjorie absently. Her mind was still on her discovery. Should she tell Captain about it? Perhaps it would be best. Briefly she acquainted her mother with what she had so recently found out. "I am not greatly surprised," was her mother's quiet comment. "Mary is too good a girl at heart to persist for long in this ridiculous stand she has taken. I am glad you said nothing of it to her. She must clear her own path of the briars she has sown. When she does, she will have learned a much-needed lesson." "But, Captain, it's dreadful to think of Christmas coming and Mary and--I--not--friends," faltered Marjorie. "I can't give her a present, and I'd love to. I suppose she doesn't care to give me one. We've always exchanged gifts ever since we were little tots." "Perhaps everything will be all right by that time. If it isn't--well, I have a plan--but I'm not going to say a word about it yet. Wait until nearer Christmas. Then we shall see." "Oh, Mother, if only you could think of something that would make us friends again, just for a day, I'd be so happy!" Marjorie clasped her hands in fervent appeal. "Wait and see," smiled Mrs. Dean enigmatically. As Marjorie set out for the high school that afternoon she hummed a jubilant snatch of song, due to the bright ray of sunlight that had pierced the gloom. She could afford to wait, if waiting would bring about the miracle that her mother had hinted might be wrought. She quite forgot basket ball until she reached the steps of the high school. There her mind reverted to the coming contest and she set her lips in silent determination. Her team must win to-day. She could not endure the thought that Mignon's team should be the one to play against the freshmen for sophomore honors. It was half past one o'clock when she entered the building and hurried to the dressing room at one side of the gymnasium, which was reserved for her squad. The first to arrive, she hastily prepared for the game. Meanwhile, she kept up an earnest thinking as to the course she had best pursue if Mignon and her supporters overstepped the bounds of fair play. But she could make up her mind to nothing. Mere contemplation of the subject was so disagreeable she hated to face it. While she pondered, Susan Atwell bustled in with Muriel Harding. The two remaining members of the team appeared soon after and a lively dressing and talking bee ensued. The sophomore team, which Marjorie captained, had chosen to wear their black basket ball regalia of the year before, but instead of the violet "F" that had ornamented their blouses, a scarlet "S" now replaced it. Black and scarlet were the sophomore colors. Should their team win, they could wear the same suits in the more important game to come. It was reported, however, that Mignon's team would shine resplendently in new suits of gray, ornamented with a rose-colored "S," which Mignon had provided at her own expense. If they won, she had promised her adherents the prettiest black and scarlet suits that could be obtained for the Thanksgiving Day contest. It is needless to say that they had also set their minds on carrying off the victor's palm. The game had been set for half past two o'clock, but long before that hour the gallery audience of Sanford School girls, with a fair sprinkling of boys from Weston High, had begun to arrive. Opinion was divided as to the prospective winners. Marjorie's team boasted of seasoned players, whose work on the field was well known. Mignon had not been so fortunate. Neither Daisy Griggs nor Anne Easton had played basket ball, previous to the opening of the season. But Mignon herself was counted a powerful adversary. The sympathy of the boys lay for the most part with Marjorie's squad. The Weston High lads were decidedly partial to the pretty, brown-eyed girl, whose modest, gracious ways had soon won their boyish approbation. Among the girls, however, Mignon could count on fairly strong support. As it was a practice game no special preparations in the way of songs or the wearing of contestants' colors had been observed. That would come later, on Thanksgiving Day. But excitement ran higher than usual in the audience, for it had been whispered about that it was to be "some game." "It's twenty-five after, children," informed Jerry Macy, who, with Irma Linton and Constance Stevens, had been accorded the privilege of invading the dressing room of Marjorie's team. Jerry had elected to become a safety deposit vault for a miscellaneous collection of pins, rings, neck chains and other simple jewelry dear to the heart of the school girl. Marjorie's bracelet watch adorned one plump wrist, while her own ornamented the other. "Look out, Jerry, or you'll make yourself cross-eyed trying to tell time by both those watches at once," giggled Susan Atwell. "Don't you believe it," was Jerry's good-humored retort. "They're both right to the minute." "Remember, girls, that we've just _got_ to win," counseled Marjorie fervently. "Keep your heads, and don't let a single thing get by you. We've practiced our signals until I'm sure you all know them perfectly." "We'll win fast enough, if certain persons play fairly," nodded Muriel Harding, "but look out for Mignon." A shrill blast from the referee's whistle followed Muriel's warning. It called them to action. The next instant five black and scarlet figures flashed forth onto the gymnasium floor to meet the gray-clad quintette that advanced from the opposite side of the room. United cheering from the gallery constituents of both teams rent the air. The contestants acknowledged the applause and ran to their stations. A significant silence fell as the referee poised the ball for the opening toss. Mignon La Salle's black eyes were fastened upon it with almost savage intensity. She leaped like a cat for it as it left the referee's hands. Again the screech of the whistle sounded. The game had begun. It was Marjorie who won the toss-up, however. She had been just a shade quicker than Mignon. Now she sent the ball flying toward Susan Atwell with a sure aim that made the onlookers gasp with admiration. Before the gray-clad girls could comprehend just how it had all happened, their opponents had scored. But this was only the beginning of things. Buoyant over their initial gain, the black and scarlet girls played as though inspired and soon the score stood 8 to 0 in their favor. Mignon La Salle was furious at the unexpected turn matters had taken. Her players, of whom she had expected wonders, were behaving like dummies. They had evidently forgotten her fierce exhortations to fight their way to victory regardless of expense. Well, she would soon show them their work. It did not take her long to put her resolve into execution. Joining a wild rush for the ball, which Harriet Delaney was valiantly trying to throw to basket, Mignon made good her word. Just what happened to her Harriet could not say. She knew only that a sly, tripping foot, unseen in the turmoil, sent her crashing to the floor, while the ball passed into the enemy's keeping, and they scored. Inspired by the sweetness of success, Mignon's "dummies" awoke and carried out the instructions, so often impressed upon them in secret by their unscrupulous leader, in a series of plays that for sly roughness had never been equalled by any other team that had elected to take the floor in that gymnasium. Yet so cleverly did they execute them that beyond an occasional foul they managed to elude the supposedly-watchful eyes of the referee, an upper class friend of the French girl's, and rapidly piled up their score. When the whistle called the end of the first half it found the score 10-8 in favor of the grays. It also found a quintet of enraged black-clad girls, nursing sundry bruises and vows of vengeance. "It's a burning shame!" cried Susan Atwell, the moment the teams had reached the safety of their dressing room. "I won't stand it. My ankle hurts so where some one kicked it that I thought I couldn't finish the first half. And poor Harriet! You must have taken an awful fall." "I did." Harriet Delaney was half crying. Muriel Harding's dark eyes were snapping with rage and injury. She was nursing a scraped elbow, which she had received in the melee. "I'm going straight to Miss Archer," she threatened. "I won't play the second half with such dishonorable girls. That Miss Dutton, the referee, must know something of the rough way they are playing. But _she_ is a friend of Mignon's. I don't care much if Miss Archer forbids basket ball for the rest of the season. I'd rather have it that way than be carried off the floor, a wreck. I'm going now to find her. She's up in her office. Jerry saw her just before she came to the gym. Didn't you, Jerry?" She turned to the stout girl, who had just entered. At the beginning of the game, Jerry, Constance and Irma had hurried to the gallery to watch it. Seasoned fans, they had observed the playing with critical eyes that saw much. The instant the first half was over, they had descended to their friends with precipitate haste. "Yes, she's in her office." Jerry had appeared in time to hear Muriel's tirade. "I think I _would_ go to her, if I were you, Muriel. Those girls are a disgrace to Sanford." "Let's all go," proposed Harriet Delaney, wrathfully. "I'd rather do that than stay and be murdered." Marjorie stood regarding her players with brooding eyes. She smiled faintly at Harriet's vehement utterance. "Girls," she said in a clear, resolute voice, "I told you this morning that if anything like this happened I'd go straight to Mignon and have an understanding. I'm going. I wish you to go with me, though. I have a reason for it." She walked determinedly to the door. "What are you going to say to them, Marjorie?" demanded Muriel. "You might as well save your breath. They'll only laugh at you. Miss Archer is the person to go to." "Not yet." Marjorie shook her head in gentle contradiction. "Please let me try my way, Muriel. If it doesn't work, then I promise you that I'll go with you to Miss Archer. Oh, yes. I wish you all to stand by me, but don't say a word unless I ask you to. Will you trust me?" She glanced wistfully at her little flock. "Go ahead," ordered Muriel shortly. "We'll stand by you. Won't we, girls?" Three heads nodded on emphatic assent. "All right. Come on. We haven't much time left. How many minutes, Jerry?" "Eight," replied the stout girl. "Can Irma and Connie and I come, too?" "No. I'd rather you wouldn't." "We'll forgive you. Now beat it." Although Jerry was earnestly endeavoring to eliminate slang from her vocabulary, she could not resist this forceful advice. "Suppose we go around through the corridor and use that side door nearest Mignon's dressing room," suggested Marjorie. "Then we won't be noticed. I'd rather we weren't. This is really private, you know." Four black and scarlet figures gloomily followed their leader. There were two doors to each dressing room. One led into the gymnasium, which was situated in a wing of the school, the other led into the corridor. Through the half-open door of Mignon's dressing room the sound of exultant voices reached the advancing squad. She stood with her back toward them. "We were a little too much for them." Mignon's boasting tones brought fresh resentment to her injured opponents. "I told you that----" "Miss La Salle!" Marjorie's stern voice caused the French girl to whirl about. "We heard what you were saying. We came over here to notify you that we do not intend to play the second half of the game with you unless you give us your promise to play fairly and without unnecessary roughness." Mignon's black eyes blazed. "What do you mean by stealing into our room and listening to our private conversation?" she demanded passionately. Marjorie faced the furious girl with calm, contemptuous eyes. Before their steady gaze, Mignon quailed a trifle. "We did not _steal_ into your room. If you had not been so busy boasting over your own unfairness you could have heard our approach. However, that doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is this. Come here, Muriel." She beckoned Muriel to her side. "Show Miss La Salle your elbow," she commanded. Muriel rolled back her loose sleeve and showed the raw, red spot on her soft, white arm. Mignon laughed sarcastically and shrugged her scorn of the injury. "You can't be a baby and play basket ball," she jeered. "Neither can you behave like a savage and expect it to pass unnoticed--by at least a few persons," retorted Marjorie. She was fighting hard to control the rush of temper which this heartless girl always brought to the surface. "Harriet was badly shaken up, because someone purposely tripped her. Some one else kicked Susan on the ankle. It is too much. We won't endure it. Now I give you fair warning, if any girl of my squad is handled roughly during the next half she intends to call a halt in the game. The rest of us will then leave the floor and go to Miss Archer's office. Think it over. That's all." Marjorie turned on her heel. Without so much as a glance toward the discomfited girls of Mignon's team, she walked from the room, followed by her silently obedient train. "Well, _what_ do you think of that?" gasped Louise Selden. Nevertheless, she had had the grace to turn very red during Marjorie's stern arraignment. Mignon turned savagely upon the abashed members of her squad. "If you pay any attention to _her_, you are all _babies_," she hissed. "You are to play the second half just as I told you. Don't let that priggish Dean girl scare you. _She_ wouldn't go to Miss Archer. She knows better than that." "You're wrong, Mignon. She meant every word she said." Daisy Griggs' ruddy face had grown suddenly pale. "_I'm_ going to be pretty careful how I play the rest of this game." "So am I," echoed Elizabeth Meredith. "If Miss Dean went to Miss Archer it would raise a regular riot." Anne Easton and Louise Selden nodded in solemn agreement with Daisy's bold stand. In her heart each of them stood convicted of unworthiness. The righteous gleam of Marjorie's clear eyes had made them feel most uncomfortable. "You're cowards, every one of you," burst forth Mignon, her dark face distorted with rage, "and if----" "T-r-r-ill!" The referee's whistle was summoning them to the game. Mignon ran to her station resolved on vengeance. Four girls followed her to their places divided between two fears. Awe of Miss Archer and the disaster that would surely overtake them if they persisted in their former tactics acted as a spur to their sleeping consciences. Fear of Mignon became a secondary emotion. They vowed within themselves to play fairly and they kept their vow. The second half of the game opened very well for Marjorie's team. She passed the ball to Susan Atwell, who scored, thereby winning a salvo of hearty applause from the gallery. The watchful spectators had not been blind to the unfair methods of the grays. Two goals followed in their favor. So far the grays had done nothing. Unnerved by Marjorie's just censure and the fear of exposure, they paid little heed to Mignon's glowering glances and frantic signals. They played in a half-hearted, diffident fashion, quite the opposite of their whirlwind sweep during the first half. The black and scarlet girls soon brought the score up to 14 to 10 in their favor, and from that moment on had things decidedly their own way. Time after time Mignon cut in desperately for the basket to receive a pass, but on each occasion her team-mates made a wild throw. Marjorie's team, however, played with perfect unity, working in several successful signal plays. Try as she might, the French girl could do nothing to arouse her players. Their passing became so delinquent that once or twice it brought derisive groans from the male spectators in the gallery. As the second half neared its end, Muriel Harding made a sensational throw to basket that aroused the gallery to wild enthusiasm. It also served to take the faint remaining spirit from the disheartened grays, and the game wound up with a score of 30 to 12 in favor of the black and scarlet girls. They had won a complete and sweeping victory over their unworthy opponents. It was a proud moment for Marjorie Dean, as she stood surrounded by a flock of jubilant boys and girls, who had rent the gallery air with appreciative howls, then hustled from their places aloft to offer their congratulations to the victors. "I'm so glad you won, Marjorie," cried Ellen Seymour. Lowering her voice, she added: "I could see a few things. I'm not the only one. But what happened to them? They actually played fairly in the second half--all except Mignon. But she couldn't do much by herself." Marjorie smiled faintly. "We must have discouraged them, I suppose. We never before worked together so well as we played in that second half. Wasn't that a wonderful throw to basket that Muriel made?" "Splendid," agreed Ellen warmly. "I predict an easy victory for the sophomores on Thanksgiving Day." Marjorie breathed relief. "Are you coming to see us play, or are you going away for Thanksgiving?" was her tactful question. Ellen plunged into a voluble recital of her Thanksgiving plans, quite forgetting her curiosity over the sudden change of tactics of the defeated grays. Several girls joined in the conversation, and thus the talk drifted away from the subject Marjorie wished most to avoid. In Mignon's dressing room, however, a veritable tornado had burst. Four sullen, gray-clad girls bowed their heads before the storm of passionate reproaches hurled upon them by their irate leader. They were seeing and hearing Mignon at her worst, and they did not relish it. It may be set down to their credit that not one of them took the trouble to answer her. Beyond a mute exchange of meaning glances, they ignored her scorn, slipping away like shadows when they had changed their basket ball suits for street apparel. Outside the high school they congregated and made solemn agreement that now and forever they were "through" with Mignon. Several friends of the latter, including Miss Dutton, the referee, dropped into the dressing room, and to them Mignon continued her tirade. But the face of one hitherto ardent supporter was missing. Mary Raymond had fled from the school the moment the game was ended. For once she had seen too much of Mignon. She had tried to force herself to believe that she was sorry for the latter's deserved defeat, but, in reality, she was glad that Marjorie's team had won. She determined to go home and wait for her chum. She would confess that she was sorry for the past and ask Marjorie to forgive her. Putting her determination into swift action, she left the high school behind her almost at a run. Once she had reached home she paused only to hang her wraps on the hall rack, then posted herself in the living-room window, an anxious little figure. When Marjorie came she would open the hall door for her. She would say, "I surrender, Lieutenant. Please forgive me." She smiled a trifle sadly to herself in anticipation of the forgiving arms that Marjorie would extend to her. She was not sure she merited forgiveness. But when at last Marjorie came in sight of the gate, Mary vented an exclamation of pain and anger. Marjorie was not alone. Up the walk she loitered, arm-in-arm with Constance Stevens. The old jealousy, forgotten in Marjorie's hour of triumph, swept Mary like a blighting wind. She turned and fled from the hated sight that met her eyes, a deserter to her good intentions. CHAPTER XX HOISTING THE FLAG OF TRUCE Thanksgiving Day walked in amid a flurry of snow, accompanied by a boisterous wind, which roared a bleak reminiscence of that first Thanksgiving Day on a storm rock-bound coast, when a few faithful souls had braved his fury and gone forth to give thanks for life and liberty. Despite his challenging roar, the boys of Weston High School played their usual game of football against a neighboring eleven and emerged from the field of conquest, battered and victorious, to rest in the proud bosoms of their families and devour much turkey. In the afternoon, the long-talked-of game of basket ball came off between the sophomores and the freshmen. It was an occasion of energetic color-flaunting, in which black and scarlet banners predominated. It seemed as though almost every one in Sanford High School, with the exception of the freshmen themselves, was devoted heart and soul to the sophomores. The rumor of the unfair treatment they had received in the deciding practice game had been noised abroad, and Marjorie and her team mates were in a fair way to be lionized. A packed gallery, much jubilant singing and frantic applause of every move they made, spurred the black and scarlet girls to doughty deeds, and, although it was a hard-fought battle, in which the freshmen played for dear life, the sophomores won. Altogether, it was a day long to be remembered, and Marjorie lived it for all that lay within her energetic young body and mind. Only the one flaw that marred its perfection and left her sober-eyed and retrospective when the eventful holiday was ended. She felt that one word of commendation from Mary would have been worth more than all the praise she had received from admiring friends. But Mary was as stony and implacable as ever, giving no sign of the surrender which Constance Stevens had unconsciously nipped in the bud. Just how Mary spent that particular Thanksgiving Day Marjorie did not learn until long afterward. She knew only that Mary had left the house directly after dinner, merely stating that she intended making several calls, and was seen no more until ten o'clock that night, when she flitted into the house like a ghost and vanished up the stairs to her own room. After Thanksgiving, basket ball echoes died out in the growing murmur of coming Christmas joys, and like every young girl, Marjorie grew impatient and enthusiastic over her holiday plans. She did not chatter them as freely to General and Captain when at table as had been her custom each year in the happy days when only they three had been together. As her formerly lovable self, Marjorie would have felt no reserve in Mary's presence, but this strange, new Mary with her white, immobile face and indifferent eyes, chilled her and killed her desire to exchange the usual gay badinage with her General, which had always made meal-time a merry occasion. "I don't like Mary's effect on our little girl, Margaret. Of late, Marjorie is as solemn as a judge," remarked Mr. Dean one evening as he lingered at the dinner table after Mary and Marjorie had excused themselves and gone upstairs on the plea of studying to-morrow's lessons. "I counseled Marjorie, the night I took her to Devon Inn to dinner, to let matters work out in their own way. That was some time ago. Perhaps I'd better take a hand and see what I can do toward ending this internal war. Christmas will soon be here. We can't have our Day of Days spoiled by one youngster's perversity." "I have thought of that, too," returned Mrs. Dean, smiling, "and I have a plan. I shall need your help to carry it out, though." When she had finished the laying out of her clever scheme for a congenial Christmas all around, Mr. Dean threw back his head in a hearty laugh. "It's decidedly ingenious, and in keeping," was his tribute. "I'll help you put it through, with pleasure. But after Christmas----" He paused, his laughing eyes growing grave. "After Christmas our services as peace advocates may not be needed," supplemented Mrs. Dean. "At least, I hope they may not. I am still of the opinion, however, that Mary must be left to repent of her own folly. If she is coaxed and wheedled into good humor she will never realize how badly she has behaved." "I suppose that is so. But, naturally, I am more interested in healing our poor little soldier's hurts than in trying to bring a certain stubborn young person to her senses. We will try out our idea. It will insure one satisfactory day, I hope. Unless I prove a poor diplomat." Although Marjorie's blithe voice was too frequently stilled in Mary's presence, she was uniformly sunny when she and her Captain were alone together. Now fairly familiar with Sanford, Mrs. Dean had made it a part of her daily life to seek and assist certain families among the poor of the little northern city. Now that Christmas was so near she was making a special effort to gladden the hearts of those to whom life had seemed to grudge even daily bread. She had contrived wisely to interest Marjorie in this charitable work, with the idea of taking her mind from the bitter disappointment Mary's change of heart had brought her, and had been touched and gratified at the unselfish eagerness with which Marjorie had taken up the work. The latter had aroused Jerry Macy's, as well as Constance Stevens', interest in planning a merry Christmas for the poor of Sanford. Constance was particularly desirous of helping. She would never forget the previous Christmas Eve, when, laden with good will and be-ribboned offerings, Marjorie had smilingly appeared at the little gray house where Poverty reigned supreme and helped her transform Charlie's rickety express wagon into a veritable fairy couch, piled high with the precious tokens of unselfish love. She felt that the only way in which she might show her lasting gratitude for the gifts of that snowy Christmas Eve was to share her blessings with others who were in need, and she quickly became Marjorie's most faithful servitor. Good-natured Jerry was also keen to bestow her time and world goods in the Christmas cause, and almost every afternoon when school was over the three girls conspired together in the cause of happiness. Marjorie unearthed a trunk of her childish toys from an obscure corner of the garret, and a great mending and refurbishing movement ensued. Jerry, not to be outdone, canvassed among her friends for suitable gifts to lay at the shrine of Christmas, which rose to life eternal when three wise men placed their reverent offerings at the feet of a Holy Child long centuries before. While Constance Stevens drew largely on a sum of money, which her indulgent aunt had placed in the bank to her credit and enjoyed to the full the blessedness of giving. "Maybe we haven't been busy little helpers, though," declared Jerry Macy one blustering afternoon, as the three girls sat in the Deans' living room, surrounded by ribbon-bound packages of all shapes and sizes. "Truly, I never had such a good time before in all my life." "That's just the way I feel," nodded Constance, as she tied an astounding bow of red ribazine about an oblong package that suggested a doll, and consulted a fat note book, lying wide spread on the library table, for the address of the prospective possessor. "Marjorie, will you ever forget how happy Charlie was last year?" "Dear little Charlie!" Marjorie's lips smiled tender reminiscence of the tiny boy's jubilation over his wonderful discovery that Santa Claus had not forgotten him. "His Christmas will be a merry one this year, even to the good, strong leg that he hoped Santa would bring him." "He can't possibly be any happier than he was _last_ Christmas morning," was Constance's soft reply. "And it was all through you, Marjorie." "Oh, I wasn't the only one. Your father and you and Uncle John gave him things, and Delia popped the corn for his tree, and, don't you remember, Laurie Armitage brought you the tree and the holly and ground pine?" Constance flushed slightly at the mention of Lawrence Armitage. A sincere boy and girl friendship had sprung up between them that promised later to ripen into perfect love. "That reminds me," broke in Jerry bluntly. "I've something to tell you, girls. Hal told me. He's my most reliable source of information when it comes to news of Weston High. Laurie is writing an operetta. He's going to call it 'The Rebellious Princess,' and he would like to give a performance of it in the spring. There's to be a big chorus and Professor Harmon is going to pick a cast from the boys and girls of Weston and Sanford High Schools." "Who is Professor Harmon?" asked Constance curiously. "Oh, he's the musical director at Weston High," answered Jerry offhandedly. "He looks after the singing and glee clubs there, just as Miss Walters does at Sanford High. You can sing, Connie, and Laurie knows it. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd get the leading part." "I'd be more surprised if I did," laughed Constance, "considering that I don't even know Professor Harmon when I see him." "Laurie will introduce you to him, I guess," predicted Jerry confidently. "Hal said something about a try-out of voices. I can't remember what it was. I'll ask him when I go home." "I don't believe I could even sing in a chorus," laughed Marjorie. "I haven't a strong voice." "You can look pretty, though, and _that_ counts," was Jerry's emphatic consolation. "That's more than I can do. I can't see myself shine, even in a chorus. I don't sing. I shout, and then I'm always getting off the key," she ended gloomily. Constance and Marjorie giggled at Jerry's funny description of her vocal powers. The stout girl's brief gloom vanished in a broad grin. "Two more days and Christmas will be here!" exclaimed Marjorie with a joyous little skip, which caused a pile of packages on the floor near her to tumble in all directions. "Easy there!" warned Jerry. Secretly she was delighted at her friend's lightsome mood. Marjorie had been altogether too serious of late. Privately, she had frequently wished that Mary Raymond had never set foot in Sanford. The early December dusk had fallen when, the last package wrapped, Constance and Jerry said good-bye to Marjorie. "I'll be over bright and early Christmas morning," reminded Constance. "Remember, you are coming to Gray Gables on Christmas night, Marjorie. Charlie made me promise for you ahead of time. I'd love to have you come, too, Jerry." "Can't do it. Thank you just the same, but the Macys far and near are going to hold forth at our house and poor little Jerry will have to stay at home and do the agreeable hostess act," declared Jerry, looking comically rueful. "I'll surely be there, Connie. I'll bring my offerings with me. Don't you forget that you are due at the Deans' residence on Christmas morning. Bring Charlie with you." After her friends had gone, Marjorie went into the living room to speculate for the hundredth time on the subject of Mary's present. It was a beautiful little neckchain of tiny, square, gold links, similar to one her Captain had given her on her last birthday. Mary had frequently admired it in times past and for months Marjorie had saved a portion from her allowance with which to buy it. She had a theory that a gift to one's dearest friends should entail self-sacrifice on the part of the giver. Mary's changed attitude toward her had not counted. She was still resolved upon giving her the chain. But how was she to do it? And suppose when she offered it Mary were to refuse it? The entrance of her mother broke in upon her unhappy speculations. "I'm glad you came, Captain," she said. "I've been trying to think how I had best give Mary her present." "Then don't worry about it any longer," comforted Mrs. Dean. Stepping over to the low chair in which Marjorie sat she passed her arm about her troubled daughter and drew her close. "That is a part of my plan. Wait until Christmas morning and you will know." "Tell me now," coaxed Marjorie, snuggling comfortably into the hollow of the protecting arm. "That would be strictly against orders," came the laughing response. "Have patience, Lieutenant." "All right, I will." Sturdily dismissing her curiosity, Marjorie began a detailed account of the afternoon's labor, which lasted until Mr. Dean came rollicking in and engaged Marjorie in a rough-and-tumble romp that left her flushed and laughing. Despite her many errands of good will and charity, the next two days dragged interminably. On Christmas Eve Mr. Dean took his family and Mary to the theatre to see a play that had had a long, successful run in New York City the previous season and was now doomed to the road. After the play they stopped at Sargent's for a late supper. Under Mr. Dean's genial influence Mary thawed a trifle and even went so far as to address Marjorie several times, to the latter's utter amazement. This was in reality the beginning of Mrs. Dean's carefully laid plan. Marjorie guessed as much and wondered hopefully as to what might happen next. Nothing special occurred that evening, however, except that Mary bade her a curt "good night." But Marjorie hugged even that short utterance to her heart and went to sleep in a buoyantly hopeful state of mind. She was awakened the next morning by a military tattoo, rapped on her door by energetic fingers. "Report to the living room for duty," commanded a purposely gruff voice, which she was not slow to recognize. "Merry Christmas, General," she called. "Lieutenant Dean will report in the living room in about three minutes." Hopping out of bed she reached for her bath robe. Then the sound of tapping fingers again came to her ears. This time they were on Mary's door. Hastily drawing on stockings and bed-room slippers, she sped from her room and down the stairs. Her father stood stiffly at the foot of the stairway in his most general-like manner. She saluted and came to attention. A moment or two of waiting followed, then Mary appeared at the head of the stairs. She began to descend slowly, but Mr. Dean called out, "No lagging in the line," and long obedience to orders served to make her quicken her pace. "Twos right, march," ordered Mr. Dean, motioning toward the living room. Wonderingly the company of two obeyed. Then two pairs of eyes were fastened upon a curious object that stood upright in the middle of the living-room table. It was a good-sized flag of pure white. "Form ranks!" came the order. Two girlish figures lined up, side by side. "Salute the Flag of Truce," commanded the wily General. Mary gave an audible gasp of sheer amazement. Marjorie laughed outright. "Silence in the ranks," bellowed the stern commandant. "Pay strict attention to what I am about to say. In time of war it sometimes becomes necessary to hoist a flag of truce. This means a suspense of hostilities. The flag of truce is hoisted in this house for all day. It will remain so until twelve o'clock to-night. Respect it. Now break ranks and we'll enjoy our Christmas presents. I hope my army hasn't forgotten its worthy General!" "Mary," Marjorie's voice trembled. Tears blurred her brown eyes. "It's Christmas morning. Will you kiss me?" Mary was possessed with a contrary desire to turn and rush upstairs. She felt dimly that to kiss Marjorie was to declare peace against her will. But her better nature whispered to her not to ruin the peace of Yuletide. She would respect the flag of truce for one day. Then she could give Marjorie the ring she had bought for her before coming to Sanford and laid away for Christmas. Afterward she would show her that she had softened merely for the time being. She returned Marjorie's affectionate kiss rather coolly. Nevertheless, the ice was broken. Five minutes later she found herself running upstairs for her presents for the Deans in an almost happy mood, and she joined in the present giving with a heartiness that was far from forced. Once she had ceased to resist Marjorie's winning advances she was completely drawn into the divine spirit of the occasion, and she allowed herself to drift once more into the dear channel of bygone friendship. Marjorie fairly bubbled over with exuberant happiness. The unbelievable had come to pass. She and Mary were once more chums. She longed to tell Mary all that was in her heart, but refrained. For to-day it was better to live on the surface of things. Later there would be plenty of time for confidences. After breakfast she mentioned rather timidly that she expected a call from Constance and little Charlie. Mary received the statement with an apparent docility that brought welcome relief to Marjorie. She was not sure of her chum on this one point. When Constance and Charlie arrived at a little after ten o'clock, burdened with gaily decked bundles, Marjorie's fears were set at rest. To be sure, Mary showed no enthusiasm over Constance, but Charlie was a different matter. She had conceived a strange, deep love for the quaint little boy and spared no pains to entertain him. While she was putting Marjorie's beautiful angora cat, Ruffle, through a series of cunning little tricks, which he performed with sleepy indolence, Marjorie managed to say to Constance, "I can't come to see you to-night, Connie. I'll explain some day soon. You understand." Constance nodded wisely. Nothing could have induced her to mar the reconciliation which had evidently taken place. "Come when you can," she murmured. Generously leaving herself out of the question, she purposely shortened her stay, although Charlie pleaded to remain. "I'll come again soon," he assured Mary, as he was being towed off by his sister's determined hand. "I like you almost as well as Connie." Marjorie's glorious day was over all too soon. She hovered about Mary with a friendly solicitude that could not be denied. The latter graciously allowed her the privilege, but behind her pleasant manner there was a hint of reserve, which did not dawn upon Marjorie until late that evening. At first she reproached herself for even imagining it, but as bedtime approached the conviction grew that when twelve o'clock came Mary would again resume her hostile attitude. "It is time taps was sounded," reminded Mr. Dean, looking up from his book, as the grandfather's clock in the living room pointed half past eleven. Mrs. Dean sat placidly reading a periodical. "We'll obey you, General, as soon as we've finished our game." Marjorie looked up from the backgammon board at which she and Mary were seated. It had always been a favorite game with them and Marjorie had proposed playing to relieve the curious sensation of apprehension that was gradually settling down upon her. It was five minutes to twelve when she put the board away. Mary had strolled to the living-room door. Pausing for an instant she said, as though reciting a lesson, "I've had a lovely day. Thank you all for my presents." Without waiting for replies, she turned and mounted the stairs. The sound of a door, closed with certain decision, floated down to the three in the living room. Marjorie walked slowly to the table, and drawing the flag of truce from its improvised standard, handed it to her father. "I knew it would end like that, General," she commented sadly. "I felt it coming all evening. Just the same it was a splendid plan, and I thank you for it." She lingered lovingly to kiss her father and mother good night, then marched to her room with a brave face. But as she passed the door that had once more been closed against her she vowed within herself that from this moment forth she would cease to mourn for the "friendship" of a girl who was so heartless as Mary Raymond. CHAPTER XXI THE LAST STRAW It had been Mary Raymond's firm intention when she closed her door that Christmas night to resume hostilities the next day. But when she met Marjorie at breakfast the following morning, her desire for continued warfare had vanished. Some tense chord within her stubborn soul had snapped. Looking back on yesterday she realized that it had not been worth while. Now her proud spirit cried for peace. She wished she had not been so ready to doubt her chum's loyalty and with a curious revulsion of feeling she began to long for a reinstatement into her affections. But her perfunctory "good night" had cost her more than she dreamed. It had awakened a tardy resentment in Marjorie's hitherto forgiving heart that she could not readily efface. Outwardly Marjorie seemed the same. She returned Mary's greeting pleasantly enough, showing nothing of the surprise it had given her. Mary was not destined to learn for some time to come that a reaction had taken place. Mr. and Mrs. Dean were relieved to find that Marjorie's prediction was not verified. To all appearances the two girls had definitely resumed their old, friendly footing. Only Marjorie knew differently, but she did not intend then or on any future occasion to betray herself, even to her Captain. As the winter days glided swiftly along the road to Spring, it was circulated about among Marjorie's intimate friends that she and Mary had settled their differences. Keen-eyed Jerry Macy, however, had seen deeper than her classmates. Although Mary now occasionally walked home with them or accompanied them to Sargent's, spending considerably less time with Mignon, Jerry was quick to feel rather than note the slight reserve Marjorie exhibited toward Mary. "Don't you believe they've made up," she declared to Irma Linton. "Mary may think they have, but they haven't. I guess Marjorie's grown tired of Mary's nonsense. I'm glad of it. She's a silly little goose, I mean Mary, and she's lost more than she thinks." It was on a sunny afternoon in late March, however, before Mary was rudely jolted into the same conclusion. Mignon La Salle was also possessed of "the seeing eye." Mary was no longer her devoted satellite, although she still kept up an indifferent kind of friendship with the French girl. Mignon soon divined the cause of her lagging allegiance. "You are a little idiot, Mary Raymond, to follow Marjorie Dean about as you do. She doesn't care a snap for you. She may treat you nicely, but that's as far as it goes. She cares more for that miserable Stevens girl in a minute than she cares for _you_ in a whole year. Why can't you let her alone and chum with some one who appreciates you." "I don't follow Marjorie about," contested Mary hotly. "I never go anywhere with her unless she asks me." "She merely does that through courtesy," shrugged Mignon. "I suppose she thinks it her duty. She's a prig and I despise her." Mary's face flamed at the obnoxious word "duty." In a flash her mind reviewed all that had passed since that memorable Christmas day. Her cheeks grew hotter at the brutal truth of Mignon's words. "If you think I care anything about her, you have made a mistake," she retorted, stung to untruthfulness by the taunt. "I'll soon prove to you that I don't." "Stop running around with her and her wonderful friends and I'll believe you," sneered Mignon. "I will, if only to show you that I don't care," flung back the angry girl. "That's the way to talk," approved Mignon. She had kept but few friends among the sophomores since that fatal practice game and she did not intend to lose Mary from her diminished circle. Besides, she was certain that the Deans, one and all, did not approve of Mary's friendship with her and it accorded her supreme pleasure to annoy them. "I'm going to give a fancy dress party two weeks from Friday night," she went on, with an abrupt change of subject. "Nearly all the girls I'm intending to invite are juniors and seniors. We'll have a glorious time. I don't have to strip our living room of furniture for a place to dance. I have a _real_ ballroom in my home. I'll send you an invitation in a day or two." Surely enough, three days after Mignon's announcement the invitation was duly delivered to Mary through the mail. She read it listlessly. She was not keen about attending the party. Marjorie merely smiled when Mary showed her the invitation and briefly announced her intention of going. She graciously offered the Snow White costume she had worn at the masquerade of the previous Spring. Mary declined it coldly. She had not forgotten Mignon's taunts. Since then she had kept strictly to herself, steadily refusing Marjorie's polite invitations to accompany her here and there. Earlier in the year Marjorie would have grieved in secret over this frostiness, but Marjorie had hardened her gentle heart and now fancied that Mary's movements were of small concern to her. And so the wall of misunderstanding towered higher and higher. Mrs. Dean willingly helped Mary plan a cunning little girl costume, and when on the night of the party she entered the living room in obedience to her Captain's call, "Come here and let us see how you look, Mary," a lump rose in Marjorie's throat. In her short, white, embroidered frock, with its Dutch neck and wide, blue ribbon sash, she looked precisely like the pretty child that she had been when she and Marjorie played "house" together in the Raymonds' backyard. The blue silk stockings and heelless, blue kid slippers emphasized the babyish effect of her costume, and Marjorie had hard work to keep back her tears. But Mary could not read that sudden rush of emotion in the calm, uncritical face which Marjorie turned to her. Mignon had sent her runabout for Mary and it was a trifle after eight o'clock when the La Salle's chauffeur drove up the wide, handsome driveway to Mignon's home. It was an unusually mild evening in April and as they neared the port-cochere, a slim figure in gypsy dress ran down the steps. "I've been watching for you," called Mignon, as Mary stepped from the runabout. "The musicians are here and so are most of the girls. I can't imagine why the boys don't come. Only six have appeared, so far. We've had one dance," she went on crossly. "Some of the girls had to dance together. Wasn't that horrid? Take off your cloak and let me see your costume. It's sweet." The chauffeur had disappeared and the two girls stood for an instant at the foot of the steps. Advancing suddenly out of the darkness marched a sturdy little figure. Under its arm was thrust a diminutive violin case. "How do you do?" it greeted with a quaint, bobbing bow. "I comed to play in the band." With a quick exclamation of surprise, Mary Raymond darted toward the tiny youngster. "Charlie Stevens!" she gasped. "What are you doing away over here after dark?" "I comed to play in the band," repeated Charlie with a jubilant wave of his violin case that almost sent it hurtling from his baby fingers. "Uncle John comed and so I comed, too." Mary knelt on the driveway and gathered him into her round, young arms. "Listen to Mary, dear little boy. Did Charlie run away?" She had heard from Marjorie of Charlie's frequent attempts to sally forth to conquer the world with his violin. The child's sensitive face clouded. His lip quivered. "Connie says I have to always tell the truth," he wailed. "I runned away because I have to play in the big band. A man comed to see Uncle John this afternoon. I heard him talk about the band. Uncle John comed to play in it, so I comed, too. Only he didn't see me. I kept behind him till he got to the gate. Then after a while I comed, too!" Mignon La Salle stood watching the wailing aspirant for the "big band" with frowning eyes. "I suppose this ridiculous child belongs to those Stevens," she sneered. "Ain't a 'diclus child," contradicted Charlie with dignity. "I'm a mesishun. I can play the fiddle. I like Mary. I don't like you." "I have heard that this Stevens boy was an idiot. Now I believe it," snapped Mignon. "I suppose I'll have to take him in until some one comes after him. I didn't know his uncle was to be one of the musicians. If I had, I would have made the leader hire some other man. I sha'n't tell his uncle that he's here. He's hired to play for my dance, not to waste his time taking a simpleton home. It's a perfect nuisance." Her long hoop ear-rings swung and shook with the vehemence of her displeasure. Mary Raymond's face changed from red to white as she listened to the French girl's callous speech. A lover of all children, she could not endure the slight put upon this tiny boy. She straightened up with an alacrity that nearly threw Charlie off his balance. Her blue eyes flashed with righteous wrath. "How can you be so harsh with this cunning boy?" she cried. "He isn't an idiot or a simpleton! He's as bright as--as----" (courtesy conquered) "as any child of his age. Why, he's only a baby. He's not going into your house, either, to wait for his family to find him. He's going home now, and I'm going to take him." "You can't go very far in that short dress and those thin slippers," mocked Mignon. "Don't be a silly. Bring him in, I say, and hurry. I must go back to my guests." "Please go to them," Mary spoke in icily dignified tones. "As for me, I have my cloak." She held forth one bare arm on which swung her long, gray evening cape. "I should never forgive myself if I neglected this little tot. I'm sorry to be so rude, but I can't help it. I'm going now. Good night. Come, Charlie." Wrapping her cloak about her, Mary gently disengaged the violin case from Charlie's clutch, tucked it under one arm and took firm hold of the youngster's hand. Charlie was still regarding Mignon's swaying ear-rings with childish fascination. "You are a orful naughty girl," he pouted reproachfully. "If you leave me now to take that impudent child home, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Mignon, her black eyes snapping. "Very well. You may do as you please," was Mary's laconic response over her shoulder. She had already started down the driveway with her venturesome charge. The little boy had been momentarily awed into silence at Mignon's menacing features. "She's a cross girl," he observed calmly, as he marched along beside Mary, "but we don't care, do we?" "_No_, we _don't_," came emphatically from Mary's lips. And she meant it. CHAPTER XXII FACE TO FACE WITH HERSELF Although Mary Raymond had deliberately snapped the chain that bound her to Mignon La Salle, she now found herself confronted by a far more difficult task. How was she to return little Charlie to Gray Gables without meeting Constance Stevens or another member of her family? It was not yet nine o'clock. It was, therefore, barely possible that Charlie had not been missed. Perhaps Constance and her aunt were not at home. It stood to reason that if they had been, Charlie would never have succeeded in slipping away and following John Roland to his evening's assignment. Once outside the La Salle's gate, Mary paused uncertainly. Charlie tugged impatiently at her hand. "Come on, Mary. Take Charlie home," he demanded. Apparently unmindful of the child's presence, Mary stood still, staring thoughtfully up and down the moonlit street. It was an unusually mild night for that time of year, and the ground was bare of snow. March was in a deceptive, springlike mood, smiling and sunny by day, with the merest touch of snappiness by night. Nevertheless, it was scarcely an occasion for a walk in thin kid slippers and silk stockings, and Mary shivered slightly as she stood there trying to decide what was to be done. "Listen to Mary, Charlie boy," she began suddenly, bending down and looking seriously into the child's bright, black eyes. "Where were Connie and Auntie when you ran away?" "_They_ runned away from Charlie," was the prompt reply, given with an aggrieved pout. "Charlie wanted to go, too, and Connie said 'no.' They wented to the the'ter where the band plays all the time." "And where was nurse?" "She wented away, too, but Connie didn't know it. She thought Charlie didn't know, either. But she told Bessie, and Charlie heard." "So, that is the reason," murmured Mary. Then she said to Charlie, "If Mary takes you home will you promise her something?" "Yes," nodded Charlie. "Then promise Mary that you won't tell anyone you ran away, or that Mary brought you home." "Aren't you going to tell Connie that Charlie was a naughty boy?" came the anxious question. "No, not unless someone sees Charlie when he goes home and asks about it." "Then Charlie won't tell, either," was the calm response. The boy was proving himself anything but a simpleton. "All right. Now we must hurry." Mary took firm hold of the tiny hand and the two started for Gray Gables as fast as the boy's small feet would permit of walking. It was not far from the La Salle's home to Gray Gables. Mary was thankful for that. Not in the least oppressed with a sense of his own shortcomings, Charlie kept up an animated conversation during the short walk. He even proposed stopping in the middle of the street to demonstrate for her special edification his prowess as a fiddler. Mary vetoed this proposal, however. She was bent on reaching Gray Gables as soon as possible. Just inside the grounds she halted and viewed the house with speculative eyes. Lights gleamed from the hall, the living room, and from one upstairs window. Then, with Charlie's hand still in hers, she walked boldly up the driveway and mounted the steps. Within the shielding shadow of the veranda she paused for a long moment and listened. Turning to the child she laid her finger on her lips with a gesture of silence. Charlie beamed understandingly. Mary's strange behavior was as interesting to him as though it were a new game invented for his pleasure. He entered completely into the spirit of it. "Now," whispered the girl, "Mary is going to ring the bell and run away. Charlie must stand still and wait until someone opens the door. If no one comes, Charlie must ring the bell again. And remember, he mustn't tell who brought him home!" "Charlie won't tell," gravely assured the youngster. Mary pressed a firm finger on the bell and held it there for a second. Then she darted down the steps, around a corner of the house and across a wide stretch of frozen lawn. She remembered that she could climb the low fence at the back of the grounds, cut across a field which lay below them and emerge on a small street not far from the Deans' home. She did not pause for breath until she reached the street she had in mind. Flushed and panting from her wild flight it was several minutes before she could compose herself sufficiently to go on toward home. Luckily for her she met but two persons, a boy of perhaps fifteen and a laboring man. Neither gave her more than the merest glance. But her last ordeal was yet to come. What would Marjorie and her mother think when they saw her? They would immediately guess that something unusual must have happened to bring her home from the party before it had hardly more than begun. Her recent experience had left her in no mood for explanations. She decided to try slipping quietly in at the rear door of the house. There was, of course, a possibility that it might be locked, but if it were not--so much the better for her. There was an instant of breathless suspense as she noiselessly turned the knob. It yielded to her touch, and she stole into the kitchen and up the back stairs like an unsubstantial shadow of the night, rather than a very tired and sore-hearted girl. Once in her room she sat down on her bed to think things over. She dared not move about for fear of being heard by Marjorie or her mother. Long she sat, moodily reviewing the year that had promised so much, yet had yielded her nothing but dissension and sorrow. One bare, ugly fact confronted her, looming up like a hideous monster whose dreadful claws had shredded her peace of mind and now waved at her the tattered fragments. It had all been her fault. For the first time she saw herself as she really was. A jealous, suspicious, hateful girl. It was she, not Marjorie, who had been unfaithful to friendship. But she had gone on blindly, unreasoningly, preferring to think the worst, until now it was too late to bridge the gap that she had daily widened between herself and her chum by her absurd jealousy. She could never regain her lost ground. She felt that Marjorie's patience with her had long since been exhausted. She dared not, could not, plead for reinstatement. All that remained to be done was to go through the rest of that dreadful year alone. When she and Marjorie had finished their sophomore course she would go quietly away, and they would, perhaps, never meet again. Alone with her bitter remorse, Mary wept until she could cry no more. As is usually the case with youth, she was sweeping in her self-condemnation. But that bitter hour of self-revelation did more to arouse within her the determination to conquer herself and establish the foundation for a noble womanhood than she could possibly believe. At last she pulled herself together to play the final scene in her evening's drama. Mrs. Dean had given her a latchkey, in order that she might let herself into the house, should she return from the party after the Deans had retired. At half-past ten o'clock she heard Marjorie and her mother come up the stairs to their rooms. Mr. Dean was away from home on a business trip. When all sounds of conversation between the two women had ceased and the house had apparently settled down for the night, Mary crept softly out of her room and down the stairs. Opening the hall door with stealthy fingers, she stepped into the vestibule. She listened intently for a sign from above that her soft-footed journey down the stairs had been discovered. But none came. Turning deliberately about, she retraced her steps, closing the hall door with sufficient force to announce her arrival. Without attempt at stealth she walked across the hall, up the stairs and into the pretty blue room that she had lately left. The closing of her own door purposely sounded her home coming. "Is that you, Mary?" called Marjorie's voice from the next room. Mary trembled with positive relief at the signal success of her manoeuver. Steadying her voice, she replied, "Yes, it is I." "Did you have a nice time?" Mary read merely polite inquiry in the tone. It lacked Marjorie's former warmth and affection. "Not particularly." Impulsively she added, "I missed you, Marjorie. I'm sorry you weren't there." Breathlessly she waited for a response. But Marjorie was only human. Resentment against Mignon, rather than Mary, permeated her reply. "It's nice in you to say so, but I am very glad I wasn't there. I should consider an invitation to Mignon La Salle's party as anything but an honor." It was the first deliberately cutting speech that Marjorie Dean had ever uttered. Realizing its cruelty she called out contritely, "That was hateful in me, Mary. Please forget what I said." "Oh, it doesn't matter. Good night." Mary managed to force the indifferent answer. She felt that she deserved even this and more. She was rapidly learning to her sorrow that, when one plants nettles, in time they are sure to grow up and sting. CHAPTER XXIII FOR THE FAME OF SANFORD HIGH When Marjorie Dean went down to breakfast the following morning it was with the feeling that her sharp answer to Mary's unexpected comments of the night before had been unworthy of her better self. Mary's reply, "Oh, it doesn't matter," had somehow sounded wistful rather than indifferent. To be sure, Mary had literally forced upon her the reserved stand which she had at last taken. Yet underneath her proud attitude of distant courtesy toward the girl who had once taken first place in her friendship still lurked the faint hope of reconciliation. But she had made her last advance on that memorable Christmas day when Mary had shown her so plainly that she respected the flag of truce for the day only and had returned to her former state of antagonism at the first opportunity. In the beginning it had been hard to stifle her impulsive nature, and appear courteous yet wholly unconcerned regarding her chum's welfare, but in time she found it comparatively easy. Friendship was dying hard, yet it _was_ dying, nevertheless. This thought had startled Marjorie a little as she recalled how easy it had been to be disagreeable, where once it would have seemed absolutely impossible to allow those cutting words to pass her lips. It came soberly to her that morning as she walked into the dining room that, after all, she did not wish that friendship to die. Something must be done to keep it alive until Mary was quite herself again. The faint line of concern which appeared between her dark brows deepened as this latest conviction took hold of her. As she pondered, the object of her thoughts appeared in the doorway. Mary's face wore an air of listlessness that quite corresponded with her subdued, "Good morning, Marjorie. Good morning, Captain." "You look all tired out, my dear," remarked Mrs. Dean solicitously. There was a curiously pathetic droop to Mary's mouth which gave her the appearance of a very tired child who had played too hard and was ready to be put to bed, rather than to begin the day's round of events. "Did you dance too much?" "No." A peculiar little smile flickered across the girl's pale features. She wondered what Mrs. Dean would say if she told her just how she had spent her evening. Marjorie regarded Mary almost curiously. In some indefinable way she had changed. Then it flashed across her that Mary's usual stubborn expression had given place to one of distinct sadness. With a kindly endeavor toward lightening her chum's heavy mood, she tried to draw her out to talk of the party. She met with little success. As Mary, in reality, knew nothing further of it than the fact that Mignon had worn a gypsy costume and that the majority of the boys invited had not put in an appearance, she was hardly prepared to describe the affair. She, therefore, answered Marjorie's questions in brief monosyllables and volunteered no information whatever. "I am going over to see Jerry Macy this morning. Would you like to go with me?" asked Marjorie, after her attempt to discuss the party had proved futile. "No; I thank you just the same. I have several things to buy at the stores, and then I am going for a walk. I would ask you to go with me, only you are going to Jerry's." "I'd love to," a touch of Marjorie's old heartiness came to the surface, "but I promised Jerry I'd surely go to see her to-day." "Perhaps we can take a walk some other day," remarked Mary vaguely as they rose from the table. "I will take you both for a ride this afternoon, if you are good," volunteered Mrs. Dean. She had been observing the signs. She decided, within herself, that matters were assuming a more hopeful turn. Yet she had long since left the two girls to work out their problem in their own way. "That will be splendid!" cried Marjorie. "I should like to go," acceded Mary almost shyly. Mrs. Dean smiled to herself and saw light ahead. The barrier seemed about to crumble. But as the days went by, both she and Marjorie grew puzzled over the change in blue-eyed Mary. She had, indeed, lost her belligerent spirit of animosity, but a profound melancholy had settled down upon her like a pall. Gradually it became noised about in school that Mary Raymond and Mignon La Salle were no longer on speaking terms. Why this was so, no one knew. Mary was mute on the subject. For once, also, the French girl had nothing to say. As it happened, she believed that no one of the guests had witnessed the scene between herself and Mary, and to try to relate it, even with emendations of her own, would hardly redound to her credit. She was too shrewd not to know that the average person resents an affront against childhood. Then, too, Constance Stevens was making rapid strides toward popularity among the girls of Sanford High School and her cowardly nature warned her to be silent. But her chief reason for silence lay in the fact that Mary had curtly informed her on the Monday morning following the party that she had seen Charlie safely home, that so far as she could learn his family did not know who had escorted him home, and that if she, Mignon, were wise she would say nothing whatever of the occurrence. Without further words, Mary had walked away, but that same afternoon she had removed her wraps to another locker, a significant sign that she was done with the French girl forever. When it came to Marjorie's ears that Mary and Mignon had quarreled, she decided a trifle sadly that Mary's melancholy was due to the French girl's defection. She was sure that, whatever the quarrel had been about, Mignon was to blame. Until then she had never quite believed in the sincerity of Mary's affection for this unscrupulous, headstrong girl, and it hurt her to see Mary take the estrangement so to heart. She said as much to Constance Stevens as they walked home from school together on the Monday following the Easter vacation. To Marjorie the Easter holidays had been a continuous succession of good times. She had attended half a dozen parties given by her various schoolmates, and numerous luncheons and teas. To all these Mary had received invitations also. She had politely declined them, however, going on long, lonely walks by day and moping in the living room or her own room by night. "Somehow," Marjorie confided to Constance, "I never believed Mary could be so deceived in a person. But she must think a lot of Mignon, or she wouldn't be so dreadfully sad all the time." "It's queer," mused Constance. "I don't think she knows to this day the truth about last year." "I am sure she doesn't. Mary is really too honorable to stand by a--a--person that you and I know isn't worthy of loyalty. That sounds rather hard, especially from one of the reform party. But I can't help it. I am quite ready to say and mean it, Mignon La Salle hasn't a better self. She never had one!" "It hasn't been very pleasant for you this year, has it?" was Constance's sympathizing question. "It's too bad. After all the nice things we had planned. Sometimes I think it is better not to make plans. They never turn out as one hopes they will." "I know it," rejoined Marjorie with a sigh. "Jerry Macy says that Mary has something on her mind besides Mignon." "Perhaps she is sorry that she----" Constance hesitated. "That we aren't chums any more?" finished Marjorie. "I don't think so. If she had been truly sorry she would have come to me and said so. I thought so the day after Mignon's party. Then I heard that they had quarreled, and I changed my opinion." There was a faint touch of bitterness in Marjorie's speech. "Suppose we don't talk of it any more. I wish to forget it, if I can. It doesn't do much good to mourn over what can't and won't be changed. Did Jerry tell you that Laurie Armitage has finished his operetta? Professor Harmon is going to have a try-out of voices in the gymnasium next Saturday morning." "Laurie told me himself. He brought the score of the operetta to Gray Gables last night and we tried it over on the piano. The music is beautiful. It is so tuneful it lingers. I've been humming snatches of it ever since he played it for me. The 'Rebellious Princess' has some wonderful songs. That clever young man, Eric Darrow, composed the libretto and thought out the plot. It's about a princess who grew tired of staying at home in her father's castle and going to state dinners and receptions, so she put on the dress of a peasant girl and ran away from the castle to see the world. She took some gold with her, but it was stolen from her the very first thing. No one paid any attention to her because she was poor, and she had a dreadfully hard time. But she was so stubborn she wouldn't go back to her father and say she was sorry, so she wandered on until her clothes were ragged and her shoes were worn out. Then an old woman took the poor princess to live with her and she had to work terribly hard and wait on the woman's daughter, who loved nothing but pretty clothes and to have a good time. No one was good to her except the woman's adopted son, who was left on her doorstep when he was a baby. At last the princess grew so tired of it all she went back to her father, but to punish her he pretended he didn't know her. So she had to go away again, but the woman's son had followed her and when he saw her leave the castle, crying, he told her he loved her and asked her to marry him. She said 'yes,' because he was the only person in the world who cared for her. But her father hadn't really intended that she should go away. He sent his courtiers after her to bring her back to the castle. She wanted to go back, but she wouldn't go unless the young man went with her. When he found out that she was really a great princess he said he would never dare to ask her to marry him. But she said that true love was better than all the wealth in the world, and she would not go back unless he went with her, and so he said he would go. That is where the operetta ends. They sing a duet, 'True Love Is Best,' and you have to imagine what the king said. There isn't so much in the plot, but it is very sweet, and the music is delightful," finished Constance. "I know I shall love to hear it!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I do hope you will be chosen to sing the part of the princess." Constance flushed. "Laurie wishes me to have it," she said almost humbly. "But there are sure to be others who can sing it better than I. However, the try-out will settle that. At any rate, I may be chosen for a court lady in the chorus. I hope you'll be in it, too." "I can't sing well enough," laughed Marjorie. "But I'll be there on Saturday, and perhaps I'll be lucky enough to get into it somehow. Won't it be fun to rehearse? Hal Macy ought to have a part. He has a splendid tenor voice, and the Crane can sing bass. I can hardly wait until Saturday comes. I am so anxious to see who will be chosen." Marjorie's pleasant anxiety was shared by the majority of the girls of Sanford High School. The proposed operetta became the chief topic for discussion as the unusually long week dragged interminably along toward that fateful Saturday. Even the high and mighty seniors condescended to become interested. Among their number, more than one ambitious seeker after fame secretly imagined herself as carrying off the rôle of the Rebellious Princess, and conducted assiduous practice of much neglected scales in the hope of glory to come. As the star singer of her class, Constance Stevens' name was often brought up for discussion among her classmates as the possibly successful contestant in the try-out. Besides, was it not Lawrence Armitage's opera? It was generally known that the dark-haired, dreamy-eyed lad had a decided predeliction for Constance's society. Rumor, therefore, decreed that if Laurie Armitage had the say, Constance would have no trouble in carrying off the leading rôle. But the most determined aspirant for fame was none other than Mignon La Salle. With her usual slyness, she kept her own counsel. Nevertheless, she believed she stood a fair chance of winning the prize of which she dreamed. For Mignon could sing. From childhood her father had spared no expense in the matter of her musical education. An ardent lover of music he had decreed that Mignon should be initiated into the mysteries of the piano when a tiny girl, and, although Mr. La Salle had allowed her undisputed liberty to grow up as she pleased, on one point he was firm. Mignon must not merely study music; she must each day practice the required number of hours. In the beginning she had rebelled, but finding her too indulgent parent adamant in this one particular, she had been forced to bow her obstinate head to his decree. In consequence she profited by the enforced practice hours to the extent of becoming a really creditable performer on the piano for a girl of her years. At fourteen she had begun vocal training. Possessed of a strong, clear, soprano voice, three years under the direction of competent instructors had done much for her, and, although she was far too selfish to use her fine voice merely to give pleasure to others, she never allowed an opportunity to pass wherein she might win public approval by her singing. The mere fact that "The Rebellious Princess" was Lawrence Armitage's own composition served to spur her on to conquest. Given the leading rôle, she believed that she might awaken in the young man a distinct appreciation of herself which hitherto he had never demonstrated toward her. Once she had brought him to a tardy realization of her superiority over Constance Stevens, by outsinging the latter, along with all the other contestants, she was certain that admiration for herself as a singer would blot out any unpleasant impression he might earlier have conceived of her. She had heard that "the Stevens girl" could sing. It was to be doubted, however, if her voice amounted to much. Another point in her favor lay in the fact that Professor Harmon was a close friend of her father. He would surely give her the preference. But while she dreamed of triumphantly holding the center of the stage before a spellbound audience, her rival to be, Constance Stevens, was seriously debating within herself regarding the wisdom of even entering the contest. Of a distinctly retiring nature, Constance was not eager to enter the lists. On the Friday afternoon before the try-out she was still undecided, and when the afternoon session of school was over, and she and the five girls with whom she spent most of her leisure hours were walking down the street, headed for Sargent's and its never-failing supply of sweets, she was curiously silent amid the gay chatter of her friends. "I suppose you girls know that our dear Mignon has designs on the Princess," announced Jerry Macy, with the elaborate carelessness of one who gives forth important news as the commonest every-day matter. "Mignon!" exclaimed Marjorie Dean in amazement. "I never even knew she could sing." "She thinks she can," shrugged Muriel Harding. "Goodness knows she ought to. She has studied for ages. I'm surprised to hear that she is going to enter the try-out, considering it's Laurie's operetta. You know just how much he likes her. She knows, too." "Who told you, Jerry?" quizzed Susan Atwell. "The way you gather news is positively marvelous. Was it big brother Hal?" "No, he doesn't know it. If I told him, he'd tell Laurie and Laurie would promptly have a spasm. One of the girls in the senior class mentioned it to me." "Mignon really sings well," put in Irma. "Don't you remember the time she sang at Muriel's party, two years ago? She has been studying ever since. She must have improved a good deal since then." "Oh, I've heard her sing more than once," said Jerry Macy, "but I don't like her voice. It's--well, it isn't sweet and sympathetic." "Neither is she," put in Susan with her customary giggle. "Wait until Connie sings at the try-out. Then someone can gently lead Mignon to a back seat," predicted Jerry. "It would give me a good deal of pleasure to be that 'someone.'" "I don't think I shall enter the try-out," remarked Constance, flushing. "Why not?" was the questioning chorus. "Oh, I don't know, only I just don't care to. If I do, someone might say that I went into it because----" She hesitated, and the flush on her cheeks deepened. "Because you expected Laurie to choose you, you mean," finished Jerry. "Yes; that is what I meant," admitted Constance. "Of course, I know there are other girls who are better singers than I, and that I couldn't possibly be chosen. Still, I'd rather not go into it at all, unless I could just be in the chorus." "You are a goose; a nice, dear goose, but a goose, just the same," was Jerry's plain sentiment. "Connie Stevens, if you don't try for that part, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Muriel. "I'll disown you," added Susan in mock menace. "Connie," Marjorie's voice vibrated with sudden energy, "I think you _ought_ to try for the Princess. I am almost sure no other girl in Sanford High can sing so beautifully. Then there is Laurie. He has always been nice to you. It would hurt his feelings dreadfully if you didn't try for a part in his operetta. Besides, I know it sounds hateful, but I can't help saying that I'd be glad to see you take the Princess away from Mignon. That is, if she really stands a good chance of winning it. I suppose that is what Miss Archer would call 'an ignoble sentiment,' but I mean it, just the same." Marjorie glanced half defiantly around the bright-eyed circle. They were now in Sargent's, seated about their favorite table. "Hurrah for you, Marjorie!" cried Jerry, flourishing her hand as though it were a pennant of triumph. "That's what I say, too. You are really a human, everyday person, after all. I used to think you were almost too forgiving toward certain persons, but now I can see that you aren't such a model forgiver, after all." "That is rather a doubtful compliment, isn't it?" laughed Marjorie. "Frankness is the soul of virtue," jeered Muriel. "Oh, now, you know what I mean," protested Jerry, looking somewhat sheepish. "You girls do like to tease me. All right, I'll do the forgiving act and order the refreshments. I'll pay for them, too. I've a whole dollar. I am supposed to buy some stationery with it, but I'll just let my correspondence languish and treat instead. Name your eat and you can have it. Fifteen cents apiece is your limit. I need the other ten to buy stamps." "What is the use in buying stamps if you don't intend to correspond?" put in Irma mischievously. "I might need them some day," was Jerry's calm retort. "Besides, if I don't spend the ten cents I may lose it. Now the bureau of information is closed. Order your fifteen cents' worth!" After changing their minds several times in rapid succession to the infinite disgust of the waitress, the sextette finally made unanimous decision for a new concoction in the way of a fruit lemonade, known as Sargent Nectar. "Now," announced Jerry, as the long-suffering waitress deposited the tall glasses on the table and retired to the back of the room to grumble uncomplimentary comments to a fellow-worker on the ways of high school girls who didn't know their own minds, "let us all drink a toast to Miss Connie Stevens, the celebrated star of 'The Rebellious Princess.' But remember, we can't drink it until the star says she will shine. "'Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Shall we see you from afar? On the Sanford stage so shy, For the fame of Sanford High.' "Who says I'm not a poet?" "Connie, you can't resist that poetic appeal," giggled Susan. Constance's blue eyes shone misty affection upon the circle of fresh, young faces, alight with the honest desire for her success. Her voice trembled a little as she said: "I'll take it all back, girls. Now that I know just how you feel about the try-out, _I'd_ be an ungrateful girl to say I wouldn't do my best. I'll sing to-morrow, but if I'm not chosen, please don't be disappointed." "To Connie, our Princess! Long may she warble!" Jerry raised her glass of lemonade. "Drink her down!" CHAPTER XXIV THE MOMENT OF TRIUMPH It was a buzzing and excited assemblage of young men and women that gathered in the gymnasium of Weston High School on Saturday morning for the much-discussed try-out. As it had been strictly enjoined upon the students of both high schools that unless they desired to take part in the coming operetta their presence was not requested, nor would it be permitted, on the momentous occasion, the great room was only comfortably filled. Weston High School was represented by not more than twenty-five or thirty ambitious aspirants for fame, but at least a hundred girls from Sanford High cherished hopes of gaining admission to the magic cast. After much discussion, Marjorie and her four friends had decided to make a bold attempt at chorus celebrity, purely for the sake of seeing what happened. Constance had earnestly urged them to do so, declaring that she could not sing unless they were present to encourage her. "I wonder if all this crowd expects to be chosen," was Jerry Macy's blunt comment, as the sextette of girls stood grouped at one side of the room, waiting for the affair to begin. "I hope I'm not asked to sing alone. Not so much for my own sake. I hate to make other people feel sad. I practised 'America' and 'Marching through Georgia' last night, just to see what I could do. One of our maids came rushing into the living room because she said she wondered who was making all that noise. Then Hal poked his head in the door and asked if I was hurt. So I quit. It was time." Jerry's painful experience as a soloist provoked a burst of laughter from her friends. It had hardly died away when Professor Harmon, a stout, little man, with a shock of bushy hair and an expression of being always on the alert, bustled in. With him came Lawrence Armitage and a tall, dark-haired young man, a stranger to those present. The professor trotted to the piano, opened it, held a hurried conference with his companions, then, stepping forward, ran a searching eye over the assembled boys and girls. The more ambitious contestants of both sexes carried music rolls containing the selections they intended to offer, but the majority of that carefree congregation aspired to nothing higher than the chorus, looking upon the whole affair as a grand lark. Professor Harmon proceeded to make a short speech, briefly outlining the plot of the opera and stating the nature of the try-out. "We shall ask those who wish to try for principals to step to that side of the room," he said, indicating the left. "I wish to hear them sing, first. Afterward, I shall select the chorus, and hear them sing together." "That lets me out," was Jerry's relieved, inelegant comment to Susan Atwell, as she moved to the right. Susan stifled an irrepressible chuckle and sobered her face for what was to come. Over among the groups of possible principals Constance became obsessed with sudden shyness. The majority of the girls were of the upper classes, and she felt lonely and ill at ease. She noted that she and Mignon La Salle were the only representatives of the sophomore class. Mignon, looking radiant self-possession in a smart old-rose suit and hat to match, carried herself with the air of one whose success was already assured. Her black eyes were snapping with excitement as they darted from the professor to the two young men standing beside the piano. She fingered her gray morocco music roll nervously, her thin fingers never still. Stepping over to the piano the professor seated himself. "That young lady on the right, please come to the piano." The girl indicated, a dignified senior, obeyed the summons, coolly handed the professor her music, stationed herself at his side and awaited trial with the air of a Spartan. After a short prelude she began to sing a popular air that was at that time going the round of Sanford. She sang one verse, then the professor dropped his hands from the keys, inquired her name, made a memorandum on a pad, and, dismissing her, signaled another girl to take her place. The try-out proceeded with a business-like snap that bade fair to end it with speedy commission. So far nothing startling in the way of voices had been discovered. Constance listened to the various girl soloists and wondered if she could do as well as they. Mignon leaned far forward with breathless interest. She was firmly convinced that her singing would create a sensation. When at last her turn came, she walked boldly forward. Professor Harmon smiled approval and encouragement. He desired particularly to see her carry off the honor of the leading rôle. She darted a lightning glance at Lawrence Armitage as she approached the piano, but in his impassive features she could read neither approval nor indifference. She had chosen a French song, full of difficult runs and trills, and it may be set down here to her credit that she sang it well. As her clear, but somewhat unsympathetic voice rang out, a faint murmur of approbation swept the listeners. Her long training now stood her in good stead. Professor Harmon allowed her to go on with her song, instead of halting her in the middle of it, as he had in the case of the previous aspirants. When she had finished singing, she was greeted with a round of genuine applause, the first accorded to a singer since the beginning of the try-out. The brilliancy of her performance could not be denied, even by those who had reason to dislike her. "Excellent, Miss La Salle," was Professor Harmon's tribute, as he handed her her music. Flushing with pride of achievement, the French girl returned to her place among the others, tingling with the sweetness of her success. There now remained not more than half a dozen untried soloists. Constance Stevens was among that number. By this time Marjorie was becoming a trifle anxious. There was just a chance that Connie might be overlooked. Naturally retiring, she would be quite likely to make no sign, were Professor Harmon to pass her by, under the impression that she had already sung. But Marjorie's fears were needless. Constance had a staunch friend at court. During the try-out Lawrence Armitage's blue eyes had been frequently directed toward the quiet, fair-haired girl of his choice. Locked in his boyish heart was a secret knowledge that he had composed the operetta chiefly because he had wished Constance to have the opportunity of singing the part of the Princess. He had consented to the try-out merely to please Professor Harmon. He was convinced that no other girl could compare with Constance in the matter of voice. He was glad that she was to sing last, and a smile of proud expectation played about his mouth as Professor Harmon abruptly cut off an enterprising senior, the last contestant before Constance, in the midst of a high note. The smile quickly faded to an expression of dismay as he saw the professor rise from the piano, his eyes on his memorandum pad. At the same instant a faint ripple of consternation was heard from a group of girls of which Marjorie formed the center. The latter took a hurried step forward. Marjorie was determined that Connie must not be cheated of her chance. She had caught a glimpse of Mignon, her black eyes blazing with insolent triumph and positive joy at the possibility of this unexpected elimination of the girl she hated. But Marjorie's intended protest in behalf of her friend was never uttered. Laurie Armitage had come to the rescue. She saw him halt Professor Harmon, as he was about to address the company. She saw the little man's eyebrows elevate themselves in a glance toward Constance, following Laurie's low, energetic communication. Then she felt herself trembling with relief as Professor Harmon announced apologetically, "I understand that I almost made the mistake of overlooking one of Sanford's promising young singers. Will Miss Stevens please come forward?" Pink with the embarrassment of the professor's words, Constance made no move to comply with the request. Good-natured Ellen Seymour, who was one of the contestants, pushed her gently forward. Ellen's light touch awoke Constance to motion. She walked mechanically toward the piano, as though propelled against her will by an unseen force. The humiliation of being even accidentally passed by looked forth from her sensitive features. Quick to note it, Lawrence Armitage advanced toward her, took her tightly rolled music from her hand, and, conducting her to the piano, introduced her to Professor Harmon, apparently unmindful of the many pairs of eyes intently watching the little scene. "Now we are ready." The professor nodded to Constance, who stood with her small hands loosely clasped, her grave eyes fastened upon him. He half smiled, as his experienced fingers began the first soft notes of Mendelssohn's Spring Song. Long ago her foster father had written a set of exquisitely tender words that had exactly seemed to fit those unforgettable strains, so familiar to every true lover of music. Constance had sung them so many times that she knew them by heart. Now she fixed her eyes on the east wall of the gymnasium, and, leaving the world behind her, rendered the beautiful selection as though she were in her own home, with only her dear ones to listen to the flood of ravishing melody that issued from her white throat. Marjorie Dean felt a swift rush of tears flood her brown eyes as she listened to her friend. She recalled the time when she had halted at the door of the little gray house, in wonder at that glorious voice. Conquering her emotion, she began to take stock of the effect of the song upon those assembled. She saw the proud flash of gladness that leaped to Laurie's fine face. His faith in Connie's powers was being amply fulfilled. She read the profound surprise and admiration of Professor Harmon, as he accompanied the singing girl. She glimpsed enthusiastic admiration in the countenances of the spell-bound students, many of whom had never before heard Constance sing. Then her gaze centered upon Mignon. Anger, surprise and chagrin swept the elfish face of the French girl. She read vocalization more flawless than her own, as well as greater sweetness and an intense sympathy, which she lacked, in the full, sweet, rounded tones that issued from her rival's lips. This was the voice of a great artist. Professor Harmon turned from the piano as the last golden note died away and held out his hand. "Allow me to congratulate you, Miss Stevens. You----" His voice was drowned in tumult of noisy and fervent approbation on the part of the delighted audience. Boys and girls forgot the dignity of the occasion, and the next instant the surprised Constance found herself surrounded by as admiring a throng as ever did honor to a triumphant basket-ball or football star. If signs were true presagers of victory, if the united acclamation of the majority counted, then Constance Stevens had, indeed, come into her own. CHAPTER XXV AN UNHAPPY PRINCESS It took Professor Harmon several minutes to reduce the noisy enthusiasts to the decorous state of order in which they had entered the gymnasium. Far from being elated over her triumph, Constance Stevens received the ovation with the shyness of a child brought before an audience against its will to speak its first piece. She heaved an audible sigh of relief when at last she was left to herself and retired behind Marjorie and her friends with a flushed, embarrassed face. The boys' try-out was shortened considerably by the fact that there were fewer singers to be heard. When it was over it was announced that Hal Macy had carried off the rôle of the poor, neglected son, which was in reality the male lead. The Crane was selected for the king, while freckle-faced Daniel Seabrooke was chosen for the jester, greatly to his delight and surprise. There was an emphatic round of applause when Professor Harmon announced that Constance Stevens had been selected to sing the Princess. Ellen Seymour captured the rôle of the queen, and to Mignon La Salle was allotted the part of the disagreeable step-sister. It was second in importance to that of the Princess, but the French girl's face was a study as she received the announcement. She tried to smile, but the baffled anger and keen disappointment which was hers blazed forth from her elfish eyes. The minor parts were soon given out, and then came the trial of the chorus. The hope of Marjorie and her four friends that they might be chosen was fulfilled. A number of the girls who had sung solos were also selected, and, with one or two disgruntled exceptions, resigned themselves to the lesser glory, gratefully accepting what was offered them. It was evident, however, that pretty faces had much to do with the Professor's choice of the chorus, and when he had gathered the elect together and heard them sing "The Star Spangled Banner" as a test, he expressed himself as satisfied, and appointed a rehearsal for the following Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock. With the exception of Constance, it was a most jubilant sextette that set out for Sargent's, at Marjorie's invitation, after the try-out was over. She was still somewhat dazed over her success. Although she smiled as the five girls paid her affectionate tribute, she had little to say. "Girls, did you see Mignon's face when Connie was singing?" began Muriel Harding, as soon as they were out of earshot of any possible participants in the try-out. "Did we see it? Well, I guess so." Jerry made prompt answer. "At least, I did. While Connie was singing I was dividing my seeing power between her and the fair but frowning Mignon. Maybe she wasn't mad! She tried to pretend she wasn't listening, but she never missed a note. She had sense enough to know good singing when she heard it." "I was watching her, too," nodded Muriel Harding. "Her eyes positively glittered when Professor Harmon almost missed hearing Connie sing. I knew she was hoping he would. Then Laurie Armitage came to the rescue." "I was going to say something," was Marjorie's quiet comment. "I had made up my mind that Connie shouldn't be overlooked. I was so glad when Laurie spoke to the professor." "I thought you were," declared Jerry. "I was going to say something, if no one else did." "I don't believe any one of us could have stood there and seen Connie miss her turn without making a fuss," said gentle Irma Linton. "I am so glad it all came out nicely. Laurie Armitage is a splendid boy." "So is the Crane," put in Jerry slyly. "Of course he is," agreed Irma, placidly ignoring Jerry's attempt to tease. "So is your brother Hal. There are lots of nice boys in Weston High." Jerry merely grinned cheerfully at this retort and returned to the subject of the coming opera. "Is Laurie going to help you with your songs?" she asked, addressing Constance. "Yes," replied Constance simply. "He said he would. I can't quite believe yet that I am to sing the Princess. I may be able to manage the songs, but I can't act. I imagine Mignon would make a better actress than I." "She ought to," jeered Muriel Harding, who could never resist a thrust at the French girl. "She never does anything else. I don't believe she'd know her real self if she came face to face with it in broad daylight." "Oh, forget Mignon. Who was that tall, dark man with Laurie and Professor Harmon?" interposed Susan Atwell. "You ought to know, Connie. I saw Laurie introduce you to him." "His name is Atwell," answered Constance. "He is an actor, I believe. I don't know why he happened to be at the try-out to-day. Perhaps Professor Harmon invited him." "I'll find out all about him and tell you," volunteered Jerry. "Hal may know. If he doesn't, some one else will." "For further information, ask brother Hal," giggled Susan. It was not until Marjorie and Constance had said good-bye to the others and were strolling home in the spring sunshine that the latter asked, "Where was Mary to-day?" "I don't know." Marjorie spoke soberly. "She left the house before I did this morning. She said last night that she wasn't interested in the try-out. I thought perhaps she might like to be in the chorus, but she doesn't appear to care about it. She has a sweet, soprano voice and can sing well." "I am sorry," was Constance's brief answer. "So am I." Marjorie did not continue the painful subject. They had talked it over so many times, there was nothing left to be said. "I am glad you were chosen for the Princess," she said after a little silence, during which the two girls were busy with their own thoughts. "I am going to try to sing well, if only to please you and Laurie," was Constance's earnest avowal. "I'm glad Mignon didn't get the part. It won't be very pleasant for you to have to sing with her. I wouldn't say this to anyone else, but if I were you I would keep a watchful eye on her, Connie." "If she tries to be disagreeable, I shall simply pay no attention to her." "That will be best," nodded Marjorie. Nevertheless, she reflected that as a member of the chorus she would have opportunity to observe the French girl and mentally decided to keep an eye on her. "Has Mary come in, Delia?" was Marjorie's quick question, as the maid answered her ring. "Here I am," called Mary from the living room. She had heard Marjorie's question. Now she appeared in the doorway of the living room, viewing her former chum with sombre gravity. "Who is going to sing the Princess?" she asked abruptly. "Connie was chosen. She sang beautifully." "I'm glad Mignon didn't get the part," muttered Mary. Wheeling about, she walked into the living room, and, taking up a book she had turned face downward on the table, became, to all appearances, absorbed in its pages. For a moment Marjorie stood watching her through the half-drawn portieres. She would have liked to continue the conversation, but pride forbade her to do so. Mary's mood presaged rebuff. Later, at luncheon, she unbent sufficiently to question Marjorie further regarding the try-out. Although she did not say so, she was sorry that Mignon had been given a principal's part in the operetta. Privately, she wished she had made an attempt to get into the chorus. She, too, was of the opinion that the French girl would bear watching. Failure to carry off the highest honors would act as a spur to Mignon's unscrupulous nature, and sooner or later some one would pay for her defeat. Mary was quite correct in her conjecture that Mignon would not allow matters to rest as they were. From the moment that Constance had been announced as the Princess she had made a vow that by either fair or unfair means she would supplant "that white-faced cat of a Stevens girl," who had been awarded the honor that should have been hers. The first step consisted in holding a private session with Professor Harmon after the others had gone, to ascertain if by any chance he might be relied upon to help her. She found him engaged in conversation with the dark young man. He eyed her with interest, bowed affably when presented to her by the professor, and expressed somewhat profuse pleasure at meeting her. In the presence of a stranger, Mignon dared not ask Professor Harmon openly to reconsider his recent decision in her favor. Three minutes' conversation with him showed her that, had she made the request, it would have availed her nothing. The brisk little man's mind was made up. He congratulated her on capturing second honors with a finality that could not be assailed. Then a brilliant idea entered her wily brain. "Professor Harmon," she began, with a pretty show of girlish confusion, quite foreign to her usual bold method of reaching out for whatever she coveted, "I would like to ask you if I might understudy the Princess. Of course, I know that I can't sing as Miss Stevens sings, and I wouldn't for the world wish anything to happen to prevent her from singing on the great night, but I am so fond of music that it would be a pleasure to understudy the rôle. I shouldn't like anyone to know that I was doing so, though. It is just a fancy on my part." "Certainly you may, Miss La Salle," was the professor's hearty response. "Your idea is excellent. It is a mistake, even in an amateur production, not to provide an understudy for an important rôle, such as Miss Stevens will sing. I must provide an understudy for Mr. Macy, and others of the cast, also. But you are too modest in your request that no one else must know. I am sure Mr. Armitage will be pleased with your suggestion." "Oh, please don't tell him!" exclaimed Mignon. A shade of alarm crossed her dark face, which was not lost on the professor's companion, Ronald Atwell. A mere acquaintance of Professor Harmon's, he had lately arrived in Sanford, at the close of a season as leading man in a popular musical comedy, to visit a cousin. Brought up in that hard school of experience, the stage, he was an adept at reading signs, and he was by no means deceived as to the true character of the girl who stood before him. Far from being displeased with his deductions, he became mildly interested in her and mentally characterized her as being worth cultivating. He had watched her during the try-out, and he had glimpsed her true self in the varying expressions that animated her dark face. He had attended the try-out on the polite invitation of Professor Harmon, and at the latter's earnest solicitation had agreed to take charge of the stage direction of the operetta. The professor had congratulated himself on obtaining such valuable assistance, while the actor looked upon the affair as a pastime which would serve to lighten his stay with his rather dull cousin. He had come to Sanford for a period of relaxation before going to New York to begin rehearsals with a summer show, and the prospect of directing the operetta promised to be amusing. "Very well, I will say nothing," promised the professor amiably. He had come to the try-out, hoping to see the daughter of his friend capture the rôle of the Princess, but the enthusiasm of the artist had driven that hope from his mind when he had heard Constance sing. Now he dwelt only on the success of the operetta, and was distinctly relieved to find that Mignon was in an amiable frame of mind over the unexpected change in his plans. Knowing her tempestuous disposition, he decided that it would be policy to humor her whim. "Thank you so much," beamed Mignon. "I must go now. Good-bye." "I find I must leave you, also," said Ronald Atwell, glancing at his watch, "or I shall be late for luncheon." Mignon had already walked toward the east door of the gymnasium. With a hurried "Good-bye, Professor. I will be here for rehearsal on Tuesday," the dark, young man strode after Mignon and overtook her in the corridor. "I wonder if our ways lie in the same direction," he said pleasantly. "I am the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Horton. Mr. Horton is a cousin of mine." "I pass their house on my way home," was the prompt reply. Elated at receiving the marked attention of this distinguished stranger, Mignon exerted herself to the utmost to be agreeable during their walk. From the few words she had heard pass between the professor and Mr. Atwell as she approached them, she had gathered the information that the latter was to manage the stage and coach the actors in the operetta. She determined that, if it were possible, she would enlist his services in her behalf. She had counted on Professor Harmon, and he had failed her. In this good-looking, affable young man she foresaw a valuable ally. The presentation of "The Rebellious Princess" was still four weeks distant. A great many things might happen in that time. Her companion's suave comment, "I think Professor Harmon made a mistake in assigning the Princess to the young woman who sang last," uttered with just the exact shade of regret, caused Mignon to thrill with new hope. Mr. Atwell, at least, was of the same mind as herself. She brightened visibly when he went on to say that as stage manager he would try to give her every advantage that lay in his power. "I am certain that you have within you the possibilities which go to make a great actress, Miss La Salle," was his parting remark to her, and these flattering words, which were, in reality, merely idle on the part of the actor, she accepted as gospel truth. It was always very easy for her to accept that which she wished to believe, for self-analysis was not one of her strong points. When the cast and chorus for the operetta met in the gymnasium the following Tuesday afternoon, it did not take the lynx-eyed feminine contingent long to discover that Mignon La Salle had a friend at court. Laurie Armitage, also, soon became aware of the fact. He was secretly displeased that Mignon had been chosen to sing in his operetta, and almost on first acquaintance he had formed a dislike for Ronald Atwell. Behind his polished manners he read insincerity, and he was sorry that Professor Harmon had asked this newcomer to assist in managing the production. But, manlike, he kept his prejudice to himself, admitting reluctantly that Atwell seemed to know what he was about. In the frequent rehearsals that followed, however, many irritating incidents occurred to try his boyish soul. Most of all he disapproved of the actor manager's brusque manner toward Constance Stevens. He found fault continually with her in the matter of the speaking of her lines, and developed a habit of rehearsing her over and over again in a single scene until she was ready to cry of sheer humiliation at her own failure to please him. More than once Laurie made private protest to Professor Harmon, but the latter invariably reminded him that despite Miss Stevens' beautiful voice, she was far from grasping the principles of acting, and that Mr. Atwell was a striking example of a conscientious director. Lawrence Armitage was not the only one whose resentment against the too conscientious stage manager had been aroused. His unfair attitude toward Constance was the subject of many indignant discussions on the part of the girls who comprised her coterie of intimate friends. "It's a shame," burst forth Jerry Macy in an undertone to Marjorie, as they stood together at one side of the gymnasium and watched the impatient manner in which the actor ordered their idol about. "I wouldn't stand it, if I were Connie. I guess you know who is to blame for it, don't you?" Marjorie nodded. A faint touch of scorn curved her red lips. Mignon's growing friendship with Ronald Atwell was the talk of the cast. He frequently accompanied her home from school, invited her to Sargent's, and it was rumored that he was often a guest at dinner or luncheon at her home. Proud of the fact that his daughter was to sing an important rôle in "young Armitage's opera," Mr. La Salle had treated his daughter's new acquaintance with considerable deference and allowed Mignon to do as she pleased in the matter of entertaining him. "Laurie told Hal that he was sorry Professor Harmon had asked that old crank to help. Laurie didn't say 'old crank,' but I say it, and I mean it," continued Jerry vindictively. "Don't breathe it to anyone, though. It was a brotherly confidence and Hal would rave if he knew I repeated it." "Jerry," whispered Marjorie. Her brief scorn had faded into a faint frown of anxiety. "I don't think Mr. Atwell is really the best sort of person for Mignon to go around with. He is ever so much older than she and, somehow, he doesn't seem sincere. Someone told Muriel that he told Mignon she would make a wonderful actress. Mignon was boasting of it. Suppose she were to get an idea of going on the stage. She is so headstrong she might run away from home and do that very thing if she happened to feel like it. I don't like her, but I can't help being just a little bit sorry for her. You know, she hasn't any mother to help her and love her and advise her. Her father is so busy making money, he doesn't pay much attention to her. Fathers are splendid, but mothers are simply splendiferous. I don't know what I'd do without my Captain." Marjorie sighed in sweet sympathy for all the motherless girls in the universe. "Mothers are a grand institution," agreed Jerry, looking a trifle solemn. "I think mine is just about right. I never thought of Mignon in that way before. Now, I suppose I'll have to be sorry for her, too. She doesn't look as though she needed much sympathy just now. She's so pleased with the way Connie is being ordered about that she can't see straight. There, he's through with the poor child at last. Come on. It's time for the chorus to perform. Try to imagine that this good old gym is the king's palace and that our mutual friend the Crane is a kingly king. He looks more like a clothes-pole!" Marjorie was forced to laugh at Jerry's uncomplimentary comparison. They had no further opportunity for conversation in the busy hour that followed. Professor Harmon drilled them rigidly, his short hair positively standing erect with energy, and they were quite ready to gather their little band together and hurry off to Sargent's for rest and ice cream when the rehearsal was at last over. "See here, Connie, why don't you tell that Atwell man to mind his own business," sputtered Jerry as the six girls walked down the street in the direction of their favorite haunt. "He _is_ minding his business," returned Constance ruefully. Her small face was very pale and her blue eyes were strained and unhappy. "It is my fault. But he makes me nervous, and then I can't act. When I am at home I can say my lines just as I ought, but the minute he begins to tell me what to do, everything goes wrong. Then he finds fault and almost makes me cry. I wish I hadn't tried for a part. If it weren't so late I'd resign from the cast." "And let Mignon sing the Princess!" came from Muriel in deep disgust. "Don't you do it," advised Susan. "That's precisely what she'd like you to do." "It's a plot between Mignon and Mr. Snapwell--I mean Atwell," declared Jerry. "She's crazy to be the Princess and he is trying to help her along. A blind man could see that." "I think so, too," said Irma Linton slowly. "You must try not to mind him, Connie, then you won't be nervous." "Why don't you ask Laurie to interfere?" proposed Jerry. "He looked crosser than I look when I'm mad when that Atwell man was worrying you about your lines this afternoon. I'll ask him myself, if you say so." "No." Constance shook her head. "I wouldn't for the world complain to Laurie. He has enough to think of now, without bothering his head over my troubles. I suppose I am too easily hurt. I must learn not to mind such things, if ever I expect to become a real artist." "That's the way you ought to feel, Connie," put in Marjorie's soft voice. She had been thinking seriously, while the others talked, as to what she might say to cheer up her disconsolate schoolmate. "You were chosen to sing the part of the Princess, and I am sure no one else can sing it half so well. Try to think that, all the time you are rehearsing. Remember, Laurie believes in you, and so do we. When the great night comes you won't have to listen to that horrid Mr. Atwell's nagging, or say your lines over and over again. You will truly be the Princess, and that will make you forget everything else. If you believe in yourself, nothing can make you fail. For your own sake, don't think for a minute of giving up the part." CHAPTER XXVI MAKING RESTITUTION Greatly to Mr. Ronald Atwell's chagrin, Constance Stevens began suddenly to show a marked improvement in her work that did not in the least coincide with his plans. Influenced by Mignon's tale of her wrongs, laid principally at Constance's door, albeit Marjorie, too, came in for her share of blame, he had taken a dislike to the gentle girl and lost no opportunity to humiliate her. Privately, he regarded the entire cast, Mignon included, as a set of silly children, and his only regard for Mignon lay in a wholesome respect for her father's money. At heart he was not a scoundrel, he was merely vain and selfish, and imbued with a profound sense of his own importance. It had pleased his fancy to assume the charge of the staging of the operetta, but now he was growing rather tired of it and wished that it were over. Long before this he and Mignon had come to a definite understanding regarding the operetta. Mignon had informed him boldly that she wished to sing the part of the Princess, and he had assured her that he would arrange matters to her satisfaction. It, therefore, became incumbent upon him to keep his word. He had begun his persistent annoying of Constance, convinced that, unable to endure it, she would resign and leave the field of honor free to the French girl. But Constance did nothing of the sort. She stood her ground, half-heartedly at first, but afterward, with Marjorie's words ringing in her ears, she exhibited a steadiness of purpose that he could not shake. At the dress rehearsal, the last before the public performance, she was a brilliant success, compelling even his reluctant admiration. It was now too late even to consider the possibility of Mignon replacing her, and he informed the latter rather sheepishly of this, as he rode home with her in her electric runabout. For the first and last time he had the pleasure of seeing Mignon in a royal rage, and when they reached her home, he declined her sullen offer to send him home in her automobile, and made his escape with due speed. Deciding he had had enough of amateurs and amateur operettas, he mailed a note to Professor Harmon excusing himself from further service on the plea of a telegram summoning him to New York. Whether the telegram were a myth, history does not record. Sufficient to say that he actually went to New York the following afternoon. And thus "The Rebellious Princess" lost a stage manager and Mignon the hitherto chief factor in her plans. She was also the recipient of an apologetic note from the actor, which caused her to clench her hands in rage, then shrug her thin shoulders with a gesture that did not spell defeat. Somehow, in some way, she would accomplish her purpose. Even at the eleventh hour she would not acknowledge herself beaten. Yet as the day wore on toward evening she could think of nothing to do that would bring her her unreasonable desire. The operetta was to be sung in the Sanford Theatre, where the dress rehearsal had been held. Furious almost to tears at her inability to bring about the impossible, Mignon at last ordered her runabout and made sulky preparations to start for the theatre. The possession of an automobile gave her the advantage of being able to don her first act costume at home, but her really attractive appearance in the fanciful gown of the heartless step-sister afforded her no pleasure. She hooked it up pettishly, made a face at herself in the mirror of her dressing table, and, drawing her evening cloak about her, flounced downstairs to her runabout, completely out of humor with the world in general. She drove along recklessly, as was her custom, and when half way to the theatre narrowly missed running down a small, sturdy figure that was marching across the street. "Naughty old wagon," screamed a familiar voice after her. At sound of that piping voice, Mignon stopped her car and peered out. Trotting along the sidewalk a little to her rear was a small boy with a diminutive violin case tucked under his arm. Little Charlie Stevens had come forth once more to see the world. In a flash wicked inspiration came to Mignon. The Stevens child was running away again, but this time he had chosen an evening exactly to her liking. Slipping out of her car she ran toward the boy. "Why, good evening, little boy," she called pleasantly. "Where are _you_ going?" "I know you. You're a naughty girl!" observed Charlie with more truth than courtesy. He braced himself defiantly and regarded Mignon with patent disapproval. "I am so sorry you think so." Mignon affected a sadness which she was far from feeling at this unvarnished statement. "I was going to take you for a ride and buy you some ice cream." Charlie considered this astonishing offer in silence. He stared frowningly at Mignon. "Is it chok'lit ice cream?" he asked, eyeing her in open disbelief. "Of course it is. As much as you can eat." "All right. I want some. But you're a naughty girl, just the same. Mary said so." Mignon shrugged indifferently. She was not greatly concerned at either his or Mary's opinion of her. "Come on, if you want a ride," she urged. Charlie obeyed with some show of reluctance. He was not sure that even the prospect of ice cream warranted his surrender. Mignon caught him up and swung him into the runabout. Her wrist watch pointed to fifteen minutes past seven. She had no time to lose. She drove rapidly through the town to a small confectioner's store at the other end. Charlie kept up a lively chatter as they rolled along. Stopping before it she lifted the boy from the automobile, and, taking his hand, hurried him into the brightly lighted store. Seating him at a table, she ordered two plates of chocolate ice cream and sat down opposite the boy, her black eyes glittering as she watched him eat. From time to time she glanced at her watch. When the child had finished his plate of cream, she pushed her own toward him. "Eat it," she commanded. Charlie responded nobly to the command. When she saw the last spoonful vanish, she smiled elfishly. It was eight o'clock. The operetta began at half past eight. Allowing herself fifteen minutes to reach the theatre and carry out the last step in her plan, she would arrive there at fifteen minutes past eight. The wandering musician made strenuous objection, however, to leaving the ice cream parlor. "I could eat more chok'lit cream," he informed her. "You are a greedy boy," she said, her former friendliness vanishing into angry impatience. "Come with me this minute." "You're a cross old elefunt," was Charlie's crushing but inappropriate retort. Mignon was in no mood for an exchange of pleasantries. Seizing Charlie by the arm she hustled him out of the shop into her runabout, and was off like the wind. When half way between the shop and the theatre, she halted her car. Lifting the boy out she set him on the sidewalk before he had time to protest. "Now go where you please. I'll tell Connie to come and find you," was her malicious farewell. Stepping into the runabout she drove away, leaving Charlie Stevens to take care of himself as best he might. Although Mignon was unaware of the fact, there had been an amazed witness to the final scene in her little drama. A fair-haired girl had come up just in time to hear her heartless speech and see her drive away, leaving a small, perplexed youngster on the sidewalk. That girl was Mary Raymond. She had steadily refused Marjorie's earnest plea that she attend the much-talked-of performance of "The Rebellious Princess," and directly after dinner that evening, on the plea of mailing a letter, had slipped from the house on one of her melancholy, soul-searching walks which she had become so fond of taking. Convinced that she was an utter failure, imbued with a daily growing sense of her own unfitness to be the friend of a girl like Marjorie Dean, Mary was plunged into the depths of humiliation and unhappiness. This alone had been the cause of the marked change in her that Marjorie had innocently attributed to Mignon's defection. In her sad little soul there was now no bitterness against Constance Stevens. Quite by chance she had one day not long past encountered Jerry Macy in Sargent's, alone. Touched by her woe-begone air, Jerry had taken pains to draw her out. With her usual shrewdness the stout girl had discovered the real cause of Mary's depression, and kindly advised her to have a heart-to-heart talk with Marjorie. Jerry had also made it a point to inform Mary, so far as she knew the details, of the trouble over the butterfly pins during Marjorie's freshman year, and of Mignon's cruel treatment of Constance. Distinctly to Jerry's credit, she told no one afterward of that chance meeting, yet she secretly hoped that what she had said would have its effect upon Mary. Overwhelmed with shame, Mary had left the talkative, stout girl and dragged herself home, in an agony of humiliation that can be better imagined than described. She felt that she could never forgive herself for the ignoble thoughts she had harbored against innocent Constance Stevens, and she was still more certain that she could never ask either Marjorie or Constance to forgive _her_. Again and again she had tried to bring herself to approach Marjorie and humbly sue for pardon. The weight of her own troubled conscience prevented her from yielding, and thus she kept her sorrow locked in her aching heart and waited dejectedly for the day when she must leave the Deans' pleasant home, taking with her nothing but bitter self-reproach for her own folly. It was in this black mood that Mary had wandered forth that evening and straight into the path of the very thing that was destined to bring her peace. Mignon had hardly driven away when Mary caught the venturesome youngster in her arms. The boy gave a jubilant little shout as he saw who held him. Mary, however, was still at a loss regarding the meaning of what she had seen. "Every time the cross girl scolds Charlie, you come and get him," was the joyful exclamation. "She wasn't cross all the time. She gave Charlie a ride and lots of ice cream. Then she wented away. She said she'd tell Connie to come and find me. Connie's gone to the the'tre. I wented, too, but the naughty girl got Charlie." "Charlie boy, try to tell Mary, where was he when the cross girl got him?" "Way over there." Charlie waved an indefinite hand in the wrong direction. Mary stood still, in a perplexed endeavor to read meaning in the nature of Mignon's strange action. Suddenly the light burst upon her. "Oh!" she cried, dismay written on every feature. "Now I begin to understand!" She glanced wildly about her. Far up the street shone the light of an oncoming street-car. Seizing Charlie by the hand she hurried him to the corner. It was not more than two minutes until the car came to a creaking stop before them. Mary helped Charlie into it and fumbled in her purse. She had just two nickels. Breathing her relief, she paid the fares, deposited Charlie on a seat beside her, then stared out the window in an anxious watch of the streets. But while Mary Raymond was making a desperate attempt to redeem herself by at least one kind act, Mignon La Salle had reached the theatre. Dropping all appearance of haste, she strolled past the groups of gaily attired boys and girls, nodding condescendingly to this one and that, and switched downstairs to the dressing room which she occupied with several other girls. Leisurely removing her cloak, she plumed herself before the mirror. Her black eyes constantly sought her watch, however. At last she turned from the mirror with a peculiar smile and abruptly left the room. Straight to the star's dressing room she walked. Her thin fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the door. It opened, and she stood face to face with Constance Stevens, who was just about to take her place in the wings, preparatory to the beginning of the opera. She was to make her first entrance directly after the opening chorus. "I came to tell you, Miss Stevens," said Mignon with an indescribable smile of pure malice, "that I saw your brother, Charlie, wandering along the street as I drove to the theatre. I suppose he has run away." With a frightened cry, Constance dashed past her and up the stairs. Mignon laughed aloud as she watched the vanishing figure. "That settles her," she muttered. "Harriet Delaney can sing my part. She has understudied it." Springing into sudden action she ran to her dressing room, eluding a collision with the feminine portion of the chorus who were scurrying for the stage in obedience to a gong that summoned them to the wings. Reaching to a hook in the wall, from which depended her several costumes, hung over one another, she took from under them an almost exact copy of the gown Constance Stevens was wearing in the first act and held it up with a murmur of satisfaction. Stripping off the gown she wore she hastily donned this other costume. Then she sat down to await what she believed would happen. But while Mignon busied herself with her own affairs, Constance was making a hurried search for Laurie Armitage. Unluckily, he had gone, for the moment, to the front of the house. Professor Harmon, too, was not in sight. He also had gone to the front to take his place in the orchestra pit. What could she do? The performance was about to begin. To leave the theatre on a search for Charlie meant disaster to Laurie's operetta. To leave Charlie to wander about the streets alone was even more terrifying. She flitted past the waiting choristers, drawn up for action, without a word of explanation. Marjorie Dean caught one look at her friend's terrified face. It was enough to convince her that something unusual had happened. Slipping out of her place in the line she followed Constance, who was making directly for the stage door. Marjorie saw her fling it open and glance wildly into the night. She ran toward Connie, calling out, "What is the matter?" As the question crossed her lips both girls saw a familiar girlish figure, strangely burdened, running toward them as fast as the weight she carried would permit her to run. With a cry which rang in Marjorie's ears for days afterwards Constance darted forward. She wrapped the girl and her burden in a tumultuous embrace, laughing and crying in the same breath. "The cross girl got Charlie, then she runned away and Mary comed and found him. Charlie's goin' to the the'tre to play in the band. Mary said so." He wriggled from the tangle of encircling arms to the stone walk. "Hello, Marj'ry," he greeted genially. Marjorie turned from the marvelous sight of the two she loved best in each other's arms. It was too wonderful for belief. Tardy remembrance caused her to utter a dismayed, "You'll be late, Connie! Hurry in. Mary and I will take care of Charlie. It doesn't matter if I do miss the opening number." With a swift glance at Mary that contained untold gratitude, Constance faltered, "I--love--you--Mary, for taking care of Charlie! I'll see you again as soon as I can. Good-bye!" She was gone in a flash, leaving Mary and Marjorie to face each other with full hearts. "You are my own, dear Mary again." Marjorie's clear voice was husky with emotion, "and my very first and best chum, forever!" Mary nodded dumbly, her blue eyes overflowing. "I've--come--back--to--you--to stay," she whispered. And on the stone steps, worn by the passing of the feet of those who had entered the theatre to play many parts, these two young players in Life's varied drama enacted a little scene of love and forgiveness that was entirely their own. CHAPTER XXVII THE FULFILLMENT The chorus were tunefully lifting up their voices in their initial number, their watchful eyes on Professor Harmon's baton, when the belated Princess hurried to her position in the wings. Laurie Armitage had returned to the stage and was instituting a wild search for Constance. Failing to find her upstairs, he had hastened below, and was rushing desperately up and down the corridors, peering into the open doorways of the deserted dressing rooms. Only one door was closed. Behind it a black-haired girl awaited a call to fame. He called Constance by name, again and again, then, receiving no answer, he dashed up the stairs, encountering the object of his search at the very height of his alarm. Marjorie Dean stood on guard beside her. She advanced toward the excited composer, saying briefly, "Let her alone, Laurie. She's awfully nervous and upset. She has just had a dreadful fright. I'll tell you about it later." Constance cast a reassuring glance at Laurie. She had heard Marjorie's protecting words. "I'm all right now," she nodded. "I won't fail you." The dulcet notes of her opening song, "I'm tired of being a Princess," brought immeasurable relief to Lawrence and Marjorie, as they stood in the wings, their anxious gaze fixed upon Constance. In one of the dressing rooms below, the silver strains came faintly to the ears of Mignon La Salle. During her interval of waiting she had been softly humming that very song, confident of the summons she believed she would receive. She had no doubt that her cowardly plan had worked only too well. Knowing Constance Stevens' deep affection for her tiny foster brother, she could readily see a vision of the terrified girl rushing out into the night in search of him, her duty to the operetta completely forgotten. As the sound of that hated voice reached her, she sprang to the door of her dressing room and half opening it, halted to listen. A wave of black rage swept over her. Forgetting her recent change of costume, she took the stairs, two at a time, and ran squarely against Lawrence Armitage and Marjorie Dean. Marjorie could not resist a low laugh of contemptuous scorn as she viewed the stormy-eyed girl whose unscrupulous plan had failed. The contempt in her pretty face deepened as her quick eyes took in the details of Mignon's costume. The French girl's indiscreet haste to make ready had convicted her. Marjorie had already learned from Mary all that had occurred. It needed this one proof to complete the evidence. Lawrence Armitage was regarding Mignon with perplexed brow. "That is not the costume you wore last night, Miss La Salle," he said with cold abruptness. Scrutinizing her closely, amazement began to dawn on his clear-cut features. "When did you----" With a low cry of mingled humiliation and fury, Mignon turned and ran down the stairs, her slender body trembling with the anger of a defeat born of the failure of her plan and her own betraying haste. Gaining the shelter of her dressing room, she gave herself up to a paroxysm of rage that ended in a burst of hysterical sobs. The end of the first act brought a troop of hurrying, laughing girls downstairs. Instead of the alert, self-possessed Mignon who had swept proudly into the dressing room that night, those who shared the room with her found a convulsive weeper lying face downward on the floor. "What's the matter?" was the concerted cry. A good-natured senior took Mignon gently by the shoulders. "Get up, Mignon," she commanded. "If you don't stop crying, you won't be able to go on when your cue comes, let alone trying to sing." Mignon's first entrance took place in the second act and occurred directly after the rise of the curtain. The French girl half raised herself at this reminder, then sank back to her original position with a fresh burst of racking sobs. Finding her good-natured ministrations ineffectual, the senior left Mignon to herself and began to change methodically to her peasant costume of the second act, the scene of which was laid in a village and in front of the cottage where she supposedly dwelt. "Ten minutes," called the warning tones of the freshman who was serving as call boy. Still Mignon refused to heed the admonitions of her companions. "Better call Laurie Armitage," suggested one girl. "She can't possibly go on. Harriet Delaney will have to take her place. Mignon isn't even dressed for her part. Where do you suppose----" The senior did not finish her sentence. Something in the familiar details of the gown Mignon wore aroused an unpleasant suspicion in her active brain. A swift-footed messenger had already sped away to find the young composer, who, with the departure of Ronald Atwell had taken the arduous duties of stage manager upon his capable shoulders. When the information of Mignon's collapse reached him, he made no move to go to her. Instead, he beckoned to Harriet Delaney, who had just come upstairs, and whispered a few words to her which caused her colorful face to pale, then turn pinker than usual. "But I haven't a suitable costume," several girls heard her protest. "Go on as you are. Your costume is suitable," reassured Laurie. But down in the dressing room Mignon had struggled to her feet. The knowledge that her unfairness was to cost her her own part in the operetta aroused her to action. In feverish haste she began to tear off the gown she wore. "Second act," rang out through the corridor. With a low wail of genuine grief, Mignon dropped into a chair. She heard Harriet Delaney begin her first song. Unable to bear the chagrin that was hers, she sprang up. Readjusting the gown she had partly thrown off, she seized her cloak and wrapped it about her. Then she fled up the stairway, and into the calm, starlit night to where her runabout awaited her, the victim of her own wrong-doing. * * * * * It was a happy trio of girls that, shortly before midnight, climbed into the Deans' automobile, in which Mr. and Mrs. Dean sat patiently awaiting their exit from the stage door. Lawrence Armitage's operetta had been an artistic as well as a financial success. It had been a "Standing Room Only" audience, and the proceeds were to be given to the Sanford Hospital for Children. Laurie had decreed this as a quiet memento to Constance's devotion to little Charlie during his days of infirmity. The audience had not been chary of their applause. The principals had received numerous curtain calls, Constance had received an enthusiastic ovation, and many beautiful floral tokens from her admiring friends. Laurie had been assailed with cries of "Composer! Speech! Speech!" and had been obliged to respond. Even the chorus came in for its share of approbation, and to her intense amazement Marjorie Dean received two immense bouquets of roses, a fitting tribute to her fresh, young beauty. One of them bore Hal Macy's card, the other she afterward learned was the joint contribution of a number of her school friends. Only one person left the theatre that night who did not share in the enthusiasm of the Sanford folks over the creditable work of their town boys and girls. Mignon La Salle's father had, for once, put business aside and come out to hear his daughter sing. Why she had not appeared on the stage, he could not guess. His first thought was that she had told him an untruth, but the printed programme carried her name as a principal. He arrived home to be greeted with the servant's assertions that Miss La Salle was ill and had retired. Going to her room to inquire into the nature of her sudden illness, he was refused admittance, and shrewdly deciding that his daughter had been worsted in a schoolgirl's dispute in which she appeared always to be engaged, he left her to herself. It was not until long afterward, when came the inevitable day of reckoning, which was to make Mignon over, that he learned the true story of that particular night. It had been arranged beforehand that Constance was to spend the night with Marjorie. Shortly after Charlie had been comfortably established in Constance's dressing room, Uncle John Roland had appeared at the stage door of the theatre, his placid face filled with genuine alarm. He had been left in charge of Charlie, and the child had eluded his somewhat lax guardianship and run away. Finding the little violin missing, he guessed that the boy had made his usual attempt to find the theatre, and the old man had hastened directly there. Charlie was sent home with him, despite his wailing plea to remain, thus leaving Constance free to carry out her original plan. The Deans exchanged significant smiles at sight of Marjorie, Mary and Constance approaching the automobile, three abreast, arms firmly linked. "Attention!" called Mr. Dean. "Salute your officers!" Two hands went up in instant obedience of the order. Constance hesitated, then followed suit. "I see my regiment has increased," remarked Mr. Dean, as he sprang out to assist the three into the car. "Yes, Connie has joined the company," rejoiced Marjorie. "I am answering for her. She needs military discipline." "Three soldiers are ever so much more interesting than two," put in Mary shyly. Her earnest eyes sought the face of her Captain, as though to ask mute pardon for her errors. Mrs. Dean's affectionate smile carried with it the absolution Mary craved, and Mr. Dean's firm clasp of her hand, as he helped her into the car, was equally reassuring. Mrs. Dean had ordered a light repast especially on account of Constance and Marjorie. She had not counted on Mary, but she was a most welcome addition. Their faithful maid, Delia, had insisted on staying up to make cocoa and serve the supper party. "Captain," begged Marjorie, as the three girls appeared in her room, after going upstairs, "please let us stay up as late as we wish to-night? We simply must talk things out. To-morrow is Saturday, you know." "For once I will withdraw all objections. You may stay up as late as you please." The three girls kissed her in turn. Mary was last. Mrs. Dean drew her close and kissed her twice. "Have you won the fight, Lieutenant?" she whispered. Mary simply nodded, her blue eyes misty. She could not trust herself to speak. "To-morrow--I'll--tell you," she faltered, then hurried to overtake Constance and Marjorie, who were half-way upstairs. The "talk" lasted until two o'clock that morning. It was interspersed with laughter, fond embracing and a few tears. When it ended, Marjorie's dream of friendship had come true. Mary had more to say than the others. She confessed to writing the letter of warning that had so mystified the basket-ball team. "I knew you wrote it," Marjorie said quietly. "I found it out by comparing the paper it was written on with a letter I had received from you. I was so glad. I knew you couldn't be like Mignon, even if you were her friend." "I was never her friend, nor she mine," asserted Mary with a positive shake of her head. "I was jealous of Constance and was glad to find someone besides myself who didn't like her. I never knew the true story of the pin until Jerry----" She paused, coloring deeply. "So Jerry told you. That is just like her. She is the kindest-hearted girl in the world. Next to you two, I like her best of all my schoolmates." Marjorie's affectionate tones bespoke her deep regard for the stout girl whose matter-of-fact ways and funny sayings were a perpetual joy. "If only I had listened to you and Connie in the first place." Mary sighed. "I've spoiled my sophomore year and tried hard enough to spoil yours. And there's so little of it left! I won't have time to show you how sorry I am and how much I care." "We will begin now and make the most of what is left of it," proposed Marjorie gently. Then she added, "Jerry didn't know all that happened last year. I would like to tell you about it." "Please do," urged Mary humbly. Marjorie told the story of her first year in Sanford, frequently turning to Constance for confirmation. When she had finished Mary was silent. She had no words with which to express her utter contrition. "Now you know our sad history," smiled Marjorie, with a kindly attempt at lightening the burden of self-reproach Mary bore. "But neither of you has told _me_ how Mary happened to find Charlie to-night," reminded Constance. "I am anxious to know. This is the first time he ever ran so far away." "Oh, no, you forget the night he went to Mignon's----" Mary broke off shortly, red with embarrassment. She had not intended to speak of this. Constance's positive assertion had caught her off her guard. "Went to Mignon's?" was the questioning chorus of her two listeners. Mary was obliged to enlighten them. "I wondered if he ever told you, Connie. He promised he wouldn't," she ended. "And he never told, the little rascal," was Constance's quick reply. "No one except the maid knew it, and you may be sure she never said a word." "It was that night I came to my senses." Mary smiled a trifle wistfully. "I saw myself as others saw me. You thought I was grieving over Mignon, Marjorie. But I wasn't. It was my own shortcomings that bothered me. Now I must tell you about to-night, and then you will know everything about me." Constance received the account of Mignon's attempt to supplant her in the operetta with no trace of resentment. "I ought to be angry with her, but I can't. She has suffered more to-night than I would have if her plan had succeeded. Poor Mignon, I wonder if she will ever wake up?" "That's hard to say. At any rate, she did some good, even if she didn't intend to," reminded Marjorie. "I'm going to try to keep my junior year in high school free of snarls. There is no use in mourning for the past. Let us set our faces to the future and be glad that we three are done with misunderstandings. Marjorie Dean, High School Junior, is going to be a better soldier than Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore has ever been." Both Constance Stevens and Mary Raymond smiled at this earnest resolve. In their hearts they felt that Marjorie Dean need make no vows. She stood already on the heights of loyalty and truth, steadfast and unassailable. How fully Marjorie Dean carried out her resolve and what happened to her as a junior in Sanford High School will be told in "Marjorie Dean, High School Junior," a story which every friend of this delightful girl will surely welcome. THE END Transcriber's Note: Alternative spelling and variations in hyphenated words have been retained as in the original publication. The following changes have been made: who were maknig _changed to_ who were making Do you miss anyone? _changed to_ "Do you miss anyone? racuous voice _changed to_ raucous voice atuomobile, and when _changed to_ automobile, and when asperin tablets _changed to_ aspirin tablets strange predeliction _changed to_ strange predilection sinmply because she _changed to_ simply because she atlhough the latter _changed to_ although the latter stayled her, and _changed to_ styled her, and continual penace for _changed to_ continual penance for the previous Christmas eve _changed to_ the previous Christmas Eve please don't be disapponted _changed to_ please don't be disappointed Who says I'm not a poet _changed to_ "Who says I'm not a poet That let's me out _changed to_ That lets me out was alloted the part _changed to_ was allotted the part red with embarassment _changed to_ red with embarrassment soldier than Marjorie, Dean _changed to_ soldier than Marjorie Dean 
4940	----	Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School OR The Parting of the Ways BY JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M. Author of Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School, Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School, etc. [Illustration: "Who is that Girl?"] CONTENTS I. A Puzzling Resemblance II. What the Day Brought Forth III. What Happened in Room Forty-Seven IV. Grace Turns in the Fire Alarm V. Nora Becomes a Prize "Suggester" VI. The Thanksgiving Bazaar VII. A Thief in the Night VIII. Marian Asserts Her Independence IX. The Judge's House Party X. Christmas with Judge XI. Santa Claus Visits the Judge XII. The mistletoe Bough XIII. Tom and Grace Scent Trouble XIV. Grace and Anne Plan a Study Campaign XV. The Phi Sigma Taus Meet with a Loss XVI. The Unexpected Happens XVII. Anne Becomes Famous XVIII. The Theatre Party XIX. Grace Meets with a Rebuff XX. Marian's Confession XXI. What Happened at the Haunted House XXII. Grace and Eleanor Make a Formal Call XXIII. The Message of the Violin XXIV. The Parting of the Ways LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "Who is that Girl?" The Girls Circled Around the Judge Hippy Sat With A Piece of Fudge in Either Hand Grace Held Her Breath in Astonishment Grace Harlowe's Senior Year at High School CHAPTER I A PUZZLING RESEMBLANCE "Oakdale won't seem like the same place. What shall we do without you?" exclaimed Grace Harlowe mournfully. It was a sunny afternoon in early October, and Grace Harlowe with her three chums, Anne Pierson, Nora O'Malley and Jessica Bright, stood grouped around three young men on the station platform at Oakdale. For Hippy Wingate, Reddy Brooks and David Nesbit were leaving that afternoon to begin a four years' course in an eastern college, and a number of relatives and friends had gathered to wish them godspeed. Those who have read "Grace Harlowe's Plebe Year at High School" need no introduction to these three young men or to the girl chums. The doings of these merry girls made the record of their freshman year memorable indeed. The winning of the freshman prize by Anne Pierson, despite the determined opposition and plotting of Miriam Nesbit, also aspiring to that honor, Mrs. Gray's Christmas party, the winter picnic that ended in an adventure with wolves, and many other stirring events furnished plenty of excitement for the readers of that volume. In "Grace Harlowe's Sophomore Year at High School" the interest of the story was centered around the series of basketball games played by the sophomore and junior classes for the High School championship. In this volume was narrated the efforts of Miriam Nesbit, aided by Julia Crosby, the disagreeable junior captain, to discredit Anne, and force Grace to resign the captaincy of her team. The rescue of Julia by Grace from drowning during a skating party served to bring about a reconciliation between the two girls and clear Anne's name of the suspicion resting upon it. The two classes, formerly at sword's points, became friendly, and buried the hatchet, although Miriam Nesbit, still bitterly jealous of Grace's popularity, planned a revenge upon Grace that nearly resulted in making her miss playing on her team during the deciding game. Grace's encounter with an escaped lunatic, David Nesbit's trial flight in his aeroplane, were incidents that also held the undivided attention of the reader. In "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School" the four chums appeared as members of the famous sorority, the "Phi Sigma Tau," organized by Grace for the purpose of helping needy High School girls. In that volume Eleanor Savelli, the self-willed, temperamental daughter of an Italian violin virtuoso, furnished much of the interest of the book. The efforts of Grace and her chums to create in this girl a healthy, wholesome enjoyment for High School life, and her repudiation of their friendship, and subsequent attempts to revenge herself for fancied slights and insults, served to make the story absorbing. The walking expedition through Upton Wood, the rescue of Mabel Allison, an orphan, by the Phi Sigma Tau, from the tender mercies of a cruel and ignorant woman with whom she lived, proved interesting reading. The class play in which Eleanor plotted to oust Anne Pierson, the star, from the production and obtain the leading part for herself, the discovery of the plot at the eleventh hour by Grace, enabling her to balk Eleanor's scheme, were among the incidents that aroused anew the admiration of the reader for capable, wide-awake Grace Harlowe. The seven young people on the platform looked unusually solemn, and a brief silence followed Grace's wistful question. Saying good-bye threatened to be a harder task than any of them had imagined it to be. Even Hippy, usually ready of speech, wore a look of concern decidedly out of place on his fat, good-humored face. "Do say something funny, Hippy!" exclaimed Nora in desperation. "This silence is awful. In another minute we'll all be weeping. Can't you offer something cheerful?" Hippy fixed a reflective eye upon Nora for an instant, then recited in a husky voice: "Remember well, and bear in mind, That fat young men are hard to find." There was a shout of laughter went up at this and things began to take a brighter turn. "Now will you be good, Nora?" teased David. "Humph!" sniffed Nora. "I knew his sadness was only skin deep." "After all," said Anne Pierson, "why should we look at the gloomy side. You are all coming home for Thanksgiving and the time will slip by before we realize it. It's our duty to send you boys away in good spirits, instead of making you feel blue and melancholy." "Anne always thinks about her duty," laughed Jessica, "but she's right, nevertheless. Let's all be as cheerful as possible." "I hear the train coming," cried Grace, always on the alert. "Do write to us, won't you, boys! Please don't forget to send us some pictures of the college." "Yes, don't let that new Eastman of yours go to waste, Reddy," said Nora. "I will make Hippy pose the minute we strike the college campus," laughed Reddy, "and you shall have the first results, providing they are not too terrifying." "I want pictures of the college, not the inmates," retorted Nora. "Inmates!" cried Hippy. "One would think she was speaking of a lunatic asylum or a jail. I forgive you, Nora, but it was a cruel thrust. Here comes the train. Get busy, you fellows, and make your fond farewells to your families, who will no doubt be tickled pink to get rid of you for a while." With that he made a rush to where his father and brother stood. David turned to his mother and sister Miriam, kissing them affectionately, while Reddy grasped his father's hand with silent affection in his eyes. The last good-byes were reserved for the four chums, who felt lumps rise in their throats in spite of their recently avowed declaration to be cheerful. Nora shoved a white box tied up with blue ribbon into Hippy's hand just as he was about to board the train. "It's walnut fudge," she said. "But it isn't all for you. Be generous, and let David and Reddy have some, too." "Good-bye. Good-bye. Don't forget us," chorused the chums as the train pulled out, while the young men waved farewell from the open windows. "I hope I won't be called upon to say good-bye to any more of my friends for a blue moon!" exclaimed Grace. "I hate good-byes. When it comes my turn to go to college I believe I shall slip away quietly without saying a word to a soul except mother." "You know you couldn't leave your little playmates in such a heartless manner," said Jessica. "We'd visit you in nightmares the whole of your freshman year if you even attempted such a thing." "Oh, well, if you are going to use threats I expect I shall have to forego my vanishing act," said Grace, with a smile. The four girls had walked the length of the platform and were about to turn in at the entrance leading to the street when Grace suddenly clutched Anne, pointing, and crying out, "Oh, look! look!" Three pairs of eyes were turned instantly in the direction of her finger, just in time to see a dark blue touring car crash against a tree at the foot of the hilly street leading down to the station. Its two occupants, the chauffeur and a woman who sat in the tonneau, were thrown out with considerable force and lay motionless at one side of the street. In a twinkling the four girls had reached the woman's side. Grace knelt beside her, then sat down on the pavement, raising the stranger's head until it rested in her lap. The woman lay white and still, although on placing a hand to her heart Grace found that it was beating faintly. Calling for water, she dashed it in the woman's face, without any noticeable results. By this time a crowd had collected and several men were busy with the chauffeur, who was conscious, but moaned as though in pain. "Do go for a doctor, please," Grace cried to her chums. "I am afraid this woman is badly hurt." "Here's Dr. Gale now," exclaimed Anne as the old doctor came hurrying across the street. "Hello, what's the matter here?" he called. "It's a good thing I happened to be driving by." "Oh, Dr. Gale, do look at this poor woman. She must have struck her head, for she lies as though she were dead." Kneeling beside the stranger, the doctor busied himself with her, and after a little time the woman opened her eyes and gazed vaguely about, then again relapsed into unconsciousness. "Whom does she resemble?" thought Grace. "Her face has a familiar look, though I am sure I have never before seen her." "Stand back and give her air," ordered the doctor, and the circling crowd fell back a little. "Grace, look out for her while I order the ambulance and see to this man." The doctor bustled over to the injured chauffeur, and began his examination. "Broken arm," he said briefly. "Send them both to the hospital." The ambulance proved large enough to hold both victims of the accident and the attendant took them in charge, and signaled the driver, who headed for the city hospital, leaving the crowd to examine the big car. "It's pretty badly damaged," said one man. "It must have hit that tree with a terrific crash. Skidded, I suppose." "Come on, girls," said Anne. "There is no use in staying here any longer. We've had excitement enough for one day." "I should say so," shuddered Jessica. "I hope that woman doesn't die. We must go to the hospital to-morrow and inquire for her." "Of course," responded Anne. "What a sweet face she had, and her eyes were such a beautiful brown, but they haunted me. There is something so familiar about them." "Why, that's just what I thought, too!" cried Grace. "Who is it she resembles?" "Give it up," said Nora. "Although I noticed it, too." Jessica alone made no remark. Her face wore a puzzled frown, as though she were searching her memory for something. "Oh, well, what's the use of worrying over a resemblance," said Nora. "I wonder what days visitors are allowed at the hospital." "By the way, Jessica," said Anne, "where is Mabel! She usually waits for you." "Mabel is--" began Jessica. Then she stopped, her eyes filling with wonder, almost alarm. "Girls," she cried, her voice rising to an excited scream. "I know who that woman resembles! She looks like Mabel Allison." CHAPTER II WHAT THE DAY BROUGHT FORTH For a second the three girls fairly gasped at Jessica's discovery. Grace was the first to speak. "You have hit the nail on the head, Jessica. That's why her face seemed so familiar. The resemblance is striking." The four girls glanced from one to another, the same thought in mind. Perhaps the mystery of Mabel Allison's parentage was to be solved at last. Those who have read "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School" will recall how the Phi Sigma Tau became interested in Mabel Allison, a young girl taken from an orphanage by Miss Brant, a woman devoid of either gentleness or sympathy, who treated her young charge with great cruelty. It will be remembered that through the efforts of Grace and Jessica, aided by Jessica's father, Miss Brant was forced to give Mabel up, and she became a member of the Bright household, and the especial protegee of the Phi Sigma Tau. Grace and her friends had always believed Mabel to be a child of good family. She had been picked up in the streets of New York when a baby, and taken to the police station, where she had been held for some time, but on remaining unclaimed, had been sent to an orphanage outside New York City, where she had spent her life until she had been brought to Oakdale by Miss Brant. Although Mabel had been in the Bright household but a few months, Jessica, who was motherless, had become deeply attached to her, while Jessica's father was equally fond of the young girl. She had spent her vacation with the Phi Sigma Tau, who were the guests of Judge Putnam, a prominent Oakdale citizen, and his sister at their camp in the Adirondacks. The judge had conceived a great affection for her, and on hearing her story had offered to adopt her. This proved a cross to Jessica, who was torn between her desire to keep Mabel with her, and the feeling that the opportunity was too great for Mabel to refuse. Mabel had left the decision to Jessica, and the judge was still awaiting his answer. "I might have known something would happen to take her away," almost wailed Jessica. "First, the judge, and now--" "Don't be a goose, Jessica," said Nora stoutly, "and don't jump at the conclusion that this strange woman is a relative of Mabel's. There are lots of chance resemblances." "Of course there are," consoled Grace. "When we go to the hospital to-morrow we'll find no doubt that our stranger is named 'Smith' or 'Brown' or anything except 'Allison.'" "Don't worry, dear," said Anne, slipping her hand into Jessica's. "No one will take your one chicken from you." "I don't know about that," responded Jessica gloomily. "I feel in my bones that something terrible is going to happen. I suppose you girls think me foolish about Mabel, but I've no mother or sister, and you know yourselves what a dear Mabel is." "Forget it," advised Nora wisely. "We've had enough to harrow our young feelings to-day. Let's go and drown our sorrows in sundaes. I'll treat until my money gives out, and then the rest of you can take up the good work." "Who will go to the hospital with me to-morrow!" asked Grace when they were seated around a table at Stillman's. "Let me see. To-morrow is Sunday," said Jessica. "I'm afraid I can't go. Papa is going to take Mabel and me for a drive." "I'll go with, you," volunteered Nora. "And I," said Anne. "Good girls," commended Grace. "Meet me here at three o'clock. I am fairly sure that visitors are allowed on Sunday, but if I am mistaken we can at least go to the office and inquire for our stranger." The three girls met in front of Stillman's at exactly three o'clock the following afternoon, and set out for the hospital. "Visitors are allowed on Sunday from three until five," remarked Grace as they strolled down Main Street. "I telephoned last night to the hospital. Our stranger is not seriously hurt. She is badly shaken up, and awfully nervous. If she feels more calm to-day we may be allowed to see her." "What is her name?" asked Anne. Grace looked blank, then exclaimed: "Why, girls, how stupid of me! I forgot to ask. I was so interested in hearing about her condition that I never thought of that." "Well, our curiosity will soon be satisfied in that respect," said Nora, "for here we are at the hospital." "We should like to see the woman who was thrown from the automobile yesterday afternoon," said Grace to the matron. "Is she able to receive visitors?" "Oh, yes," replied the matron. "She is sitting in a wheeled chair on the second-story veranda. Miss Elton," she called to a nurse who had just entered, "take these young women up to the veranda, they wish to see the patient who has 47." "What is her--" began Grace. But at that moment a nurse hurried in with a communication for the matron. Grace waited a moment, bent on repeating her question, but the nurse said rather impatiently, "This way, please," and the opportunity was lost. The three girls began to feel a trifle diffident as they approached the stranger who was seated in a wheeled chair in a corner of the veranda. "Visitors to see you, madam," said the nurse curtly, halting before the patient. "Be careful not to over-exert yourself," and was gone. The woman in the chair turned quickly at the nurse's words, her eyes resting upon the three girls. Grace felt a queer little shiver creep up and down her spine. The resemblance between the stranger and Mabel Allison was even more remarkable to-day. "How do you do, my dears," said the woman with a sweet smile, extending her hand in turn to the three girls. "Under the circumstances I am sure you will pardon me for not rising." Her voice was clear and well modulated. "Please don't think of it," cried Grace. "We saw the accident yesterday. We were afraid you were seriously injured, and we couldn't resist coming to see you. I am Grace Harlowe, and these are my friends Nora O'Malley and Anne Pierson." "I am very pleased to know you," responded the stranger. "It is so sweet to know that you thought of me." "Miss Harlowe was the first to reach you, after your accident," said Anne, knowing that Grace herself would avoid mentioning it. "She held your head in her lap until the doctor came." "Then I am deeply indebted to you," returned the patient, again taking Grace's hand in hers, "and I hope to know you better. I dearly love young girls." She motioned them to a broad settee near her chair. "There!" she exclaimed. "Now I can look at all of you at the same time. I am far more able to appreciate you to-day than I was at this time yesterday. It was all so dreadful," she shuddered slightly, then continued. "I have never before been in an accident. I had been spending a week with some friends of mine who have a place a few miles from here called 'Hawk's Nest.' Perhaps you know of it?" The three girls exchanged glances. "Hawk's Nest" was one of the finest estates in that part of the state, and the Gibsons who owned it had unlimited wealth. "I was summoned to New York on business and had barely time to make my train. Mrs. Gibson's chauffeur had been running the car at a high rate of speed, and just as we reached the little incline above the station, the machine skidded, and we crashed into that tree. I felt a frightful jar that seemed to loosen every bone in my body, and remembered nothing further until I came back to earth again, here in the hospital." "You opened your eyes, once, before the ambulance came," said Grace. "Did I!" smiled the stranger. "I do not remember it. But, really, I am very rude! I have not told you my name." "It's coming," thought Grace, unconsciously bracing herself. Nora and Anne had also straightened up, their eyes fastened on the speaker. "My name is Allison," said the woman, wholly unaware of the bombshell she had exploded. "I am a widow and quite alone in the world. My husband died a number of years ago." "I knew it, I knew it," muttered Grace. "What did you say, my dear?" asked Mrs. Allison. But Grace was silent. The woman was too nervous as yet to hear the news. Perhaps after all the name was a mere coincidence. Anne, understanding Grace's silence, hurriedly took up the conversation. "Are you familiar with this part of the country?" she asked. "I have not been here for a number of years," replied Mrs. Allison, "although my friends, the Gibsons, have sent me repeated invitations. Mrs. Gibson and I went through Vassar together." "We expect to go to college next year," said Grace. "We are seniors in Oakdale High School." "The years a young girl spends in college are usually the happiest of her whole life," said Mrs. Allison, with a sigh. "Everything is rose colored. She forms high ideals that help to sweeten life for her long after her college career is over. The friendships she forms are usually worth while, too. Mrs. Gibson and I have kept track of one another even since graduation. We have shared our joys and sorrows, and in my darkest hours her loyal friendship and ready sympathy have been a heaven-sent blessing to me." "We three girls are sworn friends," said Grace, "and we have another chum, too. She was very sorry that she could not come to-day. She will be glad to know that you are so much better. Her name is Jessica Bright. She was with us at the station yesterday." "I should like to meet her," said Mrs. Allison, "and I thank her for her interest in me. I really feel as though I had known you three girls for a long time. I wish you would tell me more of yourselves and your school life." "There isn't much to tell," laughed Grace. "The life of a school-girl is not crowded with many stirring events." "You have no idea of how much has happened to Grace, Mrs. Allison, since we began High School," interposed Nora. "She never will talk about the splendid things she has done for other people. She is the president of her class, the captain of the senior basketball team, too, and the most popular girl in Oakdale High School." "I refuse to plead guilty to the last statement!" exclaimed Grace. "Believe me, Mrs. Allison, there are a dozen girls in High School who are far more popular than I." "There is only one Grace Harlowe," said Anne, with conviction. "It is a case of two against one, Miss Grace," laughed Mrs. Allison. "I insist upon hearing about some of your good works." "It's really time for us to go, girls," said Grace, laughing a little. She rose and held out her hand to the older woman. "You are very cruel," smiled Mrs. Allison. "You arouse my curiosity and then refuse to satisfy it. But you cannot escape so easily. You must come to see me again before I leave here. I shall not try to return to the Gibsons before Wednesday. I expect Mr. Gibson here to-morrow and he will attend to my New York business for me. If I had accepted his offer in the first place, I might have spared myself this accident. However, I am glad, now. It has brought me charming friends. For I feel that we shall become friends," she added, stretching out both hands. "When will you come again?" "On Tuesday afternoon after school," replied Grace promptly. "And we will bring Miss Bright, too, unless she and Mabel have some other engagement." There was purpose in Grace's last remark. She wished to see if the name "Mabel" made any impression upon her listener, and therefore kept her eyes fixed upon Mrs. Allison. As Grace carelessly mentioned the name she saw an expression of pain flit across Mrs. Allison's fine face. "I shall be glad to see Miss Bright," she said quietly. "Is the 'Mabel' you speak of her sister?" "No," replied Grace hastily, "she is a girl friend. May we bring her with us?" "Do so by all means," rejoined Mrs. Allison. "She bears the name I love best in all the world." An expression of deep sadness crept into her face as she uttered these words, and she looked past her callers with unseeing eyes. "Good-bye, Mrs. Allison," said Grace, and the older woman roused herself with a start. "Good-bye, my dears," she responded. "Be sure to come to me on Tuesday." "We'll be here," chorused the three girls. "Take good care of yourself." Not a word was spoken until they reached the street. "Well!" exclaimed Grace. "What do you think of the whole thing?" "I think there are several people due to get a shock," said Nora emphatically. "I am sorry for Jessica," said Anne. "It will be very hard for her to give Mabel up." "Then you think--" said Grace, looking at Anne. "I am reasonably sure," replied Anne quietly, "from what I have heard and seen to-day that Mabel is no longer motherless." CHAPTER III WHAT HAPPENED IN ROOM FORTY-SEVEN As the last period of study drew to an end on Tuesday afternoon, the hearts of the four girl chums beat a trifle faster than usual. What if after all their conjectures were to prove erroneous, and Mabel Allison was not the long-lost daughter of the woman in the hospital? All they had to go by was the remarkable resemblance between the two, and the slight emotion displayed by Mrs. Allison at the mention of Mabel's name. When Grace had repeated the details of their call at the hospital to Jessica, the latter had turned very white, but had said bravely, "I expected it. We will go with you on Tuesday. Shall I prepare Mabel for it?" "No," Grace had replied. "We may find ourselves mistaken, and think what a cruel disappointment it would be to Mabel. I don't mean by that Jessica, that Mabel is anxious to leave you, but you know perfectly well that the desire of Mabel's life is that she may some day find her parents." In almost utter silence the four chums, accompanied by Mabel Allison, crossed the campus and turned into High School Street at the close of the afternoon session on Tuesday. Each girl seemed busy with her own thoughts. "What has come over you girls?" inquired Mabel curiously. "When four of the liveliest girls in school become mum as the proverbial oyster, surely something is going to happen." "'Coming events cast their shadows before'" said Anne half dreamily. "Well, I wish they'd stop casting shadows over my little playmates then," laughed Mabel. At this remark Grace made an effort to appear unconcerned. "Are you going to play on the junior basketball team this year, Mabel?" she asked, by way of changing the subject. "I don't know," replied Mabel. "I feel as though I ought to study every minute I am in High School, in order to be more thoroughly capable of earning my own living. I don't expect to be forever dependent upon my friends." "Dependent, indeed," sniffed Jessica. "You know perfectly well, you bad child, that papa and I have been the gainers since you came to us, and now--" she stopped just in time. "'And now,' what?" asked Mabel. "Here we are at the hospital," broke in Nora without giving Jessica time to answer. The little party waited what seemed to them an interminable length of time; although it was in reality not more than five minutes before the attendant returned with the news that they might see the patient in 47. Grace had purposely voiced their request in so low a tone that Mabel had not heard her mention the patient's name, and she accompanied the four girls without the faintest idea of what their call might mean to her. "Now for it," breathed Grace, as they paused at the door of 47. "Come in," said a sweet voice, in answer to the attendant's knock, and the five girls were ushered into Mrs. Allison's presence. "How are my young friends, to-day!" she cried gayly, rising from the easy chair in which she was sitting and coming forward with out-stretched hands. "Very well, indeed," replied Grace, Anne and Nora in a breath as they shook hands. "Mrs. Allison," said Grace hurriedly, "these are my friends, Miss Jessica Bright and Miss Mabel Allison." The woman who was in the act of acknowledging the introduction to Jessica started violently when Grace pronounced Mabel's name, dropped Jessica's hand and began to tremble as she caught sight of Mabel, who stood behind Jessica, an expression of amazement in her brown eyes, that the patient's name should be the same as her own. "Who--who--" gasped the woman, pointing at Mabel, then overcome sank into her chair, covering her face with her hands. Grace sprang to her side in an instant, kneeling beside her chair. "Mrs. Allison," she cried impulsively. "Forgive me. I should not have startled you so. I did not really know, although I felt sure that--" But Mrs. Allison had uncovered her face and was looking eagerly at Mabel, who stood the picture of mystification. "Who is that young girl who bears the name of my baby, and where did she come from?" asked the patient hoarsely. "Speak to her," whispered Jessica, pushing Mabel forward. "I am Mabel Isabel Allison--" began Mabel, but before she could proceed further the woman had risen, and clasping the girl in her arms, began smoothing her hair and kissing her, laughing and crying hysterically. "You are my baby girl that I lost long ago, my own little Mabel. I know it. I know it." "Mrs. Allison," said Grace firmly, placing her arm around the sobbing woman, who seemed to have entirely lost control of her emotions, "try and be calm. There is so much to tell. Will you listen to me? And you must sit down, you were not strong enough for this. We should have waited." Mrs. Allison partially released Mabel from her embrace, though she still held her hand, and allowed Grace to gently push her back toward her chair. "I don't quite understand you, my dear," she said brokenly. "But I am sure that I have found my own dear little child." "And I am sure of it, too," replied Grace. "In fact, we have suspected it since the day we first saw you at the station. We noticed the marked resemblance between you and Mabel, and when you told us your name was Allison we all felt that you might be Mabel's mother. Do you feel strong enough to hear our story and to tell us yours?" "Tell me quickly," exclaimed Mrs. Allison eagerly, recovering in a measure from her violent agitation. "I must know the truth. It seems incredible that I should find my lost baby girl alive and in good hands. I am surely dreaming. It cannot be true. Yet she has the same sweet, serious expression in her brown eyes that she had in babyhood. Even her middle name, Isabel, that her father insisted upon giving her because it is mine!" Anne, dreading another outbreak, gently interposed. "Try and be calm, Mrs. Allison, while we tell you about Mabel." Then Anne began with the winning of the freshman prize by Mabel at the close of her freshman year, and the interest she had aroused in the girl chums, and followed with the story of her adoption by the Phi Sigma Tau. Mrs. Allison listened in rapt attention until Anne had finished. "God is good," she murmured. "A higher power surely willed that Mabel should find true and worthy friends." Then she began questioning Mabel about her life in the orphanage. Did Mabel have any recollection of the day she was brought there? Had Mary Stevens, the attendant, ever described the clothing that she had worn when found? "I have the baby pins I wore with me. Jessica asked me to wear them to-day," replied Mabel, who looked like a person just awakened from a deep sleep. She had not yet reached a full comprehension of what it all meant. "Let me see them," cried Mrs. Allison. Mabel mechanically detached one of the little gold pins from her collar and handed it to Mrs. Allison, who examined it closely for a moment, then dropping it with a little cry, again clasped Mabel in her arms. "They are the pins I had specially made and engraved for you," she said. "There is no longer any doubt. You are my lost child." At these words a light of complete understanding seemed to dawn upon Mabel, and with a cry of rapture she wound her arms about her mother's neck. It was a joyful, though rather a trying moment for the four chums, who were seized with a hysterical desire to laugh and cry in the same breath. Grace made a slight motion toward the door, which her friends were not slow to comprehend. It was her intention to slip quietly away and leave the mother and daughter alone with their new-found happiness. Before she could put her plan into execution, however, Mrs. Allison divined her intention and turning quickly toward her, said, "Don't go, Grace. I feel as though you girls belonged to me, too. Besides, you have not heard my part of this story yet." "Perhaps you are hardly strong enough to tell us after so much excitement," deprecated Grace. "My dear, I feel as though I had just begun to live," answered Mrs. Allison. "The past has been one long dreary blank. If you only knew the years of agony I have passed through. When you hear my story you will understand why this reunion is little short of miraculous. "My home is in Denver. Mabel was born there," continued Mrs. Allison. "Fourteen years ago this summer my husband and I decided to spend the summer in Europe, taking with us our baby daughter, Mabel, and her nurse. "On the morning that we were to sail, circumstances arose that made it necessary for my husband and myself to be in New York until almost sailing time. He therefore sent the nurse, a French woman, who was thoroughly familiar with the city, on ahead to the vessel, with Mabel in her care. We had barely time to catch the boat and were met by the nurse, who said that she had left Mabel asleep in one of the state rooms engaged for us. It was not until we had put out to sea that we discovered that Mabel was missing, and a thorough search of the ship was at once made. The nurse persisted in her statement that Mabel went aboard with her. Every nook and cranny of the ship was overhauled, but my child could not be found, and the supposition was that she had in some way fallen overboard. "I was distracted with grief, and nearly lost my reason, and when we reached the other side I passed into a long illness. It was many weeks before I returned to consciousness of my affairs, and the terrible realization that my baby was gone forever. I felt as though I could not face the future without her. I had scarcely recovered from the first shock attending my great loss, when my husband contracted typhoid fever and died after an illness of five weeks. "We were in Florence, Italy, at the time and I prayed that I might die, too. It was during those dark hours that Mrs. Gibson proved her friendship for me. She sailed for Italy the instant she received the cablegram announcing my husband's death, and brought me back to America with her. I spent a year with her in her New York home, before returning to Denver. Since then I have never been east until this summer. "Four months ago I received a letter from the nurse who had charge of Mabel on the day of her disappearance. It was a great surprise to me, as she had left us directly after we landed with the intention of returning to France. But the news the letter contained was a far greater surprise, for she stated that Mabel had never gone aboard the vessel. "The nurse had had some personal business to attend to before going aboard, and in order to save time had taken Mabel with her. In some inexplicable manner Mabel had strayed from her side. She had made frantic search for the child and finally, not daring to go to us with the truth, had conceived the idea of making us believe that she had taken Mabel aboard the ship. She had bribed the purser, a Frenchman whom she knew, to corroborate her story, and had succeeded in her treacherous design. "She wrote that she had longed over and over again to confess the truth, but had not dared to do so. She had heart trouble, she said, and her days were numbered. Therefore she felt that she must confess the truth before it became too late. "You can imagine," said Mrs. Allison, "the effect this letter had upon me. For fourteen years I had mourned my child as dead. It seemed infinitely worse to hear that she had not died then, but was perhaps alive, and in what circumstances? "The day I received the letter I took the train for the east, wiring the Gibsons to meet me, and aided by them engaged the best detective service upon the case. There was little or nothing to furnish us with a clue, for the nurse's lying statement had misled us; we were out at sea before we knew positively that Mabel had disappeared, and my long illness in Europe, followed by my husband's death kept me from instituting a thorough search of New York City. "I was bound for New York in answer to a summons from the men engaged on the case, when this accident occurred. Mr. Gibson had offered to make the journey for me, but I felt that I alone must hear the first news--and to think that through that blessed accident I stumbled upon my little girl." She ceased speaking and with streaming eyes again clasped Mabel in a fond embrace. The chums found their own eyes wet, during this recital, but of the four, Jessica appeared to be the most deeply moved. Mabel had meant more to her than to the others, and she found herself facing the severest trial that had so far entered her young life. She drew a deep breath, then went bravely over to Mrs. Allison, saying with quivering lips: "It is very, very hard to give Mabel up. She is the child of our sorority, but she belongs most of all to me. She is the dearest girl imaginable, and neither hardship nor poverty have marred her. She is sweet, unselfish and wholesome, and always will be. I am glad, glad, glad that her dream has at last been realized, and I should be the most selfish girl in the world if I didn't rejoice at her good fortune." She smiled through her tears at Mabel, who rushed over to her and exclaimed: "Jessica, dearest, you know perfectly well how much I do and always shall love you, and Grace and Anne and Nora, too." The four girls lingered a few moments, then said good-bye to Mrs. Allison and Mabel, who was to remain for the present with her mother. She kissed her friends tenderly, promising to see them the next day. "I'll be in school to-morrow unless mother needs me here," she said with such a world of fond pride in her voice that the girls who had so willingly befriended her felt that their loss was a matter of small consequence when compared with the glorious fact that Mabel had come into her own. CHAPTER IV GRACE TURNS IN THE FIRE ALARM "I wonder what sort of excitement we shall have next?" remarked Grace Harlowe to her three friends one afternoon as they gathered in the senior locker-room, before leaving school. Three weeks had elapsed since Mabel Allison and her mother had met in Room 47 of the hospital, and many events had transpired in that short space of time. The girl chums had been entertained at "Hawk's Nest" by Mrs. Gibson, and were in consequence the most important persons in the Girls' High School. They had found Mrs. Gibson charming, and had been invited to repeat their visit at an early date. Mabel's story had circulated throughout Oakdale, and she and her friends were the topic of the hour. The one cloud on their horizon had been the fact of the inevitable separation. They had begged and entreated Mrs. Allison to take up her residence in Oakdale for the balance of Mabel's junior year, but on account of home matters she had been unable to comply with their wishes. So Mabel had departed for Denver with her mother, while the chums had kissed her and cried over her and had extracted a laughing promise from Mrs. Allison to bring her to Oakdale during commencement week to witness the graduation of the Phi Sigma Tau. "It seems as though we have done nothing but say good-bye to people ever since school began," said Anne Pierson with a little sigh. "I know it," exclaimed Nora. "First our boys, then Mabel, and--" "And now all we can do is to wonder who will fade away and disappear next," finished Grace. "Promise me that none of you will run away from Oakdale, or elope, or do anything that can be classed under the head of vanishing." "Oh, I think we're all rooted to the spot for this year," said Jessica, "but what about next? Nora and I will be in a conservatory, Grace will be in college and Anne--where will you be, Anne?" "Goodness knows," replied Anne. "I'd like to try for a scholarship, but how on earth would I support myself even if I were fortunate enough to win?" "Don't worry about that," said Grace quickly. "That is for that all-wise body, the Phi Sigma Tau, to consider. We will be your ways and means committee, Anna." "Oh, I couldn't think of weighing you girls down with my cares," replied Anne soberly. "I must work out my own salvation." By this time they had turned out of High School Street and were moving in the direction of Grace's home, where the majority of their chats took place, when Nora suddenly exclaimed in a low tone: "Look, girls, there is Eleanor Savelli!" "Where? where?" demanded three eager voices, as their owners followed Nora's glance. "Across the street," replied Nora. "Don't let her know that we are looking at her." Sure enough, on the opposite side of the street, Eleanor Savelli was to be seen strolling along in company with Edna Wright and Daisy Culver, two seniors who had been her faithful followers since her advent in Oakdale. "Excitement number one," remarked Nora. "The fair Eleanor comes and our peace of mind departs. I had cherished vain hopes that she wouldn't favor us with the light of her countenance this year, even though she did inform Grace of her laudable desire to stay with the seniors for pure spite." "Never mind, Nora," said Jessica, "I don't believe she'll worry herself about us, even though she did make dire threats." "Remember what I told you last year, girls," said Grace in a tone of admonition. "Be careful what you do and say whenever she is near. She despises the Phi Sigma Tau and would revenge herself upon us at the slightest opportunity. She comes of a race who swear vendettas." "She better not swear any when I am around," retorted Nora with spirit, "or she will find that the Irish are equal to the occasion." "Don't excite yourself needlessly, Nora," laughed Anne. "That splendid Hibernian energy of yours is worthy of a better cause." "How provoking!" suddenly exclaimed Grace. "I've left my library book in the gym. and it's a week overdue now. I shall simply have to go back and get it. It's only three o'clock," she added, consulting her watch. "Who will go with me?" "Of what use is it for all of us to go," complained Nora. "We'll wait right here for you and you can hurry faster by going alone." "All right, lazy, unsocial creatures," said Grace good-humoredly. "I'm off. Be sure you wait." She hurried in the direction of the High School and in an incredibly short time was running down the corridor of the wing that led to the gymnasium. Remembering that she had laid her book on the window sill, Grace lost no time in securing it, and taking it under her arm waited toward the door. Suddenly the faint smell of smoke was borne to her nostrils. She sniffed the air, then murmured, "I wonder what's burning. The smell seems to come from over there. Perhaps I'd better look around. It won't take a second." She slowly retraced her steps, looking carefully about her. There was no smoke to be seen. She turned to go, then impelled by some mysterious influence, her eye traveled to the door of the small room at the left of the gymnasium. With a cry of consternation she sped across the floor, flung open the door and staggered back, choked by a perfect volume of smoke that issued from within. The interior of the room was in flames. To think was to act. Unless help arrived speedily their beloved gymnasium would soon be a thing of the past. Grace tore through the corridor like a wild girl, and darted out the door and across the campus. There was a fire alarm on the street below the High School, and toward this she directed her steps. Pausing an instant before the box, she looked about her for something with which to break the glass. Spying a small boy strolling toward her, a baseball bat in his hand, she pounced upon him, seized the bat before he knew what had happened and smashed the glass with one blow. Giving the ring inside a vigorous pull, Grace shoved the bat into the hands of the astonished youngster and made for the nearest telephone. Hurrying into Stillman's, she discovered to her disgust that the telephone was in use, but a moment later she was at the door and again out on the street. Her quick ear had caught the clang of the bell on the fire engines, and the thing to do now was to go back to her chums with the news--and then off to the fire. "The gymnasium is on fire!" she cried, as she neared the spot where they awaited her. "Hurry, all of you! Perhaps we may be of some help." Her three friends needed no second invitation and throwing all dignity to the winds, raced down the street in the direction of the burning building. When they reached the High School smoke was issuing from the windows of the gymnasium, and from the roof and chimneys, and situated as it was like a connecting link between the two buildings, it was an easy matter for the flames to spread in either direction. Even in the short time it had taken Grace to turn in the alarm, the fire had made tremendous headway, and great tongues of flame shot up toward the sky. The roof had caught and was burning rapidly, although the firemen played a constant stream upon it. As the fire grew hotter, the other companies were called out, and soon the entire Oakdale Fire Department was at work. Ropes had been stretched around the burning part of the building to keep venturesome citizens outside the fire belt. Grace stood as close as she dared, Nora, Anne and Jessica at her side. "Oh, do, do save our gymnasium!" she shrieked, as several firemen hurried past her. "Can't do it, miss," replied one of them. "It's a goner. If we save the school we'll do well, let alone the gymnasium." Long and strenuously the firemen fought the hungry flames. The wind was in the wrong direction, and helped to fan the blaze. One of the gymnasium walls fell in with a terrific crash, almost carrying with it two firemen who had been playing a stream from the rung of a ladder that leaned against it. There was a cry of horror from the assembled crowd that changed to a sigh of relief when it was discovered that the two men had saved themselves by leaping. "Oh, if only I were a man," breathed Grace, as she watched the firemen's efforts to gain control of the situation. "I wouldn't stay here a moment. I'd be in the thick of the fight." "Hold her girls, or she'll dash straight over the ropes," said Nora. "I'd like to," retorted Grace. "It's dreadful to stand here unable to help and see our dear old gym. go, and perhaps our school, too." "Well, you turned in the alarm, and that's a whole lot," declared Jessica stoutly. "If you hadn't seen the blaze when you did things might be a good deal worse. As it is, I believe they are getting the fire under control." "It does look that way," exclaimed Anne. "See, the flames are dying out over on that side. Oh, if it would only rain and help things along." "I believe it will rain before night. The clouds look heavy and threatening," declared Nora, squinting at the sky. "The weather prophet has come to town," smiled Anne. For the next hour the girls stood eagerly watching the gallant work of the firemen. A dense crowd, composed largely of High School boys and girls, packed the campus, while people blocked the streets outside the gates. Intense excitement prevailed, and when it became evident that the main building was safe a mighty cheer went up from the crowd. "Bless their hearts!" exclaimed Grace. "They are just as fond as we are of Oakdale High School. But, oh, girls, where are we going to play basketball!" The girls looked at each other in dismay. "What is life without basketball?" said Nora sadly. "True enough," said Anne, "but even though the gym. is gone we still have our school. It would be simply terrible to have had it go in our senior year." "No doubt the gym. will be rebuilt at once," remarked Jessica. "I am not so sure of that," replied Grace. "My father belongs to the common council, and I heard him tell mother the other day that the High School had been refused an appropriation that they had asked for." "Oh, well, then, we High School pupils will raise the money ourselves," said Nora lightly. "That idea is worth looking into," said Grace eagerly. "We might help a great deal." "Grace has the 'Busy Little Helper' stunt on the brain," jeered Jessica. "Anything to keep matters moving," laughed Grace. "I'm an advocate of the strenuous life. But seriously, girls, how splendid it would be to feel that we had been instrumental in rebuilding the gymnasium." "Fine," agreed Nora. "We used to sing a song in kindergarten when I was very young and foolish that started out, 'We are little builders,' although at that time I never expected to really become one." "Nora," said Grace severely, "you have all Hippy's bad traits and some of your own thrown in." It was nearing six o'clock before the four friends left the scene of the fire and started for home. Nora's prediction of rain proved true, for just as they made their way across the campus the rain began to come down in torrents, wetting them to the skin, but in no respect dampening their joy over the fact that this shower had come just in time to save their High School from further ravage by the flames. CHAPTER V NORA BECOMES A PRIZE "SUGGESTER" "The thing to do is to decide just what we want, and then go ahead with it." Grace Harlowe energetically addressed her remarks to the members of the Phi Sigma Tau, who had taken possession of the Harlowe's comfortable living room. It was Saturday afternoon, and a special meeting had been called with the object of discussing the best way to get money for the rebuilding of the gymnasium, that the fire had completely destroyed, although the splendid efforts of the firemen had prevented the flames from extending to the main buildings, and the rain had completed their good work. Grace had allowed no grass to grow under her feet, but had gone to the root of the matter the day following the fire, and found that the school could expect no assistance from the city or the state that year. She had thereupon racked her usually fertile brain for money-making schemes, but so far had settled on nothing, so she had called in her friends, and the Phi Sigma Tau had been in council for the past half hour without having advanced a single prolific idea. "Think hard, girls," begged Grace. "We simply must do something that will make Oakdale sit up and take notice, and incidentally spend their money." "We might give a play or a concert," suggested Eva Allen. "Not original enough to draw the crowd," vetoed Nora O'Malley. "Besides, the sophomore class has already begun to make plans for a play. While the other three classes are making plans we ought to go ahead and astonish the natives. The early stunt catches the cash, you know," concluded Nora slangily. "Well, what would you suggest as a cash-catching stunt?" asked Anne. "You are generally a prize suggester." "We might have a bazaar," said Nora after a moment's thought, "with ever so many different booths. We could have a gypsy camp, and tell fortunes, and we could have some Spanish dancers, and, oh, lots of things. We could have it in Assembly Hall and have tents with all these shows going on." "Oh, splendid!" cried Grace. "And we could get the High School mandolin club for an orchestra. If we hurried we could have it week after next, on Thanksgiving night." "And we could have a Mystery Auction," interposed Marian Barber eagerly. "What on earth is a 'Mystery Auction'?" inquired Nora and Jessica in a breath. "Why we write notes to every one in Oakdale, asking for some kind of contribution, anything from a jar of pickles to hand-painted china. Then all these things are tied up in packages and auctioned off to the highest bidder. There is a whole lot of money in it, for people often try to outbid each other, and the fun of the thing is that no one knows what he or she is bidding on." "Marian Barber," exclaimed Grace, "that's a positive inspiration! You clever, clever girl!" "Oh, don't think for a minute that I originated the idea," said Marian hastily. "A cousin of mine wrote me about it last winter. They had a 'Mystery Auction' at a bazaar that was held in the town she lives." "Well it's a brilliant idea at any rate, and I can see us fairly coining money. Now we must all work with a will and put the affair through in fine style," responded Grace warmly. "Oh, girls, the boys will be at home in time for it!" exclaimed Jessica in rapture. "Sure enough," said Nora, "and won't I make Hippy work. He'll lose pounds before his vacation is over. Grace, you must write and ask Tom Gray to come." Now that the question of the bazaar was settled, the Phi Sigma Tau went to work with a will. The services of the majority of the seniors were enlisted and notes were written to every one in Oakdale who was likely to feel even a faint interest in the movement. Eva Allen's brother, who was an artist, made a number of attractive posters and these were tacked up in public places where they at once attracted attention. The Oakdale National Guard loaned tents, and public-spirited merchants willingly loaned draperies, flags, banners, and in fact, almost anything they were asked for. As for donations, they fairly poured in, and the girls watched the growing collection with mingled rapture and despair. "We'll have to sit up every night this week in order to get all these things wrapped," sighed Grace, on the Monday afternoon before Thanksgiving, as she stood resting after a spirited rehearsal of the dance that she and Miriam Nesbit were to do, and which was to be one of the features of the gypsy camp. "And the decorating is only about half done, too," she continued. "Thank goodness school closed to-day. We'll just have to live here until Thursday, and work, work, work." "'Clear the way for progress on the fly,'" sang out a voice behind them, and the group of startled girls turned to face a stout young man who charged into their midst with a hop, skip and a jump. "Hippy!" shrieked Nora in delight. "And David and Reddy, and yes--Tom, too!" "'Oh, frabjous day, calloooh, callay,'" cried Hippy shaking hands all around. "It seems ages since I saw you girls. How well you all look, only you're not looking at me. These other good-for-nothing fellows are getting all the attention. Hello, Miriam," he called to Miriam Nesbit, who ran eagerly across the floor to meet the newcomers. "There's a prize package for you, too. It's outside the door shaking the snow off its coat." Miriam flushed and laughed a little, then hurried over to greet Arnold Evans, who had just entered the hall. "Oh, boys, you don't know how good it seems to have you all here again," said Grace, after the first greetings had been exchanged, as she beamed on the young men. "You're just in time to go to work, too. We've oodles of things to wrap for the 'Mystery Auction,' and Hippy you must be auctioneer. You can do it to perfection." "Tell us all about this affair. I received rather indefinite accounts of it in the exceedingly brief letters that I have been favored with of late," said Tom Gray, fixing a reproachful eye upon Grace. "Please forgive me, Tom," begged Grace, "but really I've been so busy of late that I just had to cut my letters short. Come on around the hall with me, and I'll tell you about all the stunts we've planned. Come on, everybody," she called, turning to the young people grouped about, "and remember, that I expect some original suggestions from you boys." Around the hall they went, stopping before each tent, while the girls explained its purpose. "What's this to be?" asked Tom, as he stopped at one corner of the hall that was closely curtained. "May I enter?" "Mercy, no," gasped Grace, catching him by the arm as he was about to move aside one of the heavy curtains. "That's Eleanor Savelli's own particular corner. None of us know what is behind those curtains. You see, Eleanor hasn't spoken to any of us since last year. When we first talked about having this bazaar we decided to make it a senior class affair. We didn't care to go to Eleanor and ask her to help, because she hasn't been nice to any of the Phi Sigma Tau, but we asked Miss Tebbs and Miss Kane, two of the teachers who are helping with this, to ask Eleanor to do something. You know she plays so well, both on the violin and piano, then, too, the greater part of her life has been spent abroad, so she surely must have lots of good ideas. "When first Miss Tebbs asked her she refused to have anything to do with it. Then she suddenly changed her mind and has been working like a beaver ever since. Miss Tebbs says her booth is beautiful." "If I'm not mistaken here she comes now," said Tom suddenly. "I never saw her but once before, yet hers is a face not easily forgotten." "Yes, it is she," replied Grace. "Let us walk on." Eleanor Savelli, gowned in a tailored suit of blue and looking particularly beautiful, walked haughtily by and disappeared behind the heavy green curtain. "She is certainly a stunning girl!" was Tom's low-voiced exclamation, "but, oh, what a look she gave you, Grace!" "Did she?" replied Grace, with an amused smile. "That doesn't worry me. She has repeated that performance so often that I have grown used to it." "Look out for her just the same," advised Tom. "Where do we jollificate, to-night?" asked Hippy, as Grace and Tom joined them again. "Right here," said Nora with decision. "No fudge, no hot chocolate, no cakes, nothing except work until this bazaar is over, then we'll have a spread that will give you indigestion for a week. Do you solemnly promise to be good and not tease for things to eat, but be a ready and willing little toiler?" "I do," said Hippy, holding up his right hand. "Do you assure me that the spread you just mentioned is no myth?" "I do," said Nora, "also that the indigestion, shall be equally realistic." "Lead me to it," said Hippy. "I swear in this hour that--" But Hippy never finished his speech, for Eleanor Savelli suddenly darted into the group with flashing eyes and set lips. "How dared you meddle with my booth during my absence!" she cried, looking from one to the other of the astonished young people. "And what have you done with my things!" There was a brief silence. Then Nora O'Malley spoke very coolly. "Really, Miss Savelli, we haven't the remotest idea of what you are speaking." "You know perfectly well of what I am speaking," retorted Eleanor. "I might have expected as much, however." "I repeat," said Nora firmly, "that we do not know what you mean, and I am not used to having my word questioned. You will have to explain yourself if you expect to get a definite reply." "Very well," replied Eleanor, with a toss of her head. "Last night I spent a great deal of time in arranging the booth over which I have been asked to preside. On coming here to-day I find that everything has been rearranged, completely spoiling the effect I had obtained. You and your friends are the only ones who have been here this afternoon. It looks like a clear case of spite on your part." During Eleanor's angry outburst the boys looked decidedly uncomfortable, then by common consent moved away a little. This was a matter that the girls alone could settle. Then Miriam Nesbit stepped forward with all the dignity that she could summon to her aid. "Miss Savelli," she said quietly, "it is absolutely childish and ridiculous for you to make the assertions you have. No one of us has the slightest curiosity as to either you or your arrangements. This is not the first time that you have publicly accused us of meddling. Now I want you to understand once and for all that this must cease. You should not jump at conclusions and then vent your rage upon innocent bystanders. "This much I will say as a matter of information, that we were not the only ones here this afternoon, as several of your particular friends spent some time in your booth, and I should advise that you call them to account and let us alone. Come on, girls," she said, turning to Grace and her friends, "we mustn't waste any more time." With this Miriam turned her back squarely upon Eleanor, and without giving her time to reply, walked to the other end of the hall. The girls were not slow in joining her, and in a moment Eleanor was left alone in the middle of the hall, with the unpleasant realization that for once she had overshot the mark. CHAPTER VI THE THANKSGIVING BAZAAR The bazaar was at its height. No one would have guessed that staid old Assembly Hall could lend itself to such levity. At one end a band of gypsies had pitched their tents in true Romany fashion. There were dark-eyed gypsy maids in gaudy clothing, who gayly jingled their tambourines and wheedled good-natured sightseers into their main tent with extravagant stories of the wonderful Romany dancing girls whose unequaled dancing might be seen for the small sum of ten cents. While aged gypsies crouched here and there croaking mysteriously of their power to reveal the future, and promising health, wealth and happiness to those who crossed their out-stretched palms with silver. In front of one of the tents several gypsy boys sat grouped in picturesque attitudes, industriously twanging guitars and mandolins. The whole encampment was lighted by flaring torches on the ends of long poles, and was the final touch needed to give the true gypsy effect. The rest of the space in the hall had been given up to booths. There was, of course, a Japanese booth, while across from it several Mexican seniors and senoritas were doing an enterprising novelty and post-card business under the red, white and green flag of Mexico. There was a cunning little English tea shop, where one could refresh one's self with tea, cakes and jam, not to mention the booth devoted to good old Ireland, presided over by Nora O'Malley who, dressed as an Irish colleen, sang the "Wearing of the Green" and "The Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Hall," with true Irish fervor, while she disposed of boxes of home-made candy tied with green ribbon that people bought for the pleasure of hearing her sing. Next to the gypsy encampment, however, the feature of the evening was the booth entrusted to Eleanor Savelli. It was a veritable corner in Italy, and it may be said to Eleanor's credit that she had worked untiringly to carry out her idea. She had furnished the peasant costumes for herself and three of her friends, and knew exactly how they were to be worn, and had spared no expense in the matter of fruit and flowers which were to be sold at a good profit. There were little bags of home-made confetti that were sure to be popular and various other attractive features truly Italian that Eleanor had spent much time and trouble in procuring and arranging. There had been a heated altercation, however, between Eleanor and Edna Wright on the day after Eleanor had astonished Grace and her friends by her fiery outburst, Edna having admitted that she had been responsible for the changes that had aroused Eleanor's ire. A quarrel had ensued, in which Edna, having been worsted, had retired from the field in tears, refusing to have anything further to do with Eleanor or her booth. At this juncture Miss Tebbs had appeared on the scene, and peace was restored, although Edna was still taciturn and sulky, and displayed little interest in what went on around her. From the moment the doors were opened the citizens of Oakdale looked inside, feeling particularly good-natured after their Thanksgiving dinners, and prepared to spend their money. "It's perfectly wonderful what these children have managed to do on nothing whatever," Miss Thompson was saying, as she and Mrs. Nesbit, in the guise of sightseers, were strolling down the middle of the hall. "It looks to me like a scene from an opera," replied Mrs. Nesbit. "Yes, we are all very prosperous and clean comic opera gypsies, Mrs. Nesbit," said Hippy Wingate, who had come up just in time to hear Mrs. Nesbit's remark. "Why, Hippy Wingate, I never should have recognized you. You look like the big smuggler in 'Carmen.' I have forgotten his name." "I am a smuggler, Mrs. Nesbit," put in Hippy mysteriously. "But don't give me away. It's not lace goods I've brought over the border, nor bales of silk and such things. Isn't that what gypsies are supposed usually to smuggle?" "I believe it is," answered Mrs. Nesbit. "At least they always appear in plays and pictures seated at the foot of a high, rocky cliff in some lonely spot, with bales and casks and strange looking bundles about. No one would be heartless enough to ask what was inside the bundles, but I have always had a strong suspicion that it was excelsior." "What have you been smuggling, Hippy?" asked Miss Thompson. "I wonder you managed to get it past that line of watchful gipsy girls." "I won't give it away," replied Hippy. "It's a surprise. You'll see, and I wager it will be the talk of the place before the evening is over." "Is it animal, vegetable or mineral, Hippy?" demanded Mrs. Nesbit. "Animal," replied Hippy. "Very much animal." "Now, what in the world," the two women exclaimed, their curiosity piqued. "Hippy, I wish you would come on and get to work," called Grace over her shoulder, as she hurried past, and Hippy darted after her, remembering that he had not done a thing that evening to assist the girls. "How fine Grace Harlowe does look, Mrs. Nesbit," remarked Miss Thompson, "and how I shall miss her when she leaves the High School! The time goes too quickly to suit me, when all these nice girls leave us for college." Miss Thompson still cherished a deep regard for Grace, although, since the circumstance of Grace's refusal to betray Eleanor, narrated in "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School," the two had never returned to quite the same footing as formerly. Grace was, indeed, the picture of a beautiful gipsy girl who in romance turns out not to be a gipsy at all, but a princess stolen in her youth. She wore a skirt of red trimmed in black and yellow, a full white blouse and a little black velvet bolero. Around her waist she had tied a gayly colored sash, while on her head was a gipsy headdress bordered with gold fringe. "Hippy," commanded Grace, "will you please take this gong and announce that the auction is about to begin!" "Certainly, certainly," answered Hippy. "Anything to oblige the ladies." He mounted a chair and beat on the Japanese gong. "This way, ladies and gentlemen. Come right this way! The 'Mystery Auction' will now commence. It is a sale of surprises. You never know what you are going to draw, but it's sure to be something nice. Everybody step this way, please. These interesting and mysterious packages are to be sold each to the highest bidder. But no man knoweth what he draweth. It is the way of life, ladies, but that's where the fun comes in, and it's sportsmanlike to take your chances, gentlemen." By this time Hippy had drawn a crowd of curious people about the booth devoted to that purpose, in which were piled dozens of packages of various shapes and sizes, all done up in white tissue paper and tied with red ribbons. Hippy picked up the first bundle. "Is there anyone here who will make a bid on this interesting package?" he cried. "It may contain treasure. Who knows? It may contain fruits from the tropics, or the spices of Araby, or--" "I'll bid ten cents," called a voice. "Ten cents!" exclaimed Hippy in mock horror. "I ask you, dear friend, can our gymnasium be builded upon ten cents? Is there no one here who is thinking of our late, lamented gymnasium? Have we already forgotten that dear, departed hall of youthful pleasures, cut down in the flower of its youth so tragically?" Hippy's voice rang out like an old-time orator's, and some one bid twenty-five cents. But the bidding ended there, and Farmer Benson got the package, which on being opened, was found to contain a beautiful little lacquer box. This was a lucky beginning. If the packages all held such treasures they were well worth bidding on. Then the fun grew fast and furious. Everybody began bidding, and a pound of sugar actually went for five dollars, to old Mr. McDonald, who had obstinately refused to give up to his opponent, Mr. Barber, in the bidding contest. Mr. Harlowe paid heavily for a cook book, while David Nesbit, for fifty cents, drew a splendid big fruit cake. "It is so fortunate that that fruit cake fell into the hands of one of my friends," remarked Hippy, as David was about to walk off, his prize under his arm. "I adore fruit cake." "That's no sign that you will ever get a chance at this one," replied David calmly. "I shall, I know I shall," retorted Hippy, "You wouldn't betray my young confidence and dispel my fond hopes by eating it all yourself. You deserve an awful case of indigestion if you do." "Children, children, stop squabbling," laughed Anne who, looking like a very demure little gypsy, had slipped up unnoticed. "Don't worry, Hippy, I'll see that you are remembered when the famous cake is cut." "I feel relieved," said Hippy, giving her one of his Cheshire Cat grins. "I propose that you leave your treasure with this gypsy maid, David, for the time is flying and we have a great and glorious surprise to spring." "See you later, Anne," said David, looking at his watch. Then taking Hippy by the arm the two young men hurried out of the hall, leaving Anne to wonder what the surprise might be. Turning slowly she was making her way toward the gypsy camp when a voice called, "O Anne, wait a minute," and Marian Barber fluttered up accompanied by a tall, dark young man. "Miss Pierson, allow me to present Mr. Hammond," she said. The young man bowed rather too elaborately Anne thought, and a wave of dislike swept over her as she rather coldly acknowledged the introduction. "Mr. Hammond has just come to Oakdale," Marian said eagerly. "He knows very few people as yet." "Ah, yes," said Mr. Hammond, with a smile that was intended to be fascinating. "I am, indeed, a stranger. Miss Barber has kindly volunteered to introduce me to some of her charming friends, therefore I trust that in time they will be mine also." Anne murmured some polite reply, and excusing herself walked away. "Horrid thing," she thought. "How cruel he looks when he smiles. I wonder where Marian met him. She seems to be delighted with him." "Where have you been, Anne?" asked Grace, as Anne entered the tent where she and Miriam sat resting preparatory to beginning their dance, when enough people should gather outside to form a paying audience. "Talking to Marian Barber and a young man who is trailing about with her." "Did she introduce that man to you?" exclaimed Grace. "Yes," replied Anne. "Did you meet him?" "I did," was the answer. "Isn't he horrid?" "That is precisely what I said," replied Anne. "There is something about his suave, silky manner that gives me the creeps." "I hope Marian isn't seriously impressed with him," said Grace. "For there is something positively sinister about him." Just then Hippy's voice was heard again above the crowd, and the three girls hurried to the opening in the tent. CHAPTER VII A THIEF IN THE NIGHT "Ladies and gentlemen," cried Hippy. "We have a noble animal for sale here. He is tame and gentle. A lady could ride him without fear. He sees equally well out of both eyes and is neither lame nor spavined. If you will just stand back a little we will let you see his paces." The crowd drew back on either side of the lane between the rows of tents and booths and from somewhere in the back there was heard a great pawing and trampling, with cries of "Whoa, there! Whoa, there, Lightning!" Then down the aisle there dashed the most absurd comic animal that had ever been seen in Oakdale. A dilapidated old horse, with crooked legs and sunken sides through which its ribs protruded. He had widely distended nostrils and his mouth drawn back over huge teeth. One ear lay flat, while the other stood up straight and wiggled, and his glazed eyes stared wildly. On his wobbly back sat David, dressed like a jockey and flourishing a whip. "Gentlemen," went on Hippy, "you here behold an animal of splendid parts. He is pasture-fed and as gentle as a lamb, never kicks--" The strange animal here kicked out one of his hind legs so wildly that David was obliged to hold on with both arms to keep from falling off. "He has a happy, sunny nature, ladies. Is there any one present who would like to try his gait? Ten cents a ride." The horse crossed his front legs and sat down on his haunches with an air of patient endurance. There were roars of laughter and no one enjoyed the fun more than Miss Thompson. "I declare, Hippy, I should like to have a ride on the back of that animal!" she exclaimed, producing ten cents. David leaped to the ground and gallantly assisted the principal to mount, while Hippy whispered something into the ear of the horse. The animal trotted gently up to one end of the room and back, depositing Miss Thompson safely on her feet. Miriam Nesbit then took a trial ride and no bucking bronco ever exhibited such traits of character as did that battered-looking quadruped. Miriam was obliged to jump down amid the cheers of the company. Many people rode that night, and rides went up to twenty-five and even fifty cents, until finally the poor, tired animal lay flat on the floor in an attitude of complete exhaustion. Then Hippy undid several hooks and eyes along the imaginary line which divided Lightning in half, and there came forth, very warm and fatigued, Tom Gray and Reddy Brooks. On the whole the bazaar was proving an unqualified success. People entered into the spirit of the thing and spent their money without a murmur. Eleanor's confetti proved a drawing card, and young people and old wandered about, bestowing handfuls of it upon their friends whenever a good opportunity presented itself. Long before the fair was over Grace and Anne retired to one end of the gypsy encampment to begin counting the proceeds of their labors. The girls in charge of the various booths turned in their money almost as rapidly as they made it, and by the time the crowd had begun to thin the girls had arrived at a tolerably correct estimate of what the bazaar had netted them. "Is it possible that I have counted correctly, Anne!" exclaimed Grace to her friend, who was helping to sort small silver into various piles. "I don't know," said Anne, "it looks like a lot of money. How much does it all come to?" "Roughly speaking, nearly five hundred dollars. Just think of that." "Splendid!" cried Anne, clasping her hands joyfully. "But what shall we put it in?" "I shall put it in this iron box of father's. You see, it has a combination lock and he loaned it to me to-night just for this purpose. As soon as the rest of the money is in I'll lock it and he will take charge of it. Will you go and find him?" Anne departed and Grace began to deposit the money in the box, smiling to herself at the success of their undertaking. The few remaining people who were now taking leave of each other had concentrated in one spot. There was a loud buzz of conversation and laughter, when suddenly, without a moment's warning, the electric lights went out. The gasoline torches had burned down by now and the place was in utter darkness. Somewhere in the hall there was a cry, the sound of scuffling and then absolute silence. Many of the men began to strike matches and peer into the darkness, and at last David groped his way over to a corner of the hall where he remembered he had seen the switch. As he felt for the electric button his hand encountered another hand, that grasped his with an iron grip, gave his wrist a vicious twist, pushed him violently away and was gone. David gave an involuntary cry of pain as he felt for the switch again. In another moment he had found it and the hall was again flooded with light. Instantly he looked about for the vicious person who had twisted his wrist, but he was alone in that part of the hall. The excitements of that evening, however, were not yet at an end. People began running toward the last booth. There were cries and exclamations, and David, who had followed quickly after them, arrived there just in time to meet Mr. Harlowe carrying the limp figure of his daughter Grace in his arms. He deposited her on four chairs placed in a row, a bottle of smelling salts was put to her nose, while Hippy and Reddy ran for water. Grace opened her eyes almost immediately and sat up. "I'm not hurt," she said. "I was only stunned. Some one hit me on the head from behind, but my cap softened the blow. They were trying to get the box of money. Oh, is it gone?" she cried anxiously. David and Tom examined the booth. The money was gone. CHAPTER VIII MARIAN ASSERTS HER INDEPENDENCE There was not the slightest clue to the thief who had stolen the iron box containing a little over five hundred dollars, for which the girls had worked so hard, but the loss was made good by Judge Putnam who, though on the bench at the state capital at the time the robbery occurred, had promptly sent Grace his check for the amount when Grace wrote him an account of it. For which generous act he became the idol of Oakdale High School. "As for the thief," observed Mr. Harlowe, several mornings later at the breakfast table, after Grace had opened the letter and joyfully exhibited the check to her mother and father; "he'll have some trouble opening that box. It was the strongest box I have ever seen of the kind, made of iron reinforced with steel bands, with a combination lock that would baffle even your friend, Richards, Grace, who appeared to be a pretty sharp crook." "How will the thief get at the money, then, father?" asked Grace. "I can't imagine," answered Mr. Harlowe. "If he tries to blow up the box he runs the chance of blowing up all the money at the same time, and I don't believe there is an instrument made that would pry it open. He can't melt it and he can't knock a hole in it. Therefore, I don't just see what he can do, unless he finds some way to work the combination." "It would be the irony of fate if the thief couldn't spend the money after all his trouble," observed Mrs. Harlowe. "I hope he never, never can," cried Grace. "I hope he'll bruise all his knuckles and break all his finger nails trying to open the box, and still not make the slightest impression!" "He certainly will if he tries to open the box with his finger nails and knuckles," replied her father, as he bestowed two kisses upon his wife and daughter, respectively, and departed to his business. "Who is to be custodian of the fund, Grace? Are you to have charge of it?" asked Mrs. Harlowe. "No, mother; Marian Barber was formally elected class treasurer last year. She likes to keep books and add up accounts and all those things. So I shall just turn the check over to her to put in the bank until we give our next entertainment. Then, when we have about a thousand dollars, we'll give it all to Miss Thompson as our contribution toward rebuilding the gymnasium. I hear that the juniors are going to give a dance, but I don't think they will make any large amount like this, because they will have to pay for music and refreshments." Grace could not help feeling proud of the success of the bazaar now that the judge's check had arrived, although at first she had demurred about accepting it. However, as the judge absolutely refused to take it back, it was therefore duly presented to Marian Barber, who, with a feeling of extreme importance at handling so much money in her own name, deposited it in the Upton Bank, and was the recipient, for the first time in her life, of a small, neat-looking check book. Later she showed it with great glee to the Phi Sigma Tau, who were drinking hot chocolate in the Harlowe's sitting room, the day after school began. "I feel just like a millionaire," she exclaimed, "even though the money isn't mine. I'd just like to write one check to see how my name would look signed at the bottom here." "It does seem like a lot of money," observed Anne thoughtfully, "but I'm afraid the check book won't be of much use to you, Marian, as you will probably draw it all out in a lump when the time comes to hand it over to Miss Thompson." "Oh, I don't know," answered Marian, "we may have to give a few checks for expenses and things, the next entertainment we get up, and then I'll have an opportunity." The girls laughed good-naturedly at Marian's evident eagerness to draw a check. "We'll certainly have to incur some kind of expense for the express purpose of allowing Marian to draw a check," said Nora. "By the way, Grace, which booth made the most money, outside the auction, of course?" "Eleanor Savelli's," replied Grace promptly. "They made most of it on confetti, too, although they sold quantities of flowers. They turned in seventy-five dollars." "Eleanor certainly did work," observed Anne. "One feels as though one could forgive her all her sins after the success she made of her booth. It is a shame that so much ability and cleverness is choked and crowded out by wilfulness and temper." "Did you hear about the quarrel that she and Edna Wright had, after she attacked us?" asked Eva Allen. "Yes," answered Grace. "I understand, too, that it has completely broken up their sorority. They carried their part of the bazaar through together and then Eleanor told Edna that she was practically done with her." "You don't mean it! I hadn't heard that! Who told you so?" were the exclamations that followed this information. "Daisy Culver told Ruth Deane, and Ruth told me," said Grace. "Ruth says that Edna feels dreadfully over it. She was really fond of Eleanor." "Now I suppose that Miss Eleanor Vendetta de Savelli will be more impossible than ever," giggled Nora. "Perhaps not," said Anne quietly. "I think it a very good thing that Edna and Eleanor have separated, for Eleanor Savelli is a far better girl at heart than Edna Wright. Eleanor is better off without her." "I believe you are right, Anne," said Grace with conviction. "Although Eleanor's reformation is not for us. We've had experience." "'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Jessica. "True," retorted Nora, "but for my part I think the Phi Sigma Tau have done their share toward the mending process." "Marian Barber!" exclaimed Grace. "Where in the world did you unearth that man you introduced us to, at the bazaar?" "Yes, I should say so," echoed Nora. "I didn't like him one bit." A flush overspread Marian Barber's plain face. She frowned, then said very stiffly: "Really, girls, I can't see why any one should dislike Mr. Hammond. I think he is a remarkably nice young man. Father and mother like him, too. He has called to see me twice since the bazaar, and I am going to the theatre with him to-morrow night. I like him very much better than any of these silly Oakdale schoolboys," she added a trifle maliciously. The girls listened, thunderstruck. Was this good-natured, easy going Marian Barber who had spoken? To their knowledge Marian had never before received attentions from even "silly schoolboys." She was well liked among girls, but had always fought shy of young men. "Forgive me, Marian," cried Nora impulsively. "I didn't dream that you were interested in Mr. Hammond." "I am not half as much interested in him as he is interested in me," retorted Marian, bridling. "He prefers me to any Oakdale girl he has met." The girls exchanged astonished glances at Marian's complacent statement. "Where did you first meet him, Marian?" asked Anne gently. "At the bazaar," replied Marian promptly. "Who introduced him to you?" asked Grace curiously. Marian hesitated a moment, then burst forth defiantly. "I suppose you girls will think it perfectly dreadful when I tell you that he introduced himself. He came up and asked me to tell him about some of the features of the bazaar. I did, then he went away, and after a while he came back and talked to me a long time. He is in the real estate business, and is going to have an office here in Oakdale. He was very much interested in the things I said to him, and when I told him about our Phi Sigma Tau he asked to be introduced to you girls. I never supposed you'd take such a dislike to him. I think he is perfectly splendid," she added with emphasis. "Well, I don't agree with you," said hot-headed Nora. "And I don't think you should have noticed him, beyond being merely civil, without an introduction. Do you, Grace?" "I don't know," said Grace slowly. "That is a question that no one save Marian can settle. I don't wish to seem hateful, Marian, but to tell you the truth, I wasn't favorably impressed with Mr. Hammond. Besides, he is ever so much older than you are. He must be at least twenty-five years old." "He is twenty-nine," replied Marian coldly. "And I am glad that he isn't as young and foolish as most of the boys I have met." "Does your mother know how you happened to meet him?" asked Jessica unthinkingly. But this was a little too much. Marian rose to her feet, her voice choking with anger. "I don't blame Eleanor Savelli for calling you busy-bodies," she said. "And I shall be infinitely obliged to you if you will in future look to your own affairs and stop criticizing me." With these words she rushed from the room, seized her wraps and was out on the street before any of the remaining girls had fully comprehended what had happened. CHAPTER IX THE JUDGE'S HOUSE PARTY "There is nothing like congenial company when one travels," remarked Hippy Wingate, favoring his friends with a patronizing smile. "Now, when I came home from college I was obliged to consort with such grouches as David Nesbit and Reddy Brooks, who made me keep quiet when I wished to speak, and speak when I fain would have slept. But, observe the difference, all these fresh and charming damsels--" "Charming we are, beyond a doubt," interrupted Nora O'Malley, "but fresh--never. The only fresh person aboard is named Wingate." "If you two are going to disagree we'll bundle you both into the baggage car and let you fight it out," warned David. "Hippy ought to be exiled to that particular spot for having reviled Reddy and me." "Keep quiet, Nora," said Hippy in a stage whisper. "We are in the hands of desperadoes." It was a merry party who were speeding along their way to the state capital, for a wonderful visit was to be paid and the Phi Sigma Tau and their friends were to pay it. In short, Judge Putnam had invited them to spend Christmas at his beautiful home in the capital city, and for eight happy days they were to be his guests. It was in reality Grace's party. The judge had written her, asking her to select as many guests as she chose. She had also received a prettily worded note from his sister, who had chaperoned them the previous summer in the Adirondacks, and who had taken charge of the judge's home in the capital for years. Grace had at once invited the Phi Sigma Tau, and dispatched special delivery letters to Hippy, David and Reddy, not forgetting Tom Gray and Arnold Evans. In order to make an even number of boys and girls, Grace had invited James Gardiner, an Oakdale boy, and last of all, very reluctantly, had sent a note to Mr. Henry Hammond. This she had done solely to appease Marian Barber's wounded pride. For a week after the day that Marian had rushed angrily out of Grace's house, she had refused to go near her sorority. But one afternoon the six girls, headed by Grace, waylaid her as she was leaving the school and after much coaxing Marian allowed herself to be brought to a more reasonable frame of mind. Then Grace, who honestly regretted having hurt Marian's feelings, had made an extra effort to treat Mr. Hammond cordially when they chanced to meet, and her friends had followed her example. In spite of their feeling of dislike for him, they were forced to acknowledge that he seemed well-bred, was a young man of apparently good habits and that Oakdale people were rapidly taking him up. Grace privately thought Marian entirely too young to receive the attentions of a man so much older than herself, but Marian's father and mother permitted it, therefore Grace felt that she had no right to judge or object. The longest journey seems brief when beguiled by gay companions, and the time slipped by like magic. It was with genuine surprise that the little party heard their station called. There was a great scurrying about for their various belongings, and well laden with suit cases and traveling bags the party hustled out of the train and were met on the platform by the judge's chauffeur, who conducted them to two waiting automobiles. Off they whirled and in an incredibly short time the two machines drew up before the judge's stately home, where lights gleamed from every window. The guests alighted with much laughter and noise, and in a twinkling the massive front door opened and Judge Putnam appeared. "Welcome, welcome!" he cried. "Now I am sure to have a Merry Christmas. I don't see how your fathers and mothers could spare you, and I owe them a debt of gratitude. Come in, come in. Here, Mary, are your children again." The judge's sister came forward and greeted the young people warmly, kissing each girl in turn and shaking hands with the boys. Mr. Hammond and James Gardiner were duly presented to the judge and his sister, and then the boys were shown to their rooms by one of the servants, while Miss Putnam herself conducted the girls to theirs. "We usually dine between seven and seven-thirty, my dears," said Miss Putnam, as they ascended. "I will send my maid, Annette, to you. Will you have separate rooms, or do you wish to do as you did last summer?" "Oh, let two of us room together," said Grace eagerly. "But still, that isn't fair, for it will leave an odd one. You know we had Mabel with us last summer." "Dear little Mabel," said Miss Putnam. "I am sure you must miss her greatly. Her finding of her mother was very wonderful. I received a letter from her last week. She says she is very happy, but that she misses her Oakdale friends, particularly Jessica." "She is coming east for commencement," said Jessica with a wistful smile. "No one knows how much I miss her." "Let us settle the question of rooms at once," interposed Grace, who knew that whenever the conversation turned to Mabel, Jessica invariably was attacked with the blues. "Who is willing to room alone?" "I am," replied Miriam Nesbit, "only I stipulate that I be allowed to pay nocturnal visits to the rest of you whenever I get too bored with my own society." "Very well, then," replied Grace. "How shall we arrange it?" "You and Anne take one room, then," said Nora rather impatiently, "Jessica and I another and that leaves Marian and Eva together. Do hurry up about it, for I want to get the soot off my face, and the cinders out of my eyes." The question of roommates being thus settled, the girls trooped into the rooms assigned them and began to dress for dinner. The matter of gowns had been discussed by the girls when the judge's invitation had first arrived. As they were to remain for a week, they would need trunks, but for the first dinner, in case the trunks did not arrive on time, it had been agreed that they each carry one simple gown in their suit cases. Grace and Anne had both chosen white, Jessica a dainty flowered organdie, and Nora a pale pink dimity. Eva Allen also had selected white. Marian Barber alone refused to give her friends any satisfaction as to what she intended to wear. "Wait and see," she had answered. "I want my gown to be a complete surprise to all of you." "How funny Marian acted about her gown," remarked Grace to Anne, as she fastened the last button on the latter's waist. The maid sent by Miss Putnam had offered her services, but the girls, wishing to be alone, had not required them. "Yes," responded Anne. "I don't understand her at all of late. She has changed a great deal, and I believe it is due to the influence of that horrid Henry Hammond. I simply can't like that man." "Nor I," said Grace. "It requires an effort on my part to be civil to him. I think, too, that the boys are not favorably impressed with him, although they are too polite to say so." "I believe in first impressions," remarked Anne. "I think that nine times out of ten they are correct. I may be doing the man an injustice, but I can't help it. Every time that I talk with him I feel that he is playing a part, that underneath his polish he has a cruel, relentless nature." "Are you girls ready!" called Nora's voice just outside their door. "In a minute," answered Grace, and with a last glance at the mirror she and Anne stepped into the hall, where Nora, Jessica and Eva Allen stood waiting. "Where's Marian?" asked Grace, noticing her absence. "Don't ask me," said Eva, in a tone bordering on disgust. "She won't be out for some time." "Shall we wait for her?" inquired Anne. "No," replied Eva shortly. "Let us go, and don't ask me anything about her. When she does finally appear you'll understand." "This sounds very mysterious," said Miriam Nesbit, who in a white dotted Swiss, with a sprig of holly in her black braids, looked particularly handsome. "Come on, girls, shall we go down?" The six girls descended to the drawing room, looking the very incarnation of youth and charming girlhood, and the judge's eyes brightened at sight of them. "A rosebud garden of girls," he cried gallantly, "but I seem to miss some one. Where is the seventh rosebud?" "Marian will be here directly," said Grace, as they gathered about the big fireplace until dinner should be announced. But ten minutes went by, and Marian still lingered. "Dinner is served," announced the old butler. The girls exchanged furtive glances, the judge looked rather uncomfortable, while Mr. Henry Hammond frowned openly. Then there was another ten minutes' wait, that the girls tried to cover with conversation. Then--a rustle of silken skirts and a figure appeared in the archway that caused those assembled to stare in sheer amazement. Was this fashionably attired person plain every-day Marian Barber? Her hair was drawn high upon her head, and topped with a huge cluster of false puffs, which made her look several years older than she had appeared in the afternoon, while her gown of blue satin was cut rather too low for a young girl, and had mere excuses in the way of sleeves. To cap the climax, however, it had a real train that persisted in getting in her way every time she attempted to move. For a full minute no one spoke. Grace had an almost irrepressible desire to laugh aloud, as she caught the varied expressions on the faces of her friends. Mr. Hammond alone appeared unmoved. Grace fancied that she even detected a gleam of approval in his eyes as he glanced toward Marian. "Shall we dine!" asked the judge, offering his arm to Grace, while Tom Gray escorted Miss Putnam, the other young men following with their friends. The dinner passed off smoothly, although there was a curious constraint fell upon the young people that nothing could dispel. Marian's gown had indeed proved a surprise to her young friends, and they could not shake off a certain sense of mortification at her lack of good taste. "How could Marian Barber be so ridiculous, and why did her mother ever allow her to dress herself like that?" thought Grace as she glanced at Marian, who was simpering at some remark that Mr. Henry Hammond was making to her in a voice too low for the others to hear. Then Grace suddenly remembered that Marian's mother had left Oakdale three weeks before on a three months' visit to a sister in a distant city. "That deceitful old Henry Hammond is at the bottom of this," Grace decided. "He has probably put those ideas of dressing up into Marian's head. She needs some one to look after her. I'll ask mother if she can stay with me until her mother returns, that is if I can persuade her to come." "Come out of your brown study, Grace," called Hippy. "I want you to settle an argument that has arisen between Miss O'Malley and myself. Never before have we had an argument. Timid, gentle creature that she is, she has always deferred to my superior intellect, but now--" "Yes," retorted Nora scornfully, "now, he has been routed with slaughter, and so he has to call upon other people to rescue him from the fruits of his own folly." "I am not asking aid," averred Hippy with dignity. "I plead for simple justice." "Simple, indeed," interrupted David with a twinkle in his eye. "I see very plainly," announced Hippy, "that I shall have to drop this O'Malley affair and defend myself against later unkind attacks. But first I shall eat my dessert, then I shall have greater strength to renew the fray." "Then my services as a settler of arguments are not required," laughed Grace. "Postponed, merely postponed," assured Hippy, and devoted himself assiduously to his dessert, refusing to be beguiled into further conversation. Dinner over, the entire party repaired once more to the drawing room, where the young people performed for the judge's especial benefit the stunts for which they were already famous. Much to Grace's annoyance, Henry Hammond attached himself to her, and try as she might she could not entirely rid herself of his attentions without absolute rudeness. Tom Gray looked a trifle surprised at this, and Marian Barber seemed openly displeased. Grace felt thoroughly out of patience, when toward the close of the evening, he approached her as she stood looking at a Japanese curio, and said: "I wish to thank you, Miss Harlowe, for inviting me to become a member of this house party. I appreciate your invitation more than I can say." "I hope you will enjoy yourself, Mr. Hammond," replied Grace rather coldly. "There is little doubt of that," was the ready answer. "How well Marian is looking to-night. I am surprised at the difference a really grown-up gown makes in her." Grace glanced at Marian, who in her eyes looked anything but well. "Mr. Hammond," she said slowly, looking straight at him. "I do not in the least agree with you. Marian is not yet eighteen, and to-night she looks like anything but the school-girl that she did this afternoon. If her mother were at home I am sure that she would never allow Marian to have such a gown made, and I cannot fully understand what mischievous influence prompted her to make herself appear so utterly ridiculous to-night." "Miss Harlowe," said the young man, his face darkening ominously, "your tone is decidedly offensive. Do I understand you to insinuate that I have in any way influenced Miss Barber as to her manner of dress?" "I insinuate nothing," replied Grace, rather contemptuously. "If the coat fits you wear it." "Miss Harlowe," answered the young man almost savagely, "I cannot understand why, after having included me in this house party, you deliberately insult me; but I advise you to be more careful in the future as to your remarks or I shall be tempted to forget the courtesy due a young woman, and repay you in your own coin." "Mr. Hammond," replied Grace with cold scorn, "I acknowledge that my last remark to you was exceedingly rude, but nothing can palliate the offense of your reply. As a matter of interest, let me state that I am not in the least alarmed at your threat, for only a coward would ever attempt to bully a girl." With these words Grace moved quickly away, leaving Mr. Henry Hammond to digest her answer as best he might. CHAPTER X CHRISTMAS WITH JUDGE It was Christmas Eve, and the great soft flakes of snow that fell continuously gave every indication of a white Christmas. The north wind howled and blustered through the tree tops, making the judge and his young guests congratulate themselves on being safely sheltered from the storm. The day had been clear and cold, and the entire party had driven on bob-sleds to the strip of woods just outside the town, where the boys had cut down a Christmas tree, and had brought it triumphantly home, while the girls had piled the sleds with evergreens and ground pine. On the return a stop had been made at the market, and great quantities of holly had been bought. Even the sprig of mistletoe for the chandelier in the hall had not been forgotten. "We'll hurry up and get everything ready before the judge comes in," planned Grace. "We'll put this mistletoe right here, and Nora, you must see to it that you lead him over until he stands directly under it. Then we will all surround him. Miriam, will you tell Miss Putnam? We want her to be in it, too." The young folks worked untiringly and a little before five the last trail of ground pine was in place, and the decorators stood back and reviewed their work with pride. The great hall and drawing room had been transformed into a veritable corner of the forest, and the red holly berries peeping out from the green looked like little flame-colored heralds of Christmas. Here and there a poinsettia made a gorgeous blot of color, while on an old-fashioned mahogany what-not stood an immense bowl of deep-red roses, the joint contribution of the Phi Sigma Tau. "It looks beautiful," sighed Jessica, "we really ought to feel proud of ourselves." The entire party was grouped about the big drawing room. "I am always proud of myself," asserted Hippy. "In the first place there is a great deal of me to be proud of; and in the second place I don't believe in hiding my light under a bushel." "Now Jessica, you have started him," said David with a groan. "He'll talk about himself for an hour unless Reddy and I lead him out." "I dare you to lead me out," defied Hippy. "I never take a dare," replied David calmly, making a lunge for Hippy. "Come on, Reddy." Reddy sprang forward and Hippy was hustled out, chanting as he went: "Now children do not blame me, for I have so much to say, That from myself I really cannot tear myself away," and remained outside for the space of two minutes, when he suddenly reappeared wearing Grace's coat and Miriam Nesbit's plumed hat and performed a wild dance down the middle of the room that made his friends shriek with laughter. "Hippy, when will you be good?" inquired Miriam, as she rescued her hat, and smoothed its ruffled plumes. "Never, I hope," replied Hippy promptly. "That's the judge's ring," cried Grace as the sound of the bell echoed through the big room, and the guests flocked into the hall to welcome their host. "This is what I call a warm reception," laughed Judge Putnam, as he stood surrounded by laughing faces. "I claim the privilege of escorting Judge Putnam down the hall," cried Nora, and she conducted him directly to where the mistletoe hung. "I must be an object of envy to you young men," chuckled the judge, as he walked unsuspectingly to his fate. "The mistletoe! The mistletoe! You're standing under the mistletoe!" was the cry and the seven girls and Miss Putnam joined hands and circled around the judge. Then each girl in turn stepped up and imprinted a kiss on the good old judge's cheek. [Illustration: The Girls Circled Around the Judge] "Well, I never!" exclaimed the old gentleman, but there were tears in his blue eyes and his voice trembled as he said to his sister, who was the last to salute him, "It takes me back over the years, Mary." It was a merry party that ran upstairs to dress for dinner that night, and the spirit of Christmas seemed to have settled down upon the judge's borrowed household. The only thing that had dimmed Grace Harlowe's pleasure in the least was the passage at arms that had occurred between herself and Henry Hammond. Grace's conscience smote her. She felt that she should not have spoken to him as she had, even though she disliked him. To be sure, his remark about Marian's gown had caused her inwardly to accuse him of influencing Marian to make herself ridiculous in the eyes of her friends, but she could not forgive herself for having unthinkingly spoken as she had done. After due reflection Grace decided that she had acted unwisely, and made up her mind that she would try to make amends for her unkind retort. She decided, however, to see if she could not persuade Marian to go back to her usual style of dress. Grace hurried through her dressing, and looking very sweet and wholesome in her dainty blue organdie, knocked at the door of the room occupied by Marian and Eva Allen. "Come in," cried Eva's voice, and Grace entered, to find Eva completely dressed in a pretty white pongee, eyeing with great disfavor the tight-fitting princess gown of black silk that the maid was struggling to hook Marian into. "Marian!" exclaimed Grace. "What ever made you have a black evening gown? It makes you look years older than you are." "That's exactly what I told her," said Eva Allen, "but she won't believe it." Marian looked sulky, then said rather sullenly: "I really can't see what difference it makes to you girls what I wear. I haven't interfered with you in the matter of your gowns, have I?" "No," replied Grace truthfully, "but Marian, I think the judge likes to see us in the simple evening dresses we have been accustomed to wearing, and as we are his guests we ought to try and please him. Besides, you would look so much better in your white embroidered dress, or your pink silk, that you wore to commencement last year." "I don't agree with, you at all," replied Marian so stiffly that the maid smiled openly, as she put the final touches to Marian's hair preparatory to adjusting the cluster of puffs that had completed her astonishing coiffure the night before. "Furthermore, I have been assured by persons of extreme good taste that my new gowns give me a distinct individuality I have never before possessed." "That person of extreme good taste is named Hammond," thought Grace. "That remark about 'individuality' sounds just like him. I'll make one more appeal to her." Going over to where Marian stood viewing herself with satisfaction in the long mirror, Grace slipped her arm around her old friend. "Listen, dear," she coaxed, "we mustn't quarrel on Christmas Eve. You know we are all Phi Sigma Taus and it seems so strange to see you looking so stately and grown up. Put on your white dress to-night, just to please me." But Marian drew away from her, frowning angrily. "Really, Grace," she exclaimed, "you are too provoking for any use, and I wish you would mind your own business and let me wear what I choose." "Please pardon me, Marian," said Grace, turning toward the door. "I am sorry to have troubled you," and was gone like a flash. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marian Barber!" burst forth Eva. "The idea of telling Grace to mind her own business! You haven't been a bit like yourself lately, and I know that it's all on account of that Henry Hammond, the old snake." "You will oblige me greatly, Eva, by referring more respectfully to my friend, Mr. Hammond," said Marian with offended dignity. Then she sailed out of the room, her train dragging half a yard behind her, while Eva turned to the mirror with a contemptuous sniff and powdered her little freckled nose almost savagely before following her irate roommate down stairs. CHAPTER XI SANTA CLAUS VISITS THE JUDGE The moment that dinner was over the judge was hustled into the library by Nora and Miriam, and informed by them that they constituted a committee of two to amuse him until eleven o'clock. He was their prisoner and they dared him to try to escape. Next to Grace, Nora, with her rosy cheeks and ready Irish wit was perhaps the judge's favorite, while he had a profound admiration for stately Miriam; so he was well satisfied with his captors, who triumphantly conducted him to the drawing room, where Miriam played and Nora sang Irish ballads with a delicious brogue that completely captivated the old gentleman. At eleven o'clock there was a great jingling of bells and into the room dashed Santa Claus, looking as fat and jolly as a story-book Kris Kringle. "Merry Christmas," he cried in a high squeaky voice. "It's a little early to wish you Merry Christmas, judge, but I've an engagement in China at midnight so I thought I'd drop in here a trifle early, leave a few toys for you and your little playmates and be gone. I always make it a point to remember good little boys. So hurry up, everybody, and follow me, for I haven't long to stay." With these words Kris Kringle dashed through the hall followed by the judge who, entering fully into the spirit of the affair, seized Nora and Miriam by the hand and the three raced after their strange visitor at full speed, catching up with him at the door of the dining room which was closed. Here Santa Claus paused and gave three knocks on the oak door. "Who is there?" demanded a voice, that sounded like David Nesbit's. "Kris Kringle and three good children." "Enter into the realm of Christmas," answered the voice, and the door was flung open. The sight that greeted them was sufficiently brilliant to dazzle their eyes for a moment. In one corner of the dining room stood the great tree, radiant with gilt and silver ornaments. At the top was a huge silver star, while the branches were wound with glittering tinsel, and heavily laden with beribboned bundles of all shapes and sizes, while the space around the base of the tree was completely filled with presents. At one side of the tree stood a graceful figure clad in a white robe that glittered and sparkled as though covered with diamonds. She wore a gilt crown on her head and carried a scepter, while over her shoulder trailed a long garland of holly fastened with scarlet ribbons. It was Grace Harlowe in a robe made of cotton wadding thickly sprinkled with diamond dust, gotten up to represent the spirit of Christmas. On the other side of the tree lay old Father Time, apparently fast asleep, his sickle by his side. His long white cotton beard flowed realistically down to his waist, and in his folded hands was a placard bearing these words, "Gone to sleep for the next hundred years," while in the opposite corner his sister and the rest of the guests had grouped themselves, and as the old gentleman stepped over the threshold, a chorus of laughing voices rang out: "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!" Then Grace glided forward and escorted the judge to a sort of double throne that had been improvised from two easy chairs raised to a small platform constructed by the boys, and draped with the piano cover, and a couple of silken curtains, while Santa Claus performed the same office for Miss Putnam. After they had been established with great pomp and ceremony, Santa Claus awoke Father Time by shaking him vigorously, apologizing to the company between each shake for doing so, and promising to put him to sleep the moment the festivities were over. Then the fun of distributing the presents began, and for the next hour a great unwrapping and rattling of papers ensued, mingled with constant exclamations of surprise and delight from all present, as they opened and admired their gifts. The judge was particularly pleased with the little personal gifts that the girls themselves had made for him, and exclaimed with the delight of a schoolboy as he opened each one. At last nothing remained save one rather imposing package. "This must be something very remarkable," said the judge, as he untied the bow of scarlet ribbon and unwrapped the folds of tissue paper, disclosing a cut glass inkstand, with a heavy silver top, on which were engraved his initials in block letters. There was a general murmur of admiration from all. "Very fine, very fine," said the judge, picking up the card which read, "Merry Christmas, from Miss Barber." "Miss Barber?" he repeated questioningly. Then it dawned upon him that this expensive gift was from one of his guests. "Pardon me, my dear," he said turning to Marian, who looked half complacent, half embarrassed. "I am an old man and don't always remember names as well as I should. The beauty of your gift quite overcame me. Allow me to thank you and express my appreciation of it." Marian smiled affectedly at the judge's words, in a manner so foreign to her former, blunt, good-natured self, that the girl chums watched her in silent amazement. But the judge's inkstand was merely the fore-runner of surprises. A sudden cry from Grace attracted the attention of the others. "Why, Marian Barber, what made you do it?" Then other exclamations followed in quick succession as the Phi Sigma Taus rushed over to her in a body, each carrying a jeweler's box. "You shouldn't have been so generous, Marian," said Grace. "I never dreamed of receiving this beautiful gold chain." "Just look at my bracelet!" cried Jessica. "And my lovely ring!" put in Nora. "Not half so fine as my silver purse," commented Anne. Miriam Nesbit was the recipient of a cut glass powder box with a silver top, while Eva Allen was in raptures over a gold chatelaine pin, that more than once she had vainly sighed for. Even the boys had been so well remembered that they felt rather embarrassed when they compared their simple gifts to Marian with those she had given them. As for Mr. Henry Hammond, he had received a complete toilet set mounted in silver that was truly a magnificent affair, while Marian proudly exhibited a gold chain and locket set with small diamonds, which she had received from him. When the last package had been opened, Santa Claus removed his huge white beard, slipped out of his scarlet bath robe bordered with cotton and stood forth as Hippy Wingate; while Father Time set his sickle carefully up in one corner, divested himself of his flowing beard and locks, took off David's gray dressing gown and appeared as Tom Gray. It was long after midnight before the guests sought their rooms, their arms piled with gifts. "Come into my room for an after-gathering," said Miriam to the girls, as they stood in a group at the head of the stairs. "Wait until we deposit our spoils and get comfy," said Grace. Fifteen minutes later the Phi Sigma Taus, with the exception of Marian Barber, wrapped in kimonos, were monopolizing the floor space around the big open fireplace in Miriam's room. "Where's Marian?" asked Grace. "Gone to bed," answered Eva laconically. "She said she didn't propose to stay up half the night to gossip." "The very idea!" exclaimed Jessica. "We never do gossip, but I think she has furnished plenty of material so far for a gossiping match." "And it looks as though we were in a fair way to start one, now," said Anne slyly. "Anne, you rascal," said Jessica laughing. "I'll acknowledge my sins and change the subject." "My presents were all beautiful!" said Miriam Nesbit, who, clad in a kimono of cream-colored silk bordered with red poppies, her long black braids hanging far below her waist, looked like a princess of the Orient. "And mine," echoed Grace. "The chain Marian gave me is a dear." She stopped abruptly. A sudden silence had fallen upon the group at her words. Grace instantly divined that in the minds of her friends there lurked a secret disapproval of Marian's extravagance in the matter of gifts. CHAPTER XII THE MISTLETOE BOUGH After breakfast the next morning the judge proposed a sleigh ride, and soon the entire party were skimming over the ground in two big old-fashioned sleighs. Though the day was fairly cold, the guests were too warmly wrapped to pay any attention to the weather, and keenly enjoyed every moment of the ride. After lunch a mysterious council took place in the library, and directly after a visit was made to the attic, Grace having received permission to rummage there. Later Reddy and Tom Gray were seen staggering down the stairs under the weight of a huge cedar chest, and later still the girls hurried down, their arms piled high with costumes of an earlier period. Christmas dinner was to be a grand affair, and the judge had invited half a dozen friends of his own age to share "his borrowed children." The girls had saved their prettiest gowns for the occasion, and the boys had put on evening dress. The judge viewed them with unmistakable pride as they stood grouped about the drawing room, awaiting the announcement of dinner. An almost imperceptible frown gathered between his brows, however, as his eyes rested upon Marian Barber, who was wearing a fearfully and wonderfully made gown of gold-colored silk, covered with spangles, that gave her a serpentine effect, and made her look ten years older than the other girls. On going upstairs to dress, Marian had asked Eva Allen if she objected to dressing with Miriam Nesbit, and Eva had obligingly taken her belongings into Miriam's room after obtaining the latter's permission to do so. Marian had engaged the attention of Miss Putnam's maid for the greater part of an hour, and when she did appear the varied expressions upon the faces of her friends plainly showed that she had succeeded in creating a sensation. "For goodness sake, what ails Marian!" growled Reddy Brooks in an undertone to David. "Can't the girls make her see that she looks like a fright beside them?" "Anne told me that Grace and Eva have both talked to her," replied David in guarded tones. "Grace thinks Hammond has put this grown-up idea into her head." "Humph!" growled Reddy in disgust. "She used to be a mighty pleasant, sensible girl, but lately she acts like a different person. I don't think much of that fellow Hammond. He's too good to be true." "What have we here?" whispered Hippy to Nora under cover of general conversation. "I never before saw so many spingles and spangles collected in one spot." "Sh-h-h!" pleaded Nora. "Don't make me laugh, Hippy. Marian is looking this way, and she'll be awfully cross if she thinks we are making sport of her." "She reminds me of a song I once heard in a show which went something like this," and Hippy naughtily sang under his breath: "My well-beloved circus queen, My human snake, my Angeline!" There was a queer choking sound from Nora and she walked quickly down to the other end of the drawing room and earnestly fixed her gaze upon a portrait of one of the judge's ancestors, until she could gain control of her risibles. The dinner was a memorable one to both the judge and his guests, and it was after nine o'clock before the last toast had been drunk in fruit punch. Then every one repaired again to the drawing room. Shortly after, Grace, Anne, Nora, Jessica, Eva and Miriam, accompanied by David, Tom, Hippy and Reddy disappeared, closing the massive doors between the drawing room and the wide hall. Half an hour later Arnold Evans announced that all those wishing to attend the pantomime, "The Mistletoe Bough," could obtain front seats in the hall. There was a general rush for the hall where the spectators found rows of chairs arranged at one end. Hardly had they seated themselves when the first notes of that quaint old ballad, "The Mistletoe Bough," sounded from the piano in the drawing room, Nora O'Malley appeared in the archway, and in her clear, sweet voice sang the first verse of the song. As she finished, the strains of a wedding march were heard, and from the room at the opposite side of the hall came a wedding procession. Anne, as the bride, was attired in an old-time, short-waisted gown of white satin with a long lace veil, yellow with age, while David in a square-cut costume with powdered wig, enacted the part of the bridegroom. Arnold Evans was the clergyman, Grace and Tom the parents of the bride, while Reddy, Jessica, Hippy and Eva were the wedding guests. All were garbed in the fashion of "ye olden time," the boys in wigs and square cuts, the girls in short-waisted, low-necked gowns, with hair combed high and powdered. Then the ceremony was performed in pantomime and the bride and groom received the congratulations of their friends. The groom bowed low over the bride's hand and led her to the center of the hall. The other couples formed in line behind them and a stately minuet was danced. While the minuet was in progress the bride suddenly stopped in the midst of the figure and professing weariness of the dance, ran out of the room, after signifying to her husband and guests that she would hide, and after a brief interval they should seek for her. Entering into her fun, the young husband and guests smilingly lingered a moment after her departure, and then ran eagerly off to find her. This closed the scene, and Nora again appeared and sang the next verse. The cedar chest, brought from the attic by the boys, had been set on the broad landing at the turn of the open staircase, and in the next scene Anne appeared, alone, and discovering the chest climbed gleefully into it and drew the lid down. Then followed the vain search for her and the deep despair of the young husband at the failure to find his bride, with the final departure of the wedding guests, their joy changed to sorrow over the bride's mysterious disappearance. There was a brief wait until the next scene, during which another verse of the ballad was sung. Then the husband, grown old, appeared and in pantomime reviewed the story of the strange vanishing of his beautiful bride on her wedding night so many years before. In the next scene two servants appeared with orders to clean out and remove the old chest from the landing. Hippy and Jessica, as the two mischievous prying servants, enacted their part to perfection. Hippy carrying a broom and dust pan, did one of the eccentric dances, for which he was famous, while Jessica, armed with a huge duster, tried to drive him to work. Finally both lay hold of the old chest, the rusted lock broke and the lid flew open. After one look both servants ran away in terror, and beckoned to the forsaken husband who had appeared in the meantime, seating himself on the oak settee in the lower hall. With eager gestures they motioned him to the landing where the old chest stood. The final tableau, depicted the stricken husband on his knees beside the chest with a portion of the wedding veil in his shaking hands, while the servants, ignorant of the story of the lost bride, looked on in wonder. During the last tableau Nora softly sang the closing verse and the refrain. Even after the last note had died away the spectators sat perfectly still for a moment. Then the applause burst forth and David bowing in acknowledgment, turned and helped Anne out of the chest, where she had lain quietly after hiding. The chest had been set with the side that opened toward the wall. While planning for the pantomime the boys had arranged the lid so that it did not close, yet the opening was not perceptible to those seated below. Thus there had been no danger of Anne meeting the fate of the ill-starred Ginevra, the heroine of the ballad. "You clever children," cried the old judge. "How did you ever get up anything like that on such short notice? It was beautifully done. I have always been very fond of 'The Mistletoe Bough.' My sister used to sing it for me." "Grace thought of it," said Anne. "We found all those costumes up in the garret in the old cedar chest. We knew the story by heart, and we knew the minuet. We danced it at an entertainment in Oakdale last winter. We had a very short rehearsal this afternoon in the garret and that's all." "Anne arranged the scenes and coached David in his part of the pantomime," said Grace. "She did more than I." The judge's guests, also, added their tribute of admiration to that of the judge. "It was all so real. I could scarcely refrain from telling that poor young husband where his bride had hidden herself," laughed one old gentleman. "Why don't you children have a little dance?" asked the judge. "This hall ought to make a good ball room, and you can take turns at the piano." "Oh, may we, Judge?" cried Grace in delight. "I am simply dying to have a good waltz on this floor." "I'll play for you for a while," volunteered Miriam, "then Eva and Jessica can take my place." Five minutes later the young folks were gliding about the big hall to the strains of a Strauss' waltz, while the judge and his friends looked on, taking an almost melancholy pleasure in the gay scene of youthful enjoyment. "Will you dance the next waltz with me, Miss Harlowe!" said Henry Hammond to Grace, as she sat resting after a two-step. After a second's hesitation Grace replied in the affirmative. Despite her resolve to make peace with him, up to that moment Grace had been unable to bring herself to the point of speaking pleasantly to him. The waltz began, and as they glided around the room she was obliged to acknowledge herself that Henry Hammond's dancing left nothing to be desired. "Perhaps my impressions of him are unjust, after all," thought Grace. "I suppose I have no right to criticize him so severely, even though he was rude to me the other night. I was rude, too. Perhaps he will turn out--" But Grace's reflections were cut short by her partner, who had stopped in the center of the hall. "Miss Harlowe," he said with a disagreeable smile, "you are standing directly under the mistletoe. I suppose you know the penalty." Grace looked at him with flashing eyes. "Mr. Hammond," she replied, flushing angrily, "you purposely halted under the mistletoe, and if for one minute you think that you can take advantage of a foolish tradition by so doing you are mistaken. When we girls coaxed Judge Putnam under the mistletoe the other night, it was merely with the view of offering a pretty courtesy to an elderly gentleman. None of our boys would think of being so silly, and I want you to distinctly understand that not one of our crowd is given to demonstrations of that sort." "Miss Harlowe," replied Henry Hammond between his teeth, "you are an insolent, ill-bred young woman, and it is plain to be seen that you are determined to misconstrue my every action and incur my enmity. So be it, but let me warn you that my hatred is no light matter." "Your friendship or your enmity are a matter of equal indifference to me, Mr. Hammond," answered Grace, and with a cool nod she crossed the room and joined Nora and Hippy, who were sitting on the stairs playing cats' cradle with the long silver chain of Nora's fan. CHAPTER XIII TOM AND GRACE SCENT TROUBLE The time passed all too rapidly, and with many expressions of regret on both sides the judge and his youthful guests parted, two days before the New Year. On account of the house party the Phi Sigma Tau had been obliged to postpone until New Year's Day entertaining as they had done the previous year the stray High School girls who were far from home. Therefore, the moment they arrived in Oakdale they found their hands full. Mrs. Gray had been in California with her brother since September, and the girls greatly missed the sprightly old lady. It was the first Christmas since they had entered High School that she had not been with them, and they were looking forward with great eagerness to her return in February. Julia Crosby, who was at Smith College, had accepted an invitation from her roommate to spend the holidays in Boston, much to Grace's disappointment, who had reckoned on Julia as one of the judge's house party. New Year's Day the Phi Sigma Tau nobly lived up to their reputation as entertainers of those girls who they had originally pledged themselves to look out for, but New Year's Night the four girl chums had reserved for a special gathering which included the "eight originals" only. It was Miriam who had made this possible by inviting Eva Allen, James Gardiner, Arnold Evans, Marian Barber, and much against her will, Henry Hammond, to a dinner. "Don't feel slighted at being left off my dinner list," she said to Grace, then added slyly, "Why don't the eight originals hold forth at Nora's?" "You're a positive dear, Miriam," Grace replied. "We have been wanting to have an old-time frolic, but didn't wish to seem selfish and clannish." "Opportunity is knocking at your gate, get busy," was Miriam's advice, which Grace was not slow to follow. "At last there are signs of that spread that I was promised at the bazaar," proclaimed Hippy Wingate cheerfully, as attired in a long gingham apron belonging to Nora's elder sister, he energetically stirred fudge in a chafing dish and insisted every other minute that Nora should try it to see if it were done. "You'll have to stir it a lot, yet," Nora informed him. "But I'm so tired," protested Hippy. "I think Tom or Reddy might change jobs with me." "Not so you could notice it," was the united reply from these two young men who sat with a basket of English walnuts between them and did great execution with nut crackers, while Anne and David separated the kernels from their shells. The eight originals had repaired to the O'Malley kitchen immediately after their arrival, and were deep in the preparation of the spread, long deferred. Grace stood by the gas range watching the chocolate she was making, while Nora and Jessica sat at a table making tiny sandwiches of white and brown bread with fancy fillings. "This spread will taste much better because we've all had a hand in it," remarked David, as he handed Nora a dish of nut kernels, which she dropped into the mixture over which Hippy labored. "I never fully realized my own cleverness until to-night," said Hippy modestly. "My powers as a fudge maker are simply marvelous." "Humph!" jeered David, "you haven't done anything except stir it, and you tried to quit doing that." "But no one paid any attention to my complaints, so I turned out successfully without aid," retorted Hippy, waving his spoon in triumph. "Stop talking," ordered Nora, "and pour that fudge into this pan before it hardens." "At your service," said Hippy, with a flourish of the chafing dish that almost resulted in sending its contents to the floor, and elicited Nora's stern disapproval. "How fast the time has gone," remarked David to Anne. "Just to think that it's back to the college for us to-morrow." "It will seem a long time until Easter," replied Anne rather sadly. "And still longer to us," was David's answer. "Oh, I don't know about that," put in Grace, who had heard the conversation. "I think it is always more lonely for those who are left behind. Oakdale will seem awfully dull and sleepy. We can't play basketball any more this year on account of the loss of the gym., and we seniors are going to give a concert instead of a play. So there are no exciting prospects ahead. There will be no class dances as we have no place to dance, unless we hire a hall, and we never have money enough for that." "How about the five hundred dollars the judge sent?" asked Reddy. "Oh, we have decided not to touch that. The money we take in at the concert will be added to it," said Nora. "That will be two entertainments for the seniors, and we think that is enough. We want the other classes to have a chance to make some money, too." "If we only had the bazaar money that was stolen," said Anne regretfully. "Strange that no trace of the thief was ever found," remarked David. "I know that my wrist was lame for a week from the twist that rascal gave it." "I have always had a curious conviction that the man who took that money had been traveling around in the hall all evening," said Anne thoughtfully. "Whoever it was, he must have seen Grace deposit the money in the box, and he also knew the exact location of the switch." "One would imagine the box too heavy to have been spirited away so easily," said Tom Gray. "The weight of all that silver must have been considerable." "Yes, it did weigh heavily," replied Grace. "Still, we had a great many bills, too. In spite of the weight the thief did make a successful get away, and we owe Judge Putnam a heavy debt of gratitude for making good our loss." "'Look not mournfully into the past,'" quoted Hippy, "but rather turn your attention to the important matter of refreshing the inner man." "You fixed your attention on that matter years ago, Hippopotamus," said Reddy, "and since then you've never turned it in any other direction." "Which proves me to be a person of excellent judgment and unqualified good taste," answered Hippy with a broad grin. "More taste than judgment, I should say," remarked David. "This conversation is becoming too personal," complained Hippy. "Excuse me, Nora, use that Irish wit of yours and lay these slanderers low." "I am neither a life preserver nor a repairer of reputations," replied Nora cruelly. "Fight your own battles." "All right, here goes," said Hippy. "Now Reddy Brooks and David Nesbit, I said, that what you said, and formerly have said to have said, was said, because you happened to have said something that I formerly was said to have said that never should have been said. What I really said--" But what Hippy really did say was never revealed, for David and Reddy laid violent hands upon their garrulous friend and, escorting him to the kitchen door, shoved him outside and calmly locking the door, left him to meditate in the back yard, until Nora suddenly remembering that she had set the fudge on the steps to cool, opened the door in a hurry to find Hippy seated upon the lower step, a piece of fudge in either hand, looking the picture of content. [Illustration: Hippy Sat With A Piece of Fudge in Either Hand] The party broke up at eleven o'clock, and the hard task of saying good-bye began. The boys were to leave early the next morning, so the girls would not see them again until Easter. "Don't forget to write," called Nora after Hippy, as he hurried down the steps after the others, who had reached the gate. "You'll hear from me as soon as we hit the knowledge shop," was the reassuring answer. At the corner the little party separated, Hippy, Reddy and Jessica going in one direction, Anne and David in another, leaving Tom and Grace to pursue their homeward way alone. As they turned into Putnam Square, Grace gave a little exclamation, and seizing Tom by the arm, drew him behind a statue of Israel Putnam at the entrance of the square. "Marian Barber is coming this way with that horrid Henry Hammond," she whispered. "I don't care to meet them. I have not spoken to him since the house party, and Marian will be so angry if I cut him deliberately when he is with her. I am sure they have not seen us. They were invited to Miriam's to-night. We'll stand here until they pass." The two young people stood in the shadow quietly waiting, unseen by the approaching couple, who were completely absorbed in conversation. "I tell you I can't do it," Grace heard Marian say impatiently. "It doesn't belong to me, and I have no right to touch it." Hammond's reply was inaudible, but it was evident that Marian's remark had angered him, for he grasped her by the arm so savagely that she cried out: "Don't hold my arm so tightly, Henry, you are hurting me. I am not foolish to refuse to give it to you. Suppose you should lose it all--" They had passed the statue by this time, and Grace and Tom heard no more of their conversation. There was a brief silence between them, then Grace spoke. "Tom, what do you suppose that means?" "I don't know, Grace," was the answer. "It didn't sound very promising." "I should say not," said Grace decidedly. "I feel sure that Henry Hammond is a thoroughly unscrupulous person, and I shall not rest until I find out what the conversation we overheard leads to." "I believe you are right," said Tom, "and I'm only sorry I can't be here to help ferret the thing out." "I'll write and keep you posted as to my progress," promised Grace, as she said good-bye to Tom at the Harlowe's door, a little later. "Good-bye, Tom. Best wishes to Arnold. I'm sorry I didn't see him again." "Good-night, Grace, and good-bye," said Tom, and with a hearty handshake they parted. As Grace prepared for bed that night she turned Marian's words over and over in her mind, but could arrive at no logical conclusion, and finally dropped to sleep with the riddle still unsolved. CHAPTER XIV GRACE AND ANNE PLAN A STUDY CAMPAIGN With the delights of the past holiday season still fresh in their memories, the pupils of Oakdale High School went back to their studies on the fourth of January, and in the course of a few days everything was again in smooth running order. Semi-annual examinations were but three weeks away, and that meant a general brushing up in studies on the part of every pupil. The senior class had, perhaps, less to do in the way of study than the three lower classes. A few of the seniors already had enough credits to insure graduation, although the majority expected the results of the January examinations to place them securely among the number to be graduated. The members of the Phi Sigma Tau, with the exception of Anne, were among the latter, and had settled down to a three weeks' grind, from which no form of pleasure could beguile them. As for Anne, she had carried five studies the entire time she had been in High School and had never failed in even one examination. She might have graduated a year earlier had she been so disposed. Away down in her heart Anne cherished a faint hope that the way for a college career would yet be opened to her. She had made up her mind to try for a scholarship, and she prayed earnestly that before the close of her senior year she might hit upon some plan that would furnish the money for her support during her freshman year in college. Grace was optimistic in regard to Anne's college career. "You'll have some opportunity to earn money before the year is out, just see if you don't," she said to Anne one day at recess, when the latter had developed an unusual case of the blues. "If you just keep wishing hard enough for a thing you are pretty sure to get it. That is, if it's something that's good for you to have." "I've been wishing for the same thing ever since I came to Oakdale, and I haven't got it yet," replied Anne rather mournfully. "I've been unusually short of money this year, too, because Mrs. Gray has been away, and the money I received from her work was a great help." "Poor little Anne," said Grace sympathetically. "I wish you didn't have to worry over money. However, Mrs. Gray will be home in February, and you'll have her work until June." "But even so, I can't have the use of it myself," was Anne's response. "I shall have to use it at home. We need every cent of it." "Oh, dear," sighed Grace. "Why doesn't some one appear all of a sudden and offer you a fine position at about fifty dollars a week." "Yes," said Anne, laughing in spite of her blues. "That is what really ought to happen, only the day for miracles is past." "At any rate, I have always felt that you and I were going to college together, and I believe we shall," predicted Grace. "I hope so, but I doubt it," replied Anne wistfully. "By the way, Grace, do you recite in any of Marian Barber's classes?" "No," said Grace, "not this term. Why?" "She is in my section in astronomy," answered Anne, "and lately she fails every day in recitation. You know it's a one-term study, and she will have to try an exam in it before long. I don't believe she'll pass, and she told Nora at the beginning of the year that if she failed in one study this year she wouldn't have enough credits to get through and graduate." "Oh, she'll pull through, I think," said Grace. "She is really brilliant in mathematics, and always has kept up in other things." "I know," persisted Anne, "but she has finished her mathematics' group, and her studies this year are things she doesn't care for, and consequently left them until the last. We wouldn't want a Phi Sigma Tau to fail, you know." "I should say not," was Grace's emphatic response. "What shall we do about it?" Anne pondered for a little. "We might take turns coaching her. We have all passed in astronomy. I don't know how she is in her other studies," she said. "Do you suppose she'd be angry if we proposed it to her?" "I don't know," said Grace doubtfully. "She hasn't been to the last two Phi Sigma Tau meetings, and she is awfully cool to me. That's because I don't approve of Henry Hammond. To tell you the truth, I believe he absorbs her attention so completely that she doesn't have time for her studies." "It's a pity her mother is away just at the time when Marian needs her most," Anne remarked. "Yes," said Grace. "You know I asked her to come and stay with me, when we came back from the judge's, but she refused rather sharply, and practically told me that she was able to take care of herself." Just then the gong sounded, and the girls had no further opportunity to discuss the subject until school closed for the day, then while waiting in the locker-room for Nora and Jessica, the talk was again renewed, and after swearing Anne to secrecy, Grace imparted to her the conversation between Marian and Henry Hammond that she and Tom had overheard on New Year's Night. "I was so uneasy about it that I went all around town the next day to see what I could find out about him. I didn't get much satisfaction, however. He claims to be a real estate agent, and Mr. Furlow in the First National Bank says that he has interested a number of Oakdale citizens in land in the west. He is well liked, and it's surprising the way the business men have taken him up," concluded Grace. "Perhaps what you heard him say to Marian was nothing of importance after all," said Anne. But Grace shook her head obstinately. "No, Anne," she answered, "my intuitions never fail me. Henry Hammond is a rascal, and some day I shall prove it. As for Marian we'd better have a meeting of the Phi Sigma Tau to-morrow night and especially request her to be present. Then we'll all turn in and offer to help her get ready for the exams. Here come the girls now." Nora, Jessica, Miriam and Eva Allen entered the senior locker-room together. "Where's Marian?" asked Grace. "You'd never guess if we told you," exclaimed Nora. "I never was more surprised in my life." "Why? What's the matter?" asked Anne and Grace together. "Who is the last person you'd expect to see her with?" asked Jessica. "I don't know," said Grace. "Edna Wright?" "Worse," was Nora's answer. "She's up in the study hall with Eleanor Savelli." "Eleanor Savelli?" echoed Grace. "Why she is Marian's pet aversion." "Past history," said Miriam Nesbit. "They appear to be thicker than thieves." "I don't at all understand what ails her, but listen, girls, while I tell you my idea," and Grace rapidly narrated her plan of action. "I foresee trouble, but I'll be on hand," said Miriam. "We'll all be there!" was the chorus. "Remember, Eva," were Grace's parting words, "I rely on you to coax Marian over to your house, then we'll surround her and make her accept our services." "All right," responded Eva. "I'll do my best. Be careful what you say about Henry Hammond, or your mission may be in vain." CHAPTER XV THE PHI SIGMA TAUS MEET WITH A LOSS After considerable coaxing, Eva finally wrung from Marian a promise to visit her that evening. She arrived about eight o'clock, and Eva tactfully producing a box of nut chocolates, a confection of which Marian was very fond, the two girls seated themselves in the Allen's cozy sitting room, with the box on a taboret between them. Marian became more like her old self again, and the two girls were laughing merrily over the antics of Eva's Angora kitten when the doorbell rang, and Eva, looking rather conscious, went to the door. At the sound of girlish voices, Marian rose, a look of intense annoyance on her face, which deepened as the Phi Sigma Tau trooped into the room, and laughingly surrounded her. "How are you, Marian?" they cried. "You wouldn't come to us, so we planned a little surprise." "So I see," replied Marian stiffly. "I am sorry, but I really must go, Eva. You should have told me that the girls were coming." "Why, Marian Barber, what are you talking about?" asked Nora O'Malley in pretended surprise. "Why should you run away from the members of your own sorority?" Marian did not answer, but half tried to free herself from the detaining hands of her friends. For a moment her expression softened, then she tossed her head and said, "Let me go, please." "Marian," said Grace bluntly, "you have been acting very strangely toward us since we came back from the house party, and we don't understand it. You have stayed away from two sorority meetings and have deliberately avoided all of us, with the exception of Eva. We feel badly over it, because we have always liked you, and because you are a Phi Sigma Tau." "Yes, Marian," interrupted Jessica, "have you forgotten the solemn initiation rites that were conducted at my house last year?" "No," Marian admitted, smiling a little. "Then listen, while Anne, who speaks more impressive English than the rest of us, tells you why we have thus entrapped you and used Eva for a bait. Speechify, Anne, and we will put in the applause at the proper intervals." "Marian," began Anne, "Grace has already told you how kindly our feeling is for you, and the reason that we tried to see you to-night is because of something that I spoke of to Grace yesterday. I had noticed that you were having trouble in your astronomy recitations, and, of course, we all know that you must pass in all your subjects, both now and in June, in order to graduate; so I suggested that as the other girls have all passed in astronomy, we might take turns in coaching you. An hour or so of review every night from now until the exams, would put you in good condition." "Yes, Marian," interrupted Nora. "Anne and Jessica did that for me last year in ancient history, and I never should have passed if they hadn't helped me." Marian stood silently looking from one girl to the other, then she said with a mixture of hurt pride, anger and obstinacy in her voice: "I don't need your help. In fact, I think the less we see of each other in future the better it will be for us all. The past three months have caused me to have an entirely different opinion than I used to have of you girls. You are all very nice as long as things go your way, but if one happens to make a friend or hold an opinion contrary to your views, then the Phi Sigma Taus feel bound to step in and interfere. "Here is my sorority pin, and I sincerely hope you will elect another girl to my place. She is welcome to both the pin and your friendship. I am thankful that this is my last year in High School." "You are a foolish girl, Marian Barber," cried Nora, "and you'll wake up some morning and find yourself awfully sorry for what you've just said. You are the last person I should have suspected of being so ridiculous. Why we've all played together since we were kiddies." Marian tried to look dignified and unrelenting, but for an instant her lip quivered suspiciously. Anne seeing that Marian showed signs of wavering, crossed over to her side, and slipping her arm around the obstinate girl, said gently: "Better think it over before you do any thing rash, dear. We are not trying in the least to interfere in your affairs. You know the primary object of the Phi Sigma Tau is to help one another. We thought that you would be glad to have us coach you in astronomy. You know how thankful Grace was for your help in trigonometry last year." Marian hesitated as though at loss for an answer to this direct appeal to her common sense. The girls watched her anxiously, hoping that Anne's words had bridged the difficulty. "Come on, Marian," said Nora O'Malley briskly. "Here's your sorority pin. Put it on and forget that you ever took it off. You are too sensible to nurse an imaginary grievance. Don't behave as Eleanor Savelli did. You know--" But Nora was not allowed to finish the sentence, for Marian whirled upon her with flashing eyes, her temporary softness disappearing entirely. "I don't wish to hear one word against Eleanor Savelli," she cried wrathfully. "She is my friend, and I shall stand up for her." "Your friend?" was the united exclamation. "Yes, my friend," reiterated Marian stormily, "and she is a true friend, too. Last year she was initiated into your sorority, and then deliberately slighted and left out of all your plans until in justice to herself she resigned. "This year you are behaving in the same way with me. You began it by criticizing my friend, Henry Hammond, and invited him to the judge's house party for the express purpose of humiliating and insulting him. The boys of your crowd gave him the cold shoulder when he tried to be friendly and Grace was insufferably rude to him on two different occasions. "Then you criticized my gowns and made fun of me behind my back, when in reality I was the only one of you who was properly dressed. You left Mr. Hammond and I both out of the pantomime, and made us last in everything. "I tried to forgive and forget it all, and be just the same to you, but the first thing that Nora did when we reached Oakdale was to invite part of the crowd to her house and leave the rest of us out, and I am surprised that neither Miriam nor Eva resented the slight." Here Grace and Miriam could not refrain from exchanging amused glances, but to Marian, who intercepted their glances, this was the last straw. Dashing the sorority pin which Nora had previously shoved into her hand to the floor, with a sob of mingled anger and chagrin she exclaimed: "How dare you ridicule me to my very face! I never want to speak to any of you again, and I shall not stay here to be laughed at." With these words she fairly ran out of the room, and before any one could expostulate with her, she had for the second time in three months rushed out of the house and away from her real friends. "She is hopeless," sighed Grace, as they heard the outer door of the hall close noisily. "Can you blame her?" said Anne earnestly. "She has been influenced all along by that Henry Hammond, and now she has fallen into Eleanor's hands. We know Eleanor's state of mind toward us, but why Henry Hammond should encourage Marian to break with her sorority is harder to understand. Yet he has undoubtedly used his influence against us for some purpose of his own. Marian's accusations are foolish and unjust. You all know that she was so engrossed with that miserable old trouble maker that she repeatedly refused to take part in the different things we planned." "Of course, we know that," agreed Grace. "I don't even feel hurt at her outburst to-night. I wouldn't think of accepting her resignation from the Phi Sigma Tau, either. We won't try to make up with her, but we'll all keep a starboard eye upon her, and see that she doesn't come to grief." "I had almost reduced her to reason," remarked Anne, with a rueful smile, "when Nora unfortunately mentioned Eleanor." "Wasn't I an idiot, though?" asked Nora. "I forgot for the moment about having seen them together." "I am going to turn detective," announced Grace. "Are you going to detect or deduct?" asked Nora solemnly. "Both," replied Grace confidently. "I am going to become a combination of Nick Carter and Sherlock Holmes, and my first efforts will be directed toward finding out who and what Mr. Henry Hammond really is." CHAPTER XVI THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS Grace lost no time in putting her resolution into practice, and left no stone unturned regarding the object of her distrust. But her efforts met with no better success than the first time she had instituted inquiry. "Why are you so bitter against that young man, daughter?" asked her father rather curiously when she interviewed him as to the best means of finding out something of Henry Hammond's past. "He seems to be a good straight-forward young fellow." "He's a villain, I know he is," asserted Grace, "but he's too sharp for me." "Nonsense," laughed her father. "Having no basketball this winter you are bound to devote that surplus energy of yours to something. Are you making Hammond your victim?" "You may tease me if you like," replied Grace with dignity, "but some day you'll acknowledge that I was right." "All right, girlie," smiled her father. "Shall I say so, now?" "You're a dear," laughed Grace, rubbing her soft cheek against his. "Only you will tease." Since the evening that Marian Barber had repudiated her sorority, none of the members had spoken to her. She had studiously avoided going within speaking distance of them and had divided her time after school equally between Eleanor Savelli and Henry Hammond. Eleanor had kept her word in reference to Edna Wright, and the two girls exchanged only the barest civilities whenever they chanced to meet. Eleanor had, however, gained considerable popularity with a number of the senior class, and wielded a tremendous influence over them. She had dropped her annoying tactics toward the teachers, and her conduct during the year had been irreproachable. Anne Pierson's assertion that Eleanor would be better off away from Edna had proved true, and unconsciously the spoiled, temperamental girl was receiving great benefit from her High School associations. She stood next to Anne Pierson in her classes, and her aptitude for study and brilliant recitations evoked the admiration of the entire class. But despite these changes for the better, Eleanor still nursed her grudge against the Phi Sigma Tau, and held to her unrelenting resolve to be revenged upon them, individually or collectively, whenever the opportunity should arise. In cautioning her friends the previous year against placing themselves in a position liable to put them at a disadvantage with Eleanor, Grace had unwittingly divined the former's intentions. Now that Marian had strayed away from the Phi Sigma Tau and straight to their common enemy, Grace felt uneasy as to the result. "I don't know what to think about Marian's sudden intimacy with Eleanor," she confided to Anne, one day at the beginning of the new term. "So far nothing startling has happened," replied Anne. "Really, Eleanor happened along at a good time for Marian." "Why did she?" asked Grace quickly. "Because I understand that she coached Marian in astronomy and just simply made her cut out Henry Hammond for her books. It's due to Eleanor that she passed," answered Anne. "I hadn't heard that," said Grace. "Isn't Eleanor a wonder in her studies? It's a pleasure to hear her recite." "I do admire her ability," agreed Anne. "Perhaps she will see through Henry Hammond and persuade Marian to drop him." "I don't know about that," said Grace dubiously. "I saw him with Eleanor in the run-about the other day. He was at the wheel, and they seemed to be having a very interesting session without Marian." "He never did give me the impression of being a very constant swain," laughed Anne. "I'm so glad that mid-year exams are over," sighed Grace. "I'm a sure enough graduate now, unless something serious happens." "So am I," replied Anne. "If I could get clerical work to do this term I'd recite in the morning only and give my afternoons to earning a little money. It seems as though everything is against me. Did you know that Mrs. Gray has postponed coming home until March?" "Yes," answered Grace. She understood Anne's growing despair as time went on, and the prospect of earning enough money to defray her college expenses grew less. "I'm afraid I'll have to give it all up for next year at least, Grace," Anne's voice trembled a little. "But perhaps I can enter the year after. I can't give up the idea of being in the same college with you." "Don't give up yet, dear," Grace pressed Anne's hand. "Maybe the unexpected will happen." The girls separated at the corner and went their separate ways, Anne with the conviction that there was no use in wishing for the impossible and Grace deploring the fact that Anne was too proud to accept any help from her friends. As Grace was about to curl herself up in a big chair before the fire that night with "Richard Carvel" in one hand and a box of peanut brittle in the other, she was startled by a loud ringing of the bell. Going to the door she beheld Anne who was fairly wriggling with excitement. Her cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes were like stars. "Oh, Grace," she cried. "The unexpected has happened!" "What are you talking about, Anne?" exclaimed Grace laughing. "Stop dancing up and down out there. Come in and explain yourself. That is if you can stand still long enough to do it." "I have had the surprise of my life to-night, Grace," said Anne, as she entered the hall, while Grace unfastened her fur collar and pulled the pins from her hat. "I just couldn't wait until to-morrow to tell you about it. It's so wonderful I can't believe that it has happened to insignificant me." "I know just as much now as I did at first, and perhaps a trifle less," said Grace. Then taking Anne by the shoulders she marched her into the sitting room, shoved her into the easy-chair opposite her own and said, "Now, begin at the beginning, and don't leave out any details." "Well," said Anne, drawing a long breath, "when I reached home after leaving you, I found a letter for me postmarked New York City. For an instant I thought it was from my father, but the hand writing was not his. I opened it, and who do you suppose it was from?" "I don't know, and I'm a poor guesser, so tell me," responded Grace. "It was from Mr. Everett Southard." "No! Really?" cried Grace. "How nice of him to write to you." "But I haven't told you the nicest part," continued Anne. "He wants me to go to New York to play a six-weeks' engagement in his company." "Anne Pierson, you don't mean it," ejaculated Grace in intense astonishment. "Grace Harlowe, I do mean it," retorted Anne. "Why it's the very opportunity that I've been yearning for, but never expected to get. Let me read you his letter." Unfolding the letter that she had been holding in one hand, Anne read: "MY DEAR MISS PIERSON: "Remembering your exceptionally fine work as 'Rosalind' in the production of 'As You Like It,' given at your High School last year, I now write to offer you the same part in a six weeks' revival of the same play about to be presented in New York. Your acceptance will be a source of gratification to me, as it is very hard to engage actors who are particularly adapted to Shakespearian roles. The salary will be one hundred dollars per week with all traveling expenses paid. "My sister extends a cordial invitation to you to make our home yours during your stay in New York, and will write you at once. I have already written Miss Tebbs regarding my offer. Hoping to receive an affirmative answer by return mail, with best wishes, I remain "Yours sincerely, "EVERETT SOUTHARD." "Well, I should say the unexpected had happened," said Grace, as Anne finished reading. "One hundred dollars a week for six weeks! Why, Anne, think of it! You will have six hundred dollars for six weeks' work. I had no idea they paid such salaries." "They pay more than that in companies like Mr. Southard's," replied Anne. "If I had acquired fame I could command twice that sum. I can't imagine why he ever chose me. Suppose I should fail entirely." "Nonsense," retorted Grace. "You couldn't fail if you tried. The only thing that I am afraid of is that you'll be so carried away with the stage that you'll forget to come back to us again." "Don't say that, Grace," said Anne quickly. "I never shall. I am wild to play this engagement, because it means that I am sure of at least two years in college, and I think if I can get tutoring to do, I can pull through the whole four. Aside from that, the stage is the last career in the world that I should choose. You know my views on that subject." "I was only jesting, dear," Grace assured her, seeing the look of anxiety that crept into Anne's eyes. "I know you'll come back. We couldn't graduate without you. When shall you write to Mr. Southard?" "I have already written," replied Anne gravely. "I knew that nothing could induce me to refuse, so I settled the matter at once." "Confess, you bad child," said Grace, rising and putting one finger under Anne's chin. "Look me straight in the face and tell the truth. You thought I'd be shocked." Anne colored, laughed a little and then said frankly, "Yes, I was afraid you wouldn't look at the matter in the same light. Now, I must go, because it is after nine and sister worries if I stay out late." "Wait, I'll go to the corner with you," said Grace. Slipping into her coat, and throwing a silk scarf over her head. Grace accompanied Anne into the street. "Come as far as the next corner," begged Anne, and the two girls walked slowly on. "Now I must go back," said Grace, as they neared the corner. Just then Anne exclaimed very softly, "Look, Grace, isn't that Marian and her cavalier?" "Where!" asked Grace, turning quickly. "Across the street, coming in this direction. I do believe Marian is crying, too. They are crossing now, and will pass us. I don't think they've seen us yet." Completely absorbed in their own affairs the approaching couple had not noticed either Grace or Anne. "How could I have been so foolish!" the two girls heard Marian say tearfully. "Don't be an idiot," her companion answered in rough tones. "You may win yet. I had inside information that it was safe to put the money on it. You act like a baby." Then he muttered something that was inaudible to the listeners. "You are very unkind, Henry," wailed Marian. But in the next instant Henry Hammond had seen the two girls. With a savage "cut it out, can't you! Don't let every one know your business," his scowling expression changed to the polite smiling mask that he habitually wore. But Grace, who in spite of her former disagreement with him, had for Marian's sake favored him with a cool bow when he happened to cross her path even after Marian had stopped speaking, was up in arms at his display of rudeness to the girl who had cut herself off from her dearest friends to please him. Marian averted her face as they passed opposite the chums, but her companion, who was preparing to bow, became suddenly disconcerted by the steady, scornful gaze of two pairs of eyes, that looked their full measure of contempt, and hastily turning his attention to Marian passed by without speaking. "Contemptible coward!" raged Grace. "Did you hear what he said, Anne?" "I should have cut his acquaintance on the spot." "There is something queer about all this," mused Grace. "This is the second conversation of the sort that has taken place between those two that I have overheard. I wonder if he has persuaded Marian to put money into his real estate schemes, for I believe they are nothing but schemes." "But Marian has no money of her own," protested Anne. "Don't you remember how delighted she was when she deposited the judge's check and received her first check book?" "I wonder--" Grace paused. A sudden suspicion entered her mind, that she instantly dismissed. "You don't believe--" began Anne, but Grace stopped her. "No, dear," she answered firmly. "We mustn't ever allow ourselves to entertain such a thought. Marian may have foolishly risked money of her own that we know nothing of, but as for anything else--Marian is still a member of our sorority and the honor of the Phi Sigma Tau is above reproach." CHAPTER XVII ANNE BECOMES FAMOUS That Anne Pierson was to play a six weeks' engagement in New York under the management of the great Southard was a nine days' matter of wonder in Oakdale. In spite of the fact that Anne tried to keep the news within her immediate circle of friends, it spread like wildfire. "You'll just have to let me tell it, Anne," laughed Nora O'Malley. "I can't keep it to myself." Rather to Anne's surprise, there was little disapproval expressed in regard to her coming engagement. Those who had seen her enact "Rosalind" in the High School production of "As You Like It," fully described in "Grace Harlowe's Junior Year at High School," had been then convinced that her ability was little short of genius. But the interest of the thing deepened when the story crept about that this engagement meant a college career for her, and Anne became the idol of the hour. "The whole town has gone mad over Anne," replied Jessica. "I expect to see a howling populace at the station when she leaves for New York to-morrow." The three chums were seated upon the single bed in Anne's little room at the Pierson cottage, while Anne sat on the floor before an open trunk, busily engaged in packing. "What shall we do without you!" lamented Grace. "Positively I have sorrowfully accompanied departing friends to the station so many times since school began that it's becoming second nature to me." "Good-bye, forever; good-bye, forever," hummed Nora. "Stop it instantly, Nora," commanded Grace. "Don't harrow my feelings until the time comes." "Anne, you must write to us often," stipulated Jessica. "Of course I shall," replied Anne. "Remember you are all coming down to see me, the very first Saturday that you can. I do hope the boys can make arrangements to be there at the same time." "How lovely it was of Mrs. Gibson to suggest a theatre party and offer to chaperon us," said Nora. "Everyone has been too sweet for anything," replied Anne, looking up from her task with a fond smile at the three eager faces of her friends. "You didn't have the least bit of trouble about getting away from school, did you?" asked Jessica. "No," replied Anne. "You see, I have enough counts to graduate now. I'm not depending on any of my June exams. I can easily make up the time when I come back." "I imagine Marian Barber wishes that she hadn't been quite so hasty," said Nora. "She is going to miss an awfully nice trip." "Perhaps we ought to send her an invitation," suggested Jessica. "No, Jessica," said Grace gravely. "Marian must be the one to make advances. If she comes back to us, it must be of her own free will. We have done our part." "Can we do anything to help you, Anne?" asked Grace. "Yes," replied Anne, looking ruefully at the overflowing trunk. "You can all come over and sit upon this trunk. I never shall get the lid down any other way." This having been successfully accomplished, the three girls took leave of Anne, who promised to be on hand for a final session that night at Grace's. Before eight o'clock the next morning Anne departed for New York, laden with flowers, magazines and candy, bestowed upon her by the Phi Sigma Tau, who had risen before daybreak in order to be in time to see her off. She had purposely chosen an early train, as she wished to arrive in New York before the darkness of the winter evening closed in. Mr. Southard and his sister were to meet her at the Jersey station, but careful little soul that she was, Anne decided that in case anything unforeseen arose to prevent their coming, she would have less difficulty in finding her way about in daylight. "Take good care of yourself, Anne," commanded Nora, patting Anne on the shoulder. "You do the same," replied Anne. "Don't forget that theatre party, either." "We'll be there," Grace assured her, as she followed Anne up the aisle with her suit case. "By the way, Anne, here's my sweater. I thought you might need it during rehearsals. The stage is likely to be draughty." "Grace Harlowe, you are too good to me," murmured Anne, as she reluctantly took the package that Grace thrust into her unwilling hands. "All aboard," shouted the brakeman, and with a hasty kiss Grace hurried down the steps to join her friends, who stood on the station platform waving their farewells to the brown-eyed girl who was to separate from them for the first time since the beginning of their High School career. The days slipped quickly away, and the girl chums heard frequently from Anne, who had arrived at her destination in safety, was met by the Southards and carried off to their comfortable home. She was enjoying every minute of her stay, she wrote them, and every one was very kind to her. Miss Southard was a dear, and she was looking forward to the visit of the Phi Sigma Tau with almost as much enthusiasm as Anne herself. The boys had been duly informed of Anne's good fortune, and the Saturday of the third week of Anne's engagement had been the date fixed upon for the theatre party. Tom Gray would bring Arnold Evans. Hippy, David and Reddy would join them in New York. Then the five boys would repair to the hotel where the girls were to stop, accompanied by Mrs. Gibson and James Gardiner, who was again invited to make the number even. Intense excitement prevailed in school when it was learned that the Phi Sigma Tau were to go to New York to see Anne as "Rosalind," and the five girls were carried upon the top wave of popularity. Marian and Eleanor alone remained aloof, evincing no outward interest in the news, although both thought rather enviously of the good time in New York that awaited the girls they had repudiated. The eventful Saturday came at last, and the five girls, chaperoned by Mrs. Gibson, with James Gardiner for a bodyguard, boarded the same express that had carried Anne off and were whirled away to the metropolis. As soon as they arrived in New York they were conveyed by taxicabs to their hotel and on entering the reception room were hailed with delight by the boys, who had arrived only half an hour before. While they were busily engaged in exchanging news, Anne hurried in from a rehearsal, was seized by Grace, then passed from one to the other until, freeing herself, she said, laughing: "Do let me stand still for a second. I haven't had a really good look at any of you yet." "What do you mean by becoming a Shakespearian star without consulting me first!" demanded David, with mock severity, although there was a rather wistful look in his eyes as they looked into Anne's. David preferred to keep Anne the little High School girl he had known for the past three years. Theatrical stars were somewhat out of his firmament. "Don't worry," Anne assured him. "It's only for three more weeks. I'll be back in Oakdale in plenty of time to finish up my senior year with the girls." "Anne, you haven't any idea of how much we have missed you," cried Nora. "We can't get used to being without you." "I've missed you, too," responded Anne who stood with Grace's arm around her, smiling lovingly at her little circle of friends. "Of course I have had a good many rehearsals--one every day, and sometimes two--so the time has fairly raced by; but when the play is over and I am on the way home at night, then I think of all of you, and it seems as though I must take the next train back to Oakdale." "Do let me talk," interposed Hippy, who had hitherto been devoting his attention to Nora. "No one knows how I long to be back in Oakdale, fair village of my birth, home of the chafing dish and the cheerful chocolate cream. 'Tis there that the friends of my youth flourish, and the grass green banner of O'Malley waves. Take me back; oh, take me--" "You will be taken away back and set down with a jar in about two seconds if you are seized with another of those spells," promised Tom Gray, turning a withering glance upon Hippy. "What sort of jar," asked Hippy, with an interested grin. "A cooky jar or merely a glass candy jar? Be sure you make it a full one." "It will be a full one," replied Tom with emphasis, "and will last you for a long time." "I don't believe I'll take up with your proposition," said Hippy hastily. "There is something about the tone of your voice that makes my spinal column vibrate with nervous apprehension. I think I had better confine my conversation strictly to Nora. She is sympathetic and also skilled in argument." With this, he took Nora by the arm and would have marched her out of the group had she not protested so vigorously that he turned from her in disgust and began questioning James Gardiner as to how he managed to survive the journey and what methods he had used to insure good behavior on the part of his charges, much to the embarrassment of that youth, who was anything but a "ladies' man." "My dear young people," finally said Mrs. Gibson, laughingly, "this impromptu reception is liable to last all night unless it is checked by a stern hand. It is almost five o'clock, and we haven't even seen our rooms yet. Besides, Anne will have to leave before long for the theatre. Let us hurry with our dressing, order an early dinner and keep Anne here for it. Shall you be able to stay?" she asked, turning to Anne. "I think so," replied Anne. "I do not have to be in the theatre until after seven. But I am not dressed for dinner," she added, looking doubtfully at her street costume. "You see, I came straight from rehearsal." "Never mind, Anne," interposed Grace, "you are a star, and stars have the privilege of doing as they choose. At least that's what the Sunday papers say. Miriam and I are going to room together. Come up with us." Mrs. Gibson had engaged rooms ahead for her party, and the girls soon found themselves in very luxurious quarters, with a trim maid on hand to attend to their wants. The boys had engaged rooms on the floor above that occupied by Mrs. Gibson and the Phi Sigma Tau. James Gardiner heaved a sigh of relief as he deposited his suit case beside Tom's in the room to which they had been assigned. "Girls are an awful responsibility," he remarked gloomily, with a care-worn expression that made Tom shout with laughter. "I like them all right enough, but not in bunches." By making a special effort, the party was ready by six o'clock to descend to dinner, which was served to them in a private dining room, Mrs. Gibson having thoughtfully made this arrangement, in order to give the young folks as much time together as possible. They made a pretty picture as they sat at the round table, the delicate finery of the girls gaining in effect from the sombre evening coats of the boys. Mrs. Gibson, gowned in white silk with an overdress of black chiffon, sat at the head of the table and did the honors of the occasion. "I feel frightfully out of place in this company of chivalry and beauty," Anne remarked, looking fondly about her at the friends whose presence told more plainly than words could have done the place she occupied in their hearts. "Think how we shall fade into insignificance to-night when you hold forth with the great Southard," retorted Nora. "I shall consider myself honored by even a mere bow from you, after you have taken curtain calls before a New York audience." "When I was with Edwin Booth," began Hippy reminiscently, "he often said to me, 'Hippy, my boy, my acting is nothing compared to yours. You are--'" "A first cousin to Ananias and Sapphira," finished David derisively. "Never heard of them," replied Hippy unabashed. "Not branches of our family tree. As I was saying--" "Never mind what you were saying," said Nora in cutting tones. "Listen to me. It is seven o'clock. Anne must go, and in a taxicab, at that." "Where shall we see you after the performance, dear?" asked Grace. "Mr. Southard has obtained special permission for all of you to go behind the scenes after the play." "How lovely!" cried the girls. "My curiosity will at last be satisfied. I have always wanted to go behind the scenes of a New York theatre," remarked Mrs. Gibson. "I have the dearest dressing room," said Anne, with enthusiasm. "Mr. and Miss Southard are going to carry you off to their house after the performance to-night. I almost forgot to tell you. So don't make any other plans." "We are in the hands of our friends," said Hippy, with an exaggerated bow. "You'll be in the hands of the law if you don't mend your ways," prophesied Reddy. "If we get you safely into the theatre without official assistance it will surprise me very much." "Reddy, you amaze me," responded Hippy reproachfully. "I may make mistakes, but I am far from lawless. Neither do I flaunt the flame colored signal of anarchy every time I remove my hat." There was a burst of good-natured laughter at Reddy's expense. His red hair was as common a subject of joke as was Hippy's behavior. "That was a fair exchange of compliments," said Tom Gray. "Now forget it, both of you." "Good-bye, every one, until eleven o'clock," cried Anne, who, knowing that she would be obliged to hurry away, had brought her wraps to the dining room with her. David accompanied Anne to the entrance of the hotel, put her in a taxicab and walked into the hotel, hardly knowing whether he were glad or sorry that Anne had had greatness thrust upon her. CHAPTER XVIII THE THEATRE PARTY It was a very merry party that took possession of the box that Mr. Southard had placed at their disposal and waited with ill-concealed impatience for the rise of the curtain. Anne's friends had thought her the ideal "Rosalind" in the High School production of the piece, but her powers as an actress under the constant instruction of Everett Southard had increased tenfold. His own marvelous work was a source of inspiration to Anne, and from the instant that she set foot upon the stage until the final fall of the curtain she became and was "Rosalind." Thrilling with pride as she eagerly watched Anne's triumph, Grace was in a maze of delight, and every round of applause that Anne received was as music to her ears. David, too, was more deeply moved than he liked to admit even to himself. In his own heart he had a distinct fear that in spite of her assertions to the contrary, Anne might after all yield to the call of her talent and seek a stage career. During the evening he became so unusually grave and silent that Grace, having an inkling of what was passing in his mind, leaned over and said: "Don't worry, David, she won't. I am sure of it. Her mind is fixed upon college." David drew a long breath of almost relief. "I believe it if you say so, Grace; it has worried me a lot, however. She is such a wonderful little actress." "Nevertheless, take my word for it, she won't," was the assuring answer. After the play was over, the visit behind the scenes being next on the programme, Mrs. Gibson and her charges were conducted through a long passage to the back of the house. The boys were taken to Mr. Southard's dressing room, and Mrs. Gibson and the five girls to Anne's. There were many exclamations over the cosy dressing room which Anne occupied. As is the case in most of the recently built theatres, the star's dressing room had been comfortably furnished and was in direct comparison to the cheerless, barn-like rooms that make life on the road a terror to professional people. "You see, I have had you right with me," smiled Anne, who was seated at a dressing table taking off her make-up with cold cream. She pointed to a photograph that the Phi Sigma Tau had had taken the previous summer. "Only one face missing to-night," said Grace in low tones as she drew her chair close to Anne's. "Have you found out anything else?" asked Anne in the same guarded tones. "Nothing very important," replied Grace. "Marian and Henry Hammond have had some sort of quarrel. Nora saw them pass the other day without speaking." "That's a step in the right direction", said Anne. "Once she has dropped him for good and all, she'll begin to see her own folly. Then she'll come back and be her old self again." "I hope so," sighed Grace. Then the conversation became general and the two girls had no further opportunity for discussion of the subject. Just as Anne had completed her dressing, a knock sounded on the door, and Mr. Southard's deep voice called out: "All aboard for the actors' retreat." "Come in, Mr. Southard," said Anne, and the door opened to admit the eminent actor, who looked bigger and handsomer than ever in his long coat and soft black hat. Then Anne presented him to Mrs. Gibson, and a general handshaking ensued. For the third time that night they were handed into the "uncomplaining but over-worked taxicab," according to Nora's version, and set out for the Southard home. The entire party promptly fell in love with Miss Southard, who was the counterpart of her brother, except that she was considerably older, and she apparently returned their liking from the moment of meeting. "I know every one of you," she said. "Anne talks of no one else to me. Your fame has already preceded you." The Southards proved to be hospitable entertainers, and exerted every effort in behalf of their young guests. The time slipped by on wings, and it was well after one o'clock before any one thought of returning to the hotel. "I am not a very reliable chaperon," laughed Mrs. Gibson, "to allow my charges to keep such late hours as this." "It's only once in a life time," remarked Nora. "How very cruel," said Mr. Southard solemnly. "I had hoped that you would all honor us again with your society." "I didn't mean that," she cried, laughing a little. "I only meant that this was a red-letter night for us. We are basking in the light of greatness." "Very pretty, indeed," was the actor's reply, and he gave Nora one of his rare, beautiful smiles that caused her to afterwards aver that he was truly the handsomest man in the whole world. With many expressions of pleasure for the delightful hours they had passed, the revelers bade the Southards good night and good-bye. "I am going to give a special party to the Phi Sigma Tau and these young men, when my season closes," announced the actor as they stood in the wide hall for a moment before leaving. "I trust that you may be able to again assume the role of chaperon," he added to Mrs. Gibson. "I shall need no second invitation," replied Mrs. Gibson. "But may I not hope to see your sister and yourself at Hawks' Nest, in the near future?" "You are indeed kind," responded Mr. Southard. "It would be a distinct pleasure and perhaps I may be able to arrange it. My season is to be a short one." "Get your things and come with us, Anne," teased Grace. "We've loads of things to talk of, and you can breakfast with us, and go to the train, too. Please don't say no, because you won't see us again for three whole weeks." "I give you my official permission to carry her off, this one time, Grace," laughed Mr. Southard. "Better wear your long coat, dear. It is very cold," called Miss Southard as Anne ran upstairs after her wraps. Then the final good-byes were said and the party were driven back to their hotel. Mrs. Gibson invited Miriam to share her apartment, thus Grace and Anne were left to themselves, and indulged in one of their old heart-to-heart talks. Breakfast the next morning was a late affair. After breakfast, the entire party went for a drive, and after a one-o'clock luncheon repaired to the station. Mrs. Gibson, James Gardiner and the Phi Sigma Tau were to take the 2.30 train for Oakdale. The boys would leave at five o'clock. Tom and Arnold were to travel part of the journey with David, Hippy and Reddy. Then their ways diverged. The girls kissed and embraced Anne tenderly, then there was a rush for the ferry. They stood on the deck waving to her until they could scarcely see the flutter of her handkerchief. After agreeing to meet the boys at the ferry, David escorted Anne back to the Southard's and spent a brief half hour with her. "Promise me, Anne," said David earnestly, as he was leaving, "that you won't accept any engagement that you may receive an offer of." "Of course not, you foolish David," replied Anne. "Notwithstanding the fact that you won't believe me, I solemnly promise to run from prospective managers, as I would from small-pox, and there's my hand upon it." "I am satisfied," answered David, grasping her out-stretched hand. "I know you will keep your word." CHAPTER XIX GRACE MEETS WITH A REBUFF During the journey to Oakdale, Anne and the Southards formed the chief topic of conversation. It was jointly agreed that Anne had been fortunate indeed in winning the friendship of the great actor and his charming sister. "They treat her as though she were their own sister," remarked Eva Allen. "They will miss her sadly when she leaves them." "Every one misses Anne," said Miriam Nesbit. "She is so sweet and lovable that she simply draws one's affection to her. I am frightfully jealous of Grace." "Yes, Grace is Anne's favorite," said Jessica. "Anne would give her life for Grace if it were necessary." "And Mabel Allison feels the same way toward you, Jessica," interposed Grace. "How I wish Mabel had been with us," sighed Jessica. "I received a letter from Mrs. Allison, just before leaving Oakdale," said Mrs. Gibson. "She expects to come east in June. Mabel has set her heart upon being here for commencement week. I shall invite the Southards, too, and perhaps your people will lend you to me for the week following graduation." "We should love to go," said Grace, and her friends echoed her answer. Before their journey ended night closed in around them. They had dinner in the dining car, and after dinner the girls began to feel a trifle tired and sleepy. James Gardiner had discovered a boy friend on the train and had been graciously granted permission by the Phi Sigma Tau to go over and cultivate his society. "You have been an angel, James," said Nora, "and have proved yourself worthy of a little recreation. Don't forget to be on hand when the train stops, however. I never saw your equal as a luggage carrier." One by one the five girls leaned against the comfortable backs of their seats and closed their eyes. Mrs. Gibson became absorbed in the pages of a new book. Grace dozed for a brief space and then opening her eyes gazed idly about her. The seat on which she sat had been reversed in order that she and Nora might face Mrs. Gibson and Miriam. Their seats being near to the middle of the car, she could obtain a good view of a number of the other passengers. She noticed that the car was very full, every seat being occupied. Her eye rested for a second upon a portly, well-dressed old gentleman in the last seat of the car, who was leaning back with closed eyes, then traveled on to the man who shared the seat. "What a remarkable face that man has," she thought. "He looks like a combination of a snake and a fox. I never before saw such tricky eyes. He is rather good looking, but there is something about him that frightens one." Grace found herself watching, with a kind of fascination, every move that the stranger made. Once her eyes met his and she shuddered slightly, there was a world of refined cruelty in their depths. She looked out of the window as the train rushed on through the darkness, then almost against her will turned her eyes again in the direction of the repellent stranger. But what she saw this time caused her to stare in amazement. The stranger under cover of a newspaper was bent on extracting the handsome watch and chain that the elderly gentleman's open coat displayed. Although the paper hid the movement of his hands, Grace divined by the expression of the man's face what was taking place behind the paper screen. Like a flash she was out of her seat and down the aisle. But quick as had been her movement, the thief was quicker. He straightened up, coolly turned to his paper, looking up at her with an air of bored inquiry as she paused before him. Ignoring him completely, she touched the old man on the shoulder and said in a low tone, "Please pardon me, but if you value your watch you had better look to it. I just saw this man attempting to steal it." The old gentleman bounded up like a rubber ball, saying excitedly, "What do you mean, young woman?" "Just what I say," replied Grace. The thief gave Grace a contemptuous look, then without stirring, said lazily, "The young lady is entirely mistaken. She must have been dreaming." "I repeat my accusation," said Grace firmly. "I have been watching you for some time, and I saw you attempt it." The old gentleman put his hand to his vest and drew out a particularly fine old-fashioned gold watch. "My watch is safe enough," he growled testily, "and so is my chain. Any one who steals from me will have to be pretty smart. I guess if this man had laid hands on my watch I'd have known it. Can't fool me." "Certainly not," responded the tricky stranger. "If I were a thief you would be the last person I should attempt to practice upon." "I should say so," grumbled the old gentleman. "Young woman, you have let your imagination run away with you. Be careful in the future or you may get yourself into serious trouble. This gentleman has taken your nonsense very good-naturedly." As the two men were occupying the seat nearest the door, save for the old gentleman's first bounce, the little scene had been so quietly enacted that the other passengers were paying little attention to the trio. "You had better go back to your friends," said the man whom Grace had accused, looking at her with cold hatred in his eyes. "That is, unless you wish to make yourself ridiculous." Grace turned away without speaking. There were tears of mortification in her eyes. She had attempted to render a service and had been rudely rebuffed. She slipped into her place beside Nora, who was dozing, and had not missed her. Mrs. Gibson, too, had not marked her absence. "Where were you, Grace?" said Miriam curiously. "I opened my eyes and you were gone. What's the matter? You look ready to cry." "I am," replied Grace. "I could cry with sheer vexation." Then she briefly recounted what had occurred. "What a crusty old man," sympathized Miriam. "It would serve him right if he did lose his old watch. Where are they sitting?" "Down the aisle on the other side at the end," directed Grace. Miriam turned around in her seat. "He looks capable of most anything," she remarked after a prolonged stare at the stranger, who was apparently absorbed in his paper. "Are you sure, however, that you were not mistaken, Grace? You can't always judge a man by his looks." "You can this man," asserted Grace. "He is a polite villain of the deepest dye, and I know it." It was after eleven o'clock when the train pulled into Oakdale. Mrs. Gibson's chauffeur awaited them with the big touring car, in which there was ample room for all of them. "Keep a sharp lookout for that man," whispered Grace to Miriam. "I want to see if Oakdale is his destination." The two girls lagged behind the others, eagerly scanning the platform. "I think he must have gone on," said Miriam. "I don't see him. Don't worry any more about him, Grace." Then she walked on ahead. But Grace lingered. "That looks like him now," she thought. "He is just leaving the train. He seems to be waiting for some one." She stood in the shadow of the station watching the man. Then she saw another man rapidly approaching. The newcomer walked straight up to the stranger and shook hands with him. Then the two men turned and she obtained a full-face view of them both. Grace gave a little gasp of surprise, for the newcomer who had shaken the hand of the crook was Henry Hammond. CHAPTER XX MARIAN'S CONFESSION Grace reached home that night with her head in a whirl. She could think of nothing save the fact that she had seen Henry Hammond warmly welcome a man whom she knew in her heart to be a professional crook. It formed the first link in the chain of evidence she hoped to forge against him. She had become so strongly imbued with the idea that Hammond was an impostor that the incident at the station only served to confirm her belief. The Phi Sigma Tau were besieged with questions the next day, and at recess the five members held forth separately to groups of eager and admiring girls on the glories of the visit. "Where is Marian Barber?" asked Grace of Ruth Deane, as they were leaving the senior locker-room at the close of the noon recess. "She hasn't been in school to-day," replied Ruth. "I suppose what happened Friday was too much for her." "What happened Friday?" repeated Grace. "Well, what did happen?" "Oh, Eleanor Savelli and Marian had a quarrel in the locker-room. I was the only one who heard it, and I shouldn't have stayed but I know Eleanor of old, and I made up my mind that I had better stay and see that Marian had fair play. But I might as well have stayed away, for I wasn't of any use to either side. In fact, I doubt if either one realized I was there, they were so absorbed in their own troubles." "It's a wonder that I wasn't around," remarked Grace. "I am really glad, however, that I wasn't. The Phi Sigma Tau were all in Miss Tebbs' classroom at recess last Friday. Miss Tebbs is a dear friend of the Southards, you know. She was invited to go with us, but had made a previous engagement that she could not break. We were talking things over with her. After school we all went straight home and I saw neither Eleanor nor Marian. Have you any idea what it was about?" "I don't know," returned Ruth bluntly. "Marian and Eleanor came into the locker-room together. I heard Marian say something about telling Eleanor what she had in confidence. Then Eleanor just laughed scornfully and told Marian that she had told her secrets to the wrong person. Marian grew very angry, and called Eleanor treacherous and revengeful, and Eleanor said that Marian's opinion was a matter of indifference to her. "Then she told Marian that she intended to call a class meeting for Thursday of this week and entertain them with the very interesting little story that Marian had told her the previous week. "Marian wilted at that and cried like a baby, but Eleanor kept on laughing at her, and said that she would know better another time, and perhaps would think twice before she spoke once. She said that no one could trample upon her with impunity." "Oh, pshaw," exclaimed Grace impatiently. "She always says that when she is angry. She said that last year." "Well, Marian cried some more," continued Ruth, "and Eleanor made a number of other spiteful remarks and walked out with a perfectly hateful look of triumph on her face." "And what about Marian?" asked Grace. "She didn't go back to the study hall. She told Miss Thompson that she was ill and went home." "Poor Marian," said Grace. "She certainly has been very foolish to leave her real friends and put her faith in people like Eleanor and that Henry Hammond. I have been afraid all along that she would be bitterly disillusioned. I think I'd better go to see her to-night." "Why, I thought she wasn't on speaking terms with the Phi Sigma Tau!" exclaimed Ruth. "Speaking terms or not, I'm going to find out what the trouble is and straighten it out if I can. Please don't tell that to any one, Ruth. I don't imagine it's anything serious. Eleanor always goes to extremes." "Trust me, Grace, not to say a word," was the response. "I wish Anne were here," mused Grace, as she took her seat and drew out her text-book on second year French. Then for the time being she dismissed Marian from her mind, and turned her attention to the lesson on hand. By the time school closed that afternoon Grace had made up her mind to go to see Marian before going home. Leaving Nora and Jessica at the usual corner, she walked on for a block, then turned into the street where the Barbers lived. Grace pulled the bell rather strenuously by way of expressing her feelings, and waited. "Is Marian in?" she inquired of Alice, the old servant. "Yes, Miss Grace," answered the woman, "She's in the sittin' room, walk right in there. It's a long time since I seen you here, Miss Grace." "Yes, it is, Alice," replied Grace with a smile, then walked on into the room. Over in one corner, huddled up on the wide leather couch, was Marian. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she looked ill and miserable. "Marian," began Grace, "Ruth Deane told me you were ill, and so I came to see you." "Go away," muttered Marian. "I don't wish to see you." "I am not so sure of that," answered Grace. "I understand you have been having some trouble with Eleanor, and that she has threatened revenge." "Who told you?" cried Marian, sitting up and looking angrily at Grace. "I can manage my own affairs, without any of your help." "Very well," replied Grace quietly. "Then I had better go. I thought when I came that I might be able to help you. You look both ill and unhappy. I see I have been mistaken." "You can't help me," replied Marian, her chin beginning to quiver. "Nobody can help me. I'm the most miserable girl--" her voice ended in a wail, and she rocked to and fro upon the couch, sobbing wildly. "Listen to me, Marian," commanded Grace firmly. "You must stop crying and tell me every single thing about this trouble of yours. I have crossed swords with Eleanor before this, and I think I can bring her to reason." "How can I tell you?" sobbed Marian. "Grace, I am a thief and may have to go to prison." "A thief!" echoed Grace. "Nonsense, Marian. I don't believe you would steal a penny." "But I am," persisted Marian tearfully. "I stole the class money, and it's all gone." She began to sob again. Grace let Marian finish her cry before interrogating her further. She wanted time to think. Her mind hastily reviewed the two conversations she had overheard between Marian and Henry Hammond. This, then, was the meaning of it all. The brief suspicion that had flashed into her mind and Anne's on the night that Marian and Henry Hammond had passed them, had been only too well founded. Marian had drawn the money from the bank and given it to him. "Marian," asked Grace, "did you give the money the judge sent us to Henry Hammond?" Marian nodded, too overcome as yet to speak. "Can't you tell me about it?" continued Grace patiently. Marian struggled for self-control, then began in a shaking voice. "I have been a perfect idiot over that miserable Henry Hammond, and I deserve everything. I was not satisfied with being a school-girl, but thought it very smart to put up my hair and make a general goose of myself. "It all began the night of the bazaar. I had no business to pay any attention to that man. He is really very clever, for before I realized what I had said I had told him all about our sorority and about being class treasurer, and a lot of things that were none of his business. "After the bazaar I saw him often and told him about the judge's check. "One day he asked me if I had any friends who had money that they would like to double. I had fifty dollars of my own that I had been saving for ever so long, and told him about it. He said that he manipulated stocks a little (whatever that is) in connection with his real estate business. He asked me to give him the money and let him prove to me how easily he could double it. I did, and he brought me back one hundred dollars. "Of course, I was delighted. Then mother sent me fifty dollars for Christmas, and I bought all those presents. It took every cent I had, and I was awfully silly, for no one cared as much for them as if they'd been pretty little gifts that I made myself. That was my first folly. "The next was those three gowns. They haven't been paid for yet. I haven't dared give father the bills, and I can never face mother. She would never have allowed me to order anything like them. Well, you know how badly I behaved at the house party, and how nice you all were to me, even when I was so hateful. "On New Year's Night, when we were coming from Nesbits, Henry Hammond asked me for the class money. He said he had a chance to treble it, and that it was too good an opportunity to be lost. "I refused point blank at first, and then he talked and talked in that smooth way of his until I began to think what a fine thing it would be to walk into the class and say, 'Girls, here are fifteen hundred dollars instead of five hundred.' I was feeling awfully cross at you girls just then, because he made me believe that you were slighting me and leaving me out of things. Besides, all of you had warned me against him, and I wanted to show you that I knew more than you did. "I didn't promise to give it to him that night, but the more I thought of it the more I inclined toward his views, and the upshot of the matter was that I drew it out of the bank and let him have it." Marian paused and looked piteously at Grace. Then she said brokenly: "He lost it, Grace, every cent of it. The week after I gave it to him he told me that luck had been against him, and that it was all gone. When I asked him what he intended to do about it he promised that he would sell some real estate of his and turn the money over to me to give back to the class. He said it was his fault for persuading me to do it, and that I shouldn't suffer for it. But he never kept his word. "Last week I asked him for the last time if he would refund the money, and he laughed at me and said that I had risked it and ought to accept my losses with good grace. I threatened to expose him, and he said if I did I should only succeed in making more trouble for myself than for him. He had only speculated with what I had given him. Where I obtained the money was none of his business, and as long as I had appropriated it I would have to abide by the consequences. "Of course, I was desperate and didn't know what to do. I had no money of my own, and I didn't dare ask my father for it. I had to tell some one, so I told Eleanor." "Eleanor!" exclaimed Grace aghast. "Oh, Marian, why did you tell her of all people." "I thought she was my friend," declared Marian, "but I soon found out that she wasn't. As soon as I had told her, she changed entirely. She told me last Friday that she had been watching for a long time in the hope of revenging herself upon the Phi Sigma Tau for their insults, and that at last she had the means to do so. "Her friendship for me was merely a pretense. She said that when I separated from my sorority she knew I was sure to do something foolish, so she decided to make advances to me and see what she could find out. "She is going to call a class meeting for next Thursday after school, and she is going to expose me. She says that it is right that the class should know just what sort of material the Phi Sigma Tau is made up of, and that one of its members is a sneak and a thief." "This is serious, and no mistake," replied Grace soberly. "Don't you remember, Marian, that back in our junior year, when Eleanor tried to get Anne's part in the play, I cautioned the girls to never put themselves in a position where Eleanor might injure them." "Yes, I remember, now," Marian faltered, "but it is too late." "I might try to checkmate her at her own game by threatening to tell the story of the missing costumes," reflected Grace aloud. "I'll try it at any rate. But even if we do succeed in silencing Eleanor, where are we to get the money to pay back the class fund? We can't arrest that miserable Henry Hammond without making the affair public, and this simply must remain a private matter. It is the hardest problem that I have ever been called upon to contend with. "You must brace up, Marian, and go back to school to-morrow," directed Grace. "If you keep on this way it will serve to create suspicion. You have done a very foolish and really criminal act, but your own remorse has punished you severely enough. None of us are infallible. The thing to do now, is to find a way to make up this money." Marian wiped her eyes, and, leaving the lounge, walked over to Grace, and, putting her arms about Grace's neck, said, with agonized earnestness: "Grace, can you and the girls ever forgive me for being so hateful?" "Why, of course, we can. There is nothing to forgive. We have never stopped thinking of you as a member of our sorority. We wouldn't ask any one else to take your place." An expression of intense relief shone in Marian's face. "I am so glad," she said. "I can't help being happy, even with this cloud hanging over me." "Cheer up, Marian," said Grace hopefully. "I have an idea that I shall straighten out this tangle yet. I must go now. Keep up your courage and whatever you do, don't tell any one else what you have told me. There are too many in the secret now." CHAPTER XXI WHAT HAPPENED AT THE HAUNTED HOUSE The moment that Grace left Marian, she set her active brain at work for some solution of the problem she had taken upon her own shoulders. She had no money, and the members of her sorority had none. Besides, Grace inwardly resolved not to tell the other girls were it possible to avoid doing so. Mrs. Gray would be home before long, and Grace knew that the gentle old lady would gladly advance the money rather than see Marian disgraced. But Eleanor had planned to denounce Marian on Thursday, and it was now Monday. There was but one course to pursue, and that was to go to Eleanor and beg her to renounce her scheme of vengeance. Grace felt very dubious as to the outcome of such an interview. Eleanor had in the past proved anything but tractable. "I'll go to-night," decided Grace. "I'm not afraid of the dark. If mother objects, I'll take Bridget along for protection, although she's the greatest coward in the world." Grace giggled a little as she thought of Bridget in the role of protector. That night she hurried through her supper, and, barely tasting her dessert, said abruptly: "Mother, may I go to Eleanor Savelli's this evening?" "Away out to 'Heartsease,' Grace? Who is going with you?" "No one," replied Grace truthfully. "Mother, please don't say no. I simply must see Eleanor at once." "But I thought that you were not friendly with Eleanor," persisted Mrs. Harlowe. "That is true," Grace answered, "but just now that is the very thing I want to be. It's this way, mother. Eleanor is going to try to make some trouble for Marian Barber in the class, and I must act at once if it is to be prevented." "More school-girl difficulties," commented Mrs. Harlowe, with a smile. "But how does it happen that you always seem to be in the thick of the fight, Grace?" "I don't know, mother," sighed Grace. "No one dislikes quarrels more than I do. May I go?" "Yes," assented her mother, "but you must take Bridget with you. I'll see her at once and tell her to get ready." It had been a raw, disagreeable day, and towards evening a cold rain had set in that was practically half snow. It was anything but an enviable night for a walk, and Bridget grumbled roundly under her breath as she wrapped herself in the voluminous folds of a water-proof cape and took down a huge, dark-green cotton umbrella from its accustomed nail behind the kitchen door. "Miss Grace do be crazy to be goin' out this night. It's rheumatics I shall have to-morrow in all me bones," she growled. She plodded along at Grace's side with such an injured expression that Grace felt like laughing outright at the picture of offended dignity that she presented. Grace chatted gayly as they proceeded and Bridget answered her sallies with grunts and monosyllables. When they reached the turn of the road Grace said: "Bridget, let's take the short cut. The walking is good and we'll save ten minutes' time by doing it." "Phast that haunted house?" gasped Bridget. "Niver! May the saints presarve us from hants." "Nonsense," laughed Grace. "There are no such things as ghosts, and you know it. If you're afraid you can go back and wait at your cousin's for me. She lives near here, doesn't she?" "I will that," replied Bridget fervently, "but don't ye be too long gone, Miss Grace." "I won't stay long," promised Grace, and hurried down the road, leaving Bridget to proceed with much grumbling to her cousin's house. The house that Bridget had so flatly refused to pass was a two-story affair of brick that set well back from the highway. There were rumors afloat that a murder had once been committed there, and that the apparition of the victim, an old man, walked about at night moaning in true ghost fashion. To be sure no one had as yet been found who had really seen the spectre old man, nevertheless the place kept its ghost reputation and was generally avoided. Grace, who was nothing if not daring, never lost an opportunity to pass the old house, and jeered openly when any one talked seriously of the "ghost." Now, she smiled to herself as she rapidly neared the house, at Bridget's evident fear of the supernatural. "What a goose Bridget is," she murmured. "Just as though there were----" She stopped abruptly and stared in wonder at the old house. On the side away from the road was a small wing, and through one of the windows of this wing gleamed a tiny point of light. "A light," she said aloud in surprise. "How strange. The ghost must be at home. Perhaps I was mistaken. No, there it is again. Ghost or no ghost, I'm going to see what it is." Suiting the action to the words, Grace stole softly up the deserted walk and crouched under the window from whence the light had come. Clinging to the window ledge, she cautiously raised herself until her head was on a level with the glass. What she saw caused her to hold her breath with astonishment. Was she awake or did she dream? At one side of the room stood a small table, and on the table, in full view of her incredulous eyes, stood the strong box which had held the bazaar money that had been spirited away on Thanksgiving night. Bending over it, the light from his dark lantern shining full on the lock, was the man whom she had accused on the train. [Illustration: Grace Held Her Breath in Astonishment] Thrilled for the moment by her discovery, Grace forgot everything except what was going on inside the room. The man was making vain efforts to hit upon the combination. How long he had been there Grace had no idea. She could not take her eyes from the box which contained their hard-earned money. Minutes went by, but still she watched in a fever of apprehension for fear he might accidentally discover the combination. Unsuccessful in his attempts, he finally straightened up with an exclamation of anger and disgust. Going over to a small cupboard built in the wall, he opened it, and, stooping, pressed his finger against some hidden spring. Then the wall opened and the light from the lantern disclosed an inside recess. Lifting the box, he carried it over and deposited it in the opening, and at his touch the panel slid back into place. Quickly locking the cupboard, he placed the key in his pocket, and, extinguishing the lantern, strode towards the door. Once outside, he passed so close to Grace that by stretching out her hand she might easily have touched him, as she lay flat on the rain-soaked ground, scarcely daring to breathe. The stranger paused to lock the door, and Grace heard him mutter: "Nice night to send a pal out in, and on a still hunt, too. Nothing short of soup'll open up that claim. If the rest of the jobs he's goin' to pull off are like this hand out, me to shake this rube joint." The echo of his footsteps died away and Grace ventured to raise herself from her uncomfortable position. She peered into the blackness of the night, but could see nothing. Rising to her feet, she stealthily circled the house and set off at her best speed for "Heartsease." "There'll be plenty of work for Eleanor and me to do this night," she thought. "If only she will help me now, and she must. She can't refuse. It's for the honor of the senior class." Giving the old-fashioned knocker a vigorous pull, Grace waited impatiently for admittance. "Is Miss Savelli at home?" asked Grace eagerly, the moment the maid opened the door. "No, ma'am," answered the girl. "She and her aunt are in Oakdale to-night. We expect them any minute now." Grace groaned inwardly. "What shall I do?" she asked herself. "I must get that money away from there to-night. To-morrow may be too late, and besides I feel sure that that dreadful man won't return to-night. This is our opportunity and we mustn't neglect it." The maid eyed her curiously. "You are Miss Harlowe, aren't you?" she asked. "Yes," said Grace. "May I wait here for Miss Savelli?" "Certainly, miss. Let me take your rain coat and cap. It's a terrible night, isn't it?" Before Grace had time to answer the click of a latchkey was heard, and the maid said, "There they are." Eleanor stepped part way into the hall before she became aware of Grace's presence. A look of surprise, followed by one of extreme dislike crossed her face. Drawing herself up, she was about to speak, when Grace exclaimed: "Don't say a word, Eleanor, until you hear what I have to say. I came here to-night to discuss a very personal matter with you, but something so strange has happened that I must defer what I had to say until another time and ask you if you will help me to-night." "I don't understand," said Eleanor coldly. "Please explain yourself." "Eleanor," Miss Nevin interposed, "Miss Harlowe is evidently very much agitated over something, therefore do not waste time over useless formality. I knew you, my dear, from the picture I saw of you at Mrs. Gray's," she added, turning to Grace, with a winning smile, that caused the young girl to love her immediately. "Eleanor," said Grace quickly, "I have found the bazaar money that was stolen Thanksgiving night." "Found it!" exclaimed Eleanor incredulously. "Where?" "At the old haunted house," replied Grace. Then she rapidly narrated the story of her walk, her curiosity as to the light, and the sight that it had revealed to her. Eleanor and her aunt listened without interrupting. "When I saw him put the money away and leave the house, I felt that he wouldn't try it again until daylight, so I came straight here," Grace continued. "If you will take your run-about down to the road where it runs near to the house, you and I can easily get the box and carry it to the machine. It will take two of us, because it's very heavy. I know I can find the secret of the panel, but we shall have to break open the door of the cupboard. I am not afraid, and, somehow, Eleanor, I felt that you would have plenty of the right brand of courage." "I am not afraid," responded Eleanor, flushing at Grace's words, "but I know I should never have displayed the courage that you have. I should never have dared dashing up to a haunted house to investigate uncanny lights." "My dear child," exclaimed Miss Nevin, "do you suppose that I would allow you two slips of girls to prowl around that old house alone, on a night like this?" "Miss Nevin," Grace's voice rose in its earnestness, "we must get that money to-night, even if I have to go back there alone. It belongs to us, and we simply can't let it slip through our fingers." "And so you shall get it," was the answer, "but with John, the coachman, for a bodyguard." "May we go this minute?" chorused both girls. "Yes," nodded Miss Nevin. "I'll send word to John to get out the run-about and take you at once." Ten minutes later John, the coachman, and the two girls had squeezed into the run-about and were making as good time to the haunted house as the darkness would permit. The heavy outside door was found to be securely padlocked, and the windows were locked. With two blows of the small axe that he had brought with him, John shattered the glass of the very window through which Grace had peered, and, climbing in, helped the two girls in after him. By the light of the two lanterns they had brought, the cupboard was easily located and opened and a diligent search was made for the hidden spring. "Shall I smash in the paneling, miss?" asked the coachman. "Perhaps you'd better," assented Grace. "I don't seem to be able to find the key to the riddle." She endeavored to step out of John's way, and as she did so, struck her foot smartly against the back wall of the cupboard near to the floor. There was a curious grating sound and the panel slid back, revealing the welcome sight of the strong box reposing in the recess. Unwittingly Grace had touched the secret spring. Both girls cried out in triumph. Then, hurrying to the window, they climbed out, ready to receive the box. John set it on the window-sill, and, though very heavy, Grace and Eleanor combined forces and lowered it to the ground. Leaping over the sill, the coachman picked it up, and the three set off at full speed down the path. The ride back to "Heartsease" was a memorable one to at least two of the occupants of the machine. But few remarks were exchanged. Each girl was busy with her own thoughts. The circumstances that had brought them together seemed too remarkable for mere words. "'To the victors belong the spoils,'" called Grace as she hopped out of the run-about before John could assist her, with Eleanor at her heels, while the coachman followed more slowly, bearing the box. The rain was still falling, but it was doubtful whether either girl was sensible to the fact that her hair was heavy with dampness and her clothing and shoes were wet. "My dear, you had better allow Eleanor to provide you with dry clothing and remain with her to-night," suggested Miss Nevin as they entered the hall. Then ringing for the maid, she ordered hot chocolate. "I wish you would stay with me, Grace," said Eleanor rather shyly. "I have a great deal to say to you." "And I to you, Eleanor," Grace responded. For a moment they stood facing one another. What they saw seemed to satisfy them. Their hands reached out simultaneously and met in a firm clasp. "Will you kiss me, Grace?" was what Eleanor said. "With all my heart," was the answer. And with that kiss all resentment and hard feeling died out forever. "You are surely going to stay with me to-night," coaxed Eleanor. "We will send word to your mother." But with Eleanor's remark the remembrance of her promise to her mother came back with a rush. "Good gracious, Eleanor! I promised mother that I'd be home at nine o'clock. What time is it now?" "It's half past ten," replied Eleanor, consulting her watch. "Poor Bridget," mourned Grace. "She will be sure to think that the ghosts have spirited me away. I must go this minute, before search parties are sent out for me. But I'll see you to-morrow Eleanor, for I need your help." Just then Miss Nevin, who had left the room, returned with a tray on which were tiny sandwiches and a pot of chocolate. "You must have some refreshment, Grace," she said. "Eleanor, do the honors." Grace was made to eat and drink, then, placing herself under John's protection, she returned to Oakdale in Eleanor's run-about, stopping on her way home at the house of Bridget's cousin, where she found the faithful though irate Bridget awaiting her in a state of anxiety bordering upon frenzy. "Don't fuss, Bridget," consoled Grace. "The banshees didn't get me, and you're going to ride home in an automobile. That ought to make you feel better." The prospect of the ride completely mollified Bridget, and by the time they reached home she fairly radiated good nature. "Your ideas of time are somewhat peculiar, Grace," remarked her mother as Grace entered the living room, where her mother and father sat reading. "If Bridget had not been with you I should have been most uneasy." But Grace was too full of her news to make other answer than cry out: "Oh, mother, we found it! We did, truly!" "What is the child talking about?" asked her father. And then Grace launched forth with an account of her night's doings. "Well, I never!" was all Mr. Harlowe could find words for when his daughter had finished. "What shall I do with you, Grace?" said her mother in despair. "You will be injured or killed yet, in some of your mad excursions." "Trust to me to land right side up with care," answered Grace cheerfully. "I'll call at the police station early to-morrow morning and have the chief send some one up to that old house," said Mr. Harlowe. "From what you heard the thief say, he must have a confederate. Perhaps the chief's men will get both of them." "Perhaps so," replied Grace, but she had a shrewd idea as to who the confederate might be, and felt that if her suppositions were correct there was not much chance of his incriminating himself. CHAPTER XXII GRACE AND ELEANOR MAKE A FORMAL CALL Before recess the next day the news that Grace Harlowe and Eleanor Savelli had been seen in earnest conversation together traveled like wild fire around the study hall. The members of the Phi Sigma Tau could scarcely believe their eyes, and when at recess they sought for enlightenment, Grace would give them no satisfaction save that she and Eleanor had really become friendly again. "I love you all dearly, but I can't tell you about it yet, so please don't ask me. When I do tell you, you'll understand and be as glad as I am," she informed them affectionately, and with this they were obliged to content themselves. At one o'clock that afternoon Grace was summoned from the study hall, and her friends' curiosity went up to the highest pitch and did not in the least abate when Eleanor Savelli was also excused and hurriedly followed Grace out. "This must mean that they have caught him," said Eleanor, as she and Grace turned their steps in the direction of the police station. Grace nodded silently. Her mind was busy with Marian's problem. She must get back the money that Henry Hammond had wheedled Marian into giving him. If the stranger had been apprehended and if Hammond were really his confederate, then the stranger might, under cross-examination, betray Hammond, who would at once be arrested. Now that Eleanor had become her friend, Grace knew that she would never expose Marian in class meeting, but even with this menace removed, still nothing could disguise the fact that the judge's gift could not be honestly accounted for. Grace believed that Henry Hammond had appropriated the money for his own use. She did not place any dependence in his story of having lost it through speculation. She therefore resolved that he should return it if she could devise any means of making him do so, without subjecting him to public exposure. For Marian's sake, she would refrain from carrying the matter into court, and she reluctantly decided to say nothing about the meeting between Hammond and the prisoner that she had witnessed at the station on the night of her return from New York. Eleanor's surmise proved to be correct. At the door of the station house, Grace's father awaited them, and they were conducted into the court room, where the first thing that caught Grace's attention was the eyes of the prisoner, that glared ferociously at her. "So you're the fresh kid that got me jugged, are you!" he snarled with a menacing gesture. "I'd like to get my hands on you for a couple of minutes." "Silence!" roared Chief Burroughs. Then the examination began. The strong box had been turned over to the police that morning by Miss Nevin, to be held as proof against the thief. Grace identified the man as the one she had seen tampering with the lock the previous night, repeating what she had heard him say as he left the old house. She then told her story of the removal of the box, which was corroborated by Eleanor and John, the coachman. "This is not the first time this man and I have met," declared Grace at the conclusion of her testimony. Then she related the incident of the train to the chief, while the prisoner glowered at her as though he would enjoy tearing her in pieces. When examined, he gave his name as Jones, denied ever having seen Grace before, but under rigid cross-examination finally admitted the truth of her story, and that he had been in Oakdale on the previous Thanksgiving and had assisted in the theft of the strong box. He had left for New York the following morning, supposing that his confederate would have no trouble in unlocking the box. "Why did you leave Oakdale?" questioned Chief Burroughs. "Robbing kids was too small business for me," growled the man. "We heard this was a rich town, but when we got here I sized it up, and it didn't look good to me. So I beat it for New York the next day." But no amount of grilling could induce him to reveal the identity of his partner. "He's too good a pal to squeal on. Nothing doing in that line," was the unvarying answer. When questioned as to his second visit to Oakdale, he said that his partner had been unable to open the strong box, and after looking about for some safe hiding place, had accidentally discovered the secret recess in the cupboard, while prowling about the haunted house. This had seemed an ideal place of concealment, and he had secretly conveyed the box there until the prisoner, who was an expert cracksman, should be on hand to open it. "And was that your sole object in coming to Oakdale?" was the chief's sharp query. "Of course," replied the prisoner. But the chief shook his head. "There is a good deal more back of this. You have not answered truthfully. Your real motive for coming here was robbery." Grace and Eleanor were not detained throughout the entire examination. After giving their testimony, they were allowed to go. Once they were fairly outside the police station, Grace took Eleanor by the arm and said: "Eleanor, I have a call to make, and I wish you to go with me. We haven't a moment to spare, for the First National Bank closes at three, and it's a quarter after two now." "I am very glad to hear that useful and interesting fact about the First National Bank. Are you going to deposit money there!" asked Eleanor, laughing. "No," answered Grace mysteriously. "I am going to draw money from there after I have called upon a certain person." "But what have I to do with it!" questioned Eleanor. "Come with me and see," Grace replied. "After we have succeeded in our undertaking, I'll answer any questions you may ask. I warn you, however, that the call I am about to make is not a friendly one. Are you willing to stand by me through what may be a rather disagreeable scene?" "I certainly am," replied Eleanor emphatically. "You ought to know from past experiences that disagreeable scenes are my forte." "I know that I'd rather have you with me on this expedition than any one else I know," responded Grace. "You are not easily intimidated." The two girls by this time had left Main Street and turned into Putnam Square. "Grace," said Eleanor suddenly. "I believe I can guess the place you are headed for. You are going to Henry Hammond's office, aren't you?" "Yes," said Grace, surprised at the accuracy of Eleanor's guess, "I am." "And you are going there about the money that he stole from Marian. Am I right!" "You are," answered Grace truthfully. "But how did you know?" "Because," said Eleanor quietly, "I intended going there myself." "Then you think that----" began Grace. "I think that Henry Hammond is a thief and an impostor," finished Eleanor. "He tried to interest Aunt Margaret in some real estate, and called at 'Heartsease' on two different occasions. She is a very shrewd business woman and he couldn't fool her in the least. Both times he called he kept looking about him all the time, as though he were trying to see whether we had any valuables. He raved over the house, and hinted to be shown through it, but we weren't so foolish. "When Chief Burroughs was questioning the prisoner to-day about his confederate, it suddenly flashed across me that it might be this man Hammond. He appeared here for the first time on the night of the bazaar and--" "Eleanor," exclaimed Grace, "you've missed your vocation. You should have been a detective. I believe what you say to be the truth and have thought so for some time. We can hardly denounce Henry Hammond upon suspicion, but we can scare him and make him give back the class money. Perhaps we are defeating the ends of justice by not telling what we suspect, but if we have him arrested on suspicion, then the only way we can get back our money is to publicly charge him with extorting it from Marian. Think what a disgrace that would be for her in her graduating year, too," Grace added. "She would feel too ashamed to ever again face her best friends." "I have thought of all that, too, and now that we are both of the same mind, let's on to victory," said Eleanor. The two girls paused and shook hands as they entered the building in which Henry Hammond had his office, then mounted the stairs with the full determination of winning in their cause. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hammond," called Eleanor, as she opened the door and walked serenely in, followed by Grace. Henry Hammond started nervously up from his desk at the sound of her voice. The bland smile with which he greeted her changed to a frown as his eyes rested upon Grace, and he saluted her coldly. "I am, indeed, honored, this afternoon," he said with sarcasm. "Miss Harlowe has never before visited my office." "We had a few minutes to spare and thought we'd run in and tell you the news," replied Grace sweetly. "We have just come from the police station." "Rather a peculiar place for two High School girls to visit, isn't it!" asked the man with a suspicion of a sneer. "Yes, but we were the heroines in an adventure last night," replied Grace evenly. "We found the bazaar money that was stolen last Thanksgiving." "What!" exploded Hammond. Then trying to conceal his agitation, he said with affected carelessness, "I believe I do remember something about that robbery." "I was sure that you would," returned Grace, looking squarely at him. "That was the night of the day you came to Oakdale, was it not?" "I really can't recollect the exact date," murmured Hammond. "One of the thieves was caught to-day, at the old haunted house, where he had hidden the box," volunteered Eleanor. A grayish pallor overspread Hammond's face. With a desperate effort at self-control, he said: "Ah, there was more than one, then!" "Oh, yes," declared Grace cheerfully. "There were two in it. The other will probably be apprehended soon. The prisoner hasn't revealed his identity, as yet. The funny thing is that I had seen the prisoner before. On the train that we took from New York, after seeing Anne Pierson in the play, I saw this same man try to steal a watch and chain from an old gentleman, who would not believe me when I warned him of his danger." "When we finally reached Oakdale," continued Grace, "I watched to see if he got off the train, and he did. We saw a man meet him at the station, who--" Henry Hammond sprang up and seizing his hat, said harshly, "I hope you young ladies will excuse me, what you have told me is so interesting that I believe I shall go over to the station house and get all the details. Will you remain until I return?" He fumbled in a drawer of his desk, and both girls saw him take out a bankbook. "Thank you," said Grace politely. "We can't stay, but before we go we should like to have you write us a check for the five hundred dollars that Marian Barber foolishly loaned you. You see she had no right to do so. Besides, she is still a minor. If you do it at once we can cash it to-day. It is now fifteen minutes of three. I'll call the bank and tell them that I am coming. But first I must send a message to my father." With these words, Grace walked to the telephone without giving Hammond time to answer. "Give me Main 268a, please," she said. With a bound he sprang to the door, but it closed in his face, and he heard the turn of the key in the lock, just as Grace calmly called, "Hello, is this Chief Burroughs? Is my father there?" Then she answered, "You say he is there? Well, this is his daughter, Grace. Please tell him that Miss Savelli and I are just about to leave Mr. Hammond's office, and wish him to meet us outside." Hammond sprang toward Grace, but instantly realizing that it would be folly to molest her, drew back, scowling savagely. Grace hung up the receiver and rang again. This time she called the bank, asking for the president. "Is this Mr. Furlow?" she said. "This is Grace Harlowe. I am at the office of Mr. Henry Hammond, who is about to write my father a check for five hundred dollars, which he wishes to cash before the bank closes. It is now ten minutes of three. He will be there inside of seven minutes. Thank you. Good-bye." "Now," she commanded, turning to Hammond, the expression of whose face was a combination of baffled rage, disappointment and fear, "write the check." With a muttered imprecation he went to his desk, jerked out a checkbook and wrote the desired check. "To whom shall I make it payable?" he muttered. "To Thomas G. Harlowe," replied Grace composedly. Inserting her father's name, he fairly flung the check in her face, and strode to the door. "Open this door," he commanded. There was no response. "You may open the door, Eleanor," called Grace. "Mr. Hammond is ready to go now." The key turned in the lock. With a savage jerk, Henry Hammond flung open the door, and brushing Eleanor aside, bolted for the stairway. Five seconds later the two girls reached the sidewalk and found Mr. Harlowe waiting for them. "Father, dear," exclaimed Grace. "Here is a check for five hundred dollars, made payable to you by Mr. Henry Hammond. You have five minutes in which to cash it, before the bank closes. I'll tell you the story of it later. I haven't time now." The First National Bank was just around the corner, and three minutes later Mr. Harlowe walked in, accompanied by Grace and Eleanor, and cashed the check without any trouble. "Tom Harlowe must have made money on some deal with Hammond," thought the cashier, as he closed the window. "He is about the only one who has that I know of." "And now, daughter, whose money is this, and what is it all about?" asked her father gravely, as they left the bank. "I can have no better confidant than my father," declared Grace, and she thereupon told him the whole story. Mr. Harlowe heard her story with mingled emotions of pride and disapproval. "Never take such a risk again, Grace," he said sternly. "Suppose this man had carried a revolver. He might easily have turned the tables." "I never stopped to think what he might do, father," said Grace ruefully. "The honor of the senior class was at stake, and I knew that I had to get that money somehow. Besides, I had notified Chief Burroughs as to my whereabouts, and sent word for you to wait for me, so he was really cornered, that's why Eleanor locked the door." "Grace, you are incorrigible," sighed her father, "but if ever again you find yourself in a snarl over the rashness of your friends, then remember that I am the wisest person to consult. It may save you considerable worry, and will be at least a safer method." Nevertheless, he could not refrain from smiling a little as he added, "What do you propose to do with this money?" "Deposit it in Upton Bank, to-morrow," was Grace's prompt reply. "And in whose name?" asked her father. "In Marian Barber's father," said Grace steadily. "This time it will be safe, for she has learned her lesson." CHAPTER XXIII THE MESSAGE OF THE VIOLIN The news of the finding of the lost money in the haunted house came out in the evening paper, and set the whole town of Oakdale agog with excitement. The sensational robbery at the close of the Thanksgiving bazaar was too bold to have been forgotten, and the news of the recovery of the hard-earned money was a matter of delight to the public-spirited citizens of the little northern city. The haunted house soon lost its ghost reputation, and was ransacked by small boys on the hunt for sliding panels and hidden treasure until the owner of the place, who had been absent from Oakdale, took a hand in things and threatened severe penalties for trespassing, which greatly cooled the ardor of the youthful treasure-seekers. As for Grace Harlowe and Eleanor Savelli, they were the bright and shining lights of the town and the darlings of the senior class. The two girls had become firm friends. After the excitement of the finding of the money had worn off, they had had a long talk and had cleared up all misunderstandings. Eleanor had confessed to Grace that long before they had been brought together she had secretly tired of the old grudge and had longed for peace. "After Edna Wright and I quarreled, I began to see things in a different light," Eleanor had confided to Grace, "and the longing for the companionship of your kind of girls took hold of me so strongly it made me miserable at times. "How I did envy you when you all went to the house party at Christmas, and I was wild to go to New York and see Anne, although I suppose I am the last person she would care to see. "It wasn't just the good times, either, that I coveted, it was that sense of comradeship that existed among you girls that I didn't at all understand last year." "But, Eleanor," Grace had said, "if you felt that way, why were you so determined to expose poor Marian Barber!" "When Marian told me what she had done I felt the utmost contempt for her," Eleanor had replied. "My old idea of vengeance came to the front, and I thought of how completely I could humiliate you all through her. The day I quarreled with her in school I fully intended to expose her, but the more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea of it. I don't really believe that I could ever have stood up before those girls and betrayed her." While Grace had listened to Eleanor, she had realized that the old whimsical, temperamental Eleanor was passing, and an entirely different girl was endeavoring to take her place. Grace exulted in her heart and dreamed great things for the Phi Sigma Tau when it should be restored to its original number of members. Eleanor had announced herself ready and eager to take her old place in the sorority, while Marian Barber had, with tears in her eyes, humbly petitioned Grace for her old place in the Phi Sigma Tau. "Silly girl," was Grace's answer. "You can't go back to what you never left, can you?" No one save Grace, Eleanor and Mr. Harlowe knew of how near Marian had come to being discredited in the eyes of her class and friends, and they could be trusted with the secret. Henry Hammond had left Oakdale the morning after he had been interviewed by Grace and Eleanor, and it was afterwards discovered that the land in which he had persuaded certain guileless citizens to invest money had proved worthless. The swindled ones joined forces and put the matter in the hands of a detective, but to no purpose, for no clue was found to his whereabouts. The strong box was turned over to the girls and the money, which amounted to five hundred and ten dollars, was deposited in Upton Bank with the five hundred that had caused Marian Barber such anxiety and sorrow. The thief whom Grace had assisted in capturing was found to be a noted crook, known to the police as "Larry the Locksmith," on account of his ability to pick locks. He was tried and sentenced to a number of years in the penitentiary, and departed from Oakdale stolidly refusing to furnish the police with the identity of his "pal." Easter was drawing near, and Grace was radiantly happy. Anne, whose engagement had stretched into the eighth week, would be home the following day. Mrs. Gray was looked for hourly and the boys were coming from college on Monday. "We certainly will have a reunion," Nora O'Malley exclaimed joyously, as she banged her books on the window sill of the senior locker-room to emphasize her remark. "It seems good to have Grace with us once in a while," declared Jessica. "Her police court duties have kept her so busy that she has deserted her little playmates. Have you been asked to join the force yet, Grace!" she asked, trying to look innocent. "That isn't fair, Jessica," retorted Grace, laughing. "I appeal to you girls," turning to the other members of the Phi Sigma Tau, who had one by one dropped into the locker-room. "Can you imagine me in the garb of an Oakdale policeman?" "Not in our wildest nightmares," Miriam Nesbit gravely assured her. "Anne will be home to-morrow," cried Eva Allen. "I'm so glad it's Saturday. We can celebrate. Will you come to my house?" "We will," was the united answer. "We'll all go to the train to meet Anne," planned Grace. "Then we'll give her about one hour to get acquainted with her family. After that we'll rush her off to Eva's, back to my house for supper (mother expects all of you), and then up to Mrs. Gray's." "Poor Anne," said Marian Barber, "I can see her being carried home on a stretcher." "We will meet at the station," directed Grace, as she left them. "Be there at 8.15. Don't one of you fail to be there." As Anne Pierson stepped off the 8.15 train the next morning after an all-night ride, she was surrounded by seven laughing girls and marched in triumph to David Nesbit's big car, which Miriam used at her own pleasure during her brother's absence. The eight girls managed to squeeze into it, and drove to the Pierson cottage with all speed. Here Anne was set down, told to make the most of her hour with her family and to be prepared upon their return to say good-bye to home for the rest of the day. The programme outlined by Grace was carried out to the letter. The joy of Mrs. Gray at again seeing her adopted children was well worth witnessing. "I don't know how I ever managed to stay away from you so long!" she exclaimed, as she looked fondly about her at the smiling, girlish faces. "How I wish you might all have been with me. I should have returned sooner, but dreaded the winter here. I do not thrive here--during these long, cold Oakdale winters. It is because I--" Grace placed a soft hand upon Mrs. Gray's lips. "I can't allow you to finish that sentence," she laughed. "You are sixty-two years young, and you must always remember it." The old lady laughed happily at Grace's remark, then under cover of general conversation said to her, "I am greatly surprised to see Eleanor here. How did it all come about? You never mentioned it in your letters." "I know it," replied Grace, "I wanted to save it until you came home. I have been out to 'Heartsease' several times, too, and am quite in love with Miss Nevin. May Anne and I come to-morrow and have a good long gossip? You must hear all about Anne's triumphs in New York." "Come and have dinner with me," replied Mrs. Gray. "That will be fine," returned Grace. "We two are the only ones in the crowd who don't happen to have previous engagements, so the girls won't feel hurt at not being included." "We are so glad that you came home in time for the concert," said Miriam Nesbit. "It is the last entertainment the senior class will have a chance to give. We hope to make a nice sum of money to add to the thousand we already have." "I have not added my mite to your fund yet," said Mrs. Gray. "But now that I'm home I shall busy myself immediately with my High School girls. When and where is the concert to be held?" "A week from next Monday, in Assembly Hall," replied Miriam. "We wish to give it before the boys go back to school. They have only ten days at home, you know." "How anxious I am to see the boys," cried Mrs. Gray. "I found a letter from Tom waiting for me. He expects to arrive on Monday or Tuesday, and will bring Arnold with him." "I received a letter from Tom, too," said Grace. "We have also heard from the boys. David is bringing home a friend of his, Donald Earle, who, he writes, is the most popular man in the freshman class." The evening seemed all too short to Mrs. Gray and the Phi Sigma Tau. "Why, we've only begun to talk," said Jessica, "and here it is after eleven o'clock." "To be continued in our next," said Nora with a grin. "Introducing new features and startling revelations." Sunday afternoon found Anne and Grace strolling up Chapel Hill toward Mrs. Gray's. Rather to their surprise they found Miss Nevin with Mrs. Gray in the library. The two women were in earnest conversation, and as Grace and Anne were ushered in, Grace's quick intuition told her that Miss Nevin was strongly agitated over something. "How are my own children to-day," asked Mrs. Gray, coming forward and kissing both of them warmly. Anne was then presented to Miss Nevin, who took occasion to congratulate her upon her recent success. "Your fame has preceded you," she said with a sweet smile. "You must tell us all about your stay in New York, Anne," said Mrs. Gray. "You are very young to have been chosen for so responsible an engagement, and I feel great pride in your success." "Anne had two offers of engagements while in New York," interposed Grace. "One from Farman, the big manager, and one from Rupert Manton, the Shakespearian actor." "But I am still in Oakdale," replied Anne smiling, "and have come to-day to beg for my secretaryship again." "You delightful child," cried Mrs. Gray. "I knew you would never desert me." "Margaret," she said, turning to Miss Nevin, "would you care to tell my girls what you were telling me when they came in? I have already told them something of Eleanor's parentage. They know that Guido Savelli is her father. Perhaps they might be of assistance in helping you decide what is to be done. Grace is a famous suggester." Miss Nevin flushed and looked hesitatingly at Anne and Grace, as though a trifle reluctant to speak. "We shall consider anything you may choose to tell us strictly confidential, Miss Nevin," said Anne quietly. "I am sure that you will," replied Miss Nevin. "What I have told Mrs. Gray is that I have received through my lawyers a letter from Eleanor's father. They inclosed his letter in one from them asking whether I were desirous of acquainting him with my whereabouts. "He has written rather a sad letter. He seems to have awakened to a late remorse for having neglected my sister as he did. He asks for his child, and if he may see her. He has just finished a concert tour of America, and is at present in New York. "Personally, I shall never forgive him, but have I the right to keep Eleanor from her father? He is both rich and famous, and she would adore him, for his music, if for nothing else. I have always said that when she became twenty-one years of age I should tell her of him, leaving to her the choice of claiming or ignoring him. "But I never supposed for one instant that he would ever come forward and interest himself in her. A year ago I should not have considered her fit to choose, but she is greatly changed. The two years in which she has associated with girls of her own age have benefited her greatly. I feel as though I could not bear to give her up now. Moreover, this idea of claiming his child may be merely a whim on the part of her father. He is liable to forget her inside of six weeks." Grace listened to Miss Nevin in breathless silence. It was all like a story-book romance. Anne sat gazing off into space, thinking dreamily of the great virtuoso who had found after years of selfish pleasure and devotion to himself that blood was thicker than water. She fancied she could picture his pride when he beheld Eleanor and realized that she was his own child, and Eleanor's rapture when she knew that her father was master of the violin she worshipped. Suddenly an idea popped into Anne's head that was a positive inspiration. "Why not ask him to come down for our concert?" she said, amazed at her own audacity in suggesting such a thing. "Eleanor need not know about him at all. She is to play at the concert, you know. If he hears her play he will realize more fully that she is really his own flesh and blood, and if he has any real fatherly feeling for her it will come to the surface. That will be the psychological moment in which to bring them together." "Anne, you're a genius!" cried Grace. "You ought to be appointed Chief Arbiter of Destiny." "Margaret," exclaimed Mrs. Gray, "I believe that Anne's idea is logical. Shall you try it!" "I shall write to Guido at once," said Miss Nevin, rising. "Knowing his disposition as I do, it seems that I could find no better way of rousing his interest in Eleanor. Her love of the violin is a direct inheritance from him, and she may reach his heart through her music. At any rate, it is worth trying." After Miss Nevin's departure Anne and Grace entertained Mrs. Gray with the promised gossip, and it was well toward ten o'clock before they turned their steps toward home. The following week was a busy one. Every spare moment outside school the senior class zealously devoted to the concert. The High School Glee Club was to sing, and the mandolin and guitar club was to give two numbers. Nora O'Malley was to sing two songs from a late musical success, and Jessica and Miriam were to play a duet. James Gardiner, who was extremely proficient on the violincello, was down for a solo, while Eleanor was to play twice. The crowning feature of the concert, however, was to be contributed by Anne and Eleanor. Anne was to recite Tennyson's "Enoch Arden," and Eleanor was to accompany her on the piano with the music that she had arranged for it. The two girls had worked incessantly upon it, rehearsing almost every day. Grace was the only one who had been permitted to hear a rehearsal of it, and she was enraptured with what she heard. The boys had all arrived, and the Phi Sigma Tau divided their time equally between concert rehearsals and social gatherings. David's friend, Donald Earle, was ably living up to his college reputation, and proved himself a source of unmitigated pleasure to the young people among whom he was thrown. It was soon discovered, however, that he was oftenest found in Eleanor's wake, and his eyes showed honest admiration for the beautiful girl every time he looked at her. Hippy, who had established a reputation as a singer of humorous songs, was asked for his services. "I have a number of new and choice ditties that I will render with pleasure, providing I am afterwards fed," he shrewdly declared, when interviewed on the subject. "It will all depend upon how well you sing," stipulated Nora. "Then I shan't warble at all," announced Hippy. "I am a man of few words, but when I say I must have food for my services as a soloist, I mean it. There must be no uncertainty. Do I feed or do I not?" "You feed," laughed Nora. The concert was to be held in Assembly Hall, and three days before every ticket issued had been sold. People who could not attend bought tickets and handed them back to be sold over again. The senior class, by reason of the popularity of the Phi Sigma Tau, was considered the class of classes. "We'll have to put out a 'Standing Room Only' sign," declared Anne Pierson, as she viewed the packed house through a hole in the curtain. The fateful night had arrived, and Anne, Eleanor and Grace stood in a group on the stage, while Anne industriously took note of the audience. "Let me look for a minute, Anne," said Grace. "I don't believe there'll be standing room," she remarked, as she stepped aside to give Eleanor a chance to peer out. "Come on, girls," called Nora O'Malley, as a burst of applause sounded from the other side of the curtain. "It's half past eight, and the curtain will go up in about two minutes." The three girls scurried off the stage, the Glee Club filed on and arranged themselves, and the curtain rose. Each number was applauded to the echo and in every instance the audience clamored for an encore. As the time for Eleanor's first solo drew near, Anne and Grace felt their hearts beat a little faster. Nora was giving an encore to her first song. Eleanor was to follow her. As she stood in the wing her violin under her arm, Grace thought she had never appeared more beautiful. Her gown was of some soft, white material and rather simply made. "I never like to wear fussy things when I play," she had confided to the girls. Jessica stood directly behind her. She was to act as accompanist. Nora O'Malley sang the concluding line of her song, favored the audience with a saucy little nod and made her exit. "Come on, Eleanor," said Jessica. "It's our turn." Well toward the back of the hall sat Miss Nevin, wearing a look of mingled anxiety and pain. Beside her sat a dark, distinguished man in the prime of life, who never took his eyes off the stage. As one of the senior girls who had charge of the programme stepped forward and announced, "Solo, Miss Eleanor Savelli," he drew a deep breath, and such a look of longing crept into his eyes that Miss Nevin understood for the first time something of the loneliness of which he had written. He covered his eyes with his hand as though reluctant to look. Then the full, soft notes of the violin were carried to his ears, and with a smothered cry of exultation he raised his eyes and saw for the first time his own child in her gown of white with the instrument he loved at her throat, while her slender hand drew the bow with the true skill of the artist. Before Miss Nevin could stop him, he had risen in his seat, saying excitedly: "It is mia bella Edith. She has come again." Then realizing what he had done, he sat down, and, burying his face in his hands, sobbed openly. Persons around him, startled by his sudden cry, glared at him angrily for creating a commotion during Eleanor's exquisite number, then again turned their attention to the soloist. "I must see her. I must see her," he muttered over and over again. "She is my child; mine." "So you shall," whispered Miss Nevin soothingly, "but not until the concert is over. If we tell her now, Guido, it will upset her so that she can't appear again this evening, and she has two more numbers." Unabashed by the emotion he had displayed, the virtuoso wiped his eyes, and sat waiting like one in a trance for his child to appear again. Anne and Grace were alive with curiosity as to the outcome of Anne's suggestion. They had eagerly scanned the house before the concert began, but had failed to locate Miss Nevin and Eleanor's father. "I'm going out in the audience and see if I can find them," Grace had whispered to Anne during Nora's song, as they stood in the wing on the opposite side from Jessica and Eleanor. Anne had nodded silently, her attention focused upon Nora, whose singing always delighted her, and Grace, slipping quietly down to the door that led into the hall, made her way toward the back rows of seats just in time to witness Guido Savelli's emotion at first sight of his daughter. Back to Anne she sped with her news, and the two friends held a quiet little jubilee of their own over the success of their plot. There was a round of applause when "Enoch Arden" was announced. Eleanor took her place at the piano while Anne stepped forward and began the pathetic tale to the subdued strains of the music that Eleanor had fitted to it. Anne's beautiful voice rose and fell with wonderful expression, while the music served to accentuate every word that she uttered. Her audience sat practically spell bound, and when she uttered poor Enoch's death cry, "A sail! A sail! I am saved!" there were many wet eyes throughout the assemblage. She paused for a second before delivering the three concluding lines, and Eleanor ended on the piano with a throbbing minor chord. There was absolute silence as the performers made their exit. Then a perfect storm of enthusiasm burst forth. Anne and Eleanor returned to bow again and again, but the audience refused to be satisfied, until Anne, in her clear, musical voice, made a little speech of appreciation, which was received with acclamation. The concert drew to a triumphant close. After Eleanor's second solo, she repaired to the dressing room, where she was immediately surrounded by a group of admiring girls and kept so busy answering questions as to how long she had studied the violin and where, that she did not see Grace Harlowe enter the right wing with Miss Nevin and a tall, dark-haired stranger who glanced quickly about as though in search of some one. "Where is she?" he said. "Find her at once. But, no, wait a moment. She shall hear me play! I will win the heart of my child through the music she loves, I may add one little solo to your programme?" he turned questioningly to Grace. "Well, I should rather think so," gasped Grace. "It is an honor of which we never dreamed. This concert will be recorded in Oakdale history." "It is well," said the virtuoso. "Bring me the violin of my child. I will speak to her through it." Grace flew to the dressing room, where Eleanor's violin lay in its open case upon a table near the door. Hastily securing both violin and bow, she flitted out of the room--without having been noticed by the girls at the further end. "Here it is," she breathed, as she handed it to Eleanor's father. "I will arrange for you to play after the Glee Club, who are just going on now." "I thank you," replied the great man. "I pray you do not announce me. I shall need no one to accompany me." "It shall be as you wish," promised Grace. There was a moment's wait after the Glee Club had filed off the stage, then Guido Savelli appeared, violin in hand. A faint ripple of surprise stirred the audience. Who was this distinguished stranger! They could not identify him as belonging among Oakdale musicians. The virtuoso made a comprehensive survey of the house, then placing the violin almost caressingly to his throat, began to play. His hearers listened in growing astonishment to the exquisite sounds that he drew from the instrument. There was a plaintive, insistent appeal in his music that was like the pleading of a human voice. It was a pathetic cry wrung from a hungry heart. The dressing-room door stood partly open, and as the full, sweet notes of the violin were carried to her ears, Eleanor gave a cry of rapture. "Who is playing?" she cried. "I must see at once." She ran out of the room and into the wing, where she could command a full view of the stage, and looked upon her father for the first time. She stood, statue like, until the last note died away. Her eyes were full of tears, which she made no attempt to hide. Then she turned to Anne, who had slipped quietly up and now stood beside her: "Anne," she said almost reverently, "he is a master. His music overwhelms me. I felt when he played as though--he were trying to give me some message, as though he were speaking to me alone. I suppose every one in the audience felt the same. It is because he is a genius. Who is he, Anne, and where did he come from?" "Eleanor," replied Anne, her voice trembling a little, "you must prepare yourself for the greatest surprise of your life. He was speaking to you when he played, and it was solely on your account that he played. He came here with your aunt to-night." Eleanor paled a little. "Anne, what does all this mean?" she said. "You and Grace have acted queerly all evening. What has this violinist to do with me!" "That I cannot answer now," replied Anne, "but you will know within the next hour. Your aunt wishes you to get your wraps and meet her at once. She is outside in the carriage and he is with her." "Are you and Grace coming with us?" questioned Eleanor. "Not to-night," answered Anne, with a little smile. "You don't need either of us. Here's Grace," she added, as the latter hurried toward them. "Eleanor," said Grace, "here is your cloak and your violin. Now, kiss both of us good night and trot along, for there's a big surprise waiting for you just around the corner, and it is the earnest wish of both Anne and I that it may prove a happy one." CHAPTER XXIV THE PARTING OF THE WAYS With the passing of the Easter holidays unbroken quiet settled down over Oakdale High School. The boys went back to college and the girls to High School to finish the little that remained to them of their senior year. The proceeds of the concert had amounted to four hundred and seventy dollars, and with a contribution of five hundred dollars more from Mrs. Gray, the members of the senior class were the proud possessors of a fund of nineteen hundred and eighty dollars, which was to be presented to Miss Thompson on graduation night as their contribution toward the gymnasium. The three lower classes had also raised considerable money, but collectively it had not reached the amount earned by the seniors. The playing of the great Savelli at the concert was still a matter of comment in Oakdale. There were several persons in the audience who had previously heard him play, and had at once recognized him. More remarkable still was the fact of his being the father of Eleanor Savelli, and all sorts of rumors sprang up regarding his advent in Oakdale, and his affairs in general. As for Eleanor, it was some time before she could accustom herself to the idea of having a living father, and a famous one at that. She had gone down to the carriage on the night of the concert wondering what was in store for her, and had scarcely stepped inside before she had been clasped in the arms of the virtuoso, and addressed as his child. Shaking herself free from his clasp, she had demanded an explanation from her aunt, who had told her the truth, which to her at the time had seemed unbelievable. Her first feeling toward her father had been entirely one of pride. Her aunt had been all in all to her since babyhood, therefore she experienced little of the feeling of affection toward him that he manifested for her. The fact that her father was a great artist was a source of infinite satisfaction to her, but gradually as she grew better acquainted with him she began to experience a degree of affection for him that in time became positive worship. He was to remain at "Heartsease" until after her graduation, then, accompanied by Miss Nevin, Eleanor was to sail for Italy with him, there to remain until he should begin a European concert tour in the fall. Then she would go to Leipsig and enter the very conservatory where her mother and father had met. She had resumed the final "i" so long dropped from her name, and now proudly signed herself Savelli. The Phi Sigma Tau, particularly Anne and Grace, became prime favorites with the great violinist and were frequently invited to "Heartsease" to hear him play, an honor which was accorded to no one else in Oakdale. The days hurried by altogether too swiftly to suit Grace and her three closest friends, who looked forward to commencement week with mingled emotions of joy and regret. Graduation was the goal they had been striving for four years to reach, but graduation meant also the parting of the ways, and as the four chums looked back over their High School life it seemed to them that they could never again have quite the good times that they had enjoyed in one another's society. "'We who are about to die salute you'" quoted Nora O'Malley, as the four girls strolled home from school on the Friday preceding commencement. "What a cheerful remark," laughed Grace Harlowe. "Well, that's the way I feel, at any rate," declared Nora. "I can't bear to think that next year we'll all be scattered to the four winds, or, rather, the two winds, because Jessica and I will be together, and so will you and Anne." "Go to college with us, then," slyly tempted Grace. "No," answered Nora decidedly. "I've set my heart on studying vocal music. I have always said that I should go to a conservatory, and since Eleanor's father has given me so much encouragement, I've made up my mind to become a concert singer if possible. I'll stay a year in the conservatory at least, and at the end of that time I'll know whether I am justified in going on studying." "It's fortunate that I am going to study on the piano and that we can be at the same conservatory," said Jessica. "And that Anne and I will be at the same college," added Grace, "if we ever make up our minds what college we wish to enter." "There is still plenty of time for that," said Anne. "I am glad that scholarship doesn't stipulate as to what particular college--that is, if I win it." "You won't know that until a week from to-night," said Jessica. "What a night that will be. This year there will be an extra feature, the presentation of the gym. money." "I am so proud of our class," exclaimed Grace, "but I do wish we had an even two thousand dollars to give. We lack only twenty dollars. I wonder if the class would care to make it up." "Why couldn't the Phi Sigma Tau make it up as a parting gift to Oakdale High School!" asked Nora. "That would be two dollars and a half apiece. I am willing to do with that much less fuss on my graduating gown, if the rest of you are." "I am," said Grace. "So am I," replied Jessica and Anne together. "I am sure the other four girls will be of the same mind," said Grace. "I'll see them to-morrow." The four other members of the Phi Sigma Tau were duly interviewed and by Monday of commencement week the twenty dollars had been added to the fund deposited in Upton Bank. The prophecy made by Jessica on class day at the end of their sophomore year was about to be fulfilled to the letter, for the four chums had been appointed to the very honors to which she had jestingly assigned them two years before. Anne was chosen as class poet, and Jessica had composed both the words and music of the class song. Grace was to prophesy the futures of her various classmates, while Nora had been detailed to write the class grinds. "To-day is the day of days," exclaimed Grace to her mother on Tuesday, as she smoothed out a tiny wrinkle in her class-day gown, which she lovingly inspected for the fifth time before putting it on. It was a pale blue marquisette embroidered in tiny daisies, and Grace declared it to be far prettier than her graduating gown of white organdie trimmed with fine lace. "Nora has the dearest little pale green marquisette, mother," cried Grace with enthusiasm, "and Jessica's gown is pink silk, while Anne has a white silk muslin with violets scattered all over it. I've seen them all, but I must say that I think mine is the nicest and you're a perfect dear, mother, for having embroidered it for me," and, giving her mother a tempestuous hug, Grace gathered her class-day finery in her arms and rushed upstairs to dress for the afternoon that the senior class looked forward to more than to graduation night itself. The Phi Sigma Tau met in the senior locker-room for the last time and proceeded to Assembly Hall in a body. "How strange it seems to be going to Assembly Hall instead of the gym. for class day," remarked Miriam Nesbit to Grace. "Yes, doesn't it?" returned Grace. "But when we come lack here next year as post-graduates, we'll have the satisfaction of knowing that we helped a whole lot in getting the good old gym. ready for the next class, even if we couldn't hold forth in it." The regular class day programme was carried out with tremendous enthusiasm. The girl chums were applauded to the echo for their capable handling of the honors assigned them. Nora in particular rose to heights of fame, her clever grinds provoking wholesale mirth. "She must have made notes all year," whispered Anne to Jessica under cover of a laugh which was occasioned by the story of one absentminded senior who pushed her glasses up over her forehead, searched diligently for them through the halls and locker-room, and, convinced that she had lost them on the street, inserted an advertisement in one of the Oakdale newspapers before going home that night. "She did," replied Jessica. "She has always said that she wanted the job of writing the grinds." At the close of the exercises Grace delivered a spirited senior charge which was ably answered by the junior president. The class song composed by Jessica was sung, then graduates and audience joined in singing "Auld Lang Syne." Then the air was rent with class yells, while the graduates received the congratulations of their friends and then repaired to their banquet. Wednesday brought Hippy, Reddy and David and also Donald Earle to Oakdale, while Tom Gray and Arnold Evans appeared on Thursday afternoon, to the relief of their young friends. "Better late than never," called Tom Gray as he and Arnold hurried off the train to where David and his three friends stood eagerly scanning the train for them. "We thought it would be never," retorted Hippy. "We were about to postpone commencement until some time next week, and order the flags at half mast, but now things can proceed as usual." "Hustle up, fellows," commanded David. "We're not the only ones who were anxious. The girls are all over at our house. There'll be a foregathering and a dinner there, and an after-gathering at your aunt's, Tom. So pile into my car and I'll take you up Chapel Hill on the double quick." Inside of an hour the two young men were crossing the Nesbit's lawn and making for the broad veranda where a bevy of pretty girls stood ready to greet them. "We are so glad you got here at last," cried Grace. "If you hadn't come on that train you wouldn't have seen us graduate. The next train from your part of the world doesn't get in until ten o'clock." "We missed the early train and had to wait two hours," replied Tom, "but now that we are here, you'll find that you can't drive us away with a club." "We shan't try to," said Nora. "Now, if you were Hippy--" "Nothing could drive me from your presence," interrupted Hippy hastily, "so don't try it. Let's change the subject. That word club has an ugly sound. It makes me nervous." "Never mind, Hippy," said Miriam. "Nora shall not tease you. I'll protect you." "Nora, go away, I am protected!" exclaimed Hippy, and, getting behind Miriam, he peered forth at Nora with such a ludicrous expression that she laughed, and immediately declared a truce by allowing him to sit on the rustic seat beside her. It was a memorable dinner. The girls in their dainty white graduating gowns, their eyes alight with the joy of youth, and the young men with their clean-cut, boyish faces made a picture that Mrs. Nesbit viewed with a feeling of pleasure that was akin to pain. The start for Assembly Hall was made at a little after seven, as the girls were to join the senior class there, and proceed to the stage, where the class was to sit in a body. Nearly every member of the class carried flowers of some description that had been given to them by their families and friends. Grace and her chums were supremely happy in that their little social world had turned out to do them honor. Mrs. Gray and Miss Nevin, accompanied by Eleanor's father, were seated near the front with Mrs. Gibson and the Southards, who had arrived at Hawk's Nest on the previous day. Grace's father and mother, Judge Putnam and his sister, Mrs. Nesbit, Nora's brothers and sister and Jessica's father were scattered about through the house. When the graduates took their places upon the stage, there was tumultuous applause. To the citizens of Oakdale who had known the young women from babyhood, the present class seemed the finest Oakdale High School had yet turned out. "Bless the dears," said Miss Thompson to Miss Tebbs, as the girls filed past them and on to the stage. "They are without exception the most brilliant lot of girls I have ever had charge of. But of them all there is no one of them quite equal to Grace. She is the ideal type of all that a High School girl should be, and when I say that I have paid her the highest compliment in my power." The slight difficulty that had arisen between Grace and the principal during Grace's junior year had long since been adjusted by Eleanor, who had gone to Miss Thompson with a frank confession of her transgressions during her junior year. Miss Thompson had freely forgiven her and had fully appreciated the sense of honor that had prompted the deed. As the class was large, fifteen girls from the entire number had been chosen to deliver essays and addresses. Among these were Anne, Eleanor, Grace, Miriam and Nora. "I'm just as well satisfied that I was not chosen," Jessica whispered to Eva Allen, as Grace stepped forward to deliver the salutatory address. "It's easy to see who is first in the hearts of Oakdale," returned Eva. "Grace won't be able to begin this evening if they don't stop it." The moment that Grace had risen to deliver her address the commotion began, and it was not until Miss Thompson rose and smilingly held up her hand for silence that the noisy reception accorded Grace died away. Anne, as valedictorian, was only a trifle less warmly received, and her eyes grew misty as she remembered how she had come to Oakdale poor and unknown, and entirely without friends, until Grace had so nobly championed her cause. The bestowal of the freshman prize followed the graduates' addresses. Then came the announcement of the winners of the scholarships. There were two of these and every one of Anne's friends listened anxiously for her name. They were not disappointed, for Anne's name was the first called. She had won the Upton Scholarship of two hundred and fifty dollars a year, at whatever college she should decide to enter. After the scholarships had been disposed of, a representative of each of the three lower classes in turn, beginning with the freshmen, presented the gymnasium money to Miss Thompson. The freshmen had collected over three hundred dollars, the sophomores five hundred and the juniors six hundred and fifty dollars. Lastly, Grace rose from her place among her class and presented Miss Thompson with a check for the two thousand dollars, part of which had figured in the limelight of publicity. And there was one girl in the row of graduates whose heart beat uncomfortably faster for a moment as she thought of how differently it might have all ended for her had it not been for the fearless energy of Grace Harlowe. It was over at last, the graduates received their diplomas and were admonished as to their future careers by the president of the Board of Education, whose speech concluded the exercises. As they were leaving the stage, Jessica, whose eyes had been anxiously searching the audience from the beginning of the exercises, gave a little cry and hurrying down the steps, rushed straight into the arms of a brown-eyed girl in a traveling gown who stood waiting at the foot of the steps. "Oh, you dear Mabel," cried Jessica joyously. "Where did you come from!" "Mother and I didn't get in until almost nine o'clock, so we came here at once," replied Mabel Allison. "Mother is over there. Come and see her." "I have been so disappointed," declared Jessica. "We hoped you would be here for class day, and when you didn't come to-day I gave up in despair." "We intended to start last Friday, but mother was ill for a day or two, and that delayed us. You know it is quite a journey from Denver here." Jessica and Mabel quickly made their way to Mrs. Allison, and a moment or two later were surrounded by the Phi Sigma Tau, and marched off in triumph to Mrs. Gray, who was in the midst of a group of her intimate friends. After a great deal of handshaking and general greeting, the entire party of guests, young and old, set off for Mrs. Gray's beautiful home. The young people had elected to walk and strolled along through the white moonlight, care free, the world before them. The older members of the party who had ridden to the house were awaiting them on the veranda. Soon after they all repaired to the dining room, where a collation was served them at two long tables, at the close of which toasts were in order, and every one was "drunk down" in the fruit punch provided for the occasion. When the gamut of toasting had been finally run, Mr. Harlowe arose and said: "I have been appointed as spokesman by a committee composed of the fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters of the eight young women who are the cause of all this celebration. The committee of which I speak may not in any sense compare with that august body known as the Phi Sigma Tau, but nevertheless it can boast of at least having held several secret sessions, the result of those sessions being this: "A long time ago I promised my daughter Grace that my graduation gift to her should be a trip to Europe. Knowing what an addition to the trip the society of her young friends would be, I interviewed those responsible for the welfare of the Phi Sigma Tau, and it was decided that her sorority should accompany her. "As certain members of the aforesaid committee also feel entitled to vacations, it is quite probable that the Phi Sigma Tau will sail with at least a round dozen of chaperons. In fact, I have seriously considered chartering a liner. Now I have done my duty and any one who wishes may make remarks." Then a perfect babble arose, and every one tried to express their opinion at once. As for the Phi Sigma Tau, they were in the seventh heaven of rapture. Even Anne, who in spite of Mr. Harlowe's assurance, knew that for her the trip was practically impossible, rejoiced for her friends' sake. "Come here, Anne," commanded Mrs. Gray from the head of the table. "Anne is my own dear child," said the old lady. "In the past four years she has been not only my secretary, but a daughter as well. As her foster mother, I claim the privilege of sending her to Europe. It shall be my graduation gift to her." "Three cheers for Mrs. Gray," proposed Hippy, rising, and they were given with a will. "And are all of you boys going, too?" Grace asked delightedly of Tom Gray. "Going? Well, I rather think so," he replied with emphasis. "We are going all at once and with both feet foremost," declared Hippy. "First we shall all be sea sick. After that we shall prowl about Westminster Abbey and ruin our eyesight reading inscriptions on tombs. After that we shall be arrested in France for our Franco-American accent. We shall break our collar bones and bruise our shins doing strenuous Alpine stunts, and we shall turn a disapproving eye upon Russia and incidentally expose a few Nihilists. We shall fish in the Grand Canal at Venice and wear out our shoes prancing about Florence on a still hunt for old masters. "Last, and by no means least, we shall sample everything to eat from English muffins to Hungarian goulash." "I knew he'd end with something like that," sniffed Nora contemptuously. "I am surprised that he ended at all," laughed David. Those who have followed Grace Harlowe through her four years at High School, will hear from her again in college. In "Grace Harlowe's First Year at Overton College" are set down the eventful happenings of her freshman year, and her many friends will find her to be the same generous, warm-hearted young woman who won their admiration and respect during her High School days. THE END. 
42015	----	HELEN IN THE EDITOR'S CHAIR by RUTHE S. WHEELER The Goldsmith Publishing Company Chicago Copyright, 1932 The Goldsmith Publishing Company Made in U. S. A. CHAPTER CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Weekly Herald. 13 II. Startling News. 22 III. In The Editor's Chair. 34 IV. Through the Storm. 50 V. Reporting Plus. 62 VI. A New Week Dawns. 75 VII. The First Issue. 93 VIII. Mystery in the Night. 111 IX. Rescue on Lake Dubar. 124 X. Behind the Footlights. 139 XI. New Plans. 160 XII. Special Assignment. 177 XIII. Helen's Exclusive Story. 195 XIV. The Queen's Last Trip. 209 XV. Success Attends. 225 Helen in the Editor's Chair CHAPTER I _The Weekly Herald_ Thursday! Press day! Helen Blair anxiously watched the clock on the wall of the assembly room. Five more minutes and school would be dismissed for the day. How those minutes dragged. She moved her books impatiently. Finally the dismissal bell sounded. Helen straightened the books in her desk and, with the 162 others in the large assembly of the Rolfe High School, rose and marched down to the cloak room. She was glad that school was over for, to her, Thursday was the big day of the week. Press day! What magic lay in those two words. By supper time the _Rolfe Herald_ would be in every home in town and, when families sat down to their evening meal, they would have the paper beside them. Helen's father, Hugh Blair, was the editor and publisher of the _Herald_. Her brother, Tom, a junior in high school, wrote part of the news and operated the Linotype, while Helen helped in the office every night after school and on Saturdays. On Thursday her work comprised folding the papers as they came off the clanking press. Her arms ached long before her task was done, but she prided herself on the neatness of the stacks of papers that grew as she worked. "Aren't you going to stay for the final sophomore debate tryouts?" asked Margaret Stevens. Margaret, daughter of the only doctor in Rolfe, lived across the street from the Blairs. "Not this afternoon," smiled Helen, "this is press day." "I'd forgotten," laughed Margaret. "All right, hurry along and get your hands covered with ink." "Come over after supper and tell me about the tryouts," said Helen. "I will," promised Margaret as she turned to the classroom where the tryouts were to be held. The air was warm and Helen, with her spring coat over her arm, hurried from the high school building and started down the long hill that led to the main street. Rolfe was a pretty midwestern village tucked away among the hills bordering Lake Dubar, a long, narrow body of water that attracted summer visitors from hundreds of miles away. The main street, built along a valley that opened out on the lake shore, was a broad, graveled street, flanked by a miscellaneous collection of stores and shops. Some of them were of weather-beaten red brick, others were of frame and a few of them, harking back to pioneer days, had false fronts. In the afternoon sun, it presented a quiet, friendly scene. Helen reached the foot of the school house hill and turned on to the main street. On the right of the street and just two blocks from the lake shore stood the one-story frame structure housing the postoffice and her father's printing plant. The postoffice occupied the front half of the building and the _Herald_ office was the rear. Helen walked down the alleyway between the postoffice and the Temple furniture store. She heard the noise of the press before she reached the office and knew that her father had started the afternoon run. The _Herald_, an eight page paper, used four pages of ready print and four pages of home print. Each week's supply of paper was shipped from Cranston, where four pages filled with prepared news and pictures, were printed. The other four, carrying local advertisements and news of Rolfe and vicinity were printed on the aged press in the _Herald_ office. Helen hurried up the three steps leading to the editorial office. Its one unwashed window shut out the sunlight, and the office lay in a semi-shadow. Unable to see clearly after the brightness of the sunlight, she did not see her father at his desk when she entered the office. "Hello, Dad," she called as she took off her tam and sailed it along the counter where it finally came to rest against a stack of freshly printed _Heralds_. Her father did not answer and Helen was on the point of going on into the composing room when she turned toward him. His head still rested on his arms and he gave no sign of having heard her. Concerned over his silence, she hurried to his desk. "Dad, Dad!" she cried. "What's the matter! Answer me!" Her father's head moved and he looked up at her. His face was pale and there were dark hollows under his eyes. "I'm all right, Helen," he said, but the usual smile was missing. "Just felt a little faint and came in here to take a few minutes rest. I'll be all right shortly. You go on and help Tom. I'll be with you in a while." "But if you don't feel well, Dad, you'd better go home and rest," insisted Helen. "You know Tom and I can finish getting out the paper. Now you run along and don't worry about things at the office." She reached for his hat and coat hanging on a hook at one side of the desk. He remonstrated at the prospect of going home with the work only half done, but Helen was adamant and her father finally gave in. "Perhaps it will be best," he agreed as he walked slowly toward the door. Helen watched him descend the steps; then saw him reach the street and turn toward home. She was startled by the expression she had just seen on her father's face. He had never been particularly robust and now he looked as though something had come upon him which was crushing his mind and body. Illness, worry and apprehension had carved lines in his face that afternoon. Helen went into the composing room where the Linotype, the rows of type cases, the makeup tables, the job press and the newspaper press were located. At the back end of the room was the large press, moving steadily back and forth as Tom, perched on a high stool, fed sheets of paper into one end. From the other came the freshly printed papers of that week's edition of the _Herald_. "Shut off the press," called Helen, shouting to make herself heard above the noise of the working machinery. "What say?" cried Tom. "Shut it off," his sister replied. Tom scowled as he reached for the clutch to stop the press. He liked nothing better than running the press and when he had it well under way, usually printed the whole edition without a stop unless the paper became clogged or he had to readjust the ink rollers. "What's the idea?" he demanded. "I'm trying to get through so I can play some baseball before dark." "Dad's sick," explained Helen, "and I made him go home. Do you know what's the matter?" "Gosh, no," said Tom as he climbed down from his stool. "He wasn't feeling very well when I came down from school and said he was going in the office to rest, but I didn't know he felt that badly." "Well, he did," replied Helen, "and I'm worried about him." "We always take him more or less for granted. He goes on year after year working in the office, getting enough together to make us all comfortable and hoping that he can send us to college some day. We help him when we can, but he plugs away day after day and I've noticed lately that he hasn't been very perky. Mother has been worried, too. I can tell from the way she acts when Dad comes home at night. She's always asking him how he feels and urging him to get to bed early. I tell you, Tom, something's wrong with Dad and we've got to find out and help him." "Let's go get Doctor Stevens right now," said the impetuous Tom, and he reached to shut off the motor of the press. "Not now," said Helen. "If Dad thought we weren't getting the paper out on time he'd worry all the more. We'll finish the paper and then have Doctor Stevens come over this evening. We can fix it so he'll just drop in for a social call." "Good idea," said Tom as he climbed back on his stool and threw in the clutch. The press started its steady clanking and Helen picked up a pile of papers and spread them out on one of the makeup stones. Her father had printed two of the pages of home news during the morning and these sheets were stacked in a pile in one corner. She arranged two piles of papers on the makeup table, one pile which her father had printed and one of papers which were coming off the press as fast as Tom could keep it rolling. Helen put on a heavy, blue-denim apron to protect her school dress and went to work. With nimble hands she put the sheets of paper together, folded them with a quick motion and slid the completed paper off the table and onto a box placed close by for that purpose. The press, of unknown vintage, moved slowly and when Helen started at the same time as Tom she could fold the papers as rapidly as they were printed. But that day Tom, who had managed to be excused half an hour early, had too much of a start and when he finished the press run Helen still had several hundred papers to fold. Tom stopped the press, shut off the motor, raised the ink rollers and then pulled the forms off the press and carried them to the other makeup table. After washing the ink off the type with a gasoline-soaked rag, he gathered an armful of papers Helen had folded and carried them into the editorial office. There he got out the long galleys which held the names of the subscribers. He inked each galley, placed it in the mailing machine, and then fed the papers into the mailer. They came out with the name of a subscriber printed at the top of each paper. The young Blairs worked silently, hastening to complete their respective tasks so they could hurry home. Tom had forgotten his plans to play baseball and all thought of the outcome of the debate tryouts had left Helen's mind. There was one thought uppermost in their minds. What was the matter with their father? CHAPTER II _Startling News_ The last paper folded, Helen removed the heavy apron and washed her hands at the sink behind the press. When she entered the editorial office Tom was putting the last of the papers through the mailer. They gathered them up, placed them in a large sack and carried them into the postoffice. "We won't stop to sweep out tonight," said Helen. "Let's lock up and then see Doctor Stevens on our way home. He's usually in his office at this time." Tom agreed and, after putting away the mailing machine, locked the back door, closed the windows in the shop and announced that he was ready to go. Helen locked the front door and they walked down main street toward the white, one-story building which housed the office of Doctor Stevens, the town's only physician. Tom was tall and slender with wavy, brown hair and brown eyes that were always alive with interest. Helen came scarcely above his shoulder, but she was five feet two of concentrated energy. She had left her tam at the office and the afternoon sun touched her blond hair with gold. Her eyes were the same clear blue as her mother's and the rosy hue in her cheeks gave hint of her vitality. They entered Doctor Stevens' waiting room and found the genial physician reading a medical journal. "Hello, Helen! How are you Tom?" He boomed in his deep voice. "We're fine, Doctor Stevens," replied Helen, "but we're worried about Dad." "Why, what's the matter with your father?" asked the doctor, adjusting his glasses. "Dad wasn't feeling very well when I came down from school at three-thirty," said Tom, "and when I started the afternoon press run, he went into the office to rest a while. When Helen came in a little after four, Dad looked pretty rocky and she made him go home." "How did he look when you talked with him?" Doctor Stevens asked Helen. "Awfully tired and mighty worried," replied Helen. "It was his eyes more than anything else. He's afraid of something and it has worried him until he is positively ill." "And haven't you any idea what it could be?" asked the doctor. "I've been thinking about it ever since Dad went home," said Helen, "and I don't know of a single thing that would worry him that much." "Neither do I," added Tom. "What we'd like to have you do," went on Helen, "is to drop in after supper. Make it look like a little social visit and it will give you a good excuse to give Dad the once over. We'll be ever so much relieved if you will." "Of course I will," the doctor assured them. "You're probably worrying about some little thing and the more you think about it, the larger it grows. Possibly a little touch of stomach trouble. What have you been trying to cook, lately?" he asked Helen. "Couldn't be my cooking," she replied. "I haven't done any for a week and you know that Mother's good cooking would never make anyone ill." "I'll come over about seven-thirty," promised Doctor Stevens, "and don't you two worry yourselves over this. Your father will be all right in a day or two." Helen and Tom thanked Doctor Stevens and continued on their way home. They went back past the postoffice and the _Herald_ and down toward the lake, whose waters reflected the rays of the setting sun in varied hues. A block from the lake shore they turned to their right into a tree-shaded street and climbed a gentle hill. Their home stood on a knoll overlooking the lake. It was an old-fashioned house that had started out as a three room cottage. Additions had been made until it rambled away in several directions. It boasted no definite style of architecture, but had a hominess that few houses possess. From the long, open front porch, there was an unobstructed view down the lake, which stretched away in the distance, its far reaches hidden in the coming twilight. A speed boat, being loaded with the afternoon mail for the summer resorts down the lake, was sputtering at the big pier at the foot of main street. A bundle of _Heralds_ was placed on the boat and then it whisked away down the lake, a curving streak of white marking its passage. Helen found her mother in the kitchen preparing their evening meal. Mrs. Blair, at forty-five, was a handsome woman. Her hair had decided touches of gray but her face still held the peachbloom of youth and she looked more like an older sister than a mother. She had been a teacher in the high school at Rolfe when Hugh Blair had come to edit the country paper. The teacher and the editor had fallen in love and she had given up teaching and married him. "How's Dad?" Helen asked. "He doesn't feel very well," her mother replied and Helen could see lines of worry around her mother's eyes. "Don't worry, Mother," she counselled. "Dad has been working too hard this year. In two more weeks school will be over and Tom and I can do most of the work on the paper. You two can plan on a fine trip and a real rest this summer." "I hope so," said Mrs. Blair, "for your father certainly needs a change of some kind." Helen helped her mother with the preparations for supper, setting the table and carrying the food from the kitchen to the dining room where broad windows opened out on the porch. Tom, who had been upstairs washing the last of the ink from his hands, entered the kitchen. "Supper about ready?" he asked. "I'm mighty hungry tonight." "All ready," smiled his mother. "I'll call your father." Helen turned on the lights in the dining room and they waited for their father to come from his bedroom. They could hear low voices for several minutes and finally Mrs. Blair returned to the dining room. "We'll go ahead and eat," she managed to smile. "Your father doesn't feel like supper right now." Tom started to say something, but Helen shook her head and they sat down and started their evening meal. Mrs. Blair, usually gay and interested in the activities of the day, had little to say, but Helen talked of school and the activities and plans of the sophomore class. "We're going to have a picnic down the lake next Monday," she said. "That's nothing," said Tom, who was president of the junior class. "We're giving the seniors the finest banquet they've ever had." Whereupon they fell into a heated argument over the merits of the sophomores and juniors, a question which had been debated all year without a definite decision. Sometimes Tom considered himself the victor while on other occasions Helen had the best of the argument. Supper over, Helen helped her mother clear the table and wash the dishes. It was seven-thirty before they had finished their work in the kitchen and Mrs. Blair was on her way to her husband's room when Doctor Stevens, bag in hand, walked in. A neighbor for many years, the genial doctor did not stop to knock. "Haven't been in for weeks," he said, "so thought I'd drop over and chin with Hugh for a while." "Hugh isn't feeling very well," said Mrs. Blair. "He came home from the office this afternoon and didn't want anything for supper." "Let me have a look at him," said Doctor Stevens. "Suppose his stomach is out of whack or something like that." Tom and Helen, standing in the dining room, watched Doctor Stevens and their mother go down the hall to their father's bedroom. The next half hour was one of the longest in their young lives. Tom tried to read the continued story in the _Herald_, while Helen fussed at first one thing and then another. The door of their father's room finally opened and Doctor Stevens summoned them. Neither Tom nor Helen would ever forget the scene in their father's bedroom that night. Their mother, seated at the far side of the bed, looked at them through tear-dimmed eyes. Their father, reclining on the bed, looked taller than ever, and the lines of pain which Helen had noticed in his face that afternoon had deepened. His hands were moving nervously and his eyes were bright with fever. "Sit down," said Doctor Stevens as he took a chair beside Hugh Blair's bed. Tom was about to ask his father how he felt, when Doctor Stevens spoke again. "We might as well face this thing together," he said. "I'll tell you now that it is going to be something of a fight for all of you, but unless I'm mistaken, the Blairs are all real fighters." "What's the matter Doctor Stevens?" Helen's voice was low and strained. "Your father must take a thorough rest," he said. "He will have to go to some southwestern state for a number of months. Perhaps it will only take six months, but it may be longer." "But I can't be away that long," protested Hugh Blair. "I must think of my family, of the _Herald_." "Your family must think of you now," said Doctor Stevens firmly. "That's why I wanted to talk this over with Tom and Helen." "Just what is wrong, Dad?" asked Tom. Doctor Stevens answered the question. "Lung trouble," he said quietly. "Your father has spent too many years bent over his desk in that dark cubbyhole of his--too many years without a vacation. Now he's got to give that up and devote a number of months to building up his body again." Helen felt the blood racing through her body. Her throat went dry and her head ached. She had realized only that afternoon that her father wasn't well but she had not been prepared for Doctor Stevens' announcement. The doctor was talking again. "I blame myself partly," he was telling Hugh Blair. "You worked yourself into this almost under my eyes, and I never dreamed what was happening. Too close to you, I guess." "When do you think Hugh should start for the southwest?" asked Helen's mother. "Just as soon as we can arrange things," replied Doctor Stevens. "This is Thursday. I'd like to have him on the way by Saturday night. Every day counts." "That's impossible," protested Hugh Blair, half rising from his bed. "I don't see how I can possibly afford it. Think of the expense of a trip down there, of living there. What about the _Herald_? What about my family?" A plan had been forming in Helen's mind from the time Doctor Stevens had said her father must go to a different climate. "Everything will be all right, Dad," she said. "There isn't a reason in the world why you shouldn't go. Tom and I are capable of running the _Herald_ and with what you've saved toward our college educations, you can make the trip and stay as long as you want to." "But I couldn't think of using your college money," protested her father, "even if you and Tom could run the _Herald_." "Helen's got the right idea," said Doctor Stevens. "Your health must come above everything else right now. I'm sure those youngsters can run the _Herald_. Maybe they'll do an even better job than you," he added with a twinkle in his eyes. "We can run the paper in fine shape, Dad," said Tom. "If you hired someone from outside to come in and take charge it would eat up all the profits. If Helen and I run the _Herald_, we'll have every cent we make for you and mother." Mrs. Blair, who had been silent during the discussion, spoke. "Hugh," she said, "Tom and Helen are right. I know how you dislike using their college money, but it is right that you should. I am sure that they can manage the _Herald_." Thus it was arranged that Tom and Helen were to take charge of the _Herald_. They talked with the superintendent of schools the next day and he agreed to excuse them from half their classes for the remaining weeks of school with the provision that they must pass all of their final examinations. Friday and Saturday passed all too quickly. Helen busied herself collecting the current accounts and Tom spent part of the time at the office doing job work and the remainder at home helping with the packing. Saturday noon Tom went to the bank and withdrew the $1,275 their father had placed in their college account. The only money left was $112 in the _Herald_ account, just enough to take care of running expenses of the paper. Hugh Blair owned his home and his paper, was proud of his family and his host of friends, but of actual worldly wealth he had little. Doctor Stevens drove them to the Junction thirty miles away where Hugh Blair was to take the Southwestern limited. There was little conversation during the drive. The limited was at the junction when they arrived and goodbyes were brief. Hugh Blair said a few words to his wife, who managed to smile through her tears. Then he turned to Tom and Helen. "Take good care of the _Herald_," he told them, as he gave them a goodbye hug. "We will Dad and you take good care of yourself," they called as he climbed into the Pullman. Cries of "boooo-ard," sounded along the train. The porters swung their footstools up into the vestibules, the whistle sounded two short, sharp blasts, and the limited rolled away from the station. Tom, Helen and their mother stood on the platform until the train disappeared behind a hill. When they turned toward home, Tom and Helen faced the biggest responsibility of their young lives. It was up to them to continue the publication of the _Herald_, to supply the money to keep their home going and to build up a reserve which their father could call upon if he was forced to use all the money from their college fund. CHAPTER III _In the Editor's Chair_ Sunday morning found Tom and Helen Blair entering a new era in their lives. While their father sped toward the southwest in quest of renewed health, they planned how they could develop the _Herald_. Their mother was silent through breakfast and several times they saw her eyes dim with tears. "Don't worry, Mother," said Helen. "We'll manage all right and Dad is going to pull through in fine shape. Why, he'll be back with us by Christmas time." "I wish I could be as optimistic as you are, Helen," said Mrs. Blair. "You'll feel better in a few more hours," said Tom. "It's the suddenness of it all. Now we've got to buckle down and make the _Herald_ keep on paying dividends." Tom and Helen helped their mother clear away the breakfast dishes and then dressed for Sunday school. Mrs. Blair taught a class of ten-to-twelve-year-old girls. Tom and Helen were in the upper classes. The Methodist church they attended was a red brick structure, the first brick building built in Rolfe, and it was covered with English ivy that threatened even to hide the windows. The morning was warm and restful and they enjoyed the walk from home to church. The minister was out of town on his vacation and there were no church services. After Sunday school the Blairs walked down to the postoffice. The large mail box which was rented for the _Herald_ was filled with papers, circulars and letters. "We might as well go back to the office and sort this out," said Tom, and Mrs. Blair and Helen agreed. The office was just as Tom and Helen had left it Thursday night for they had been too busy since then helping with the arrangements for their father's departure to clean it up. The type was still in the forms, papers were scattered on the floor and dust had gathered on the counter and the desk which had served Hugh Blair for so many years. "I'll open the windows and the back door," said Tom, "and we'll get some air moving through here. It's pretty stuffy." Mrs. Blair sat down in the swivel chair in front of her husband's desk and Helen pulled up the only other chair in the office, an uncomfortable straight-backed affair. "You're editor now," Mrs. Blair told Helen. "You'd better start in by sorting the mail." "Tom's in charge," replied Helen as her brother returned to the office. "Let's not argue," said Tom. "We'll have a business meeting right now. Mother, you represent Dad, who is the owner. Now you decide who will be what." "What will we need?" smiled Mrs. Blair. "We need a business manager first," said Helen. "Wrong," interjected Tom. "It's a publisher." "Then I say let's make it unanimous and elect mother as publisher," said Helen. "Second the motion," grinned Tom. "If there are no objections, the motion is declared passed," said Helen. "And now Mother, you're the duly elected publisher of the _Rolfe Herald_." "I may turn out to be a hard-boiled boss," said Mrs. Blair, but her smile belied her words. "We're not worrying a whole lot," said Tom. "The next business is selecting a business manager, a mechanical department, an editor, and a reporter. Also a couple of general handymen capable of doing any kind of work on a weekly newspaper." "That sounds like a big payroll for a paper as small as the _Herald_," protested Mrs. Blair. "I think you'll be able to get them reasonable," said Tom. "In which case," added Helen, "you'd better appoint Tom as business manager, mechanical department, and handyman." "And you might as well name Helen as editor, reporter and first assistant to the handyman," grinned Tom. "I've filled my positions easier than I expected," smiled Mrs. Blair. "As publisher, I'll stay at home and keep out of your way." "Mother, we don't want you to do that," exclaimed Helen. "We want you to come down and help us whenever you have time." "But what could I do?" asked her mother. "Lots of things. For instance, jot down all of the personal items you know about your friends and about all of the club meetings. That would be a great help to me. Sometimes in the evening maybe you'd even find time to write them up, for Tom and I are going to be frightfully busy between going to school and running the _Herald_." "I'll tell the town," said Tom. "If you'd handle the society news, Mother, you could make it a great feature. The _Herald_ has never paid much attention to the social events in town. Guess Dad was too busy. But I think the women would appreciate having all of their parties written up. I could set up a nice head, 'Society News of Rolfe,' and we'd run a column or so every week on one of the inside pages." "You're getting me all excited, Tom," said his mother. "Your father said I never would make a newspaper woman but if you and Helen will have a little patience with me, I'd really enjoy writing the social items." "Have patience with you, Mother?" said Helen. "It's a case of whether you'll have patience with us." "We're going to have to plan our time carefully," said Tom, "for we'll have to keep up in our school work. I've got it doped out like this. Superintendent Fowler says Helen and I can go half days and as long as we cover all of the class work, receive full credit. The first half of the week is going to be the busiest for me. I'll have to solicit my ads, set them up, do what job work I have time for and set up the stories Helen turns out for the paper. I could get in more time in the afternoon than in the morning so Helen had better plan on taking the mornings on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday away from school." "It will work out better for her, too," went on Tom. "Many of the big news events happen over the week-end and she'll be on the job Monday morning. I'll have every afternoon and evening for my share of the work and for studying. Then we'll both take Thursday afternoon away from school and get the paper out. And on Friday, Mother, if you'll come down and stay at the office, we'll go to school all day. How does that sound?" "Seems to me you've thought of everything," agreed Helen. "I like the idea of doing my editorial work in the mornings the first part of the week and I'll be able to do some of it after school hours." "Then it looks like the _Herald_ staff is about ready to start work on the next issue," said Tom. "We have a publisher, a business manager and an editor. What we need now are plenty of ads and lots of news." "What would you say, Mother, if Tom and I stayed down at the office a while and did some cleaning up?" asked Helen. "Under the circumstances, I haven't any objections," said their mother. "There isn't any church service this morning and you certainly can put in a few hours work here in the office to good advantage. I'll stay and help you with the dusting and sweeping." "You run on home and rest," insisted Helen. "Also, don't forget Sunday dinner. We'll be home about two or two-thirty, and we'll be hungry by that time." Mrs. Blair picked up the Sunday papers and after warning Tom and Helen that dinner would be ready promptly at two-thirty, left them in the office. "Well, Mr. Business Manager, what are you going to start on?" asked Helen. "Mr. Editor," replied Tom, "I've got to throw in all the type from last week's forms. What are you going to do?" "The office needs a good cleaning," said Helen. "I'm going to put on my old apron and spend an hour dusting and mopping. You keep out or you'll track dirt in while I'm doing it." Tom took off the coat of his Sunday suit, rolled up his shirt sleeves and donned the ink-smeared apron he wore when working in the composing room. Helen put on the long apron she used when folding papers and they went to work with their enthusiasm at a high pitch. Their task was not new but so much now depended on the success of their efforts that they found added zest in everything they did. Helen went through the piles of old papers on her father's desk, throwing many of them into the large cardboard carton which served as a wastebasket. When the desk was finally in order, she turned her attention to the counter. Samples of stationery needed to be placed in order and she completely rearranged the old-fashioned show case with its display of job printing which showed what the _Herald_ plant was capable of doing. With the desk and counter in shape, Helen picked up all of the papers on the floor, pulled the now heavily laden cardboard carton into the composing room, and then secured the mop and a pail of water. The barber shop, located below the postoffice, kept the building supplied with warm water, and Helen soon had a good pail of suds. Tom stopped his work in the composing room and came in to watch the scrubbing. "First time that floor has been scrubbed in years," he said. "I know it," said Helen as she swished her mop into the corners. "Dad was running the paper and Mother was too busy bringing us up to come down here and do it for him." "He'll never recognize the old place when he comes back," said Tom. "We'll brighten it up a little," agreed Helen, as Tom returned to his task of throwing in the type. Helen had the editorial office thoroughly cleaned by one o'clock and sat down in her father's swivel chair to rest. Tom called in from the back room. "You'd better plan your editorial work for the week," he said. "I want to run the Linotype every afternoon and you'll have to have copy for me." "What do you want first?" said Helen. "Better get the editorials ready today," he replied. "They don't have to be absolutely spot copy. Dad wrote the first column himself and then clipped a column or a column and a half from nearby papers." "I'll get at it right away," said Helen. "The exchanges for last week are on the desk. After I've gone through them I'll write my own editorials." "Better have one about Dad going away," said Tom and there was a queer catch in his voice. Helen did not answer for her eyes filled with a strange mist and her throat suddenly felt dry and full. Their father's departure for the southwest had left a great void in their home life but Helen knew they would have to make the best of it. She was determined that their efforts on the _Herald_ be successful. Helen turned to the stack of exchanges which were on the desk and opened the editorial page of the first one. She was a rapid reader and she scanned paper after paper in quest of editorials which would interest readers of the _Herald_. When she found one she snipped it out with a handy pair of scissors and pasted it on a sheet of copy paper. Six or seven were needed for the _Herald's_ editorial page and it took her half an hour to get enough. With the clipped editorials pasted and new heads written on them, Helen turned to the typewriter to write the editorials for the column which her father was accustomed to fill with his own comments on current subjects. Helen had stacked the copypaper in a neat pile on the desk and she took a sheet and rolled it into the typewriter. She had taken a commercial course the first semester and her mastery of the touch system of typing was to stand her in good stead for her work as editor of the _Herald_. For several minutes the young editor of the _Herald_ sat motionless in front of her typewriter, struggling to find the right words. She knew her father would want only a few simple sentences about his enforced absence from his duties as publisher of the paper. Then Helen got the idea she wanted and her fingers moved rapidly over the keys. The leading editorial was finished in a short time. It was only one paragraph and Helen took it out of the machine and read it carefully. "Mr. Hugh Blair, editor and publisher of the _Herald_ for the last twenty years, has been compelled, by ill health, to leave his work at Rolfe and go to a drier climate for at least six months. In the meantime, we ask your cooperation and help in our efforts to carry out Mr. Blair's ideals in the publication of the _Herald_. Signed, Mrs. Hugh Blair, Helen and Tom Blair." After reading the editorial carefully, Helen called to her brother. "Come in and see what you think of my lead editorial," she said. Tom, his hands grimy with ink from the type he had been throwing into the cases, came into the editorial office. He whistled in amazement at the change Helen had brought about. The papers were gone from the floor, which had been scrubbed clean, and the desk and counter were neat and orderly. "Looks like a different office," he said. "But wait until I have a chance to swing a broom and mop in the composing room. And I'm going to fix some of the makeup tables so they'll be a little handier." Helen handed him the editorial and Tom read it thoughtfully. "It's mighty short," he said, "but it tells the story." "Dad wouldn't want a long sob story," replied Helen. "Here's the clipped editorials. You can put them on the hook on your Linotype and I'll bring the others out as soon as I write them." Tom returned to the composing room with the handful of editorial copy Helen had given him and the editor of the _Herald_ resumed her duties. She wrote an editorial on the beauty of Rolfe in the spring and another one on the desirability for a paved road between Rolfe and Gladbrook, the county seat. In advocating the paved road, Helen pointed to the increased tourist traffic which would be drawn to Rolfe as soon as a paved road made Lake Dubar accessible to main highways. It was nearly two o'clock when she finished her labor at the typewriter. She was tired and hungry. One thing sure, being editor of the _Herald_ would be no easy task. Of that she was convinced. "Let's go home for dinner," she called to Tom. "Suits me," replied her brother. "I've finished throwing in the last page. We're all ready to start work on the next issue." They took off their aprons and while Helen washed her hands, Tom closed the windows and locked the back door. He took his turn at the sink and they locked the front door and started for home. "What we need now is a good, big story for our first edition," said Tom. "We may have it before nightfall if those clouds get to rolling much more," said Helen. Tom scanned the sky. The sunshine of the May morning had vanished. Ominous banks of clouds were rolling over the hills which flanked the western valley of Lake Dubar and the lake itself was lashed by white caps, spurred by a gusty wind. They went down main street, turned off on the side street and climbed the slope to their home. Mrs. Blair was busy putting some heavy pots over flowers she wanted to protect from the wind. "Dinner's all ready," she told them, "and I've asked Margaret Stevens over. She wants to talk with Helen about the sophomore class picnic tomorrow." "I won't have time to go," said Helen. "We'll be awfully busy working on the next issue." "You're on the class committee, aren't you?" asked Tom. "Yes." "Then you're going to the picnic. We'll have lots to do on the _Herald_ but we won't have to give up all of our other activities." "Tom is right," said Mrs. Blair. "You must plan on going to the picnic." Margaret Stevens came across the street from her home. Margaret was a decided brunette, a striking contrast to Helen's blondness. "We'll go in and eat," said Mrs. Blair. "Then we'll come out and watch the storm. There is going to be a lot of wind." Margaret was jolly and good company and Helen thought her mother wise to have a guest for dinner. It kept them from thinking too much about their father's absence. There was roast beef and hashed brown potatoes with thick gravy, lettuce salad, pickled beets, bread and butter, large glasses of rich milk and lemon pie. "I've never tasted a better meal," said Tom between mouthfuls. "That's because you've been so busy at the office," smiled his mother. "We were moving right along," agreed Tom. "I got the forms all ready for the next issue and Helen has the editorials done." "Won't you need a reporter?" asked Margaret. "We may need one but Helen and Mother are going to try and do all the news writing," said Tom. "I mean a reporter who would work for nothing. I'd like to help for I've always wanted to write." "You could be a real help, Margaret," said Helen, "and we'd enjoy having you help us. Keep your ears open for all of the personal items and tell Mother about any parties. She's going to write the society news." "We're getting quite a staff," smiled Tom. "I'm open for applications of anyone who wants to work in the mechanical department." "That's not as romantic as gathering and writing news," said Margaret. "But just as important," insisted Tom. The room darkened and a particularly heavy gust of wind shook the house. From the west came a low rumbling. Tom dropped his knife and fork and went to the front porch. "Come here, Helen!" he cried. "The storm's breaking. You're going to have your first big story right now!" CHAPTER IV _Through the Storm_ Tom's cry brought the others from the dinner table to the screened-in porch which overlooked the lake. He was right. The storm was roaring down out of the hills in the west in all its fury. The black clouds which had been rolling along the horizon when Tom and Helen had come home were massed in a solid, angry front. Driven by a whistling wind, they were sweeping down on the lake. An ominous fringe of yellow wind clouds dashed on ahead and as they reached the porch they saw the waters of Lake Dubar whiten before the fury of the wind. "Looks like a twister," shouted Tom. His mother's face whitened and she anxiously scanned the sky. Doctor Stevens ran across from his home. "Better close all your windows and secure the doors," he warned. "We're going to get a lot of wind before the rain comes." "Tom is afraid of a tornado," said Mrs. Blair. "The weather is about right," admitted the doctor. "But we won't worry until we see the clouds start to swirl. Then we'll run for the storm cellar under my house." Helen and Margaret hurried to help Mrs. Blair close the upstairs windows while Tom went around to make sure that the screens were secure. He bolted all doors except the one to the porch and when he returned to join the others, the tempo of the wind was increasing rapidly. The wind suddenly dropped to a whisper and Doctor Stevens watched the rolling clouds with renewed anxiety. The waters of the lake were calmer and the dust clouds which the wind had driven over the water cleared partially. "Look!" cried Helen. "There's a motorboat trying to reach one of the boathouses here!" Through the haze of dust which still hung over the lake they could discern the outline of a boat, laboring to reach the safety of the Rolfe end of the lake. "It's Jim Preston," said Doctor Stevens. "He goes down to the summer resorts at the far end of the lake every Sunday morning with the mail and papers." "His boat's got a lot of water in it from the way it is riding," added Tom. "If the storm hits him he'll never make it." "Jim should have known better than to have taken a chance when he could see this mess of weather brewing," snorted the doctor. "His wife's sick," put in Mrs. Blair, "and Jim's probably taken an extra risk to get home as soon as possible." "I know," said Doctor Stevens. "He's bailing by hand," cried Tom. "That means something has gone wrong with the water pump on the engine." "Can you see what boat he has?" asked Doctor Stevens. "It looks like the Flyer," said Helen, who knew the lines of every motorboat on the lake. "That's the poorest wet weather boat Jim has," said Doctor Stevens. "Every white cap slops over the side. She's fast but a death trap in a storm. Either the Liberty or the Argosy would eat up weather like this." "Jim's been overhauling the engines in his other boats," said Tom, "and the Flyer is the only thing he has been using this spring." "Instead of standing here talking, let's get down to the shore," said Helen. "Maybe we can get someone to go out and help him." Without waiting for the others to reply, Helen started running toward the lake. She heard a cry behind her and turned to see Tom pointing toward the hills in the west. The wind was whistling again and when she turned to look in the direction her brother pointed, she stopped suddenly. The black storm clouds were massing for the main attack and they were rolling together. In the seconds that Helen watched, she saw them swirl toward a common center, heard the deafening rise of the wind and trembled as the clouds, now formed in a great funnel, started toward the lake. "Come back, Helen, come back!" Tom shouted. Forcing herself to overcome the storm terror which now gripped her, Helen looked out over the boiling waters of the lake. The wind was whipping into a new frenzy and she could just barely see the Flyer above the white-capped waves. Jim Preston was making a brave effort to reach shore and Helen knew that the little group at her own home were probably the only ones in Rolfe who knew of the boatman's danger. Seconds counted and ignoring the warning cries from her brother, she hurried on toward the lake. The noise of the oncoming tornado beat on her ears, but she dared not look toward the west. If she did she knew she would turn and race for the shelter and security of Doctor Stevens' storm cellar. The Flyer was rolling dangerously as Jim Preston made for the shore and Helen doubted if the boatman would ever make it. On and on the sleek craft pushed its way, the waves breaking over its slender, speedy nose and cascading back into the open cockpit in which Jim Preston was bailing furiously. The Flyer was nosing deeper into the waves as it shipped more water. When the ignition wires got wet the motor would stop and Preston's last chance would be gone. Helen felt someone grab her arms. It was Tom. "Come back!" he cried. "The tornado will be on us in another five minutes!" "We've got to help Mr. Preston," shouted Helen, and she refused to move. "All right, then I stay too," yelled Tom, who kept anxious eyes on the approaching tornado. The Flyer was less than a hundred yards from shore but was settling deeper and deeper into the water. "It's almost shallow enough for him to wade ashore," cried Helen. "Wind would sweep him off his feet," replied Tom. The speedboat was making slow progress, barely staggering along in its battle against the wind and waves. "He's going to make it!" shouted Helen. "I hope so," said Tom, but his words were lost in the wind. Fifty yards more and the Flyer would nose into the sandy beach which marked the Rolfe end of the lake. "Come on, Flyer, come on!" cried Helen. "The engine's dying," said Tom. "Look, the nose is going under that big wave." With the motor dead, the Flyer lost way and buried its nose under a giant white-cap. "He's jumping out of the boat," added Helen. "It's shallow enough so he can wade in if he can keep his feet." Ignoring the increasing danger of the tornado, they ran across the sandy beach. "Join hands," cried Helen. "We can wade out and pull him the last few feet." Realizing that his sister would go on alone if he did not help her, Tom locked his hands in hers and they plunged into the shallow water. Jim Preston, on the verge of exhaustion, staggered through the waves. The Flyer, caught between two large rollers, filled with water and disappeared less than ten seconds after it had been abandoned. The boatman floundered toward them and Tom and Helen found themselves hard-pressed to keep their own feet, for a strong undertow threatened to upset them and sweep them out into the lake. Preston lunged toward them and they caught him as he fell. Tom turned momentarily to watch the approach of the tornado. "Hurry!" he cried. "We'll be able to reach Doctor Stevens' storm cellar if we run." "I can't run," gasped Preston. "You youngsters get me to shore. Then save yourselves." "We'll do nothing of the kind," said Helen. With their encouragement, Preston made a new effort and they made their escape from the dangerous waters of the lake. Alone, Helen or Tom could have raced up the hill to Doctor Stevens in less than a minute but with an almost helpless man to drag between them, they made slow progress. "We've got to hurry," warned Tom as the noise of the storm told of its rapid approach. "Go on, go on! Leave me here!" urged Preston. But Helen and Tom were deaf to his pleas and they forced him to use the last of his strength in a desperate race up the hill ahead of the tornado. Doctor Stevens met them half way up the hill and almost carried Preston the rest of the way. "Across the street and into my storm cellar," he told them. "Is the tornado going to hit the town?" asked Helen as they hurried across the street. "Can't tell yet," replied Doctor Stevens. "There's a common belief that the hills and lake protect us so a tornado will never strike here," said Tom. "We'll soon know about that," said the doctor grimly. They got the exhausted boatman to the entrance of the cellar, where Mrs. Blair was anxiously awaiting their return. "Are you all right, Helen?" she asked. "A little wet on my lower extremities," replied the young editor of the _Herald_. "I simply had to go, mother." "Of course you did," said Mrs. Blair. "It was dangerous but I'm proud of you Helen." Mrs. Stevens brought out blankets and wrapped them around Jim Preston's shoulders while Margaret took candles down into the storm cellar. The noise of the storm had increased to such an intensity that conversation was almost impossible. Doctor Stevens maintained his watchful vigil, noting every movement of the tornado. The sky was so dark that the daylight had faded into dusk although it was only a few minutes after three. The whole western sky was filled with coal-black clouds and out of the center of this ominous mass rushed the lashing tongue which was destroying everything it touched. On and on came the storm, advancing with a deadly relentlessness. A farm house a little more than a mile away on one of the hills overlooking the lake exploded as though a charge of dynamite had been set off beneath it. "It's terrible, terrible," sobbed Margaret Stevens, who had come out of the cellar to watch the storm. "We're going to get hit," Tom warned them. "I've got to get home," said Jim Preston, struggling out of the blankets which Mrs. Stevens had wrapped around him. "My wife's all alone." "Stay here, Jim," commanded Doctor Stevens. "You couldn't get more than three or four blocks before the storm strikes and your place is clear across town. Everybody into the cellar," he commanded. Mrs. Stevens and Helen's mother went first to light the candles. They were followed by Margaret and Helen, then Tom and Jim Preston and finally the doctor, who remained in the doorway on guard. "What will this do to the _Herald_?" Helen whispered to Tom. Her brother nudged her hard. "Don't let Mother hear you," he replied. "There is nothing we can do now except hope. The _Herald_ building may not be destroyed." Helen dropped to the floor and her head bowed in prayer. Their father's illness had been a blow and to have the _Herald_ plant destroyed by a tornado would be almost more than they could bear. The noise of the tornado was terrific and they felt the earth trembling at the fury of the storm gods. Helen had seen pictures of towns razed by tornadoes but she had never dreamed that she would be in one herself. Suddenly the roar of the storm lessened and Doctor Stevens cautiously opened the door of the storm cellar. "We're safe!" he cried. They trooped out of the cellar. The tornado had swung away from Rolfe without striking the town itself and was lashing its way down the center of Lake Dubar. "It will wear itself out before it reaches the end of the lake," predicted Jim Preston. "I don't believe any houses in town were damaged," said Doctor Stevens. "A hen house and garage or two may have been unroofed but that will be about all." "How about the farmers back in the hills?" asked Helen. "They must have fared pretty badly if they were in the center of the storm," said the doctor. "I'm going to get my car and start out that way. Someone may need medical attention." "Can I go with you?" asked Helen. "I want to get all the facts about the storm for my story for the _Herald_." "Glad to have you," said the doctor. "Count me in," said Margaret Stevens. "I've joined Helen's staff as her first reporter," she told her father. "If you want to go down the lake in the morning and see what happened at the far end I'll be glad to take you," suggested Jim Preston. "I'm mighty grateful for what you and Tom did for me and I'll have the Liberty ready to go by morning." "What about the Flyer?" asked Tom. "I'll have to fish her out of the lake sometime next week," grinned the boatman. "I'm lucky even to be here, but I am, thanks to you." Doctor Stevens backed his sedan out of the garage and Helen started toward the car. "You can't go looking like that," protested her mother. "Your shoes and hose are wet and dirty and your dress looks something like a mop." "Can't help the looks, mother," smiled Helen. "I'll have to go as I am. This is my first big news and the story comes first." CHAPTER V _Reporting Plus_ Clouds which followed the terrific wind unleashed their burden and a gray curtain of rain swept down from the heavens. "Get your slickers," Doctor Stevens called to the girls and Helen raced across the street for her coat and a storm hat. "Better put on those heavy, high-topped boots you use for hiking," Tom advised Helen when they had reached the shelter of their own home. "You'll probably be gone the rest of the afternoon and you'll need the boots." Helen nodded her agreement and rummaged through the down stairs closet for the sturdy boots. She dragged them out and untangled the laces. Then she kicked off her oxfords and started to slide her feet into the boots. Her mother stopped her. "Put on these woolen stockings," she said. "Those light silk ones will wear through in an hour and your heels will be chafed raw." With heavy stockings and boots on, Helen slipped into the slicker which Tom held for her. She put on her old felt hat just as Doctor Stevens' car honked. "Bye, Mother," she cried. "Don't worry. I'll be all right with the doctor and Margaret." "Get all the news," cautioned Tom as Helen ran through the storm and climbed into the doctor's sedan. Margaret Stevens was also wearing heavy shoes and a slicker while the doctor had put on knee length rubber boots and a heavy ulster. "We'll get plenty of rain before we're back," he told the girls, "and we'll have to walk where the roads are impassable." They stopped down town and Doctor Stevens ran into his office to see if any calls had been left for him. When he returned his face was grave. "What's the matter?" asked Margaret. "I called the telephone office," replied her father, "and they said all the phone wires west of the lake were down but that reports were a number of farm houses had been destroyed by the tornado." "Then you think someone may have been hurt?" asked Helen. "I'm afraid so," admitted Doctor Stevens as he shifted gears and the sedan leaped ahead through the storm. "We'll have to trust to luck that we'll reach farms where the worst damage occurred." The wind was still of nearly gale force and the blasts of rain which swept the graveled highway rocked the sedan. There was little conversation as they left Rolfe and headed into the hill country which marked the western valley of Lake Dubar. The road wound through the hills and Doctor Stevens, unable to see more than fifty feet ahead, drove cautiously. "Keep a close watch on each side," he told the girls, "and when you see any signs of unusual damage let me know." They were nearly three miles from Rolfe when Margaret told her father to stop. "There's a lane to our right that is blocked with fallen tree trunks," she said. Doctor Stevens peered through the rain. A mail box leered up at them from a twisted post. "This is Herb Lauer's place," he said. "I'll get out and go up the lane." The doctor picked up his medical case and left the motor running so the heat it generated would keep ignition wires dry. One window was left open to guard against the car filling with gas and the girls followed him into the storm. They picked their way slowly over the fallen trees which choked the lane. When they finally reached the farmyard a desolate scene greeted them. The tornado, like a playful giant, had picked up the one story frame house and dashed it against the barn. Both buildings had splintered in a thousand pieces and only a huddled mass of wreckage remained. Miraculously, the corn crib had been left almost unharmed and inside the crib they could see someone moving. Doctor Stevens shouted and a few seconds later there came an answering cry. The girls followed him to the crib and found the family of Herb Lauer sheltered there. "Anyone hurt?" asked Doctor Stevens. "Herb's injured his arm," said Mrs. Lauer, who was holding their two young children close to her. "Think it's broken, Doc," said the farmer. "Broken is right," said Doctor Stevens as he examined the injury. "I'll fix up a temporary splint and in the morning you can come down and have it redressed." The doctor worked quickly and when he was ready to put on the splint had Margaret and Helen help him. In twenty minutes the arm had been dressed and put in a sling. "We'll send help out as soon as we can," said Doctor Stevens as they turned to go. Helen had used the time to good advantage, making a survey of the damage done to the farm buildings and learning that they were fully protected by insurance. Mrs. Lauer, between attempts to quiet the crying of the children, had given Helen an eye-witness account of the storm and how they had taken refuge in the corn crib just before the house was swirled from its foundations. Back in the car, the trio continued their relief trip. The rain abated and a little after four o'clock the sun broke through the clouds. Ditches along the road ran bankful with water and streams they crossed tore at the embankments which confined them. "The worst is over," said Doctor Stevens, "and we can be mighty thankful no one has been killed." Fifteen minutes later they reached another farm which had felt the effects of the storm. The house had been unroofed but the family had taken refuge in the storm cellar. No one had been injured, except for a few bruises and minor scratches. At dusk they were fifteen miles west of Rolfe and had failed to find anyone with serious injury. "We've about reached the limit of the storm area," said Doctor Stevens. "We'll turn now and start back for Rolfe on the Windham road." Their route back led them over a winding road and before they left the main graveled highway Doctor Stevens put chains on his car. They ploughed into the mud, which sloshed up on the sides of the machine and splattered against the windshield until they had to stop and clean the glass. Half way back to Rolfe they were stopped by a lantern waving in the road. Doctor Stevens leaned out the window. "What's the matter?" he asked. A farmer stepped out of the night into the rays of the lights of the car. "We need help," he cried. "The storm destroyed our house and one of my boys was pretty badly hurt. We've got to get him to a doctor." "I'm Doctor Stevens of Rolfe," said Margaret's father as he picked up his case and opened the door. "We need you doctor," said the farmer. Helen and Margaret followed them down the road and into a grassy lane. Lights were flickering ahead and when they reached a cattle shed they found a wood fire burning. Around the blaze were the members of the farmer's family and at one side of the fire was the blanket-swathed form of a boy of ten or eleven. "One of the timbers from the house struck him while he was running for the storm cave," explained the farmer. "He just crumpled up and hasn't spoken to us since. It's as though he was asleep." Doctor Stevens examined the boy. "He got a pretty nasty rap on the head," he said. "What he needs is a good bed, some warm clothes and hot food. We'll put him in my car and take him back to Rolfe. He'll be all right in two or three days." The doctor looked about him. "This is the Rigg Jensen place, isn't it?" he asked. "I'm Rigg Jensen," said the farmer. "You fixed me up about ten years ago when my shotgun went off and took off one of my little toes." "I remember that," said Doctor Stevens. "Now, if you'll help me carry the lad, we'll get him down to the car." "Hadn't I better go?" asked Mrs. Jensen. "Eddie may be scared if he wakes up and sees only strangers." "Good idea," said Doctor Stevens, as they picked up the boy and started for the car. Helen went ahead, carrying the lantern and lighting the way for the men. They made the boy comfortable in the back seat and his mother got in beside him. "Better come along," Doctor Stevens told the father. "Not tonight," was the reply. "Mother is with Eddie and I know he'll be all right now. I've got to take the lantern and see what happened to the livestock and what we've got left." There was no complaint in his voice, only a matter-of-factness which indicated that the storm could not have been prevented and now that it was all over he was going to make the best of it. Half an hour later they reached the gravel highway and sped into Rolfe. Doctor Stevens drove directly to his office and several men on the street helped him carry Eddie Jensen inside. "You'd better run along home," he told the girls, "and get something to eat." When Helen reached home, Tom was waiting on the porch. "Get a story?" he asked. The young editor of the _Herald_ nodded. "Anyone hurt?" Tom insisted. "No one seriously injured," replied Helen, "but a lot of farm buildings were destroyed." "I've been checking up on the damage down the lake," said Tom, "that new summer resort on the east shore got the worst of it. The phone office finally got through and they estimate the damage at the resort at about $50,000." "Doctor Stevens believes the damage along the west half of the valley will amount to almost a $100,000," said Helen. "That's a real story," enthused Tom. "It's big enough to telephone to the state bureau of the Associated Press at Cranston. They'll be glad to pay us for sending it to them." "You telephone," said Helen. "I'd be scared to death and wouldn't be able to give them all the facts." "You're the editor," replied Tom. "It's your story and you ought to do the phoning. Jot down some notes while I get a connection to Cranston." Tom went into the house to put in the long distance call just as Helen's mother hurried across from the Stevens home. "Are you all right, dear?" her mother asked. "Not even wet," replied Helen. "The coat and boots protected me even in the heaviest rain. Tom's just gone inside to call the Associated Press at Cranston and I'm going to tell them about the storm." "Hurry up there," came Tom's voice from inside the house. "The Cranston operator has just answered." "And I haven't had time to think what I'll say," added Helen, half to herself. Without stopping to take off her cumbersome raincoat, she hurried to the telephone stand in the dining room and Tom turned the instrument over to her. "All ready," he said. Helen picked up the telephone and heard a voice at the other end of the wire saying, "This is the state bureau of the Associated Press at Cranston. Who's calling?" Mustering up her courage, Helen replied, "this is Helen Blair, editor of the _Rolfe Herald_. We've had a tornado near here this afternoon and I thought you'd want the facts." "Glad to have them," came the peppy voice back over the wire. "Let's go." Helen forgot her early misgivings and briefly and concisely told her story about the storm, giving estimates of damage and the names of the injured. In three minutes she was through. "Fine story," said the Associated Press man at Cranston. "We'll mail you a check the first of the month. And say, you'd better write to us. We can use a live, wide-awake correspondent in your town." "Thanks, I will," replied Helen as she hung up the receiver. "What did he say?" asked Tom. "He told me to write them; that they could use a correspondent at Rolfe." "That's great," exclaimed Tom. "One more way in which we can increase our income and it means that some day you may be able to get a job with the Associated Press." "That will have to come later," said Helen's mother, "when school days are over." "Sure, I know," said Tom, "but creating a good impression won't hurt anything." Mrs. Blair had a hot supper waiting, hamburger cakes, baking powder biscuits with honey, and tea, and they all sat down to the table for a belated evening meal. Helen related the events of her trip with Doctor Stevens and Tom grew enthusiastic again over the story. "It's the biggest news the _Herald_ has had in years. If we were putting out a daily we'd be working on an extra now. Maybe the _Herald_ will be a daily some day." "Rolfe will have to grow a lot," smiled his mother. "I guess you're right," agreed Tom. Tom and Helen helped their mother clear away the supper dishes and after that Helen went into the front room and cleared the Sunday papers off the library table. She found some copypaper and a pencil in the drawer and sat down to work on her story of the storm. The excitement of the storm and the ensuing events had carried her along, oblivious of the fatigue which had increased with the passing hours. But when she picked up her pencil and tried to write, her eyes dimmed and her head nodded. She snuggled her head in her arms to rest for just a minute, she told herself. The next thing she knew Tom was shaking her shoulders. "Ten o'clock," he said, "and time for all editors to be in bed." Helen tried to rub the sleep from her eyes and Tom laughed uproariously at her efforts. "It's no use," he said. "You're all tired out. You can write your story in the morning. To bed you go." "Have I been asleep all evening?" Helen asked her mother. "Yes, dear," was the reply, "and I think Tom's right. Run along to bed and you'll feel more like working on your story in the morning." Goodnights were said and Helen, only half awake, went to her room, thus ending the most exciting day in her young life. CHAPTER VI _A New Week Dawns_ Monday morning dawned clear and bright. There were no traces in the sky of the storm which on the previous day had devastated so many farms west of Rolfe. The air was warm with a fragrance and sweetness that only a small town knows in springtime. Helen exchanged greetings with half a dozen people as she hurried down the street to start her first day at the office as editor of the _Herald_. Grant Hughes, the postmaster, was busy sweeping out his office but he stopped his work and called to Helen as she turned down the alley-way which led to the _Herald_ office. "Starting in bright and early, aren't you?" "Have to," smiled Helen, "for Tom and I have only half days in which to put out the paper and do the job work." "I know, I know," mused the old postmaster, "but you're chips off the old block. You'll make good." "Thanks, Mr. Hughes," said Helen. "Your believing in us is going to help." She hastened on the few steps to the office and opened the doors and windows for the rooms were close and stuffy after being closed overnight. The young editor of the _Herald_ paused to look around the composing room. Tom had certainly done a good job cleaning up the day before. The four steel forms which would hold the type for the week's edition were in place, ready for the news she would write and the ads which it would be Tom's work to solicit. The Linotype seemed to be watching her in a very superior but friendly manner and even the old press was polished and cleaned as never before. Helen returned to the editorial office, rolled a sheet of copypaper into her typewriter, and sat down to write the story of the storm. She might have to change certain parts of the story about the condition of the injured later in the week but she could get the main part of it written while it was still fresh in her memory. Hugh Blair had always made a point of writing his news stories in simple English and he had drilled Helen and Tom in his belief that the simpler a story is written the more widely it will be read. He had no time for the multitudes of adjectives which many country editors insist upon using, although he felt that strong, colorful words had their place in news stories. With her father's beliefs on news writing almost second nature, Helen started her story. It was simple and dramatic, as dramatic as the sudden descent of the storm on the valley. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard and the story seemed to write itself. She finished one page and rolled another into the machine, hardly pausing in her rapid typing. Page after page she wrote until she finally leaned back in her swivel chair, tired from the strain of her steady work. She picked up the half dozen pages of typed copy. This was her first big story and she wanted it to read well, to be something of which her father would be proud when he read the copy of the paper they would send him. She went over the story carefully, changing a word here, another there. Occasionally she operated on some of her sentences, paring down the longer ones and speeding up the tempo of the story. It was nine-thirty before she was satisfied that she had done the best she could and she stuck the story on the copy spindle, ready for Tom when he wanted to translate it into type on the Linotype. Helen slid another sheet of copypaper into her typewriter and headed it "PERSONALS." Farther down the page she wrote four items about out-of-town people who were visiting in Rolfe. She had just finished her personals when she heard the whistle of the morning train. The nine forty-five in the morning and the seven-fifteen in the evening were the only trains through Rolfe on the branch line of the A. and T. railroad. The nine forty-five was the upbound train to Cranston, the state capital. It reached Cranston about one o'clock, turned around there and started back a little after three, passing through Rolfe on its down trip early in the evening, its over-night terminal being Gladbrook, the county seat. Helen picked up a pencil and pad of paper, snapped the lock on the front door and ran for the depot two blocks away. The daily trains were always good for a few personals. She meant to leave the office earlier but had lost track of the time, so intense had been her interest in writing her story of the storm. The nine forty-five was still half a mile below town and puffing up the grade to the station when Helen reached the platform. She spoke to the agent and the express man and hurried into the waiting room. Two women she recognized were picking up their suit cases when she entered. Helen explained her mission and they told her where they were going. She jotted down the notes quickly for the train was rumbling into town. The local ground to a stop and Helen went to the platform to see if anyone had arrived from the county seat. One passenger descended, a tall, austere-looking man whose appearance was not in the least inviting but Helen wanted every news item she could get so she approached him, with some misgiving. "I'm the editor for the _Rolfe Herald_," she explained, "and I'd like to have an item about your visit here." "You're what?" exclaimed the stranger. "I'm the editor of the local paper," repeated Helen, "and I'd like a story about your visit in town." "You're pretty young for an editor," persisted the stranger, with a smile that decidedly changed his appearance and made him look much less formidable. "I'm substituting for my father," said Helen. "That quite explains things," agreed the stranger. "I'm Charles King of Cranston, state superintendent of schools, and I'm making a few inspections around the state. If you'd like, I'll see you again before I leave and tell you what I think of your school system here." "I'm sure you'll thoroughly approve," said Helen. "Mr. Fowler, the superintendent, is very progressive and has fine discipline." "I'll tell him he has a good booster in the editor," smiled Mr. King. "Now, if you'll be good enough to direct me to the school I'll see that you get a good story out of my visit here." Helen supplied the necessary directions and the state superintendent left the depot. The nine forty-five, with its combination mail and baggage car and two day coaches, whistled out and Helen returned to the _Herald_ office. She found a farmer from the east side of the valley waiting for her. "I'd like to get some sale bills printed," he said, "and I'll need about five hundred quarter page bills. How much will they cost?" Helen opened the booklet with job prices listed and gave the farmer a quotation on the job. "Sounds fair enough," he said. "At least it's a dollar less than last year." "Paper doesn't cost quite as much," explained Helen, "and we're passing the saving on to you. Be sure and tell your neighbors about our reasonable printing prices." "I'll do that," promised the farmer. "I'll bring in the copy Tuesday and get the bills Friday morning." "My brother will have them ready for you," said Helen, "but if you want to get the most out of your sale, why not run your bill as an ad in the _Herald_. On a combination like that we can give you a special price. You can have a quarter page ad in the paper plus 500 bills at only a little more than the cost of the ad in the paper. It's the cost of setting up the ad that counts for once it is set up we can run off the bills at very little extra cost." "How much circulation do you have?" "Eight hundred and seventy-five," said Helen. "Three hundred papers go in town and the rest out on the country routes." She consulted her price book and quoted the price for the combination ad and bills. "I'll take it," agreed the farmer, who appeared to be a keen business man. "Tell you what," he went on. "If you'd work out some kind of a tieup with the farm bureau at Gladbrook and carry a page with special farm news you could get a lot of advertising from farmers. If you do, don't use 'canned' news sent out by agricultural schools. Get the county agent to write a column a week and then get the rest of it from farmers around here. Have items about what they are doing, how many hogs they are feeding, how much they get for their cattle, when they market them and news of their club activities." "Sounds like a fine idea," said Helen, "but we'll have to go a little slowly at first. My brother and I are trying to run the paper while Dad is away recovering his health and until we get everything going smoothly we can't attempt very many new things." "You keep it in mind," said the farmer, "for I tell you, we people on the farms like to see news about ourselves in the paper and it would mean more business for you. Well, I've got to be going. I'll bring my copy in tomorrow." "We'll be expecting it," said Helen. "Thanks for the business." She went around to the postoffice and returned with a handful of letters. Most of them were circulars but one of them was a card from her father. She read it with such eagerness that her hands trembled. It had been written while the train was speeding through southwestern Kansas and her father said that he was not as tired from the train trip as he had expected. By the time they received the card, he added, he would be at Rubio, Arizona, where he was to make his home until he was well enough to return to the more rigorous climate of the north. Helen telephoned her mother at once and read the message on the card. "I'm going to write to Dad and tell him all about the storm and how happy we are that everything is going well for him," said Helen. "I'll write this afternoon," said her mother, "and we'll put the letters in one envelope and get them off on the evening mail. Perhaps Tom will find time to add a note." Helen sat down at the desk, found several sheets of office stationery and a pen, and started her letter to her father. She was half way through when Jim Preston entered. "Good morning, Miss Blair," he said. "I've got the _Liberty_ ready to go if you'd like to run down the lake and see how much damage the twister caused at the summer resorts." "Thanks," replied Helen, "I'll be with you right away." She put her letter aside and closed the office. Five minutes later they were at the main pier on the lakeshore. The _Liberty_, a sturdy, 28-foot cruiser, was moored to the pier. The light oak hood covering the engine shone brightly in the morning sun and Helen could see that Jim Preston had waxed it recently. The hood extended for about fourteen feet back from the bow of the boat, completely enclosing the 60 horsepower engine which drove the craft. The steering wheel and ignition switches were mounted on a dash and behind this were four benches with leather covered cork cushions which could be used as life preservers. The boatman stepped into the _Liberty_ and pressed the starter. There was the whirr of gears and the muffled explosions from the underwater exhaust as the engine started. The _Liberty_ quivered at its moorings, anxious to be away and cutting through the tiny whitecaps which danced in the sunshine. Helen bent down and loosened the half hitches on the ropes which held the boat. Jim Preston steadied it while she stepped in and took her place on the front seat beside him. The boatman shoved the clutch ahead, the tone of the motor deepened and they moved slowly away from the pier. With quickening pace, they sped out into the lake, slapping through the white caps faster and faster until tiny flashes of spray stung Helen's face. "How long will it take us to reach Crescent Beach?" asked Helen for she knew the boatman made his first stop at the new resort at the far end of the lake. "It's nine miles," replied Jim Preston. "If I open her up we'll be down there in fifteen or sixteen minutes. Want to make time?" "Not particularly," replied Helen, "but I enjoy a fast ride." "Here goes," smiled Preston and he shoved the throttle forward. The powerful motor responded to the increased fuel and the _Liberty_ shook herself and leaped ahead, cutting a v-shaped swath down the center of the lake. Solid sheets of spray flew out on each side of the boat and Preston put up spray boards to keep them from being drenched. Helen turned around and looked back at Rolfe, nestling serenely along the north end of the lake. It was a quiet, restful scene, the white houses showing through the verdant green of the new leaves. She could see her own home and thought she glimpsed her mother working in the garden at the rear. Then the picture faded as they sped down the lake and Helen gave herself up to complete enjoyment of the boat trip. There were few signs along the shore of the storm. After veering away from Rolfe it had evidently gone directly down the lake until it reached the summer resorts. In less than ten minutes Rolfe had disappeared and the far end of the lake was in view. Preston slowed the _Liberty_ somewhat and swung across the lake to the left toward Crescent Beach, the new resort which several wealthy men from the state capital were promoting. They slid around a rocky promontory and into view of the resort. Boathouses dipped crazily into the water and the large bath-house, the most modern on the lake, had been crushed while the toboggan slide had been flipped upside down by the capricious wind. The big pier had collapsed and Preston nosed the _Liberty_ carefully in-shore until the bow grated on the fresh, clean sand of the beach. Kirk Foster, the young manager of the resort, was directing a crew of men who were cleaning up the debris. The boatman introduced Helen to the manager and he willingly gave her all the details about the damage. The large, new hotel had escaped unharmed and the private cottages, some of which were nicer than the homes in Rolfe, had suffered only minor damage. "The damage to the bathhouse, about $35,000, was the heaviest," said the manager, "but don't forget to say in your story that we'll have things fixed up in about two weeks, and everything is insured." "I won't," promised Helen, "and when you have any news be sure and let me know." "We cater to a pretty ritzy crowd," replied the manager, "and we ought to have some famous people here during the summer. I'll tip you off whenever I think there is a likely story." Jim Preston left the mail for the resort and they returned to the Liberty, backed out carefully, and headed across the lake for Sandy Point, a resort which had been on the lake for more years than Helen could remember. Sandy Point was popular with the townspeople and farmers and was known for its wonderful bathing beach. Lake Dubar was shallow there and it was safe for almost anyone to enjoy the bathing at Sandy Point. The old resort was not nearly as pretentious as Crescent Beach for its bathhouses, cottages and hotel were weather beaten and vine-covered. Art Provost, the manager, was waiting for the morning mail when the Liberty churned up to the pier. "Storm missed you," said the boatman. "And right glad I am that it did," replied Provost. "I thought we were goners when I saw it coming down the lake but it swung over east and took its spite out on Crescent Beach. Been over there yet?" "Stopped on the way down," replied Jim Preston. "They suffered a good bit of damage but will have it cleaned up in a couple or three days." "Glad to hear that," said Provost, "that young manager, Foster, is a fine fellow." Helen inquired for news about the resort and was told that it would be another week, about the first of June, before the season would be under way. They left Sandy Point and headed up the lake, this time at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. Helen enjoyed every minute of the trip, drinking in the quiet beauty of the lake, its peaceful hills and the charm of the farms with their cattle browsing contentedly in the pastures. It was noon when they docked at Rolfe and Helen, after thanking the boatman, went home instead of returning to the office. Tom had come from school and lunch was on the table. Helen told her brother of the sale of the quarter page ad for the paper and the 500 bills. "That's fine," said Tom, "but you must have looked on the wrong page in the cost book." "Didn't I ask enough?" "You were short about fifty cents," grinned Tom, "but we'll make a profit on the job, especially since you got him to run it as an ad in the paper." "What are you going to do this afternoon?" Mrs. Blair asked Tom. "I'll make the rounds of the stores and see what business I can line up for the paper," said the business manager of the _Herald_. "Then there are a couple of jobs of letterheads I'll have to get out of the way and by the time I get them printed the metal in the Linotype will be hot and I can set up Helen's editorials and whatever other copy she got ready this morning." "The storm story runs six pages," said Helen, "and when I add a few paragraphs about the summer resorts, it will take another page. Is it too long?" "Not if it is well written." "You'll have to judge that for yourself." "I walked home with Marg Stevens," said Tom, "and she said to tell you the sophomore picnic planned for this afternoon has been postponed until Friday. A lot of the boys from the country have to go home early and help clean up the storm damage." "Suits me just as well," said Helen, "for we'll have the paper off the press Thursday and I'll be ready for a picnic Friday." Tom went to the office after lunch and Helen walked to school with Margaret. Just before the assembly was called to order, one of the teachers came down to Helen's desk and told her she was wanted in the superintendent's office. When Helen reached the office she found Superintendent Fowler and Mr. King, the state superintendent of schools, waiting for her. The state superintendent greeted her cordially and told Superintendent Fowler how Helen had met him at the train. "I promised to give her a story about my visit," he explained, "and I thought this would be a good time." Superintendent Fowler nodded his agreement and the state school leader continued. "I hope you'll consider it good news," he told Helen, "when I say that the Rolfe school has been judged the finest in the state for towns under one thousand inhabitants." "It certainly is news," said Helen. "Mr. Fowler has worked hard in the two years he has been here and the _Herald_ will be glad to have this story." "I thought you would," said Mr. King, and he told Helen in detail of the improvement which had been made in the local school in the last two years and how much attention it was attracting throughout the state. "You really ought to have a school page in the local paper," he told Helen in concluding. "Perhaps we will next fall," replied the young editor of the _Herald_. "By that time Tom and I should be veterans in the newspaper game and able to add another page of news to the _Herald_." "We'll talk it over next August when I come back to get things in shape for the opening of the fall term," said Superintendent Fowler. "I'm heartily in favor of one if Tom and Helen can spare the time and the space it will require." Helen returned to the assembly with the handful of notes she had jotted down while Mr. King talked. Her American History class had gone to its classroom and she picked up her textbook and walked down the assembly, inquiring eyes following her, wondering why she had been called into the superintendent's office. They'd have to read the _Herald_ to find out that story. CHAPTER VII _The First Issue_ At the close of school Helen met Margaret Stevens in the hall outside the assembly room. "What is my first assignment going to be?" asked Helen's reporting staff. "I think it would be a good idea if you went to the teachers and got all the school news," Helen suggested. "It is almost the end of the year and most of the classes are planning parties and programs of various kinds." "I'll do it right away," promised Margaret and she hurried off on her first newspaper assignment. Helen smiled at her friend's enthusiasm and she hoped that it wouldn't wear off for Margaret was clever, knew a great many people and could be a real help if she made up her mind to gather news. In return, all Helen could offer would be the experience and the closer friendship which their constant association would mean. The young editor of the _Herald_ walked down the street alone, for most of the students had left the building while she had been talking with Margaret. When she reached the _Herald_ office she heard the steady hum of the electric motor of the Linotype and the clack of its long arm as Tom sent the lines of matrices into the mould to come out in the form of shiny, hot lead slugs--new type for their first edition of the _Herald_. Tom rose from his chair before the Linotype keyboard and came into the editorial office. "That's a fine story on the storm," he told Helen. "It's so interesting I can't make any time getting it into type; keep stopping to read your descriptions again." "I've got another good story," Helen replied, and she told her brother all about the visit of the state superintendent of schools and of his praise for the local school. "What a front page we'll have to send to Dad," chuckled Tom. "And to match your good news stories, I made the rounds of the stores the first thing this afternoon and got the ads lined up. I couldn't get the copy for all of them but I know just how much space each store will take. We'll have a 'pay dirt' issue this week with a little more than 250 inches of ads and at 25 cents a column inch that means better than $60 worth of business. Not bad for a starter, eh?" "Won't that crowd the inside pages?" "A little," Tom conceded, "but we've got to make every cent we can. I've been doing a little figuring on our expenses and how much business we ought to have. We think of the _Herald_ as an eight page paper. That's true, but four of the pages are printed at Cranston by the Globe Printing Company with our serial story, pictures of news of the world, fashion and menu suggestions and world news in general on them. We seldom if ever put ads on our front page and that leaves only three pages for which we can sell ads and on which we must earn enough to pay expenses, keep the family going and build up a surplus to take care of Dad when he needs more money. Those three six column pages have 360 column inches, 120 to each page, and at our rate of 25 cents an inch for advertising we've got to sell a lot to make the grade." "I hadn't figured it out like that," Helen admitted, "but of course you're right. Can't we expand the paper some way to get more business? Only this morning the farmer that came in to see about the sale bills said he wished we would run a farm page and the school superintendent would like to have a school page next fall." "The farm page," Tom said, "would undoubtedly bring us more business and the first time I have a half day to spare I'll take the old car and go down to Gladbrook and see the county agent. "Maybe I can get some job work from the offices at the courthouse," he added hopefully. The telephone rang and Helen answered the call. It was from a woman who had out-of-town guests and the young editor jotted the names down on a pad of paper. That done she turned to her typewriter and wrote the item, for with her half days to work she had to write her stories as soon as she had them. Margaret bounced in with a handful of notes. "I've got half a dozen school stories," she exclaimed. "Almost every teacher had something for me and they're anxious to see their school news in the paper." "I thought they would be," Helen smiled. "Can you run a typewriter?" "I'm a total stranger," Margaret confessed. "I'll do a lot better if I scribble my stories in longhand, if Tom thinks he can read my scrawls." "I'll try," came the reply from the composing room, "but I absolutely refuse to stand on my head to do it." "They're not that bad," laughed Margaret, "and I'll try to do especially well for you." Helen provided her first assistant with copypaper and Margaret sat down at the desk to write her stories. The editor of the _Herald_ then devoted her attention to writing up the notes she had taken in her talk with the state superintendent of schools. It was a story that she found slow to write for she wanted no mistakes in it. The afternoon was melting in a soft May twilight when Tom snapped the switch on the Linotype and came into the editorial office. "Almost six o'clock," he said, "and time for us to head for home and supper." Margaret, who had been at the desk writing for more than an hour, straightened her cramped back. "Ouch!" she exclaimed. "I never thought reporting could be such work and yet so much fun. I'm getting the biggest thrill out of my stories." "That's about all the pay you will get," grinned Tom. They closed the office and started home together. They had hardly gone a block when Helen stopped suddenly. "Give me the office key, Tom," she said. "I started a letter to Dad this morning and it got sidetracked when someone came in. I'm going back and get it. I can finish it at home and mail it on the seven-fifteen when I come down to meet the train." "I'll get it for you," said Tom and started on the run for the office. He got her half-finished letter, and rejoined Helen and Margaret, who had walked slowly. "I'll add a few lines to your letter," Tom said. "Dad will be glad to know we've lined up a lot of ads for our first issue." Doctor Stevens came out of his office and joined them in their walk home. "How are all the storm victims?" asked Helen. "Getting along fine," said the doctor. "I can't understand why there weren't more serious injuries. The storm was terrific." "Perhaps it is because most of them heard it coming and sought shelter in the strongest buildings or took refuge in cellars," suggested Tom. "I suppose that's the explanation." "I'll finish my school stories tomorrow afternoon," promised Margaret as she turned toward her home. The twilight hour was the one that Helen liked best of all the busy hours of her day. From the porch she could look down at the long, deep-blue stretch of water that was Lake Dubar while a liquid-gold sun settled into the western hills. Purple shadows in the little valleys bordering the lake, lights gleaming from farm house windows on far away hills, the mellow chime of a freight train whistling for a crossing and over all a pervading calmness that overcame any feeling of fatigue and brought only a feeling of rest and quiet to Helen. It was hard to believe that a little more than 24 hours before this peaceful scene had been threatened with total destruction by the fury of the elements. Helen's mother called and the _Herald_ editor went into the dining room. Tom, his hands scrubbed clean of printer's ink, was at the table when Helen took her place. Mrs. Blair bowed her head in silent prayer and Tom and Helen did likewise. "Didn't I see you working in the garden this morning when I went down the lake with Jim Preston?" Helen asked her mother. "Probably. I'm planning a larger garden than ever. We can cut down on our grocery bills if we raise more things at home." "Don't try to do too much," Tom warned, "for we're depending on you as the boss of this outfit now. I'll help you with the garden every chance I get." "I know you will," his mother replied, "but I thoroughly enjoy working outdoors. If you'll take care of the potato patch, I'll be able to do the rest and still find time to write a few social items for the paper." "Did you get any today?" Helen asked. "Nearly half a dozen. The Methodist Ladies Aid is planning a spring festival, an afternoon of quilting and a chicken dinner in the evening with everyone invited." "And what a feed they put out," added Tom. "I'll have to see their officers and get an ad for the paper." Supper over and the dishes washed, dried and put away, Helen turned her attention to finishing the letter to her father. Tom also sat down to write a note and when they had finished Mrs. Blair put their letters in the envelope with her own, sealed it and gave it to Helen. Margaret Stevens stuck her head in the door. "Going up to school for the sophomore-junior debate?" she asked. "I've got to meet the seven-fifteen first," Helen replied. "I'll meet you at school about seven-thirty." "Wait a minute, Marg," said Tom. "I guess I'll go along and see just how badly the sophomores are beaten. Of course you know you kids haven't got a chance." "Be careful, Tom," Helen warned. "Margaret is captain of our debate team." "Oh, that's all right," chuckled Tom. "No offense." "It will be an offense, though," smiled Margaret, "and the juniors will be on the receiving end of our verbal attack." "Look out for a counter attack," Tom grinned. "We'll be home early, mother," said Helen as they left the house. "I hope the sophomores win," her mother said. "Tom and his juniors are too sure of themselves." The seven-fifteen coughed its way into town, showering the few people on the platform with cinders. Helen ran to the mail car and dropped her letter into the mail slot. Mr. King, the state superintendent of instruction, was the only passenger leaving but there were several Rolfe people getting off the train. She got their names and stopped to talk a minute or two with the agent. "I'll have some news for next week's paper," he told her, but refused to say another word about the promised story and Helen went on to the high school. The assembly was well filled with students and a scattering of parents whose children were taking part in the inter-class debate. The senior debaters had already eliminated the freshmen and the winner of the sophomore-junior debate would meet the seniors for the championship of the school. Helen looked around for a seat and was surprised to see her mother beside Mrs. Stevens. "I didn't know you planned to come," Helen said. "I didn't," smiled her mother, "but just after you left Mrs. Stevens ran over and I decided to come with her." The debate was on the question of whether the state should adopt a paving program which would reach every county. The sophomores supported the affirmative and the juniors the negative. The question was of vital interest for it was to come to a vote in July and, if approved, Rolfe would get a place on the scenic highway which would run along the western border of the state, through the beautiful lake country. It would mean an increased tourist trade and more business for Rolfe. Margaret had marshalled her facts into impressive arguments and the weight of the evidence was with her team but the juniors threw up a smoke screen of ridicule to hide their weaker facts and Helen felt her heart sinking as the debate progressed. Margaret made the final rebuttal for the sophomores and gave a masterful argument in favor of the paved road program but the last junior speaker came back with a few humorous remarks that could easily confuse the judges into mistaking brilliant humor for facts. The debate closed and the judges handed their slips with their decisions to Superintendent Fowler. Every eye in the assembly watched the superintendent as he unfolded the slips and jotted down the results. He stood up behind his desk. "The judges vote two to one in favor of the sophomores," he announced. There was a burst of applause and students and parents crowded around the victorious team to congratulate it. When it was all over, Mrs. Blair, Mrs. Stevens, Margaret, Helen and Tom started home together. "And we didn't have a chance," Margaret chided Tom. "I still think we have the best team," insisted Tom. "The judges got a little confused." "If they were confused, Tom," his mother said, "it was by the juniors. Your team didn't have the facts; they resorted to humor and ridicule. I think it is a fine victory for the sophomores." Tuesday morning Helen looked over the stories Margaret had written the afternoon before and wrote a long story about the sophomore-junior debate, stressing the arguments in favor of the paving program which the sophomores had brought out. She was thoroughly in agreement and meant to devote space in the _Herald_, both editorially and from a news standpoint, to furthering the passage of the good roads program. The farmer who had called the day before came in with his copy for the ad and sale bills. "I've talked over the farm page idea with my brother," Helen told him, "and we'll get one started just as soon as he can find the time to go to Gladbrook and see the county agent." "I'm glad to hear that," replied the farmer, "and I'll pass the word around to our neighbors. Also, if you had a column of news each week from the courthouse it would help your paper. A lot of farmers take one of the Gladbrook papers just for that reason. They want courthouse news and can't get it in the _Herald_." "We'll see about that, too," promised Helen. She had almost forgotten that she was to write to the state bureau of the Associated Press and apply for the job as correspondent for Rolfe and the nearby vicinity. She wrote one letter, was dissatisfied, tore it up and wrote a second and then a third before she was ready to mail it. As Tom had said, it would be one way of increasing their income and at the same time might help her to secure a job later. Margaret finished her school stories after school that afternoon and Helen visited all of the stores down town in search of personals. Several fishermen had been fined for illegal fishing and she got that story from the justice of the peace. She called on the ministers and got their church notices. Wednesday was their big day and Helen worked hard all morning writing her personals. The main news stories about the storm, the visit of the state superintendent and the high school debate were already in type and Tom had finished setting most of the ads. When Helen came down after school Tom called her into the composing room. He had the ads for the two inside pages placed in the forms. One of the pages they devoted to the editorials and the other they filled with personal items about the comings and goings of local people. The ads were placed well in the pages and when Tom finished putting in the type he stood back and looked at his handiwork. "I call that mighty good makeup," he said. "Pyramiding the ads on the left side of the page makes them look better and then we always have news on the right-hand side." Helen agreed that the pages were well made up and Tom locked the type into the steel forms, picked up one of the pages and carried it to the press. The other page was put on and locked into place. Tom washed his hands and climbed up to take his place on the press. The paper for that issue of the _Herald_ had come down from Cranston the day before with four pages, two and three and six and seven already printed. Pages four and five, filled with local news and ads, were on the press. Tom would get them printed in the next two hours and on Thursday afternoon would make up and print page one and page eight. He smoothed the stack of paper on the feeding board, put a little glycerine on his fingers so he could pick up each sheet and feed it into the press, and then threw on the switch. The motor hummed. Tom fed one sheet into the press and pushed in the clutch. The press shook itself out of its week-long slumber, groaned in protest at the thought of printing another week's issue, but at the continued urging of the powerful motor, clanked into motion. "See how the ink looks," Tom called and Helen seized the first few papers. Her brother stopped the press and climbed down to look over the pages for possible corrections. "Looks all right," he conceded as he scanned the cleanly printed page. "Wonder how Dad will like our new editorial head and the three column box head I set for your personals?" "He'll like them," Helen said. "The only reason he didn't do things like that was because he didn't have the strength." Tom nodded, wiped a tear from his eyes, and went back to feeding the press. Helen kept the papers stacked neatly as they came out and it was nearly six o'clock before Tom finished the first run. "We'll go home and get something to eat," he said, "and then come back. I've got some more copy to set on the Linotype and you write your last minute stories. Maybe we'll have time to make up part of the front page before we go home tonight. I'd like to have you here and we'll write the heads together and see how they look." "Are you going to head all of the front page stories?" asked Helen. "If I have time," Tom replied. "It improves the looks of the paper; makes it look newsy and alive." Supper was waiting for them when they reached home and Tom handed his mother a copy of the two inside pages they had just printed. "It looks fine," enthused Mrs. Blair, "and the ads are so well arranged and attractive. Tom, you've certainly worked hard, and, Helen, I don't see where you got so many personals." "We're going to use your column of social news on page eight," Tom went on. "It's on the last run and in that way we can be sure of getting in all of your news." "I have three more items," said his mother. "They're all written and ready to be set up." "We're going back for a while after supper," said Helen, "but I don't think it will take us over a couple of hours to finish, do you, Tom?" "About nine-thirty," replied Tom, who was devoting himself whole-heartedly to a large baked potato. When they returned to the office Helen finished the last of her items in half an hour. By eight-thirty Tom had all of the news in type and had made the necessary corrections from the proofs which Helen had read. "We need a head for the storm story," he said. "A three line, three column 30 point one ought to be about right. You jot one down on a sheet of paper and I'll try and make it fit." Helen worked several minutes on a headline. "This is the best I can do," she said: "TORNADO CAUSES $150,000 DAMAGE NEAR ROLFE SUNDAY; MISSES TOWN BUT STRIKES RESORT ALONG LAKE" "Sounds fine," Tom said. "Now I'll see how it fits." He set up the headline and Helen wrote a two column one for the story of the Rolfe school being the best for its size in the state. Tom put the headlines on the front page and placed the stories under them. Shorter stories, some of them written by Margaret, filled up the page and they turned their attention to page eight, the last one to be made up. Their mother's social items led the page, followed by the church notices and the last of Helen's personals. "We've got about ten inches too much type," said Tom. "See if some of the personals can't be left out and run next week." Helen culled out six items that could be left out and Tom finished making up the page. Tomorrow he would print the last two pages and Helen would assemble the papers and fold them. Their first issue of the _Herald_ was ready for the press. CHAPTER VIII _Mystery in the Night_ Helen and Tom hurried home from school Thursday noon, ate a hasty lunch and then went on to the _Herald_ office to finish their task of putting out their first issue of the paper. Helen stopped at the postoffice for the mail and Tom went on to unlock the office, put the pages on the press and start printing the last run. In the mail Helen found a letter postmarked Rubio, Arizona, and in her Father's familiar handwriting. She ran into the _Herald_ office and on into the composing room where Tom was locking the last page on the old flat-bed press. "Tom," she cried, "here's a letter from Dad!" "Open it," he replied. "Let's see what he has to say." Helen was about to tear open the envelope when she paused. "No," she decided. "Mother ought to be the one to read it first. I'll call her and tell her it's here. She'll want to come down and get it." "You're right," agreed Tom as he climbed up on the press. He turned on the motor and threw in the clutch. The old machine clanked back and forth, gathering momentum for the final run of the week. Helen eagerly scanned the front page as it came off the press. It was heavy with fresh ink but she thrilled at the makeup on page one. There were her stories, the one about the tornado and the other about the high standing of the local school. Tom's heads looked fine. The paper was bright and newsy--easy to read. She hoped her Dad would be pleased. With the final run on the press it was Helen's task to assemble and fold the papers. She donned a heavy apron, piled the papers on one of the makeup tables and placed a chair beside her. With arms moving methodically, she started to work, folding the papers and sliding them off the table onto the chair. Tom had just got the press running smoothly when there was a grinding crash followed by the groaning of the electric motor. Helen turned quickly. Something might have happened to Tom. He might have slipped off his stool and fallen into the machinery of the press. But Tom was all right. He reached for the switch and shut off the power. "What happened?" gasped Helen, her face still white from the shock. "Breakdown," grunted Tom disgustedly. "This antique has been ready for the junk pile for years but Dad never felt he could afford to get a new one or even a good second-hand one." "What will we do?" asked Helen anxiously. "We've got to get the paper out." "I'll run down to the garage and get Milt Pearsall to come over. He's a fine mechanic and Dad has called on him before when things have gone wrong with the press." Tom hastened out and Helen resumed her task of folding the few papers which had been printed before the breakdown. Everything had been going so smoothly until this trouble. Now they might be delayed hours if the trouble was anything serious. She heard someone call from the office. It was her mother and she hastened out of the composing room. "Here's the letter," she said, pulling it out of a pocket in her dress. "We knew you'd be anxious to hear." "Why didn't you open it and then telephone me?" her mother asked. "We could have done that," Helen admitted, "but we thought you'd like to be the first to open and read it." "You're so thoughtful," murmured her mother. With hands that trembled in spite of her effort to be calm, she opened the letter and unfolded the single page it contained. Helen waited, tense, until her mother had finished. "How's Dad?" she asked. "His letter is very cheerful," replied Mrs. Blair, handing it to Helen. "Naturally he is tired but he says the climate is invigorating and he expects to feel better soon." "Of course he will," agreed Helen. "Where's Tom?" "The press broke down and he went to the garage to get Milt Pearsall." "I hope it's nothing serious," said her mother. "Is there something I can do?" "If you've got the time to spare, I'd like to have you look over our first issue. Here's a copy." Helen's mother scanned the paper with keen, critical eyes. "It looks wonderful to me," she exclaimed. "I like the heads on the front page and you've so many good stories. Tom did splendidly on the ads. How proud your father will be when he gets a copy." "I thought perhaps you'd like to write his address on a wrapper and we'll put it in the mail tonight when the other papers go out," said Helen. Mrs. Blair nodded and addressed the wrapper Helen supplied. "If you're sure there's nothing I can do at the office," she said, "I'll go on to the kensington at Mrs. Henderson's." "Don't forget to pick up all the news you can at the party," cautioned Helen. "I won't," promised her mother. Helen had just finished folding the papers when Tom returned with Milt Pearsall. The mechanic was a large, heavy-set man with a mop of unruly hair, eyes that twinkled a merry blue, and lips that constantly smiled. "Hello, Editor," he boomed. "Press broke again, Tom says. Huh, expected it to happen most anytime. Well, let's see what's the matter." He eased his bulk down under the press, dug into his tool kit for a flashlight and wormed his way into the machinery. "Get me the long wrench," he directed Tom. The request complied with, there followed a number of thumps and whacks of steel against steel, a groan as Pearsall bumped his head in the crowded quarters, and finally a grunt of satisfaction. The mechanic crawled from under the press, a smudge of ink across his forehead. He wiped his hands thoughtfully. "Some day," he ventured, "that old press is going to fall apart and I won't be able to tease it back again." "What was the trouble?" asked Tom. "Cross bar slipped out of place and dropped down so it caught and held the bed of the press from moving. Good thing you shut off the power or you might have snapped that rod. Then we'd have been out of luck until I could have made a new one." "How much will it be?" Tom asked. The big mechanic grinned. "Oh, that's all right, Tom," he chuckled. "Just forget to send me a bill for my subscription. That's the way your Dad and I did." "Thanks a lot for helping us out," said Tom, "and I'll see that you don't get a subscription dun." Tom climbed back to his place on the press, turned on the power and eased the clutch in gently. Helen watched anxiously, afraid that they might have another breakdown but the old machine clanked along steadily and she picked up the mounting pile of papers and returned to her task of folding. Paper after paper she assembled, folded and slid onto the pile on the chair. When the chair overflowed with papers she stopped and carried them into the editorial office and piled them on the floor. Tom finished his press run and went into the editorial office to get out their old hand mailer and start running the papers through to stamp the names and addresses on each one. After an hour of steady folding Helen's arms ached so severely she stopped working and went into the editorial office. "Getting tired?" Tom asked. She nodded. "You run the mailer for a while and I'll fold papers," said her brother. "That will give you a rest." Helen agreed and they switched work. She clicked the papers through the mailer at a steady pace. "Papers ready?" called the postmaster from his office in the front half of the _Herald_ building. "The city list is stamped and ready," replied Helen. "I'll bring them in right away." "Never mind," said Mr. Hughes, "I'll save you a trip." "Matter of fact," continued the postmaster when he entered the office, "I wanted to see what kind of an issue you two kids got out." Helen handed him an unstamped paper and he sat down in the one vacant chair. She valued the old postmaster's friendship highly and awaited his comment with unusual interest. "One of the best issues of the _Herald_ I've ever seen," he enthused when he had finished looking over the paper. "Your stories have got all your Dad's 'get up and go' and these headlines are something new for the _Herald_. Believe I like 'em." "Some people may not," said Helen, "so we'll appreciate all of the boosting you do." "I'll do plenty," he chuckled as he picked up an armful of papers and returned to the postoffice. Margaret Stevens bustled in after school in time to help carry the last of the papers to the postoffice and she insisted on sweeping out the editorial office. "You're just 'white' tired," she scolded Helen. "Sit down and I'll swing this broom a few times." "I am a little tired," admitted Helen. "How about you, Tom?" "Me for bed just as soon as I get home and have something to eat," agreed her brother. "Guess we were all worked up and nervous over our first issue." "You were a real help, Margaret," said Helen, "and I hope you'll like reporting well enough to stick with us." "I'm crazy about it," replied Margaret, wielding the broom with new vigor. Conversation among the sophomores the next morning at school was devoted solely to the class picnic in the afternoon. The refreshment committee had been busy and each member of the class was to furnish one thing. Helen was to bring pickles and Margaret's mother was baking a large chocolate cake. The class was dismissed at noon for the rest of the day, to meet again at one o'clock at Jim Preston's boat landing for the trip down the lake to the picnic grounds on Linder's farm. There were 18 in the sophomore class and it was necessary for the boatman to make two trips with the _Liberty_ to transport them to the picnic grounds. Helen and Margaret were in the first boat load and were the first ones out on the sandy beach at Linder's. The rambling old farmhouse, famous for its home cooked chicken dinners, set back several hundred feet from the lake shore. To the left of the farm was a dense grove of maples. The picnic was to be along the shore just in front of the maples where there was ample shade to protect the group from the warm rays of the sun. Miss Carver, the class advisor, rented two rowboats at Linder's, and the class took turns enjoying cruises along the shore, hunting unusual rocks and shells for their collection at school. The day previous Miss Carver and another teacher had come down the lake and made arrangements for a treasure hunt. The first clue was to be revealed at three o'clock and the class, divided into two groups, was to compete to see which group could find the hidden treasure. The first clue took them to the Linder farmyard, the second through the maples to an old sugarhouse, and the third brought them out of the timber and along a meadow where placid dairy cattle looked at them with wondering eyes. The fourth clue was found along the stream which cut through the meadow and Helen, leading one group, turned back toward the lake. A breeze was freshening out of the west and the sun dropped rapidly toward the shadows which were enfolding the hills. The final clue took them back to their picnic ground and they arrived just ahead of Margaret and her followers to claim the prize, a two pound box of chocolates. Miss Carver had laid out the baskets and hampers of food and the girls, helped by the boys in their clumsy way, started serving the supper. One of the boys built a bonfire and with the coming of twilight and the cooling of the air its warmth felt good. The flames chased the shadows back toward the timber and sent dancing reflections out on the ruffled waters of Lake Dubar. The afternoon in the open had whetted their appetites and they enjoyed their meal to the fullest. Thick, spicy sandwiches disappeared as if by magic, pickles followed in quick order and the mounds of potato salad melted away. They stopped for a second wind before attacking the cakes and cookies but when those fortresses of food had been conquered the boys cut and sharpened sticks and the girls opened a large sack of marshmallows. More wood was heaped on the fire and they gathered around the flames to toast the soft, white cubes. With the wind whispering through the trees and the steady lap, lap, lap of the waves on the shore, it was the hour for stories and they settled back from the fire to listen to Miss Carver, whose reputation as a story teller was unexcelled. "It was a night like this," she started, "and a class something like this one was on a picnic. After supper they sat down at the fire to tell ghost stories, each one trying to outdo the other in the horror of the things they told." From somewhere through the night came a long drawn out cry rising from a soft note to a high crescendo that sent shivers running up and down the back of everyone at the fireside. Helen laughed. "It's only the whistle of a freight train," she assured the others, but they all moved closer to the fire. "While they told stories," went on Miss Carver, "the blackness of the night increased, the stars faded and over all there was a canopy of such darkness as had never been seen before. The wind moaned dismally like a lost soul and the waters of the lake, white-capped by the breeze, chattered against the rocky beach. The last ghost story was being told by one of the boys. He told how people disappeared as if by magic, leaving no trace behind them, uttering no sound. Some of the other stories had been surprising, but this one gave the class the creeps and everyone turned to see if the others were there." Involuntarily Helen reached out to clasp Margaret's hand and when she failed to find it, turned to the spot where Margaret had been sitting beside her a few minutes before. Margaret had disappeared! CHAPTER IX _Rescue on Lake Dubar_ Helen stared hard at the place where her friend should have been. Had the magic of Miss Carver's story been so strong that she was imagining things? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. There was no mistake. Margaret had disappeared! Helen's cry caught the attention of the other members of the class and Miss Carver stopped her story. "What's the matter, Helen?" the teacher asked. "Look," cried Helen dazedly, pointing to the spot where Margaret had been sitting, "Margaret's gone!" Miss Carver's eyes widened and she gave a little shudder. Then she smiled to reassure Helen and the other members of the class. "Probably Margaret slipped away and is hiding just to add a thrill to my ghost story. I'll call her." "Margaret, oh, Margaret!" The teacher's voice rang through the night. She cupped her hands and called again when there was no response to her first one. Once more she called but still there was no answer from the massed maples behind them or the dark waters of the lake. "This is more than a joke," muttered Ned Burns, the class president. "We'd better get out and have a look around." He stepped toward the fire, threw on an armful of fresh, dry sticks, and the flames leaped higher, throwing their reflection further into the night. "We'll take a look into the woods," he told Miss Carver, "and you and the girls hunt along the lake shore. Margaret might have fallen and hurt herself." Miss Carver agreed and the girls gathered around her. There was a queer tightness in Helen's throat and a tugging at her heart that unnerved her--a vague, pressing fear that something was decidedly wrong with Margaret. The boys disappeared into the shadows of the timber and the girls turned toward the lake shore. They had just started their search when Miss Carver made an important discovery. "Girls," she cried, "One of the rowboats we rented this afternoon is missing!" Helen ran toward the spot, the other girls crowding around her. They could make out the marks of the boat's keel in the sand and a girl's footprints. "Those prints were made by Margaret's shoes," said Helen. "You can see the marks of the heel plates she has on her oxfords." "We'll call the boys," said Miss Carver, and Helen thought she detected a real note of alarm in the teacher's voice although Miss Carver was making every possible effort to appear calm. When the boys arrived, Miss Carver told them of their discovery and Ned Burns took charge of the situation. "We'll get in the other rowboat," he said, "and start looking for Margaret. In the meantime, someone must go up to Linder's farmhouse and telephone town. Margaret's father ought to know she's out on the lake in the boat. Also call Jim Preston and if he hasn't started down with the _Liberty_, have him come at once." "I'll go to the farm," volunteered Helen. "O. K.," nodded Ned as he selected two other boys to accompany him in the rowboat. They pushed off the sandy beach, dropped the oars in the locks, and splashed away into the night. "Don't you want someone to go to the farmhouse with you?" Miss Carver asked Helen. But Helen shook her head and ran up the beach. She didn't want anyone with her; she wanted to be alone. The other girls didn't realize the seriousness of the situation. She could understand what Margaret had done. Realizing that Miss Carver would tell them a first rate thriller of a ghost story, Margaret had decided to add an extra thrill by disappearing for a few minutes. But something had gone wrong and she hadn't been able to get back. Helen paused and looked over the black, mysterious waters of Lake Dubar. What secret were they keeping from her? Thoughts of what might have happened to Margaret brought the queer, choky sobs again and she ran on toward Linder's where the welcome glow of light showed through the windows of the farmhouse. Old Mr. Linder came to the door in answer to Helen's quick, insistent knocks. "What's the matter, young Lady?" he asked, peering at her through the mellow radiance of the kerosene lamp which he held in one hand. "I'm Helen Blair," she explained, "and one of my classmates has disappeared from our picnic party down the beach. One of the boats we rented from you is missing and we're sure Margaret is adrift on the lake and unable to get back. I'd like to use your telephone to let her father know and to call Jim Preston." "Why, certainly," said Mr. Linder, "I don't wonder at your hurry. Come right in and use the phone. Who did you say the girl was?" "Margaret Stevens," Helen replied. "Must be Doctor Stevens' daughter," said the farmer. "She is," Helen replied, as she reached the telephone in the hallway. While Helen was ringing for the operator at Rolfe, Mr. Linder stuck his head in the living room. "Mother," he said, "Doctor Stevens' daughter is adrift somewhere on the lake in one of our boats. I'm going down and see if I can help find her." Mrs. Linder came into the hall and Helen heard her husband telling her what had happened. Then the Rolfe operator answered and Helen gave her the number of Doctor Stevens' office. The doctor answered almost instantly and Helen, phrasing her sentences as tactfully as possible so as not to unduly alarm the doctor, told him what had happened. "Sounds just like Margaret," he snorted. "I'll be right down. Now don't worry too much, Helen," he added. "I won't, Doctor Stevens," promised Helen with a shaky attempt at cheerfulness. Then she called Jim Preston's home and learned that he had left fifteen minutes before and should be almost down to Linder's. "We'll go down to the landing and wait for Jim," said Mr. Linder as he lighted a lantern he had brought from the kitchen. "Everything will come out all right," Mrs. Linder assured Helen. The farmer led the way down to the landing. The wind was freshening rapidly and Helen saw Mr. Linder anxiously watching the white caps which were pounding against the sandy beach. Down the beach their picnic campfire was a red glow and Helen could see Miss Hughes and the girls huddled around it. The boys who had not accompanied Ned Burns were walking up and down along the shore. She turned and looked up the lake. Two lights, one red and one green, the markers of the _Liberty_, were coming down the lake. "Jim Preston will be here in another minute," said Mr. Linder, "and with the searchlight he's got on the _Liberty_ it won't take us long to find Doctor Stevens' daughter." Helen nodded miserably as the _Liberty_ slowed down and swung its nose toward the Linder pier. There was the grinding of the reverse gear as Jim Preston checked the speed of his boat and left it drift against the pier. "Don't shut it off, Jim," cried the farmer. "Doc Stevens' daughter is adrift in the lake in one of my rowboats. We've got to go out and look for her." They climbed into the boat and Jim Preston backed the _Liberty_ away from the pier. "How did it happen?" he asked Helen. She told him briefly and he shook his head, as though to say, "too bad, it's getting to be a nasty night on the lake." The boatman opened the throttle, the motor roared its response and the _Liberty_ leaped ahead and down the lake. They ran parallel to the shore until they were opposite the picnic ground. There Jim Preston slowed down, got the direction of the wind, and turned the nose of the _Liberty_ toward the open and now wind-tossed lake. He snapped on the switch and a crackling, blue beam of light cut a path ahead of the boat. "Keep the searchlight moving," he directed the farmer, who stood up in the _Liberty_, his hands on the handles of the big, nickel lamp. The boatman held the _Liberty_ at about one third speed and they moved almost directly across the lake while Mr. Linder kept the searchlight swinging in an arc to cover the largest possible area. A third of the way across they sighted a boat far to their right and Jim Preston swung the nose of the _Liberty_ around sharply and opened the throttle. They sliced through the white caps at a pace that drenched them with the flying spray but they were too intent on reaching the distant boat to stop and put up the spray boards. Helen's keen eyes were the first to identify the boat. "It's the boys," she cried. "They're beckoning us on." Jim Preston checked the _Liberty_ carefully and nosed alongside the tossing rowboat. "No sign of Margaret," admitted Ned Burns, "and the lake's getting too rough for us to stay out much longer. We've had half a dozen waves break over us now." "Better get in with us," advised Preston. "Hand me the oars," said Mr. Linder, "and we'll let the rowboat drift. I'll pick it up in the morning." The boys tossed their oars into the _Liberty_ and scrambled up into the motorboat. Jim Preston threw in the clutch and the _Liberty_ leaped ahead to resume its search for Margaret. Helen's lips were dry and fevered despite the steady showers of spray and her heart hammered madly. Lake Dubar had always had a nasty reputation for ugliness in a fresh, sharp wind but Helen had never before realized its true danger and what a lost and helpless feeling one could have on it at night, especially when a friend was missing. There was no conversation as the _Liberty_ continued across the choppy expanse of the lake. The searchlight picked up the far shore of the lake with the waves hammering against the rocks which lined that particular section. It was a grim, unnerving picture and Helen saw Jim Preston's jaw harden as he swung the _Liberty_ around the cross back to Linder's side of the lake. Back and forth the searchlight swung in its steady, never tiring arc, but it revealed only the danger of Lake Dubar at night. There was no sign of Margaret. They reached the shore from which they had started and turned around for a third trip across the lake. This time they slapped through the waves at twenty-five miles an hour and every eye was trained to watch for some sign of the missing boat and girl. Helen caught a flash of white just as the searchlight reached the end of its arc. "Wait!" she cried. "I saw something far to the right." Preston slapped the wheel of the _Liberty_ over and the speedboat roared away in the direction Helen pointed, its questing searchlight combing the waves. "There it is again," Helen cried and pointed straight ahead where they could discern some object half hidden by the waves. "That's one of my boats," muttered old Mr. Linder as they drew nearer, "but it doesn't look like there was anyone in it." "Don't, don't say that!" cried Helen. "There must be someone there. Margaret must be in it!" In her heart she knew Mr. Linder was right. The boat was rolling in the choppy waves and there was no one visible. "It's half full of water," exclaimed Ned Burns as they drew nearer and Jim Preston throttled down the _Liberty_ and eased in the clutch. Helen pushed them aside and stared at the rowboat, fully revealed in the glaring rays of the searchlight. Tragedy was dancing on the waters of Lake Dubar that night, threatening to write an indelible chapter on the hearts of Helen and her classmates for there was no sign of Margaret in the boat. "Maybe she shoved the boat out into the lake and hid in the woods," said Ned Burns. "She wouldn't do that," protested Helen. They edged nearer the rowboat, Preston handling the _Liberty_ with care lest the waves created by the boat's powerful propeller capsize the smaller boat. "There's something or someone in the back end," cried Ned Burns, who was three or four inches taller than anyone else in the boat. Helen stood on tip-toe. "It's Margaret," she cried. "Something's wrong. It looks like she's asleep." But sleep in a water-logged rowboat in the middle of Lake Dubar was out of the question and Helen realized instantly that something unusual had happened to Margaret, something which would explain the whole joke which had turned out to be such a ghastly nightmare. Jim Preston eased the _Liberty_ alongside the rowboat and Mr. Linder reached down and picked Margaret up. There was a dark bruise over her left eye and her clothes were soaked. The boatman found an old blanket in one of the lockers and they wrapped Margaret in it and pillowed her head in Helen's lap. Margaret's eyes were closed tightly but she was breathing slowly and her pulse was irregular. "Hurry," Helen whispered to Jim Preston. "Head for Linder's. Her father will be there by this time." The boatman sensed the alarm in Helen's words and he jerked open the throttle of the _Liberty_ and sent the boat racing through the night. In less than five minutes they were slowing down for the pier. The lights of a car were at the shore end of the landing and someone with an electric torch was awaiting their arrival. It was Doctor Stevens, pacing along the planks of the landing stage. "Have you found Margaret?" he cried as the _Liberty_ sidled up to the pier. "Got her right here," replied Jim Preston, "but she's got a bad bump on her head." Doctor Stevens jumped into the boat and turned his flashlight on Margaret's face. Helen saw his lips tighten into a thin straight line. He felt her pulse. "Run ahead," he told Ned Burns, "and tell Mother Linder to open one of those spare beds of hers and get me plenty of hot water." He stooped and picked Margaret up in his arms, carrying her like a baby. Mr. Linder hurried ahead to light the way. Helen stopped to talk with Jim Preston for a moment. "I think you'd better take the class home," she said. "There's nothing more they can do here." "Will you go back with them now?" asked the boatman. "No, I'm going to stay here tonight. I'll phone mother." Helen turned and ran toward the farmhouse. Inside there was an air of quiet, suppressed activity. Doctor Stevens had carried Margaret into the large downstairs bedroom which Mother Linder reserved for company occasions. Two kerosene lamps on a table beside the bed gave a rich light which softened the pallor of Margaret's cheeks. Doctor Stevens was busy with an injection from a hypodermic needle, working as though against time. Tragedy had danced on the tips of the waves a few minutes earlier but how close it came to entering the farmhouse only Doctor Stevens knew at that hour for Margaret's strength, sapped by the terrifying experience on the lake, was near the breaking point and only the injection of a strong heart stimulant saved her life. Two hours later, hours which had been ages long to Helen as she sat beside the bed with the doctor, Margaret opened her eyes. "Don't talk, Marg," begged Helen. "Everything is all right. You're in a bedroom at the Linders and your father is here with you." Margaret nodded slightly and closed her eyes. It was another hour before she moved again and when she did Mother Linder was at hand with a steaming bowl of chicken broth. The nourishing food plus the hour of calm sleep had partially restored Margaret's strength and when she had finished the broth she sat up in bed. "I've been such a little fool," she said, but her father patted her hand. "Don't apologize for what's happened," he said. "We're just supremely happy to have you here," his voice so low that only Margaret and Helen heard him. "I thought it would be a good joke to disappear when Miss Carver started telling the ghost story," explained Margaret. "I got the boat out into the lake without anyone seeing me and let it drift several hundred feet. When I tried to put the oars in the locks I stumbled, dropped them overboard and that's the last I knew, except that for hours I was falling, falling, falling, and always there was the noise of the waves." Margaret slipped back into a deep, restful sleep when she had finished her story. Helen, worn by the hours of tension, slid out of her chair and onto the floor, and when Doctor Stevens picked her up she was sound asleep. CHAPTER X _Behind the Footlights_ By the first of the following week the near tragedy of the picnic seemed only a terrible nightmare to Helen and Margaret and they devoted all of their extra time to helping Tom get out the next edition of the _Herald_. Monday morning's mail brought a long letter from Helen's father, a letter in which he praised them warmly for their first edition of the _Herald_. He added that he had recovered from the fatigue of his long trip into the southwest and was feeling much stronger and a great deal more cheerful. The newsy letter brightened the whole atmosphere of the Blair home and for the first time since their father had left, Tom and Helen saw their mother like her old self, smiling, happy and humming little tunes as she worked about the house. Events crowded one on another as the school year neared its close. There were final examinations, the junior-senior banquet, the annual sophomore party and finally, graduation exercises. The seniors had been rehearsing their play, "The Spell of the Image," for a month and for the final week had engaged a special dramatic instructor from Cranston to put the finishing touches on the cast. Helen had read the play several times. It was a comedy-drama concerning the finding of an ancient and valuable string of pearls in an old image. It had action, mystery and romance and she thrilled when she thought that in two more years she would be in her own class play. The dramatic instructor arrived. She was Anne Weeks, a slender, dark-haired girl of 25 who had attended the state university and majored in dramatics. Every boy in high school promptly thought he was in love with her. The seniors rehearsed their parts every spare hour and every evening. The play was to go on Thursday night with the graduation exercises Friday evening. Dress rehearsal was called for Tuesday and Helen went down to the opera house to peek in and see how it was going. She found a disconsolate cast sitting around the stage, looking gloomily at Miss Weeks. "This looks more like a party of mourners than a play practice," observed Helen. "It's just about that bad," replied Miss Weeks. "Sarah Jacobs has come down with a severe cold and can't talk, which leaves us in a fine pickle." "Won't she be able to go on Thursday night?" "It will be at least a week before she'll be able to use her voice for a whole evening," Miss Weeks said. "In the meantime, we've got to find another girl, about Sarah's size, to play her part and every member of the senior class is in the play now." She stopped suddenly and looked at Helen. "You're about Sarah's size," she mused, "and you're blonde and you have blue eyes. You'll do, Helen." "Do for what?" asked the astounded Helen. "Why, for Sarah's part," exclaimed Miss Weeks. "Come now, hurry up and get into Sarah's costume," and she pointed to a dainty colonial dress which the unfortunate Sarah was to have worn in the prologue. "But I don't know Sarah's part well enough," said Helen. "I've only read the play twice and then just for fun." "You'll catch on," said Miss Weeks, "if you're half as smart as I think you are." "Go on, Helen," urged the seniors. "Help us out. We've got to put the play across or we'll never have enough money to pay Miss Weeks." "Now you know why I'm so anxious for you to take the part," smiled the play instructor. "I'll do my best," promised Helen, gathering the costume under her arm and hurrying toward the girls' dressing room. Ten minutes later she emerged as a dainty colonial dame. Miss Weeks stared hard at her and then smiled an eminently satisfactory smile. "Now if she can only get the lines in two nights," she whispered to herself. Helen's reading of the play had given her a thorough understanding of the action and they went through the prologue without a slip. Scenery was shifted rapidly and the stage changed from a colonial ballroom to a modern garden scene. Costumes kept up with the scenery and when the members of the cast reappeared on the stage they were dressed in modern clothes. Helen poured over the pages of the play book and because she had only a minor part in the first act, got through it nicely. The second act was her big scene and she was decidedly nervous when it came time for her cue. One of the seniors was to make love to her and she didn't especially like him. But the play was the thing and the seniors certainly did need someone to take the vacant part. She screwed up her courage and played the rôle for all it was worth. Once she forgot her lines but she managed to fake a little conversation and they got back to the regular lines without trouble. When the curtain was rung down on the third act Miss Weeks stepped out of the orchestra pit where she had been directing the changes in minor details of the action and came over to Helen. "You're doing splendidly," she told the young editor of the _Herald_. "Don't worry about lines. Read them over thoroughly sometime tomorrow and we'll put the finishing touches on tomorrow night." When Helen reached home Tom had returned from the office, his work done for the night. "Thought you were just going down the street to see how play practice was coming?" he said. "I did," Helen replied, "and I'm so thrilled, Tom. Sarah Jacobs, who has the juvenile lead in the play is ill with a sore throat and Miss Weeks asked me to take the part." "Are you going to?" "I have," smiled Helen. "That's where I've been. Rehearsing for the play Thursday night." "Well, you're a fine editor," growled Tom. "How am I going to get out the paper?" "Oh, you don't need to worry about copy," Helen assured him. "Margaret has half a dozen stories to turn in tomorrow noon and I'll have all of mine written by supper time. And I'll do my usual work Thursday afternoon." "I was just kidding," grinned Tom. "I think it's great that Miss Weeks picked you to fill in during the emergency. Quite a compliment, I say." Helen's mother, who had been across the street at the Stevens', came home and Helen had to tell her story over again. "What about your costumes?" asked her mother. "The class rents the colonial dress for the prologue," explained Helen, "and for the other acts Miss Weeks is going to loan me some smart frocks from her own wardrobe. We're practically the same size." "What a break for you," Tom laughed. "You'll be the smartest dressed girl in the class if I know anything about Miss Weeks." "Which you don't!" retorted his sister. Helen's regular Wednesday morning round of news gathering took her to the depot to meet the nine forty-five and she found the agent waiting. "Remember I promised you a story this week?" he said. "I'm ready to take it," Helen smiled. "What we want is news, more news and then more news." "This is really a good story," the railroad man assured her. "Wait until you see the nine forty-five." "What's the matter? Is it two or three hours late?" "It will be in right on time," the agent promised. Helen sat down on a box on the platform to await the arrival of the morning local. Resting there in the warm sunshine, she pulled her copy of the play book out of her pocket and read the second act, with her big scene, carefully. The words were natural enough and she felt that she would have little trouble remembering them. She glanced at the depot clock. It was nine forty. The local should be whistling for the crossing down the valley. She looked in the direction from which the train was coming. There was no sign of smoke and she knew it would be late. She had picked up her play book and turned to the third act when a mellow chime echoed through the valley. It was like a locomotive whistle and yet unlike one. "New whistle on the old engine?" Helen asked the agent. "More than that," he grinned. The _Herald's_ editor watched for the train to swing into sight around a curve but instead of the black, stubby snout of the regular passenger engine, a train of three cars, seemingly moving without a locomotive, appeared and rolled smoothly toward the station. As it came nearer Helen could hear the low roar of a powerful gasoline engine, which gradually dropped to a sputtering series of coughs as the three car train drew abreast the station. "Latest thing in local trains," exclaimed the agent. "It's a gas-electric outfit with the motive power in the front end of the first car. Fast, clean and smooth and it's economical to run. Don't take a fireman." Helen jotted down hasty notes. Everyone in the town and countryside would be interested in seeing and reading about the new train. The agent gave Helen a hand into the cab where the engineer obligingly explained the operation of the gas-electric engine. The conductor called "All aboo-ord," and Helen climbed down out of the cab. The gasoline engine sputtered as it took up the load of starting the train. When the cars were once under way, it settled down to a steady rumble and the train picked up speed rapidly and rolled out of town on its way to the state capital. "What do you think of it?" asked the agent. "It's certainly a fine piece of equipment," said Helen, "but I hate to see the old steam engines go. There's something much more romantic about them than these new trains." "Oh, we'll have steam on the freight trains," the agent hastened to add. "Give us a good write up." "I will," Helen promised as she started for the _Herald_ office to write her story of the passing of the steam passenger trains on the branch line. Margaret came in with a handful of school stories she had written during an assembly hour. "Congratulations," she said to Helen. "I've just heard about your part. You'll put it across." "I'm glad you think so, Marg, for I'd hate to make a fizzle of it." Helen finished writing her copy for the paper that afternoon after school and before she went home to supper with Tom wrote the headlines for the main stories on page one. "Did you write a story about the sophomore picnic and what happened to Margaret?" asked Tom. "It's with the copy I just put on your machine," Helen replied. "Everyone knows something about it and of course there is a lot of talk. I've seen Doctor Stevens and Margaret and they both agree that a story is necessary and that the simple truth is the best thing to say with no apologies and nothing covered up." "Doc Stevens is a brick," exclaimed Tom. "Most men would raise the very dickens if such a story were printed but it will stop idle talk which is certainly much worse than having the truth known." "That's the way he feels," Helen said. Margaret came over after supper to go down to the opera house with Helen for play practice. "I'm getting almost as big a thrill out of it as Helen," she told Mrs. Blair, "only I wouldn't be able to put it across and Helen can." Miss Weeks had brought three dresses for Helen to wear, one for each act in the play. They were dainty, colorful frocks that went well with Helen's blondness. The stage was set with all of the properties for the prologue and Helen hastened into the girl's dressing room to put on her colonial costume. When she returned to the stage, Miss Weeks was addressing the cast. "Remember," she warned them, "that this is the last rehearsal. Everything is just as it will be tomorrow night. Imagine the audience is here tonight. Play up to them." The main curtain was dropped, the house lights went off and the battery of brilliant electrics in the footlights blazed. The curtain moved slightly; then went up smoothly and disappeared in the darkness above the stage. The play was on. The prologue went smoothly and without a mistake and when the curtain dropped the stage became a scene of feverish activity. "Five minutes to change," Miss Weeks warned them as they went to their dressing rooms. For the first act Helen was to wear a white sport dress with a blazing red scarf knotted loosely around her neck. She wiggled into her outfit, brushed her hair with deft hands, dabbed fresh powder on her cheeks, touched up her lips with scarlet and was ready for her cue. She said her lines with an ease and clearness that surprised even herself and was back in the wings and on her way to the dressing room almost before she knew it. In the second act Helen had her big part and Miss Weeks had provided a black, velvet semiformal afternoon gown. It was fashioned in plain, clinging lines, caught around the waist with a single belt of braided cloth of gold and with the neckline trimmed in the same material. Golden slippers and hose and one bracelet, a heavy, imitation gold band, completed the accessories. Between acts Miss Weeks came into see how the costume fitted. "Why, Helen," she exclaimed. "You're gorgeous--beautiful. Every boy in town will be crazy about you." "I'll worry about that later," Helen replied. "But I'm so glad you think I look all right." "You're perfectly adorable." The praise from Miss Weeks buoyed Helen with an inner courage that made her fairly sparkle and she played her part for all it was worth. Again she forgot her lines but she managed to escape by faking conversation. When the rehearsal was over, Margaret hastened to the stage. "You'll be the hit of the show," she whispered to Helen. "And think of it, one of the sophomores running away with the seniors play." "But I don't intend to do that," Helen replied. "I'm only here to help them out. Besides, I may forget my lines and make some terrible mistake tomorrow night." "You'll do nothing of the kind," Margaret insisted, as they left the theater. Thursday was Helen's busy day. Final examinations for two periods in the morning and then to the office after lunch to help Tom fold and mail the week's edition of the _Herald_. Tom had put the two pages for the last run on the press before going home for lunch so when they returned the press was ready for the afternoon's work. Advertising had not been quite as heavy as the first week and Tom had used every line of copy Helen had written, but the paper looked clean and readable. Helen stacked the papers on the makeup table and started folding. When Tom finished the press run he folded while Helen started stamping the names of the subscribers on the papers. By four o'clock every paper was in the postoffice and half an hour later they were ready to call it a day and lock up the office. When Helen reached home her mother made her go to her room and rest for an hour before supper. They were eating when Margaret hurried in. "Here are your tickets," she told Mrs. Blair. "I managed to get them exchanged so we'll all be together." "But I thought you had decided not to go to the play?" Helen said to her mother. "That was before you had a part in it," smiled Mrs. Blair. "Where are you going to sit?" "You don't want to know," put in Tom. "If you did, it would make you nervous. It's bad enough to know that we'll be there." The cast had been called to meet on the stage at seven-fifteen for last minute instructions. The curtain was at eight-fifteen and that would give them an hour to dress and get into makeup. Miss Weeks had little to say when she faced the group of seniors and the lone sophomore. "Remember that this is no different from last night's rehearsal," she told them. "Play up to each other. If you forget a few lines, fake the conversation until you can get back to your cues. You will disappoint me greatly if you don't put on the best senior play ever given in Rolfe." Then they were swept away in the rush of last minute preparations for the first call. The girl's dressing room was filled with the excited chatter of a dozen girls and the air was thick with the smell of grease paint and powder. Colonial costumes came out of the large wardrobe which filled one side of the room and there was the crisp rustle of silk as the girls donned their costumes. Miss Weeks moved through the room, adding a touch of makeup here and taking off a bit where some over-zealous young actress had been too enthusiastic. "Ten minutes," Miss Weeks warned the girls. "Everyone out and on the stage." There was a general checkup on costumes and stage properties. Through the heavy curtain Helen heard the high school orchestra swing into the overture. The electrician moved the rheostat which dimmed the house lights. The banks of electrics in the flies about the stage awoke into glaring brilliance as the overture reached its crescendo. The stage was very quiet. Everyone was ready for the curtain. All eyes were on Miss Weeks and Helen felt a last second flutter of her heart. In another second or two she would be in the full glare of the footlights. She was thankful that she had only a few lines in the prologue. It would give her time to gain a stage composure and prepare for her big scene in the second act. Miss Weeks' hand moved. The man at the curtain shifted and it started slowly upward. Helen blinked involuntarily as she faced the full glare of the footlights. Beyond them she could see only a sea of faces, extending row on row toward the back of the theater. Somewhere out there her mother and Tom would be watching her. And with them would be Margaret and her parents. The play was on and Helen forgot her first nervousness. Dainty colonial dames moved about the stage and curtsied before gallant white-wigged gentlemen. The prologue was short but colorful. Just enough to reveal that a precious string of pearls had been hidden in the ugly little image which reposed so calmly on a pedestal. As the curtain descended, a wave of applause reached the stage. It was ardent and prolonged and Miss Weeks motioned for the cast to remain in their places. The curtain ascended half way and the cast curtsied before it descended again. "You're doing splendidly," Miss Weeks told them. "Now everyone to the dressing rooms to change for the first act. Be back on the stage ready to go in five minutes." The girls flocked to the dressing room. Colonial costumes disappeared and modern dresses took their place. Helen slipped into her white sport outfit with the scarlet scarf. Her cheeks burned with the excitement of the hour. She dabbed her face with a powder puff and returned to the stage. The scenery had been shifted for the first act and the curtain went up on time to the second. Helen felt much easier. Her first feeling of stage fright had disappeared and she knew she was the master of her own emotions. She refused to think of the possibility of forgetting her lines and resolved to put herself into the character she was playing and do and act in the coming situations, as that character would do. Helen was on the stage only a few minutes during the first act and she had ample time to change for the second. The dressing room was almost deserted and she took her time. The heavy, black velvet dress Miss Weeks had loaned her was entrancing in its rich beauty and distinctiveness. She combed her blond hair until it looked like burnished gold. Then she pulled it back and caught it at the nape of her neck. It was the most simple hair dress possible but the most effective in its sheer simplicity. Other girls crowded into the room. The first act was over. Miss Weeks came in and Helen stood up. "Wonderful, Helen, wonderful," murmured the instructor, but not so loud that the other girls would hear. There was the call for the second act and Helen went onto the stage. The senior she played opposite came up. "All set?" he asked. Helen smiled, just a bit grimly, for she was determined to play her part for all it was worth. The orchestra stopped playing and the curtain slid upward. She heard her cue and walked into the radiance of the lights. She heard the senior, her admirer in the play, talking to her. He was telling her of his recent adventures and how, at the end of a long, moonlit trail, he had finally come upon the girl of his dreams. Then she heard herself replying, protesting that there was no such thing as love at first sight, but that ardent young Irish adventurer refused no for an answer and Helen backed away from him. She heard a warning hiss from the wings but it was too late. She walked backwards into a pedestal with a vase of flowers. There was a sudden crash of the falling pedestal and the tinkle of breaking glass. The audience roared with laughter. Helen was stunned for the moment. In her chance to make good in high school dramatics she had clumsily backed into the stand and upset it, breaking the vase. Tears welled into her eyes and her lips trembled. The senior was staring at her, too surprised to talk. The laughter continued, and Helen seized the only chance for escape. Could she make it appear that the accident was a part of the play, a deliberate bit of comedy? "Smile," she whispered to the senior. "We can make it look like a part of the play. Follow my cue." He nodded slightly to show that he understood. The laughter subsided enough for them to continue their lines and Helen managed to smile. She hoped it wouldn't look too forced. "Look what you made me do," she said, pointing at the wreckage of the vase. "Sorry," smiled the senior. "I'm just that way about you." Then they swung back into the lines of the play and three minutes later Helen was again in the wings. Miss Weeks was waiting for her and Helen expected a sharp criticism. "Supreme comedy," congratulated the dramatic instructor. "How did you happen to think of that?" "But I didn't think of it," protested Helen. "It was an accident. I was scared to death." Miss Weeks stared at her hard. "Well," she commented, "you certainly carried it off splendidly. It was the best comedy touch of the show." The third act went on and then "The Spell of the Image" was over. The curtain came down on the final curtain call. The orchestra blared as the audience left the hall while parents and friends trooped onto the stage to congratulate the members of the cast. Helen suddenly felt very tired and there was a mist in her eyes, but she brightened visibly when her mother and Tom, followed by the Stevens, pushed through the crowd. She listened eagerly to their praises and to Tom's whole-hearted exclamations over her beauty and charm. Then the lights of the stage dimmed. She had had her hour as an actress; she knew she had acquitted herself well. The smell of grease, paint and powder faded and she was a newspaperwoman again--the editor of the _Herald_. CHAPTER XI _New Plans_ With the end of the school year Tom and Helen were able to give their complete time and energies to the _Herald_. When Monday, the first of June arrived, they were working on their fourth issue of the _Herald_ and Helen had written a number of stories on the last week's activities at school, the graduation exercises, the junior-senior dinner and the senior class play. She praised Miss Weeks highly for her work with the class play and lauded the seniors for their fine acting. Although urged that she say something about her own part, Helen steadfastly refused and her brother finally gave up in disgust and delved in to the ledger for on his shoulders fell the task of making out the monthly bills and handling all of the business details of the paper. When Tom had completed his bookkeeping he turned to his sister. "Helen," he began, "we're not making enough." "But, Tom," she protested, "the paper is carrying more advertising than when Dad ran it." "Yes, but our expenses are high," said Tom. "We've got to look ahead all the time. Dad will have used all of the money he took with him in a little less than six months. After that it will be up to us to have the cash in the bank. Right now we've just a little under a hundred dollars in the bank. Current bills will take more than that, and our own living expenses, that is for mother and we two, will run at least $100 a month. With our total income from the paper only slightly more than $200 a month on the basis of the present amount of advertising, you see we're not going to be able to save much toward helping Dad." "Then we'll have to find ways of increasing our volume of business," said Helen. "That won't be easy to do in a town this size," replied Tom, "and I won't go out and beg for advertising." "No one is going to ask you to," said Helen. "We'll make the _Herald_ such a bright, outstanding paper that all of the business men will want to advertise." "We'll do the best we can," agreed Tom. "Then let's start right now by putting in a farm page," suggested Helen. "But there won't be many farm sales from now on," argued Tom. "No," conceded his sister, "but there is haying, threshing and then corn picking and all of the stores have supplies to sell to the farmers." "I believe you're right. If you'll do the collecting this afternoon, I'll go down to Gladbrook and see if we can get the cooperation of the county agent. Lots of the townships near here have farm bureaus and I'll get the names of all of their leaders and we'll write and tell them what we plan to do." After lunch Tom teased the family flivver into motion and set out for Gladbrook while Helen took the sheaf of bills and started the rounds of the business houses. She had no trouble getting her money from all of the regular advertisers and in every store in which she stopped she took care to ask the owner about news of the store and of his family. She noticed that it flattered each one and she resolved to call on them at least once a week. Tom returned from Gladbrook late in the afternoon. He was enthusiastic over the success of his talk with the county agent. "He's a fine chap," Tom explained. "Had a course in agricultural journalism in college and knows news and how to write it. The Gladbrook papers, the _News_ and the _Times_, don't come up in this section of the county and he'll be only too glad to send us a column each week." "When will he start?" "Next week will be the first one. He'll mail his column every Tuesday evening and we'll have it on the Wednesday morning mail. Now, here's even better news. I went to several of the department stores at Gladbrook and told them we were going to put out a real farm page. They're actually anxious to buy space and by driving down there once a week I can get two or three good ads." "How will the local merchants feel?" asked Helen. "They won't object," replied Tom, "for I was careful to stress that I would only accept copy which would not conflict with that used by our local stores." "That was a wise thing to do," Helen said. "We can't afford to antagonize our local advertisers. I made the rounds and collected all of the regular accounts. There's only about eighteen dollars outstanding on this month's bills and I'll get all but about five dollars of that before the week is over." "Want to go to Cranston Friday or Saturday?" asked Tom. "I surely do," Helen replied. "But what for, Tom, and can we afford it?" "One of us will have to make the trip," her brother said. "Putting on this farm page means we'll have to print two more pages at home, six altogether, and will need only two pages of ready-print a week from the World Printing Company. We'll go down and talk with their manager at Cranston and select the features we want for the two pages they will continue to print for us." "Our most important features in the ready-print now are the comics, the serial story and the fashion news for women," said Helen. "Then we'll have one page of comics," said Tom, "and fill the other page with features of special interest to our women readers." The next three days found the young Blairs so busy getting out the current edition of the paper that they had little time to talk about their plans. They had decided to go to Cranston Friday but when Helen found that there were special rates for Saturday, they postponed the trip one day. When the Friday morning mail arrived, Helen was glad they had changed their plans. While sorting the handful of letters, most of them circulars destined for the wastepaper basket, she came upon the letter she had been looking forward to for days. The words in the upper left hand corner thrilled her. It was from the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press. With fingers that trembled slightly, she tore it open. Would she get the job as Rolfe correspondent? A green slip dropped out of the envelope and Tom, who had come in from the composing room, reached down and picked it up. "Ten dollars!" he whistled. "What's that?" demanded Helen, incredulously. "It's your check from the Associated Press for covering the tornado," explained Tom. "Look!" Helen took the slip of crisp, green paper. She wasn't dreaming. It was a check, made out in her name and for $10. "But there must be some mistake," she protested. "They didn't mean to pay me that much." "If you think there's a mistake," grinned Tom, "you can go and see them when we reach Cranston tomorrow. However, if I were you, I'd tuck it in my pocket, invite my brother across the street to the drug store, and buy him a big ice cream soda." "Wait until I see what the letter says," replied Helen. She pulled it out of the envelope and Tom leaned over to read it with her. "Dear Miss Blair," it started, "enclosed you will find check for your fine work in reporting the tornado near Rolfe. Please consider this letter as your appointment as Rolfe correspondent for the Associated Press. Serious accidents, fires of more than $5,000 damage and deaths of prominent people should be sent as soon as possible. Telegraph or telephone, sending all your messages collect. In using the telegraph, send messages by press rate collect when the story is filed in the daytime. If at night, send them night press collect. And remember, speed counts but accuracy must come first. Stories of a feature or time nature should be mailed. We are counting on you to protect us on all news that breaks in and near Rolfe. Very truly yours, Alva McClintock, Correspondent in charge of the Cranston Bureau." "He certainly said a lot in a few words," was Tom's comment. "Now you're one up on me. You're editor of the _Herald_ and Associated Press correspondent and I'm only business manager." "Don't get discouraged," laughed Helen, "I'll let you write some of the Associated Press stories." "Thanks of the compliment," grinned Tom. "I'm still waiting for that ice cream soda, Miss Plutocrat." "You'll grumble until I buy it, I suppose, so I might as well give in right now," said Helen. "Come on. I'm hungry for one myself." Tom and Helen boarded the nine forty-five Saturday morning and arrived at the state capital shortly after noon. It was Helen's first trip to Cranston and she enjoyed every minute of it, the noise and confusion of the great railroad terminal, the endless bobbing about of the red caps, the cries of news boys heralding noonday editions and the ceaseless roar of the city. They went into the large restaurant at the station for lunch and after that Tom inquired at the information desk for directions on how to reach the plant of the World Printing Company. He copied the information on a slip of paper and the two young newspaper people boarded a street car. Half an hour later they were on the outskirts of the industrial district and even before the conductor called their stop, Tom heard the steady roar of great presses. "Here we are," he told Helen as they stepped down from the car and looked up at a hulking ten story building that towered above them. "The Cranston plant of the _Rolfe Herald_," chuckled Helen. "Lead on." They walked up the steps into the office, gave their names and indicated their business to the office girl. After waiting a few minutes they were ushered into an adjoining office where an energetic, middle aged man who introduced himself as Henry Walker, service manager, greeted them. "Let's see, you're from the _Rolfe Herald_?" he asked. "My sister and I are running the paper while Dad is in the southwest regaining his health," explained Tom. "We've got to expand the paper to increase our advertising space and the only thing we can see to do is cut down our ready-print to two pages." "Explain just what you mean," suggested the service manager. Tom outlined their advertising field and how they hoped to increase business by adding two more pages of home print, one of which would be devoted to farm advertising and news and the other to be available for whatever additional advertising they could produce. "We'll be sorry to have you drop two pages of ready-print," said Mr. Walker, "but I believe you're doing the right thing. Now let's see what you want on the two pages you'll retain." "Helen is editor," Tom explained, "and it's up to her to pick out what she wants." "You're doing a splendid job on the _Herald_," the service manager told Helen. "I get copies of every paper we serve and I've been noticing the changes in make-up and the lively stories. However, I am sorry to hear about your father but with you two youngsters to give him pep and courage he ought to be back on the job in a few months." "We're sure he will," smiled Helen as she unfolded a copy of their last edition of the _Herald_. "I've pasted up two pages of the features I want to retain," she explained as she placed them in front of the service manager. "I see," he said. "You're going to be quite metropolitan with a full page of comics and a page devoted to women. I'm glad of that. Too many editors of weeklies fail to realize that the women and not the men are the real readers of their papers. If you run a paper which appeals to women and children you'll have a winner. Comics for the youngsters and a serial story with a strong love element and fashions and style news for the women." "How about cost?" asked Tom. "Dropping the two pages won't quite cut your bill with us in half," explained Mr. Walker, "for you're retaining all of our most expensive features. However, this new plan of yours will reduce your weekly bill about 40 per cent." "That's satisfactory," agreed Tom, "and we'd like to have it effective at once. Helen has written the headings she wants for each page." "We'll send the pages, made up in the new way, down at the usual time next week," promised the service manager, "and when there is anything else we can do, don't hesitate to let us know." When they were out of the building, they paused to decide what to do next. "I liked Mr. Walker," said Helen. "He didn't attempt to keep us from making the change. It means less money for his company yet he didn't object." "It was good business on his part," replied Tom. "Now we feel kindly toward him and although he has lost temporarily he will gain in the end for we'll give him every bit of business we can in the way of ordering supplies for job printing and extra stock for the paper." "If we have time," suggested Helen, "I'd like to go down to the Associated Press office." "Good idea," agreed Tom. "I'd like to see how they handle all of the news." They boarded the first down town street car and got off fifteen minutes later in the heart of Cranston's loop district. Across the street was the building which housed the _Cranston Chronicle_, the largest daily newspaper in the state. They consulted the directory in the lobby of the building and took the elevator to the fifth floor where the Associated Press offices were located. They stepped out of the elevator and into a large room, filled with the clatter of many machines. A boy, his face smeared with blue smudges off carbon paper, rushed up to them and inquired their business. "I'm Helen Blair, a new correspondent at Rolfe," explained the editor of the _Herald_, "and I'd like to see Mr. McClintock, the chief correspondent." "Okay," grinned the boy. "I'll tell him. You wait here." The youngster hurried across the room to a large table, shaped like a half moon and behind which sat a touseled haired chap of indeterminate age. He might be 30 and he might be 40, decided Helen. "Glad to know you, Miss Blair," he said. "You did a nice piece of work on the storm." "Thank you, Mr. McClintock," replied Helen. "But my brother, Tom, deserves all of the credit. He suggested calling the story to you." "Then I'll thank Tom, too," laughed the head of the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press. "We're here today on business for our paper," explained Helen, "and with a few minutes to spare before train time hoped you wouldn't mind if we came in and saw how the 'wheels go round' here." "I'll be happy to show you the 'works'," replied Mr. McClintock, and he took them over to a battery of electric printers. "These," he explained, "bring us news from every part of the country, east, south and far west. In reality, they are electric typewriters controlled from the sending station in some other city. We take the news which comes in here, sift it out and decide what will interest people in our own state, and send it on to daily papers in our territory." "Do these electric printers run all day?" asked Tom. "Some of them go day and night," continued Mr. McClintock, "for the A.P. never sleeps. Whenever news breaks, we've got to be ready to cover it. That's why we appreciated your calling us on the storm. We knew there was trouble in your part of the state but we didn't have a correspondent at Rolfe. It was a mighty pleasant surprise when you phoned." They visited with the Associated Press man for another fifteen minutes and would have continued longer if Tom had not realized that they had less than twenty minutes to make their train. The last two blocks to the terminal were covered at a run and they raced through the train gates just before they clanged shut. "Close call," panted Tom as they swung onto the steps of the local and it slid out of the train shed. "Too close," agreed Helen, who was breathless from their dash. "Had to make it, though," added Tom, "or we'd have been stranded here flat broke with the next train for home Monday night." "Don't worry about something that didn't happen," Helen said. "I've enjoyed every minute of our trip and we're all ready now to start our expansion program for the _Herald_ in earnest." Adding two more pages of home print to the paper meant more work than either Tom or Helen had realized. There was more news to be written and more ads to be set and another run to be made on the press. With early June at hand the summer season at the resorts on the lower end of Lake Dubar got under way and Helen resolved to make a trip at least once a week and run a column or two of personals about people coming and going. She also gave liberal space to the good roads election in July, stressing the value the paved scenic highway would be to Rolfe. The two pages of ready-print arrived on Tuesday and Tom and Helen were delighted with the appearance of the comic page and the feature page for women readers. "We'll have the snappiest looking paper in the county," chuckled Tom. "Dad won't know the old paper when he sees this week's issue." The county agent kept his promise to send them at least a column of farm news and Helen made it a point to gather all she could while Tom went to the county seat Tuesday morning and solicited ads for the page. The result was a well-balanced page, half ads and half news. Careful solicitation of home town merchants also brought additional ads and when they made up the last two pages Thursday noon they felt the extra work which increasing the size of the paper meant was more than repaid in extra advertising. "I'm printing a number of extra copies this week," explained Tom. "There are lots of people around here who ought to take the _Herald_. With our expansion program we may pick up some extra subscriptions and we might get a chance at the county printing." "Tom!" exclaimed Helen. "Do you really think we might get to be an official county paper." "I don't see why not," said Tom. "Of course the two Gladbrook papers will always be on the county list but there are always three who print the legal news and the third one is the _Auburn Advocate_. Auburn isn't any larger than Rolfe and I know darned well we have almost as many subscriptions as they do." "How do they decide the official papers?" Helen wanted to know. "The county board of supervisors meets once a year to select the three official papers," Tom explained, "and the three showing the largest circulation are selected. It would mean at least $2,000 extra revenue to us, most of which would be profit." "Then why didn't Dad try for it?" Helen asked. "I'm not sure," said Tom slowly. "There are probably several reasons, the principal one being that he wasn't strong enough to make the additional effort to build up the circulation list. The other is probably Burr Atwell, owner and publisher of the _Auburn Advocate_. I've heard Dad often remark that Atwell is the crookedest newspaperman in the state." "How much circulation do you think the _Advocate_ has now?" Helen asked. "Their last postoffice statement showed only 108 more than ours," replied Tom. "And when do the supervisors have their annual meeting?" "About the 15th of December," said Tom. "Now what's up?" "Nothing much," smiled Helen. "Only, when the supervisors meet next the _Rolfe Herald_ is going to have enough circulation to be named an official county paper. "Why Tom," she went on enthusiastically, "think what it would mean to Dad?" "I'm thinking of that," nodded her brother, "but I'm also thinking of what Burr Atwell might do to the _Herald_." CHAPTER XII _Special Assignment_ The enlarged edition of the _Herald_ attracted so much comment and praise from the readers that Tom and Helen felt well repaid for their additional efforts. Tom sat down and figured out the profit, deducted all expenses, and announced that they had made $78 on the edition, which, they agreed, was a figure they should strive to reach each week. "If we can keep that up," commented Tom, "we'll be sitting on top of the world." "But if we were only an official county paper we'd have the moon, too," Helen said. They discussed the pros and cons of getting enough additional circulation to beat the _Auburn Advocate_ and the danger of arousing the anger of Burr Atwell, its publisher. "We don't need to make a big campaign for subscriptions," argued Helen. "We've taken the biggest step right now--improving and expanding the amount of local and country reading matter. Whenever I have an extra afternoon this summer I'll drive out in the country and see if I can't get some people who haven't been subscribers to take our paper." Tom agreed with Helen's suggestion and that very afternoon they took the old family touring car, filled it with gas and oil, and ambled through the countryside. Tom had a list of farmers who were non-subscribers and before the afternoon was over they had added half a dozen new names to the _Herald's_ circulation list. In addition, they had obtained at least one item of farm news at every place they stopped. "I call that a good afternoon's work," Helen commented when they drove the ancient flivver into the garage at home. "Not bad at all," Tom agreed. "Only, we'll keep quiet about our circulation activities. No use to stir up Burr Atwell until he finds it out for himself, which will be soon enough." The remaining weeks of June passed uneventfully. The days were bright and warm with the softness of early summer and the countryside was green with a richness that only the middle west knows. Helen devoted the first part of each week to getting news in Rolfe and on Fridays and Saturdays took the old car and rambled through the countryside, stopping at farmhouses to make new friends for the _Herald_ and gather news for the farm page. The revenue of the paper was increasing rapidly and they rejoiced at the encouraging news which was coming from their father. The Fourth of July that year came on Saturday, which meant a two day celebration for Rolfe and the summer resorts on Lake Dubar. Special trains would be routed in over the railroad and the boats on the lake would do a rushing business. The managers of Crescent Beach and Sandy Point planned big programs for their resorts and ordered full page bills to be distributed throughout that section of the state. The county seat papers had usually obtained these large job printing orders but by carefully figuring, Tom put in the lowest bids. Kirk Foster, the manager of Crescent Beach, ordered five thousand posters while Art Provost, the owner of Sandy Point, ordered twenty thousand. Crescent Beach catered to a smaller and more exclusive type of summer visitors while Sandy Point welcomed everyone to its large and hospitable beach. There was not much composition for the posters but the printing required hours and it seemed to Helen that the old press rattled continuously for the better part of three days as Tom fed sheet after sheet of paper into the ancient machine. The wonder of it was that they had no breakdowns and the bills were printed and delivered on time. "All of which means," said Tom when he had finished, "that we've added a clear profit of $65 to our bank account." "If we keep on at this rate," Helen added, "we'll have ample to take care of Dad when he needs more money." "And he'll be needing it sometime this fall," Tom said slowly. "Gee whizz, but it sure does cost to be in one of those sanitariums. Lucky we could step in and take hold here for Dad." "We owe him more than we'll ever repay," said Helen, "and the experience we're getting now will be invaluable. We're working hard but we find time to do the things we like." Helen planned special stories for the edition just before the Fourth and visited the managers of both resorts to get their complete programs for the day. Kirk Foster at Crescent Beach explained that there would be nothing unusual there except the special display of night fireworks but Art Provost over at Sandy Point had engaged a line of free attractions that would rival any small circus. Besides the usual boating and bathing, there would be free acts by aerialists, a high dive by a girl into a small tank of water, half a dozen clowns to entertain the children, a free band concert both afternoon and evening, two ball games and in addition to the merry-go-round on the grounds there would be a ferris wheel and several other "thrill" rides brought in for the Fourth. "You ought to have a great crowd," said Helen. "Goin' to be mighty disappointed if I don't," said the old resort manager. "Plannin' a regular rip-snorter of a day. No admission to the grounds, but Boy! it'll cost by the time they leave." "Going to double the prices of everything?" asked Helen. "Nope. Goin' to have so many things for folks to do they'll spend everything they got before they leave." "In that case," replied Helen, "I see where I stay at home. I'm a notorious spendthrift when it comes to celebrating the Fourth." "I should say you're not goin' to stay home," said Mr. Provost. "You and your mother and Tom are goin' to be my guests. I've got your passes all filled out. Swim, ride in the boats, dance, roller skate, see the ball games, enjoy any of the 'thrill rides' you want to. Won't cost you a cent." "But I can't accept them," protested Helen. "We'll pay if we come down. Besides, we didn't give you all of those bills for nothing." "Seemed mighty near nothin' compared with the prices all the other printers in the county wanted," smiled Mr. Provost. "You've been down every week writin' items about the folks who come here and, believe me, I appreciate it. These passes are just a little return of the courtesy you've shown me this summer." "When you put it that way, I can scarcely refuse them," laughed Helen. "As a matter of fact," she added, "I wanted them terribly for we honestly couldn't afford to come otherwise." When Helen returned to the office she told Tom about the passes and he agreed that acceptance of them would not place the _Herald_ under obligation to the resort owner. "I always thought old man Provost a pretty good scout," he said, "but I hardly expected him to do this. And say, these passes are good for both Saturday and Sunday. What a break!" "If we see everything Saturday we'll be so tired we won't want to go back Sunday," Helen said. "Besides, Mother has some pretty strong ideas on Sunday celebrations." The telephone rang and Helen hastened into the editorial office to answer. She talked rapidly for several minutes, jotting down notes on a pad of scratch paper. When she had finished, she hurried back into the composing room. "Tom," she cried, "that was Mr. Provost calling." "Did he cancel the passes?" "I should say not. He called to say he had just received a telegram from the Ace Flying Circus saying it would be at Sandy Point to do stunt flying and carry passengers for the Fourth of July celebration." "Why so excited about that? We've had flying circuses here before." "Yes, I know, Tom, but 'Speed' Rand is in charge of the Ace outfit this year." "'Speed' Rand!" whistled Tom. "Well, I should say that was different. That's news. Why Rand's the man who flew from Tokyo to Seattle all alone. Other fellows had done it in teams but Rand is the only one to go solo. He's big news in all of the dailies right now. Everyone is wondering what daredevil stunt he'll do next." "He's very good looking and awfully rich," smiled Helen. "Flies just for fun," added Tom. "With all of the oil land he's got he doesn't have to worry about work. Tell you what, I'll write to the _Cranston Chronicle_ and see if they'll send us a cut of Rand. It would look fine on the front page of this week's issue." "Oh," exclaimed Helen "I almost forgot the most important part of Mr. Provost's call. He wants you to get out 10,000 half page bills on the Ace Flying Circus. Here are the notes. He said for you to write the bill and run them off as soon as you can." The order for the bills put Tom behind on his work with the paper and it was late Thursday afternoon before Helen started folding that week's issue. But they didn't mind being late. The bill order from Sandy Point had meant another piece of profitable job work and Mr. Provost had also taken a half page in the _Herald_ to advertise the coming of his main attraction for the Fourth. Mrs. Blair came down to help with the folding and Margaret Stevens, just back from a vacation in the north woods with her father, arrived in time to lend a hand. "Nice trip?" Helen asked as she deftly folded the printed sheets. "Wonderful," smiled Margaret, "but I'm glad to get back. I missed helping you and Tom. Honestly, I get a terrific thrill out of reporting." "We're glad to have you back," replied Helen, "and I think Mr. Provost down at Sandy Point will be glad to give me an extra pass for the Fourth. I'll tell him you're our star reporter." "I'd rather go to Crescent Beach for the Fourth," said Margaret. "It's newer and much more ritzy than Sandy Point." "You'd better stop and look at the front page carefully," warned Tom, who had shut off the press just in time to hear Margaret's words. She stopped folding papers long enough to read the type under the two column picture on the front page. "What!" she exclaimed, "'Speed' Rand coming here?" "None other and none such," laughed Tom. "Guaranteed to be the one and only 'Speed' Rand. Step right this way folks for your airplane tickets. Five dollars for five minutes. See the beauty of Lake Dubar from the air. Don't crowd, please." "Do you still want me to get a pass?" Helen asked. "It will be honored any place at Sandy Point during the celebration and Mr. Provost says we can all have rides with the air circus 'Speed' Rand is running." "I should say I do want a pass," said Margaret. "At least it's some advantage to being a newspaper woman besides just the fun of it." The famous Ace air circus of half a dozen planes roared over Rolfe just before sunset Friday night and the whole town turned out to see them and try to identify the plane which "Speed" Rand was flying. The air circus was flying in two sections, three fast, trim little biplanes that led the way, followed by three large cabin planes used for passenger carrying. Every ship was painted a brilliant scarlet and they looked like tongues of flames darting through the sky, the afternoon sun glinting on their wings. The air circus swung over Rolfe in a wide circle and the leading plane dropped down out of the sky, its motor roaring so loud the windows in the houses rattled in their frames. "He's going to crash!" cried Margaret. "Nothing of the kind," shouted Tom, who had read widely of planes and pilots and flying maneuvers. "That's just a power dive--fancy flying." Tom was right. When the scarlet biplane seemed headed for certain destruction the pilot pulled its nose up, levelled off, shot over Rolfe at dizzying speed and then climbed his craft back toward the fleecy, lazy white clouds. "That's Rand," announced Tom with a certainty that left no room for argument. "He's always up to stunts like that." "It must be awfully dangerous," said Helen as she watched the plane, now a mere speck in the sky. "It is," agreed Tom. "Everything depends on the motor in a dive like that. If it started to miss some editor would have to write that particular flyer's obituary." The morning of Saturday, the Fourth, dawned clear and bright. Small boys whose idea of fun was to arise at four o'clock and spend the next two hours throwing cannon crackers under windows had their usual good time and Tom and Helen, unable to sleep, were up at six o'clock. Half an hour later Margaret Stevens, also awakened by the almost continuous cannonading of firecrackers, came across the street. "Jim Preston is going to take us down the lake on his seven-thirty trip before the special trains and the big crowds start coming in," said Tom. "But I'd like to see the trains come in," protested Helen. "If we wait until then," explained Tom, "we'll be caught in the thick of the rush for the boats and we may never get to Sandy Point. We'd better take the seven-thirty boat." From the hill on which the Blair home stood they looked down on the shore of Lake Dubar with its half dozen boat landings, each with two or three motorboats awaiting the arrival of the first special excursion train. Mrs. Blair called them to breakfast and they were getting up to go inside when Margaret's exclamation drew their attention back to the lake. "Am I seeing things or is that the old _Queen_?" she asked, pointing down the lake. Tom and Helen looked in the direction she pointed. An old, double decked boat, smoke rolling from its lofty, twin funnels, was churning its way up the lake. "We may all be seeing things," cried Tom, "but it looks like the _Queen_. I thought she had been condemned by the steamboat inspectors as unfit for further service." "The news that 'Speed' Rand is going to be at Sandy Point is bringing hundreds more than the railroad expected," said Helen. "I talked with the station agent last night and they have four specials scheduled in this morning and they usually only have two." "If they vote the paved roads at the special election next week," commented Tom, "the railroad will lose a lot of summer travel. As it is now, folks almost have to come by train for the slightest rain turns the roads around here into swamps and they can't run the risk of being marooned here for several days." The _Queen_ puffed sedately toward shore. They heard the clang of bells in the engine room and the steady chouf-chouf of the exhaust cease. The smoke drifted lazily from the funnels. Bells clanged again and the paddle wheel at the stern went into the back motion, churning the water into white froth. The forward speed of the _Queen_ was checked and the big double-decker nosed into its pier. "There's old Capt. Billy Tucker sticking his white head out of the pilot house," said Tom. "He's probably put a few new planks in the _Queen's_ rotten old hull and gotten another O. K. from the boat inspectors. But if that old tub ever hits anything, the whole bottom will cave in and she'll sink in five minutes." "That's not a very cheerful Fourth of July idea," said Margaret. "Come on, let's eat. Your mother called us hours ago." They had finished breakfast and were leaving the table when Mrs. Blair spoke. "I've decided not to go down to Sandy Point with you," she said. "The crowd will be so large I'm afraid I wouldn't enjoy it very much." "But we've planned on your going, Mother," said Helen. "I'm sorry to disappoint you," smiled her mother, "but Margaret's mother and I will spend the day on the hill here. We'll be able to see the aerial circus perform and really we'll enjoy a quiet day here at home more than being in the crowd." "It won't be very quiet if those kids keep on shooting giant crackers," said Tom. "They'll be going to the celebration in another hour or two and then things will quiet down," said Mrs. Blair. "How about a plane ride if the circus has time to take us?" asked Tom. Helen saw her mother tremble at Tom's question, but she replied quickly. "That's up to you, Tom. You know more about planes than I do and if you're convinced the flying circus is safe, I have no objection." But Helen made a mental reservation that the planes would have to look mighty safe before any of them went aloft. They hurried down the hill to the pier which Jim Preston used. The boatman and his helpers had just finished polishing the three speed boats Preston owned, the _Argosy_, the _Liberty_ and the _Flyer_, which had been raised from the bottom of the lake and partially rebuilt. "All ready for the big day?" asked the genial boatman. "We're shy a few hours sleep," grinned Tom. "Those cannon crackers started about four o'clock but outside of that we're all pepped up and ready to go." "About three or four years ago," reminded the boatman, "you used to be gallivantin' around town with a pocketful of those big, red crackers at sun-up. Guess you can't complain a whole lot now." Tom admitted that he really couldn't complain and they climbed into the _Liberty_. "I'm takin' some last minute supplies down to the hotel at Sandy Point," said the boatman, "so we won't wait for anyone else." He switched on the starter and the boat quivered as the powerful motor took hold. They were backing away from the pier when the pilot of one of the other boats shouted for them to stop. A boy was running down Main Street, waving a yellow envelope in his hand. Jim Preston nosed the _Liberty_ back to the pier and the boy ran onto the dock. "Telegram for you," he told Helen. "It's a rush message and I just had to get it to you." "Thanks a lot," replied Helen. "Are there any charges?" "Nope. Message is prepaid." Helen ripped open the envelope with nervous fingers. Who could be sending her a telegram? Was there anything wrong with her father? No, that couldn't be it for her mother would have received the message. She unfolded the single sheet of yellow paper and read the telegraph operator's bold scrawl. "To: Helen Blair, _The Herald_, Rolfe. Understand 'Speed' Rand is at Rolfe for two days. Have rumor his next flight will be an attempted non-stop refueling flight around the world. See Rand at once and try for confirmation of rumor. Telephone as soon as possible. McClintock, The AP." Helen turned to Tom and Margaret. "I'm to interview 'Speed' Rand for the Associated Press," she exclaimed. "Let's go!" CHAPTER XIII _Helen's Exclusive Story_ While the _Liberty_ whisked them through the glistening waters of Lake Dubar toward Sandy Point, Margaret and Tom plied Helen with questions. "Do you think Rand will give you an interview?" demanded Tom. "I've got to get one," said Helen, her face flushed and eyes glowing with the excitement of her first big assignment for the Associated Press. "What will you ask him? How will you act?" Margaret wanted to know. "Now don't try to get me flustered before I see Rand," laughed Helen. "I think I'll just explain that I am the local correspondent for the Associated Press, show him the telegram from Mr. McClintock and ask him to confirm or deny the story." "I'll bet Rand's been interviewed by every famous reporter in the country," said Tom. "Which will mean all the more honor and glory for Helen if she can get him to tell about his plans," said Margaret. "I'll do my best," promised Helen and her lips set in a line that indicated the Blair fighting spirit was on the job. They were still more than two miles from Sandy Point when a scarlet-hued plane shot into sight and climbed dizzily toward the clouds. It spiralled up and up, the roar of its motor audible even above the noise of the speedboat's engine. "There's 'Speed' Rand now!" cried Tom. "No one flies like that but 'Speed'." The graceful little plane reached the zenith of its climb, turned over on its back and fell away in twisting series of spirals that held the little group in the boat breathless. The plane fluttered toward the lake, seemingly without life or power. Just before it appeared about to crash, the propeller fanned the sunlight, the nose jerked up, and the little ship skimmed over the waters of the lake. It was coming toward the _Liberty_ at 200 miles an hour. On and on it came until the roar of its motor drowned out every other sound. Helen, Tom and Margaret threw themselves onto the floor of the boat and Jim Preston crouched low behind his steering wheel. There was a sharp crash and Helen held her breath. She was sure the plane had struck the _Liberty_ but the boat moved steadily ahead and she turned quickly to look for the plane. The scarlet sky bird was limping toward the safety of the higher altitudes, its under-carriage twisted into a grotesque knot. "What happened?" cried Tom as he stared aghast at 'Speed' Rand's damaged plane. "Did we get hit?" "Nothing wrong with the _Liberty_," announced Jim Preston. "I don't know what happened." Helen glanced at the speedboat's wake where a heavy wave was being rolled up by the powerful propeller. "I know what happened," she cried. "'Rand' was just trying to give us an extra Fourth of July thrill and he forgot about the heavy wave the _Liberty_ pulls. He must have banged his landing gear into it." "You're right, Helen," agreed Tom. "But I can't figure out why he didn't nose over and dive to the bottom of the lake." "I expect that would have happened to any flyer except Rand," said Helen. "He's supposed to be a wizard in the air." "Wonder how this accident will affect the crowd at Sandy Point. Think it will keep them from riding with the air circus?" Margaret asked. "Depends on how widely the story gets out," said Tom. "I'd hate to have Old Man Provost's celebration ruined by wild rumors. He's spent a lot of money getting ready to give the public a good time." Helen had been watching the progress of Rand's plane. Instead of heading back toward Sandy Point he was crossing the lake to the east side. "He's not going back to Sandy Point," Helen cried. "Look, he's going to land on the east side back in the hills." "Then he'll leave the plane there and no one at Sandy Point will know anything about the accident," exclaimed Tom. "That means we're the only ones who know." Helen was thinking rapidly. Here was just the chance she needed to get hold of Rand and ask him about his world trip. She might be able to make a trade with him. It was worth a try. She leaned forward and spoke to the boatman. "Will you swing over east, land and pick up the pilot of that plane?" she asked Jim Preston. Tom, divining the motive back of Helen's request, added, "We'll pay for the extra time." The boatman agreed and the nose of the _Liberty_ was soon cleaving a white-crested path for the east shore. The scarlet plane had disappeared but from the drone of the motor they knew it was somewhere in the hills back from the lakeshore. Jim Preston let the _Liberty_ drift to an easy landing alongside a rocky outcropping and Tom, Helen and Margaret hopped out. "We won't be gone long," they promised. Back through the sparse timber along the lake shore they hurried and out into a long, narrow meadow. The scene that greeted them held them spellbound for a moment. Then they raced toward the far end of the pasture. "Speed" Rand had landed the damaged plane in a fence. Tom was the first to reach the wrecked craft. He expected to find the famous flyer half dead in the wreckage. Instead, he was greeted by a debonair young fellow who crawled from beneath one wing where he had been tossed by the impact when the plane struck the fence. "My gosh," exclaimed Tom, "aren't you hurt?" "Sorry," smiled Rand, "but I'll have to disappoint you. I haven't anything more than a few bruises." Helen and Margaret arrived so out of breath they were speechless. Rand bowed slightly. Then his eyes glowed with recognition. "Hello," he said. "Aren't you the folks in the speedboat?" "We sure were," Tom said. "You scared us half to death." "I scared myself," admitted Rand, his blue eyes reflecting the laughter on his lips. "It's been so long since I've been in a speedboat I'd forgotten all about the big wake one of those babies pull. I'm just lucky not to be at the bottom of the lake." "You're really 'Speed' Rand, aren't you?" asked Margaret. He smiled and nodded and Margaret decided she had never seen a more likable young man. His hair was brown and curly and his face was bronzed by the sun of many continents. "If you've got your boat around here, suppose you give me a lift back to Sandy Point," suggested Rand. "We'll be glad to," Helen replied. "I don't suppose you'll want it broadcast about the accident this morning on the lake and your cracking up in a fence over here?" "What are you driving at? Trying to hi-jack me into paying you to keep quiet?" The last words were short and angry and his eyes hardened. "Nothing like that," explained Tom quickly. "We know that broadcasting news of an accident to 'Speed' Rand will hurt Old Man Provost and his celebration." "Then what do you want?" Rand insisted. "We want to know whether there is anything to the rumor that you're considering a non-stop refueling flight around the world," said Helen. Rand stopped and stared at the young editor of the _Herald_ in open amazement. "Great heavens," he exclaimed. "You sound like a newspaper reporter." "I am," replied Helen. "I'm the editor of the _Rolfe Herald_ and also correspondent for the Associated Press." "And you want a story from me about my world flight in return for keeping quiet about the accident." "You can call it that," admitted Helen. They had reached the shore of the lake and Rand did not answer until they were in the _Liberty_ and Jim Preston had the craft headed for Sandy Point. "Suppose I deny the rumor," said Rand. "You've already admitted it," Helen replied. "I have?" he laughed. "How?" "Less than five minutes ago you said 'And you want a story about my world flight in return for keeping quiet about the accident?' That certainly indicates that you are seriously considering such a project." Rand laughed and shook his head. "I guess I might as well give in," he chuckled. "I've been questioned in every city I've been in and so far I've managed to evade confirming the rumor but it looks like you've got me in a corner. If I don't tell you, will you still spread the story about the accident?" "No," replied Helen quickly. "Mr. Provost has too much at stake to risk ruining his celebration. It was foolish on your part to take the risk you did and we're trusting that there won't be any more such risks taken by the air circus while it is here." "You're right. There won't be," said Rand firmly, "and I've learned a lesson myself." "You're actually planning the world flight?" asked Tom, who wanted to get Rand back on the subject of Helen's assignment. "I can't get away from you," smiled the flyer, "so I might as well give you all of the details. Got some copypaper?" Helen fished a pad of paper and a pencil from a pocket and handed them to Rand. "If you don't mind," he explained, "I'll jot down the principal names of the foreign towns where I'll make the refueling contacts. Some of them have queer names and it will help you keep them straight." The flyer drew a rough sketch of the world, outlining the continents of the northern hemisphere. He located New York on the map and then drew a dotted line extending eastward across the North Atlantic, over Great Britain, Germany, Russia, Siberia, a corner of China, out over the Kamchatka peninsula, across the Bering Sea, over Alaska and then almost a straight line back to New York. "This is my proposed route," he explained, "covering some 15,000 miles. It will take about four days if I have good luck and am not forced down." "But I thought the distance around the world was 25,000 miles," said Margaret. "That's the circumference at the equator," smiled Rand, "but I'm going to make the trip well up in the northern latitudes. In fact, I'll be pretty close to the Arctic circle part of the time." Rand bent over his makeshift map again, marking in the names of the cities where he intended to refuel while in flight. "When will you take off from New York?" Helen asked. "In about two weeks," replied Rand without looking up from the map. Helen gasped. This, indeed, was news. Every paper in the land would carry it on the front page. "What kind of a plane do you intend to use?" Tom wanted to know. "I'm having one built to order," said the flyer. "It's a special monoplane the Skycraft Company is testing now at their factory in Pennsylvania. I had a telegram yesterday saying the plane would be ready the first of next week so when I leave Sandy Point I'll go directly to Pennsylvania to get the plane and make the final tests myself. The air circus will finish its summer tour alone." Before they reached the landing at Sandy Point, Rand explained how he intended to refuel while in flight, gave Helen the name of his mechanic and described details of the plane. When they touched the landing at Sandy Point a heavyset man dressed in brown coveralls jumped into the boat. "What in heaven's name happened?" he asked Rand excitedly. "I flew too close to this motor boat," said the flyer, "and damaged my landing gear on the wave it was pulling. Instead of coming back here to crack up I went across the lake and landed in a meadow. These young people followed and brought me back. I banged the ship up considerable and in return for keeping them quiet, I gave them the story about my world flight. They're newspaper folks." The heavy man stared at Helen, Tom and Margaret. "Well, I guess it had to come out some time," he admitted and Rand introduced him as Tiny Adams, his manager of the air circus. "Tiny runs the show when I go gallivanting around on some fool stunt," explained Rand. Even at that early hour the crowd was gathering at Sandy Point. Motor boats were whisking down the lake from Rolfe and the beautiful beach was thick with bathers in for a morning dip in the clear waters of the lake. They hurried off the boat dock and pushed their way through the crowd along the lake shore. "I'm going to the hotel and telephone my story to the Associated Press," said Helen. "And thanks so much, Mr. Rand, for confirming it." "That's all right," grinned the famous flyer. "I guess you youngsters deserve the break. You certainly were after the news and I appreciate you're keeping quiet about my accident." "We'll have to print it in our weekly," warned Tom. "Oh, that's all right," said Rand. "The celebration will be over long before your paper comes out. See you at the field later," he added as he hurried away, followed by the manager of the air circus. Helen stood for a moment looking after the tall flyer as he edged his way through the ever-increasing crowd. "Isn't he handsome?" sighed Margaret. "What a story," commented Tom. "Let's get going," said Helen, and she started for the hotel. They reached the rambling old hotel which overlooked the lake and were met at the door by Art Provost, the manager of the resort. "Glad to see you down so early," he said as he welcomed them. "We thought we'd get here before the crowd," Tom said, "but from the looks of the young mob down at the beach now they must have started coming in about sundown last night." "They did," chuckled Mr. Provost. "Looks like the greatest celebration in the history of Lake Dubar. It's the air circus that's drawing them in and I hope there are no accidents." Helen glanced at Tom, warning her brother not to reply. "I've met 'Speed' Rand," she said, "and I think you'll find him a careful flyer. I'm sure he'll insist on every possible precaution." They went into the lobby of the hotel and Helen entered the telephone booth. She started to put in a long distance call for the Associated Press, then changed her mind and returned to where Tom and Margaret were waiting. "I'm so nervous I'm afraid I won't be able to talk," she said. "Feel my hands." Tom and Margaret did as Helen directed. They found her hands clammy with perspiration. "I think I'll sit down and write the story and telegraph it," said Helen. "You'll do nothing of the kind," insisted Tom. "Here, I'll put the call through and you just repeat what Rand told you. They'll write the story at the Cranston bureau." Helen nodded in agreement and Tom bolted into the telephone booth, got the long distance operator at Rolfe and put in a collect call for the Cranston bureau of the Associated Press. Two minutes later Tom announced that the A.P. was on the line. Helen entered the booth and took the receiver. Tom pulled the door shut and Helen was closeted with her big story in the tiny room, the mouthpiece before her connecting her with the bureau where they were waiting for the story. "Is Mr. McClintock in the office?" she asked. "He's busy," replied the voice. "I'll take the message." "Tell Mr. McClintock that Helen Blair is calling about the Rand story," she insisted. She heard the connection switch and the chief of the Cranston bureau snapped a question at her. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Rand give you the usual denial?" The sharpness of the words nettled Helen. "No he didn't," she replied. "He gave me the whole story. He'll leave New York within the next two weeks on a non-stop refueling flight around the world." "What!" shouted the A.P. chief. Helen repeated her statement. "You've got the biggest story in days," gasped McClintock. "Have you got plenty of substantiation in case he tries to deny it later." "Two witnesses," replied Helen, "and a map of his route which he drew and signed for me." "That's enough. Let's go. Give me everything he told you. Spell the names of his foreign refueling points slowly. I'll take it directly on a typewriter and we'll start the bulletins out on the main news wires." The first excitement of the story worn off, Helen found herself exceedingly calm. In short, clear sentences she related for McClintock all of the information "Speed" Rand had given her. "Send me the map he drew by the first mail," the A.P. correspondent instructed. "It will make a great feature story. Thanks a lot, Miss Blair. You're a real newspaperwoman." CHAPTER XIV _The Queen's Last Trip_ When Helen left the close confines of the telephone booth after completing her call to the Associated Press she suddenly felt very weak and tired. "What's the matter?" Tom asked. "I feel just a little faint," confessed Helen. "Guess the excitement of getting the story and sending it in was a little too much." "Take my arm," her brother commanded. "We'll go back to the restaurant and get a glass of milk and a sandwich and you'll feel all right in a few minutes." The food restored Helen's strength and in less than half an hour she was her old self, ready to enjoy the Fourth of July celebration. Every boat from Rolfe increased the size of the crowd at Sandy Point. The speedboats dashed down the lake carrying their capacity of passengers, turned and sped back to the town for another load. The _Queen_ sedately churned its way through the lake, its double decks jammed with humanity. As they stood on the beach Helen wondered if the old lake boat would come through the day without a mishap. Almost any small accident could throw the passengers into a panic and the capsizing of the _Queen_ might follow if they rushed to one side of the flat-bottomed old craft. The _Queen_ sidled up to the big pier at Sandy Beach and Capt. Billy Tucker stuck his white head out of a window in the pilot house and watched his passengers rush for the beach. "He's in his glory on a day like this," Tom said, "but it's probably the last year for the _Queen_. The boat inspectors won't dare pass the old tub next year no matter how much they like Captain Billy." "What will he do if they don't license the _Queen_?" asked Margaret. "Oh, he'll get along all right," said Tom. "Captain Billy has plenty salted away. It's just that he loves the lake and the _Queen_." The planes of the air circus were wheeling overhead and they left the beach and started for the air field. The attractions along the midway were gathering their share of the crowd and the mechanical band on the merry-go-round blared with great gusto. The ferris wheel was swinging cars loaded with celebrators into the tree-tops and the whip and other thrill rides were crowded. Beyond the midway was the large pasture which had been turned into a landing field. A sturdy wire fence had been thrown across the side toward the summer resort and it was necessary to have a pass or ticket to get through the gate. Two small stunt planes were taking off when the members of the _Herald_ staff arrived and the three large cabin planes were being filled with passengers. Two of the planes carried eight passengers apiece while the largest, a tri-motor, could accommodate 12. They were sturdy, comfortable looking craft and Helen noticed that they appeared to be in the best possible condition. They presented their passes at the gate and were admitted to the field. "Speed" Rand, hurrying along toward the largest plane, caught sight of them. "Want to ride?" he called. The answer was unanimous and affirmative. A minute later they were seated in the 12-passenger plane in comfortable wicker chairs. The door was closed, the motors roared, they bumped over the pasture and then floated away on magic wings. The ground dropped away from them; the resort and the lake were miniatures bordered by the rich, green lands of the valley and at the far end of the lake, Rolfe, a handful of houses, basked. It was glorious, thrilling, and Helen enjoyed every minute. They swung over the lake where the speedboats were cutting white swaths through the water. They did not cross to the east side and Helen guessed that the pilots were afraid some passenger with unusually keen eyes might detect the remains of the plane Rand had damaged that morning. Then the trip was over. They drifted down to the field, the motor idling as they lost altitude. Helen sat absolutely rigid for a few seconds, wondering if the plane would land all right. The motors roared again, the nose came up and they settled to earth with little more than a bump. Rand greeted them when they stepped out of the plane. "Like it?" he inquired. "You bet," said Tom enthusiastically. "Biggest thrill I ever had." "How about you?" Rand asked Helen. "I loved every minute until we started to come down," she smiled. "Then I wondered where we were going to stop and how, but everything came out all right and I really did enjoy it." "Get your story in to the A.P.?" asked the flyer. "Just as soon as I could reach a telephone," Helen replied. "The bureau chief appeared pleased." "He should be," chuckled Rand. "It seems like every place I've gone for the last month there's been a reporter waiting to ask me questions about my world flight. Honestly, it got so I used to look under the bed at night for fear I might talk in my sleep and wake up in the morning to find a reporter had been hidden in my room." Another flyer called Rand and the famous aviator slipped away through the crowd. It was the last they were to see of him and they turned and went back to the attractions of the midway. They tried every ride, the merry-go-round and the ferris wheel, roller skated, went bathing, listened to the band concert, munched hot dogs at irregular intervals and wound up the afternoon almost exhausted and ready to start for home. So were some other hundreds of people and they found it impossible to get a place in one of the speedboats. The _Queen_ puffed majestically at her pier and Capt. Billy Tucker pulled twice on the whistle cord. Two long, mellow blasts echoed over the lake. The _Queen_ would leave for Rolfe in five minutes. "Looks like we'll have to take the _Queen_ if we want to get home in any reasonable time," said Margaret. Tom looked at the throngs waiting for the boats. "You're right," he agreed. "We won't be able to get on one of the fast boats for at least two hours and I'm getting hungry. I saw mother putting some pie away in the ice box last night and there'll be plenty of cold milk at home." "Don't," protested Helen, "I'm so hungry now I'm hollow." "Then let's take the _Queen_," urged Margaret. They bought their tickets and hurried onto the main deck of the old lake boat. "It will be cooler on top," said Helen and they went up the broad stairs to the upper deck. Perched on this deck was the pilot house where Captain Billy ruled. He saw them and motioned them to join him. "Have a big celebration?" he asked when they entered the pilot house. "Finest ever," said Margaret, "but we're ready to call it a day and start home." "Better set down on those benches," said Captain Billy, motioning toward the leather-cushioned lockers which lined the walls of the pilot house. The veteran lake skipper leaned out of the pilot house, watching the crowd on the beach. The electric lights flashed on as twilight draped its purple mantle over the lake and the whole scene was subdued. The cries from the bathers were not as sharp, the music from the midway seemed to have lost some of its sharpness and the whole crowd of holiday celebrators relaxed with the coming of night. Captain Billy glanced at his watch. "Two minutes," he said, half to himself as he reached for the whistle cord. Again the mellow whistle of the _Queen_ rang out and belated excursionists hastened aboard. The ticket seller at the pier head sounded his final warning bell, and there was the last minute rush across the stubby gang plank. Captain Billy signalled the engine room, bells rang in the depths of the boat and the easy chouf-chouf of the twin stacks deepened as the engines took up their work and the _Queen_ backed slowly away from the pier. Two men who had tarried at the midway too long ran down the pier and yelled at Captain Billy. The skipper picked up his megaphone. "Sorry, too late," he shouted. "We'll be back in two hours." "Gosh-dinged idiots," he grumbled to himself. "Here I wait as long as I can and then they expect me to put back in shore. Not me, by Joe, when I've got to make connections with one of them excursion trains." "Have lots of business today?" asked Tom. "Biggest day in the twenty odd years I've had the _Queen_ on the lake," he chuckled. "The old girl is about on her last legs but this season looks like the best of all. If the paved road goes through they'll all come in cars and the railroad and the _Queen_ will be out of luck." "But you're not objecting to the paved road, are you?" asked Helen. "Course not," he replied. "It's progress and you can't stop it." The _Queen_, ablaze with lights, churned steadily up the lake and the electrics along the beach at Sandy Point faded into a string of dots. Speed boats, showing their red and green riding lights, raced past in smothers of foam but the _Queen_ rocked only slightly as they passed and continued steadily on her way. The band on the after part of the top deck played slower, softer melodies and the whole scene was one of calm and quiet, a fitting end for a great celebration. Of all the people on the _Queen_, only Captain Billy in the pilot house and the crew in the black depths of the engine room were alive to the dangers of the night. They knew how anything unusual and startling might cause a panic which would capsize the _Queen_ or how careless navigation on the part of Captain Billy might shove the _Queen_ onto one of the jagged ledges of rock which were hazards to navigation in certain parts of the lake. But the _Queen_ passed safely through the rock-strewn sections of the lake and Captain Billy relaxed as the lights of Rolfe came into view. The _Queen_ was less than half a mile from her pier when the unexpected happened. A speed boat, without lights, loomed out of the night. Screams echoed from the lower deck. Before Captain Billy could twirl his wheel and shift the blunt nose of the _Queen_, the speed boat knifed into the bow of the old steamer. There was the crash of splintering wood, and muffled cries from the men and women in the smaller boat. Captain Billy knew the danger even before the boats met. The crash of the collision was still in their ears when he called to Tom. "Take the wheel," he cried, "and keep the _Queen_ headed for the beach. Don't change the course." Then he leaned over the speaking tube to the engine room. "Captain Billy speaking," he shouted. "A speed boat just hit us. Full speed ahead until we ground on the sandy beach." They could feel the _Queen_ trembling as the crowd on the lower deck rushed forward toward the scene of the accident. "The fools, the fools," muttered Captain Billy as he ran from the pilot house. The leader of the band ran forward. "Get back and play," ordered the captain. "Play anything loud." A deck hand, racing up from below, met Captain Billy at the head of the stairs. "They knocked a hole clear through us," he gasped. "We're taking water fast." "Shut up," snapped the captain. "Stay here and don't let anyone off the upper deck." The young people in the pilot house saw Captain Billy rush down the stairs and they looked at one another in open amazement. "He's every inch a skipper," said Tom as he clung to the wheel of the _Queen_. "I hope he pulls us through," said Margaret, staring at the lights of Rolfe. A minute ago they had seemed so close; now they were so far away, the longest half mile any of them would ever know. "He'll get us there if it is humanly possible," Helen said hopefully. The crowd on the upper deck milled excitedly but the deck hand forced them back from the stairway and the steady playing of the band and continued forward movement of the _Queen_ seemed to allay their worst fears. Sparks rolled from the twin funnels as the engines labored to the utmost but Tom, his hands on the sensitive wheel, knew that the speed was decreasing. The _Queen_ was harder to handle, the bow was settling lower in the water but less than a quarter of a mile remained. He reached up and pulled the whistle cord. Three short, sharp blasts shattered the night. Three more and then three more. It was the signal for help but he wondered how many would be in Rolfe to answer the call. "How deep is the water from here in?" asked Helen. "About twenty feet," replied her brother. "Better slip on those life preservers and get ready to jump. We're taking water fast." "There are several hundred in the lockers here," said Helen. "I'm going to pass them out to the people on deck." "It will only alarm them," said Tom. "But they've got to have a chance if we go under," replied Helen and with Margaret to help her, she hurled scores of life preservers out of the pilot house onto the deck. The passengers had lost their first panic. They knew the _Queen_ was making a valiant fight to reach shore but the tenseness, the grimness of the crew told them it was going to be close. In the emergency they used their heads and put on the life preservers as fast as Helen and Margaret could pull them from the lockers. The lights of Rolfe were agonizingly close. Less than six hundred feet separated them from the safety of the sandy shore. On the upper deck the passengers were quiet, ready for the crisis. Tom leaned close to the speaking tube. The chief engineer was talking. "What's he saying?" Helen demanded. "Water's in the engine room," replied her brother. "The fires under the boiler will be out in another minute or two. Then blewy!" "Isn't there enough steam to make shore?" asked Margaret desperately, for after her experience on the lake earlier in the summer she had a very real fear of Dubar at night. "All we can do is hope," replied Tom. "They'll keep the engines turning over as long as there is any steam left." The warning from the whistle was bringing people from town and they were gathering under the electrics along the beach. Helen wondered if they knew that death was riding on the bow of the _Queen_, that tragedy was waiting to swoop down on the old boat and its load of excursionists. The _Queen_ staggered, wabbled dangerously, and the wheel jerked out of Tom's hands. He grabbed the spokes and held the bow steady as the _Queen_ stumbled ahead. They could see the faces of the people on the beach now, saw the look of horror that spread over them as they saw the stove-in bow of the _Queen_. There were only two hundred feet to go but they were still in deep water. The voice from the speaking tube rolled into the pilot house. "Steam's gone!" On the echo of the words the steady beat of the engines slowed and it was only by clinging to the wheel with all of his strength that Tom held the _Queen_ in to shore. The bow was almost even with the water now. They seemed to be plowing their way into the depths of the lake. Then the bow lifted and grated on the sand. The momentum carried the _Queen_ forward, shivering and protesting at every foot it was driven into the beach. There was a wild scramble on the main deck, cries of relief and happiness as passengers by the score jumped into the knee deep water and ran for shore. The men, women and children on the upper deck hurried down the stairs while through it all the band kept up its steady blare, the crash of brass on brass and the constant thump, thump of the bass drum. The danger past, Tom stepped back from the wheel. His arms felt as though they had been almost pulled from their sockets, so great had been the strain of holding the _Queen_ on its course. Helen and Margaret stripped off their life preservers and went down to the main deck with Tom. There they found Captain Billy and the crew of the _Queen_ gathered at the bow of the boat. A great hole had been torn in the old steamer's hull by the speed boat and Tom marveled that they had been able to make shore. "Why didn't we sink out in the lake?" he asked Captain Billy. "Guess we might have," smiled the captain, "but we managed to hold the speed boat in the hole it had made until we were most to shore. Otherwise we'd have filled and gone down inside a couple of minutes after they hit us." A decidedly sheepish young man broke through the group and faced Captain Billy. "I'm the owner of the boat that hit you," he explained. "We were going to see how close we could come and one of the girls in the boat tickled me and I swung the wheel the wrong way." "You almost swung about four hundred people into the lake," Captain Billy reminded him tartly. "I'm terribly sorry," replied the owner of the speed boat, "and I'm decidedly grateful to you for fishing us out of it after we hit you. I'm Maxfield Hooker of Cranston and I'll be glad to pay for all of the damage to your boat." "We'll talk about that later," said Captain Billy. "I've got to see that those excursionists all make their trains." "Did you get that?" said Tom as he nudged Helen. "Maxfield Hooker of Cranston, son of the multi-millionaire soap manufacturer. Captain Billy can have a new _Queen_ if he wants one." "My guess is that he won't want one," said Helen. "After all, the _Queen_ has had a long and useful career and she certainly proved herself in the emergency tonight." Captain Billy made sure that all of the excursionists were safely off the boat and that done, he came back to where Tom, Helen and Margaret were standing. "I've a great deal to be thankful for," he told them. "It was only through the nerve and calmness of the crew and such as you three that the _Queen_ pulled through. Tom, I'm eternally grateful to you for sticking in the pilot house and to you girls for having the presence of mind to pass out the life preservers." Before they could reply Captain Billy turned and hastened up to the pilot house. Tom started to follow but Helen stopped him. "Don't go," she said. "He wants to say good-bye to the _Queen_." CHAPTER XV _Success Attends_ Later that night the _Queen_ caught fire and burned to the water's edge. Some said that Captain Billy, saddened by the tragedy which had almost befallen the majestic old craft, had set the fire himself but none ever knew definitely. Helen telephoned the story of Captain Billy and the burning of the _Queen_ to the _Associated Press_ at Cranston and found the night editor there anxious for the story. "Great human interest stuff," he said as he hung up. The Blairs and Stevens watched the burning of the _Queen_ from the knoll on which the Blair home was situated and later they saw the shower of fireworks set off at Crescent Beach, far down the lake. It was well after midnight when they finally called it a day, one which would long be remembered by Tom and Helen Blair and Margaret Stevens. The second day of the celebration, Sunday, they rested quietly at home and planned for the coming week. With the Monday morning mail came the papers from Cranston, a letter from McClintock of the _Associated Press_ and new thrills for Helen. The Cranston papers blazoned her story of "Speed" Rand's plans to circle the globe in a nonstop refueling flight on the front page and the big surprise was the first line which read: "By Helen Blair, Special Correspondent of the Associated Press, Copyright 1932 (All Rights Reserved)." Helen gazed at the story in frank awe and amazement. She knew it was a highly important story, but to get a by-line with the Associated Press was an honor she scarcely had dared dream about. The letter from McClintock commended her further for her work, promised that her monthly check would be a liberal one and added that when she finished high school he would be glad to consider her for a job with the Associated Press. Helen sat down and wrote a long letter to her father, telling in detail the events of the Fourth and enclosing the Associated Press story and her letter from McClintock. That done, she turned to the task of writing her stories for the _Weekly Herald_. Tom was out soliciting ads, Margaret had gone down the lake to check up at both summer resorts about possible accidents and she had the office to herself that morning. Which story should Helen write first, "Speed" Rand's world flight, the celebration at Sandy Point or the story of Captain Billy and the _Queen_? She threaded a sheet of copy paper into her typewriter and sought inspiration in a blank gaze at the ceiling. Inspiration failed to come from that source and she scrawled aimlessly with pencil and paper, her mind mulling over the myriad facts of her stories. Then she started typing. Her first story concerned Captain Billy and the _Queen_, for Captain Billy and his ancient craft were known to every reader of the _Herald_. They were home news. "Speed" Rand and his plans concerned the outside world. The events of the night of the Fourth were indelibly printed in Helen's mind and the copy rolled from her typewriter, two, four, six, ten pages. She stopped long enough to delve into the files and find the story which the _Herald_ had printed 23 years before when the _Queen_ made her maiden trip on Lake Dubar. Two more pages of copy rolled from her machine. Helen picked up the typed pages, 12 altogether. She hadn't intended to make the story that long but it had written itself, it was one of those stories in which danger and heroism combine to make the human-interest that all newspaper readers enjoy. With the story of Captain Billy and the _Queen_ out of the way, Helen wrote a short lead about "Speed" Rand and then clipped the rest of the story for the _Herald_ from the one she had telephoned the Associated Press. Even then it would run more than a column and with a long story on the general Fourth of July celebration she felt that the _Herald_ would indeed give its subscribers their money's worth of news that week. There was a slight let-down in advertising the week following the Fourth but they crammed the six home-printed pages of the _Herald_ full of news and went to press early Thursday, for it was election day and the fate of the paved road program was at stake. For the last month Helen had written editorials urging the improvement of the roads and they went directly from the office Thursday afternoon to the polling place to remain there until the last ballot had been counted. The vote was heavy and Rolfe favored the good roads 452 to 73. Doctor Stevens, who announced the vote to the anxious crowd, added, "And I think we can thank Helen Blair, our young editor of the _Herald_, for showing us the value of better roads." There was hearty applause and calls for speech, but Helen refused to talk, hurrying away to telephone the Rolfe vote to the Associated Press. The morning papers announced that the program had carried in the state as a whole and that paving would start at once with Rolfe assured of being on the scenic highway not later than the next summer. News from their father in Arizona continued cheering and as their own bank account increased steadily and circulation mounted, Tom and Helen felt that they were making a success of their management of the _Herald_. The remainder of July passed rapidly and the hot blasts of August winds seared the valley of Lake Dubar. The only refreshing thing was the night breeze from the lake which cooled the heat-baked town and afforded some relief. Then came the cooler days of September and the return to school. Superintendent Fowler arrived a week before the opening of the fall term and Tom and Helen arranged to attend part time, yet carry full work. Helen also worked out plans for a school page, news of every grade to be written by some student especially designated as a reporter for the "_School Herald_." Tom and Helen had so systematized their work that the task of getting out the paper was reduced to a minimum. With Margaret willing to help whenever needed, they felt sure they could continue the successful operation of the _Herald_. Every spare hour Helen devoted to building up the circulation list and by early October they had added 400 new subscribers, which gave the _Herald_ a total of 1,272 in the county and every one paid up. "Gosh, I never thought we could get that many," said Tom as he checked over the circulation records. "Now I'm sure we'll be named one of the official county papers. What a surprise that will be for Dad." "I thought you said we'd have a lot of trouble with Burr Atwell, editor of the _Advocate_ at Auburn," chided Helen as she recalled her brother's dire statements of what the fiery editor of the Auburn paper would do when he found the _Herald_ was trying to take the county printing away from him. "We've just been lucky so far," replied Tom. "Atwell will wake up one of these days and then we'll have plenty of trouble. He won't fight fair." "Let's not borrow trouble until it arrives," Helen smiled. Organization of the high school classes and election of officers followed the opening of school and Helen found herself president of the juniors while Tom was named secretary and treasurer of the seniors. "I'm mighty proud of both of you," said Mrs. Blair when they told her the news that night at dinner. "It is no more than you deserve but I hope it won't be too much of a burden added to your work on the paper." "It won't take much time," Tom assured her, "and since Marg Stevens is vice president of the juniors Helen can turn a lot of the work over to her." They were still at the dinner table when a heavy knock at the front door startled them. Tom answered the summons and they heard him talking with someone with an exceedingly harsh voice. When Tom returned he was accompanied by a stranger. "Mother," he said, "this is Mr. Atwell, editor of the _Auburn Advocate_." Mrs. Blair acknowledged the introduction and Tom introduced the visiting editor to Helen. Mr. Atwell sat down heavily in a chair Tom offered. "I suppose you know why I'm here?" he asked. "I'm afraid not," replied Mrs. Blair. "It's about the _Herald_ and the circulation tactics of these young whipper-snappers of yours. I hear they're trying to take the county printing away from me and become one of the official papers of the county." "Who informed you of that?" asked Helen, who had taken an instant dislike to the pudgy visitor whose flabby cheeks were covered with a heavy stubble of whiskers. "Folks have been talking," he replied. "When you want information like that you'd better come to those concerned," retorted the energetic young editor of the _Herald_. "That's just what I'm a-doing," he replied. "Are you?" "Are we what?" interposed Tom. "Are you trying to be a county paper?" snorted Atwell. "Yes," replied Helen, "we are. This section of the county doesn't have an official weekly and the people here want one." "You're trying to rob me of my bread and butter for your own selfish ends," stormed the visitor. "We're not trying to rob anybody," replied Tom. "Get this straight. We've as much if not more right to be a county weekly than you have. All we have to say is be sure your records are correct when the supervisors meet in December. Now get out of here!" Atwell rose slowly, his heavy features suffused with anger and his hands shaking. "I serve notice on you," he stormed, "that you'll never win out." He stomped from the room, slamming the front door as he went. Mrs. Blair looked at Tom and Helen. "Don't you think you were a little short with him?" she asked. "Perhaps," admitted Helen, "but he can't tell us what to do." "In that," smiled her mother, "you take after your father." They refused to let the warning from the editor of the Auburn paper dim their hopes or retard their efforts. Circulation mounted steadily until by mid-November it had reached an even 1,400. Tom continued his weekly trips to Gladbrook to get the county farm news and to solicit advertising. From one of these trips he returned jubilant. "I've been talking with the supervisors," he said, "and they're all in favor of naming the _Herald_ the third official paper instead of the _Advocate_. One of them suggested that we get an auditor from Cranston to go over our circulation list and officially audit it and then have him with us when we appear before the board." "But wouldn't that cost a lot of money?" "Probably $50 but having an audited list will practically insure us of getting the county work. Also, I'm going to take our subscription records and list over to the bank and keep them there until we need them every Thursday." "Why, what's the matter, Tom?" "I heard some talk in the courthouse that Atwell had been boasting he'd get even with us and I'm not going to take any chances with the records." With characteristic determination Tom made the transfer that afternoon and it was only mid-evening of the same day when the fire siren sounded its alarm. All of the Blairs hurried outside where, from the front porch of their home, they could look down main street. "The truck is stopping in front of the _Herald_ office!" gasped Helen. Without a word Tom plunged down the hill, running full speed for the office. Helen and her mother followed as quickly as possible. Main street rapidly filled with excited townspeople and they caught the odor of burning wood as they neared the _Herald_ building. Margaret Stevens ran up to them. "It doesn't look bad," she tried to reassure them, "and the firemen have it under control." Helen was so weak from the shock of the fire that she clung to Margaret and her mother for support. Her head reeled as picture thoughts raced through her mind. The threats of Burr Atwell, all of their months of hard work, the expense of the fire, their father's need for money, Tom's precautions in moving the circulation list. Then it was over. The firemen dragged their line of hose from the chemical tank back to the street and they crowded into the smoke-filled rooms. The fire had started near the back door but thanks to the night watchman had been detected before it had gained headway. The week's supply of print paper was ruined and the two rooms blackened by smoke and splattered with the chemical used to check the flames, but the press and Linotype were undamaged. Tom wanted to stay and clean up the office but Mrs. Blair insisted that they all return home, herself instructing the night watchman to hire several town laborers to work the rest of the night cleaning up the office. "That fire was deliberately set," raged Tom as they walked home. "The fire chief saved the greasy rags he found in the corner of the composing room where it started. Ten more minutes without discovery and we wouldn't have had a newspaper." "Who could have done such a thing?" protested his mother. "Burr Atwell," declared Tom. "The editorial office had been ransacked for the circulation records. It's a good thing I moved them this afternoon." "Can we prove Atwell had a hand in this?" "I don't suppose so," admitted Tom, "but we'll run a story in this week's issue that will scare him. We'll say the fire chief is investigating and may ask for state secret service men to help him run down the fire bug who started it. That ought to give Atwell a queer feeling." They telephoned for another supply of print paper for the week's issue and the next morning were back at the office. The men who had worked through the night had done a good job of cleaning and there was little evidence of fire other than the charred casings of the back door and smudgy condition of the walls and ceiling. Thanksgiving was brightened by word from their father that he would be able to return home in the spring but despite that it was a sad day in the Blair home for there was none to fill his chair at the head of the table. "Christmas," thought Helen, "is going to be terribly lonesome for mother with Dad so far away," and the more she thought about it the more determined she became. Without saying anything to Tom or her mother, she made several guarded inquiries at the station and elicited the desired information. The days before the annual meeting of the supervisors passed rapidly. The ground whitened under the first snow of the year and the auditor for whom Tom had arranged in Cranston arrived to audit their circulation list officially. For a week before his arrival Tom and Helen concentrated every effort on their circulation with the result that when the audit was completed the _Herald_ could boast of 1,411 paid up subscriptions. "You've done a remarkably fine piece of work," Curtis Adams, the auditor, told Helen, "and I'm sure you young folks deserve the county work." The supervisors met on Thursday, December 15th, and in order to attend the meeting Tom and Helen worked most of Wednesday night getting the final pages of the _Herald_ on the press, assembling and folding the papers. It was three o'clock in the morning when they reached home and their mother, who had been sleeping on a davenport awaiting their return, prepared a hot lunch and then sent them to bed. At nine o'clock Tom teased their venerable flivver into motion and with their records and the auditor in the back seat, they started for Gladbrook. It was well after ten o'clock when they reached the courthouse and they went directly to the supervisors' rooms where a clerk asked them to wait. Half an hour later they were called and Helen went into the board room with mixed emotions throbbing through her mind. What would be the answer to their months of work? Would they get the county work which meant so much or would Burr Atwell succeed in defeating them? Her arms ached from the heavy task of folding the papers the night before and she was so nervous she was on the verge of tears. If they won they would be able to buy a folder for the press and she wouldn't have to fold any more papers. That thought alone gave her new courage and she smiled bravely at Tom as he stepped forward and told the supervisors why he believed the _Herald_ should be the third county paper. Then Mr. Adams, the auditor, presented his sworn statement of the circulation of the _Herald_ and in conclusion, he added: "I have never seen a sounder or better circulation than these young people have built up. They have made no special offers nor have they reduced rates. People who take the _Herald_ do so because it is one of the best weekly papers I have ever seen." The chairman of the board of supervisors looked expectantly around the room. "The Gladbrook papers, the _News_ and the _Times_, have made their application and the _Herald_ has just been heard," he explained. "I expected Mr. Atwell of the _Auburn Advocate_ would be here." The board waited for fifteen minutes. Then there was a whispered conference between members and the chairman stood up. "The selection of official papers has been made," he announced. "_The Gladbrook News_, the _Gladbrook Times_ and the _Rolfe Herald_ will be known as the official papers for the ensuing year. The meeting is adjourned until afternoon." The editors of the Gladbrook papers offered Tom and Helen their congratulations and expressed willingness to cooperate in every way. When they were alone Tom looked at Helen through eyes that were dim. "We won," he said huskily, "and it's all due to your hard work on circulation." Helen's eyes were just as misty as she smiled back. "No," she replied, "it was your hunch in putting the records in the bank. We'd have been ruined if you hadn't. I'm wondering why Mr. Atwell didn't appear." "I have a hunch he was afraid we had connected him with the fire," said Tom. "Now let's phone mother and then send a wire to Dad." That afternoon Tom completed the arrangements to publish the official proceedings of the county supervisors and increased the amount of job printing he was to get from the courthouse. He also hired a middle-aged printer who agreed to come to Rolfe and work for $18 a week. "But isn't that a little extravagant?" asked Helen. "We must have help now," explained Tom, "and with the county printing safely tucked away we can afford it. Also, I bought a second-hand folder from the _Times_ here. It only cost me $50 and you'll never have to fold papers again." "Oh, I'm so happy," exclaimed Helen, "for I did hate to fold them. There were so many along toward the end." On the way home that afternoon they made further plans and checked up on their funds in the bank. "We've got a little over $900 right now," said Tom, "and that's deducting all of my extravagances of an auditor and buying the second-hand folder. Our bills are all paid and we're having a record December in advertising. I'd say we were sitting pretty." "I was thinking about Christmas," said Helen. "It's going to be mighty lonesome without Dad," admitted Tom. "Mother will miss him especially. They've never been away from each other at the holidays before." Something in Helen's voice caught Tom's attention and he glanced at her sharply. "Say, what the dickens are you driving at?" he asked. "Give me a check for $200 and I'll show you," replied Helen. "It will mean the happiest Christmas we've ever had." "I'll do it and no questions asked until you're ready to tell me," agreed Tom and when they reached Rolfe he went to the office and signed a check for $200 payable to Helen Blair. The following Thursday fell on the 22nd of December and there was so much advertising they had to run two sections of the _Herald_. The printer they had hired in Gladbrook was slow but thorough and they got the paper to press on time. With the folder installed, Helen was spared the arduous duties of folding all of the papers and she devoted her time to running the mailing machine. "Spent that $200 yet?" asked Tom as they walked home through the brisk December evening, snow crunching underfoot. "All gone," smiled Helen, "and the big surprise is here in my pocket. Wait until we get home and I tell mother about it." "Guess I'll have to," grinned Tom. They found their mother in the kitchen busy with the evening meal. "Mother, we've got a Christmas surprise for you," said Helen. "Come in the living room." Mrs. Blair looked up quickly. "That's thoughtful of you," she said, "but I hope you didn't spend too much money." Wiping her hands on her apron, she preceded them into the living room. "Where is it?" she asked. "Over there on the library table," replied Helen, pointing to an envelope tied with a band of red ribbon with a sprig of holly on top. Mrs. Blair picked up the envelope, untied the ribbon and looked inside. She pulled out two objects. One was a long, green strip of paper with many perforations and much printing. The other was a small black book similar to a check book. She held the long slip with hands that trembled as she read it. "It's a round trip ticket to Rubio, Arizona!" she gasped, "Oh, Helen! Tom! How kind of you. Father and I will have Christmas together! And here's a book of traveler's checks and Pullman reservations. I'm to leave tomorrow." Tom gave Helen a hearty hug. "So that's where the $200 went," he whispered. "Are you sure it's enough?" "Plenty," she replied. Mrs. Blair sat down in her favorite chair, the ticket and check book in her hands, her eyes dim with tears. "But I can't go away and leave you two here alone during holidays," she said. "Oh yes you can, Mother," said Tom. "We'll be happy just knowing that you and Dad are together and you can tell him all about us and then, when you come back, you can tell us all about him." "You must go, Mother," insisted Helen. "I've let Dad in on the surprise and we can't disappoint him now." Doctor Stevens drove them to the junction where Mrs. Blair was to board the Southwestern limited. Snow was falling steadily, one of those dry, sifting snows that presage a white Christmas in the middle west. The limited poked its dark nose through the storm and drew its string of Pullmans up to the bleak platform. It paused for only a minute and the goodbyes were hasty. The limited whirled away into the storm and Tom and Helen, standing alone on the platform, watched it disappear in the snow. It would be a quiet Christmas for them but they were supremely happy knowing that their father was on the road to health and that they had made a success of the _Herald_. THE END BOOKS for GIRLS THE MERRIWEATHER GIRLS SERIES BY LIZETTE EDHOLM The Merriweather girls, Bet, Shirley, Joy and Kit are four fun-loving chums, who think up something exciting to do every minute. The romantic old Merriweather Manor is where their most thrilling adventures occur. The author has given us four exceptional titles in this series--absorbing mysteries and their solutions, school life, horseback riding, tennis and adventures during their school vacations. The Merriweather Girls and the Mystery of the Queen's Fan The Merriweather Girls on Campers Trail The Merriweather Girls in Quest of Treasure The Merriweather Girls at Good Old Rock Hill CAMPFIRE GIRLS SERIES BY MARGARET PENROSE These stories take in the activities of several bright girls who become interested in all present day adventures. Campfire Girls of Roselawn Campfire Girls on Program Campfire Girls on Station Island Campfire Girls at Forest Lodge EVERYGIRL'S SERIES Grouped in the Everygirl's Series are five volumes selected for excellence. Shirley Watkins, Caroline E. Jacobs, Ruthe Wheeler and Blanche Elizabeth Wade contribute stories that are both fascinatingly real and touched with romance. Every girl who dips into one of these stories will find herself enthralled to the end. The S.W.F. Club Caroline E. Jacobs Jane Lends a Hand Shirley Watkins Nancy of Paradise College Shirley Watkins Georgina Finds Herself Shirley Watkins Helen in the Editors Chair Ruthe Wheeler PEGGY STEWART SERIES _By_ GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School Peggy, Polly, Rosalie, Marjorie, Natalie, Isabel, Stella and Juno--girls all of high spirits make this Peggy Stewart series one of entrancing interest. Their friendship, formed in a fashionable eastern school, they spend happy years crowded with gay social affairs. The background for these delightful stories is furnished by Annapolis with its naval academy and an aristocratic southern estate. THE PEGGY STEWART SERIES _By_ GABRIELLE E. JACKSON Against the colorful background of Annapolis and a picturesque southern estate, Gabrielle E. Jackson paints the human and lovely story of a human and lovely girl. Real girls will revel in this wholesome tale and its enchanting telling. Peggy Stewart at Home Peggy Stewart at School The Motor Girls Series _By_ MARGARET PENROSE A dashing, fun-loving girl is Cora Kimball and she is surrounded in her gypsy-like adventures with a group of young people that fairly sparkle. Girls who follow their adventurous steps will find a continuing delight in their doings. In the series will be found some absorbing mysteries that will keep the reader guessing so that the element of suspense is added to make the perusal thoroughly enjoyable. The Motor Girls On Tour At Lookout Beach Through New England On Cedar Lake On the Coast On Crystal Bay On Waters Blue At Camp Surprise In the Mountains Helen In the Editor's Chair _By_ RUTHE S. WHEELER "Helen in the Editor's Chair" strikes a new note in stories for girls. Its heroine, Helen Blair, is typical of the strong, self-reliant girl of today. When her father suffers a breakdown and is forced to go to a drier climate to recuperate, Helen and her brother take charge of their father's paper, the _Rolfe Herald_. They are faced with the problem of keeping the paper running profitably and the adventures they encounter in their year on the _Herald_ will keep you tingling with excitement from the first page to the last. RED STAR CLASSICS Heidi By Johanna Spyri Treasure Island By Robert Louis Stevenson Hans Brinker By Mary Mapes Dodge Gulliver's Travels By Jonathan Swift Alice in Wonderland By Lewis Carrol Pinocchio By Carlo Collodi The Story of a Bad Boy By Thomas Bailey Aldrich Kidnapped By Robert Louis Stevenson Stories from King Arthur Retold The Little Lame Prince By Miss Mulock Boys and girls the world over worship these "Classics" of all times, and no youth is complete without their imagination-stirring influence. They are the time-tested favorites loved by generations of young people. The Goldsmith Publishing Co. CHICAGO * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Obvious typographical errors were corrected without changing nonstandard spellings that might have been dialectical. 
6898	----	[Illustration: COOTS WAS DOWNED BY A FIERCE TACKLE ON THE PART OF SHADDUCK.] THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE GRIDIRON OR The Struggle for the Silver Cup BY GRAHAM B. FORBES AUTHOR OF "THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH," "THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE DIAMOND," ETC. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. OUT FOR PRACTICE II. ON THE ROAD TO TOWN III. THE STRANGE HISTORY OF RALPH IV. TREACHERY IN THE CAMP V. THE SIGNAL PRACTICE VI. AT THE SINGING SCHOOL VII. THE ABDUCTION OF "BONES" VIII. THE LINE-UP WITH CLIFFORD IX. A HARD FOUGHT FIRST-HALF X. A SCENE NOT DOWN ON THE BILLS XI. CLIFFORD'S LAST HOPE XII. DR. SHADDUCK FEARS AN EPIDEMIC XIII. THE GREAT MARSH XIV. THE DANGERS OF THE MUCK HOLE XV. FRANK TURNS CHAUFFEUR XVI. AN UNWILLING PILOT XVII. A DESPERATE REMEDY XVIII. MATCHING WITS XIX. AT THE END OF THE CIRCUIT XX. FRANK'S LUCK XXI. THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUD XXII. HOW BELLPORT BUCKED THE LINE XXIII. WON BY FOUR INCHES XXIV. THE MESSAGE FROM TOKIO--CONCLUSION THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE GRIDIRON CHAPTER I OUT FOR PRACTICE "Oh, what a splendid kick!" The yellow pigskin football went whizzing through the air, turning over and over in its erratic flight. "Wow! Look at old Sorreltop run, will you?" "He's bound to get under it, too. That's going some, fellows! Oh, shucks!" "Ha! ha! a fumble and a muff, after all! That's too bad, after such a great gallop. Now Clack's got the ball, and a clear field ahead for a run! Go it, you wild broncho! Say, look there, will you, Tony; Ralph West thinks he can tackle that flying tornado!" "Will he? Maybe, maybe not, fellows!" called out the ever-skeptical Jack Eastwick, as he watched the rapidly nearing figures. Jack was on the regular team, but not playing that afternoon. "There, he's done it! Wasn't that tackle a screamer, though? That man West belongs with the regulars. He's too good for the scrub team. Mark my words, when we go up against Clifford he'll be doing duty with Columbia's eleven!" "Bah!" sneered Tony Gilpin. "He's still only a greeny; never saw a football till he came here last year. Bones Shadduck taught him all he knows about the game. Take him away from his teacher, and the little boy would be hopelessly foundered, and you know it, too, Herman Hooker." Herman was Columbia's "cheer captain." His sonorous voice aroused more enthusiasm among the struggling athletes when the prospects seemed dark and forbidding, than all other elements combined. As soon as it boomed out over a hotly-contested field, every Columbia fellow seemed to take on fresh confidence, and in many instances that meant a new determination to win the victory. Herman looked at the last speaker, and smiled broadly. It was well known among the students of Columbia High School that Tony Gilpin still entertained great hopes of holding his place on the regular team; but his play was not up to the standard of the preceding year, and dark hints had gone abroad that in all probability he would be dropped, for "a dark horse." As this latter must of necessity be taken from the scrub team, it can be easily understood why Tony showed so much concern over the playing of the newcomer, Ralph West. "Why ain't you practicing with your team this P. M., instead of loafing around here watching the scrub eleven do things." remarked Charlie Scott, one of the group. "It can't be possible that a seasoned veteran of two years' experience can pick up points from a come-on?" "I strained my leg a bit yesterday, and the coach advised me to give it a rest for a day. When I tackle I'm apt to go at a man without regard to consequences; and sometimes the jar is fierce," explained Tony, sneeringly. "Well, if you can beat that work of Ralph West, you're going some, now; take it from me, son," commented Herman, with fatherly interest, and simply a desire to see the best man on the regular team when the auspicious day dawned that lined Columbia's eleven up against the warriors of Clifford. Tony made no verbal reply, but his brow grew dark, as he once again shot a look of hatred toward the player who had made that brilliant flying tackle. The big town of Columbia was situated on the Harrapin River, with Clifford nearly four miles above, and the manufacturing town of Bellport twice that distance down-stream. Of course, as each of these bustling places boasted of a high school, the consequent rivalries of the students had blossomed out into a league. In various sports they were determined rivals, and the summer just passed had witnessed a bitter fight between the baseball clubs of the three towns, in which Columbia won out after a fierce contest. Among the Columbia students there were also strivings after supremacy in many gymnastic feats, as well as between the several classes, each of which was jealous of the others when it came to giving spreads. Many of the deeply interesting happenings along this line that marked the preceding Winter and Spring have been chronicled in the first volume of this series, called: "The Boys of Columbia High; or, The All-Around Rivals of the School." With the coming of the season for outdoor sports, there was baseball in the air from morning to night, in preparation for the carnival of games mapped out for the schedule between the three schools. What thrilling contests took place, and with what final results, can be found in the second story of this series, bearing the title, "The Boys of Columbia High on the Diamond; or, Winning Out by Pluck." When the Glorious Fourth came along, the river that flowed past the three towns was the scene of a most remarkable gathering; for the annual regatta between the boat clubs of the high schools had been set down for observance. To enjoy the humor of the tub races, and experience the thrills that accompanied the flight of the rival four-oared and eight-oared shells over the scheduled course, the reader must peruse the third volume, called: "The Boys of Columbia High on the River; or, The Boat Race 'Plot That Failed." And now vacation having ended, and school being once more under full swing, with the dropping of the highly-colored leaves from the woods along the banks of the picturesque Harrapin, there was heard little save football talk on the campus, and wherever the sons of old Columbia High congregated. A well-to-do widow, in memory of her boy, Wallace Todd, who had died the preceding year while a student at the high school, had offered a beautiful silver cup to the victor in the football contests, the winning team to hold it for an entire season. It was to be known as the Wallace Cup, and every day crowds stood before the window of the silversmith's store in Columbia, admiring its magnificent proportions. Squads of boys even came by trolley from Bellport, and openly boasted as to their intention to carry that same trophy home with them after the struggles on the gridiron had been finished. The group of lads watching the work of the scrub team consisted of various types among the students and town fellows. Presently, however, Tony Gilpin nudged another fellow and beckoned him away. He knew full well that Asa Barnes, now a senior, and a class ahead of him, had only bitter feelings for several in that scrub team, and chief of all the captain, Bones Shadduck. Lately both Tony and Asa had taken a notion that they would like to join the Delta Pi fraternity. To their disgust, however, they were blackballed, some among the members objecting to receiving fellows with their known reputation for mischief and evil-doing. In some way they conceived the idea that Bones Shadduck was primarily responsible for their humiliation. They never accused him of it, but nursed their fancied grievance, and planned to have revenge in some fashion. Tony was looking more than ordinarily ugly as he strolled away with Asa Barnes. The broad hint which one of his companions had advanced regarding his rather poor chances of holding down his position as a Columbia half-back against the aspirations of Ralph West, the boy from Paulding, had fired his heart anew with a fierce desire to take matters into his own hands, and remedy them. "Well, what's your opinion, Asa?" demanded Tony, as they sauntered along. "You said you'd be square with me. What d'ye think of that dub's playing? Is he going to make it, and knock me off the earth?" Asa Barnes was nothing, if not a sneak. Throughout his entire career at school he had been looked upon as a species of snake, and had few friends. Even those who did go with him, on account of his having unlimited spending money, always kept a cautious eye out for treachery. "Oh, you're going to get it where the chicken did--in the neck!" he replied cheerfully, with a grin that told of secret pleasure, for he liked to see others suffer. "No kidding now, but tell me the truth for once. Is Ralph West the wonder they make out? Can he play half-back better than I do? I'm not from Missouri, but, all the same, I want to know; for it's going to settle a question I've had in my mind a long time. Cut in, now!" exclaimed Tony, wrathfully. "He's all to the good," replied the other, grimly, "and when I say that, disliking the fellow as I do, you can understand it means something. I never saw a quicker half-back in my life; and when it comes to making a tackle, the fellow doesn't really know what fear is! If they put him on the regulars, there's going to be something doing among those long-legged chaps from Clifford." Tony growled like a bear with a sore head; he also cast a side look at his companion, as though questioning his sincerity. Asa liked to see anyone squirm, and often did and said things just for that privilege. His companions had long ago declared that he was cut out for a surgeon--or a butcher, like his father. "Once for all, do you mean that?" hissed the enraged boy, laying a quivering hand on his comrade's arm. "I certainly do. He's got the Indian sign on you, Tony, for fair. Mark my words, when I predict that, _unless something unusual happens_ between now and next Saturday, when we play Clifford, Ralph West is going to take your place at left half-back!" The other fairly glared at him. "Well, you're awful plain about it, Asa," he muttered. "You told me to be, and I'm giving you my honest opinion. But, all the same now, I don't think this disaster will happen," Asa added, with a grin at the other. "Oh, you don't, eh? What's going to prevent it?" demanded Tony. "You are, unless I'm mighty much mistaken in your make-up," said the other boy, promptly. "Remember what we agreed to do about that Bones Shadduck, for getting us knocked down with that measly old Delta Pi business? Well, there's a pair of 'em now!" "Do you mean it. Will you stick with me if I try to knock West out, so he won't be able to play football again for weeks? Are you game, or do you mean to egg me on to the last ditch, and then sidestep, leaving me to shoulder all the blame?" Tony's face was eager, and the light in his eyes told of a fierce desire to do something mean that would accomplish the desire of his heart. His companion laughed as though it might be a joke. Asa was so used to others suspecting his honesty of purpose that he never seemed to get offended when they doubted his word. Another boy might have shown temper, but Asa never did this. He might grit his teeth behind a fellow's back, and vow to get even for an insult; but to his face he was either smiling or sneering, as the humor seized him. "Yes, I'll help you out. Remember, it isn't because I feel for you," he said, quickly, as though he feared lest he should actually be considered as possessing any consideration for a comrade. "I've got my own little axe to grind, you see. The fellow happens to be sweet on Helen Allen, and once on a time she used to go with me to parties and the like. You understand, don't you, Tony?" "Sure. And there's nothing that burns so deep as that. Then it's settled that we're going to lay for both Ralph and Bones at the very first chance, with some fellows we can depend on, and do them up? That's the programme, Asa?" "I leave the particulars to you. Meanwhile I'll drum up a few recruits to make the crowd. Just now I know of three bully fellows who happen to have it in for either Ralph or Bones. You get as many, and then there's going to be some fun doing," and Asa laughed in the cold-blooded fashion that made so many dislike him. "Well, when a fellow is bruised to beat the band, not to speak of possibly a broken rib or two, he ain't going to play football in a hurry," grunted Tony. The other cast a quick look at his companion. "You don't want to go too far, old chap. If he happened to be seriously hurt, we might be called on to explain before Professor Parke," he observed. So talking, they sauntered along the road again, having paused to exchange the significant remarks as to their intentions. Hardly had they gone twenty feet away, than a head was cautiously raised above an old log that lay just within the edge of the woods, and a white face looked rather fearfully after the pair of plotters. CHAPTER II ON THE ROAD TO TOWN "Hello, Ralph, through practice here? Then walk home with me, and take supper at the house, won't you? I've got some things I want to talk over with you." "Yes, we're done working, and I'll be glad to walk with you; but if I'm to sit down at your table, you'll have to wait for me to dress and clean myself. Will we have time?" And Ralph's face told how much he appreciated a chance to spend an evening at the home of Frank Allen, his friend and chum; for his boarding house room did look a bit cheerless at night time. "Plenty of time, old fellow. How did the practice go to-day? Getting in trim, do you think?" asked Frank, who, as a senior, and the captain and full-back of the regular football squad, was supposed to have an intense interest in everything that took place on the practice field day by day. "Oh, pretty well, I think. I'm not wholly satisfied with myself, but I believe I'm improving every day," replied the other, modestly. Frank looked sideways at his friend, and smiled. He had just been talking with the coach, and heard what he had to say about the scrub team. It was already understood between them that two of the regulars must give way to better men who shone as stars on the scrub. Columbia wanted her best sons in front, regardless of any favoritism. Coach Willoughby was back again, visiting at the home of Buster Billings' folks. He said the "lure of the leather" was too much for him, bringing back those dear old college days when he played on the Princeton eleven, and carried the ball over Yale's line for a hard-fought victory. And so he had consented to take charge of the Columbia players, and help them get in condition for the work ahead, when they were to meet the brawny cohorts of Clifford, and those others from Bellport. Frank and Ralph had not gone more than fifty yards down the dusty road leading from the recreation field to the town center, perhaps a full mile away, when Ralph felt a sharp tug at his arm. "Hello! what's this?" he said, looking down at a small girl, who seemed so shy that her face was covered with blushes as she pulled at his sleeve. "Please, Mr. West, I'd like to say something to you," she said, hesitatingly. "Why, it's Madge Smalling, Mary's older sister!" exclaimed Ralph, showing new interest. In the Spring he had been instrumental in finding a little girl who had hurt herself seriously, in the woods. At the time, Ralph was on his way to the recreation field, where he was expected to pitch a game against a rival school. Still, as he could not think of leaving the child there to suffer, he had carried her to the mill where her father was employed. Since that time, he had been a welcome visitor at the home of the Smallings, and, of course, was well known to this girl of nine, who had been away at the time of Mary's adventure. "Shall I walk on," asked Frank, with a wink, "because, you know, there are times when two is company, three none." "None of your joshing, now," said Ralph, and then, turning to the child, he continued: "I hope nothing is wrong over at your house, Madge?" "Oh, no, sir. It wasn't that. I heard something about you, and I wanted to tell you right away, 'cause I'm afraid of that bad boy. Once he threw water on me, and laughed when I cried. Then he put a nasty cold frog in my hand, and made me hold it ever so long." Ralph looked at his friend. "Whoever can she mean, and what has that got to do with me?" he said, wonderingly. "The other boy called him Asa," remarked Madge, quickly. "Oh, now I begin to see light. And was the second chap called Tony?" Ralph asked. "Oh, yes, that was it. I saw them coming along the road, and I was afraid that he had another nasty frog. So I hid behind a log," the child went on, her face showing the deep interest she felt in her own recital. "Say, Frank, this grows exciting. Tony and Asa walking along with their heads close together means trouble for someone, perhaps even me. And this little girl, hiding behind a log, hears them plotting. Now, what d'ye think of that for thrilling a fellow's nerve? What did they say, Madge? Can you remember?" he asked, looking down into the girl's face reassuringly, and stroking her tangled hair. "Oh, I didn't understand it all, but they hated you, and said they must get some other bad boys to beat you, so you couldn't play ball again. If you only saw his face when he said that! It was so fierce I just shivered. I hope they don't do it to you, Mr. West. It would be worse than a nasty, cold frog." Again the two lads exchanged glances. "Aha!" chuckled Frank, "the plot thickens. Tony feels the chill of coming events, and wants to make sure that you will never displace him on the regular team. I'm not so much surprised, though. It wouldn't be the first time a candidate has been marked for assault in the hope of putting him out of the running. An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure. And since we know now what is in the wind, we must be doubly on our guard. I suspected that some of them, Lef Seller and his crowd, perhaps, might have it in for me, but it seems that you are the goat, Ralph." "Well, I'm ever so much obliged to Madge here for telling me. And next time I come out to her house I'm going to fetch along a box of candy to pay the debt," said Ralph, kindly. "You always do that, anyway," declared the child, promptly, at which Frank burst into another laugh. "Oh, all your secrets will come out, one by one, old fellow. I think I'll have to post my sister Helen on your double dealing. She might be jealous of Mary and Madge," he declared. "Don't you worry. Helen has walked out there with me more than once. They're all very fond of your sister, Frank," declared Ralph, blushing a little. "Well, you don't blame them, do you?" asked the brother, promptly; which caused his friend to bend down to shake hands and bid the little maid good-by. As the two boys tramped along toward Frank's home, they naturally talked again of the unpleasant news that had been brought to their attention in so singular a way. "I wish I knew just what to do about it," said Frank, frowning with displeasure, "It's certainly a most unsportsmanlike spirit to show, knocking your school colors, because you can't play. I call that a rule-or-ruin policy. Do you suppose, if we told the boys, it would put a stop to the nasty game?" "We have no proof, for they wouldn't be apt to take a child's word for much. So I'm afraid it wouldn't be just the wisest thing to tell it broadcast," answered the serious Ralph. "Anyhow, I mean to take a few of my special friends into council, and warn them what we're up against. From this time on you need a guardian squad, Ralph," the other went on. "Why me more than any other fellow?" asked Ralph. "I'll tell you, though I meant to keep it until to-night. Coach Willoughby finally made up his mind, though nobody knows it but myself. He means to drop two fellows off the team to-morrow--Tony Gilpin and George Andersen; the former because he fails to come up to the scratch, and George on account of that old injury to his leg, which is cropping up again. He was our star player last year, and we are going to miss him a heap." "Yes, I supposed poor George would have to go, but expected Tony would hold on," remarked Ralph, quietly. "And the coach has decided that _you_ are to take the place of Tony as left half-back. I'm awful glad of it! I purposely kept my hands off, because I wanted merit and not favoritism to bring the change about. Shake on it, Ralph!" "And I'm glad, too," remarked the other, his voice quivering a little with his emotion; "not that I like to supplant any other fellow, but I believe it's only right that every one of Columbia's sons should cherish an earnest desire to make the best of what there is in him. I only hope the coach isn't making a serious mistake, that's all." "I know he isn't, and the other fellows will say so, too, when they hear. Tony isn't a popular player at all, and when there is dissension in a baseball nine or a football eleven, it's going to make trouble. 'Beware the worm i' the bud,' you know. But these cowards may find that they're up against a tougher proposition than they suspect, before they're done with it." Frank was even more indignant at the possibility of peril overhanging the head of his chum, than if it had threatened himself. That is ever the way with generous souls. "Three days more, and then comes Clifford after our scalp," remarked Ralph, desirous of dropping the unpleasant subject for the time being. "Yes, and although Bellport beat them last Saturday 17 to 4, we mustn't imagine Clifford is going to be an easy mark for us. Perhaps they may fancy our style of play, and rub it all over us. Nobody can say until we've met, and fought it out," was Frank's sagacious remark. "I agree with you on that score," declared his companion: "Clifford was unfortunate in many ways. She lost three of her best men through accidents, while Bellport did not. Then some people hint that her secret signals were given away, because the Bellport players seemed to be ready to meet every sudden move Clifford made." "Yes, I heard that, too, and while I hate to believe any fellow could be so low as to betray his school to the enemy, it's been done before. We must be doubly on our guard against such a thing. I've been thinking up a little scheme that would upset anything like that. But we haven't started with signals yet, keeping that until to-morrow, when the real team as selected will come together." "I can guess what you've got in mind, Frank, but I'm not asking questions. Only I do hope nothing prevents me from going into that game. Somehow, all my life I've just longed to be a football player. There's something about the game that seems to just stir me up, as even baseball couldn't. And yet nobody would call me a scrapper either," remarked Ralph. "Oh, it isn't that always. Lots of good football players are quiet, modest fellows, ready to mind their own business, if let alone. I guess it must be something in a fellow's nature that makes him long to buck up against difficulties, and down them. And seeing that you've always been so quiet and unassuming a fellow, I hardly know how to apply that to you, either. It's just born in a man, that's what," and Frank clapped his hand affectionately on his chum's shoulder. Others were streaming along the road at the same time, homeward bound. "Look out, here comes a vehicle back of us," said Ralph presently, when they were about half-way to Columbia Center. They stepped to the side of the road, to allow the carriage to pass. "Why, it's Minnie Cuthbert and a friend!" said Ralph, suddenly. At that Frank turned hastily, the color flying to his face like magic; for that same name always had a wonderful influence over him, since he and Minnie had long been the warmest of friends. The pretty girl who held the reins urged her horse on. There was a look in her face that Frank had never seen there before. She stared straight at him, as he took off his cap and bowed, but not by the slightest sign did she give any evidence of being aware that such a person as Frank Allen existed. It was the cut direct! Ralph uttered an exclamation of amazement. Quickly he glanced at his chum, to see that Frank had gone deadly white, and his eyes glittered with sudden spasm of pain that seized upon him. He drew a long breath, and tried to get a grip on himself. "Say, that hurt some, I tell you, Ralph. I never expected to be cut by Minnie Cuthbert, that's sure," he said, between his set teeth. Ralph was sorely puzzled. He remembered that Minnie really owed her life to the wonderful presence of mind of Frank, when a runaway horse had threatened to bring disaster down upon her. "What's happened?" he asked, eyeing his friend. "You know as much as I do. It's a mystery to me," returned Frank. "Perhaps Lef Seller could tell; he's just back of us, and I heard him laugh as he saw Minnie drive past without speaking," suggested the other, meaningly. "I wonder now if history has a habit of repeating itself," ventured Frank. "But what can I do but grin and bear it? Sooner or later she'll find out the truth. I'll never ask for an explanation, knowing that I've done nothing to make her act so. Now, forget it, and let's talk about your affairs, Ralph." CHAPTER III THE STRANGE HISTORY OF RALPH "If you don't mind, Frank, I'd like to go out of my way a few steps, so as to stop at the post-office. There's a late mail comes in after the last delivery by carrier," observed Ralph, after they had reached town. "Why, certainly," returned the other, quickly, as he glanced at Ralph, who smiled half sadly and nodded. "I keep hoping to hear something from your Uncle Jim. It may come any day now, unless the very worst has happened, and they're all lost over in that big wild country," said Ralph, drawing a long breath. "When did you hear from him last?" asked his friend, as they turned the corner into the main street of Columbia. "A month ago. You know, from England they had gone to India. He wrote me from there that he had just missed Mr. Arnold Musgrove and his widowed sister, Mrs. John Langworthy, who had sailed for China." "Yes, I remember all that. The lady has always been a very great traveler, and something of an explorer. You told me she was intending to do something that few strong men had ever attempted," remarked Frank, wonderfully interested in all that pertained to the strange history of this boy friend. Ralph had been brought up as the son of the Wests, living in the village of Paulding. Then there had come a letter by mail, accompanying bank notes to the extent of fifty dollars, and telling him that a friend, knowing of his great ambition to get an education above what the little country school could afford, wished him to accept this gift, which would be duplicated every month. Ralph, with the assistance of his good friend, Frank, had learned that the money came through a lawyer in New York, really an uncle of young Allen. Then, later on, it was found that Ralph was only an adopted son of the Wests, who had taken him from a poorhouse. By degrees, it came out that the man who had left this sum with the lawyer, Mr. Arnold Musgrove, must be an uncle of the boy, who was, in all probability, a son of the rich widow. Judge Jim had immediately set out for Europe, to confront Musgrove, and tell the lady that her child was not dead, as she believed, but could be restored to her. And, as Ralph had just said, the legal gentleman soon found that he was going to have the time of his life overtaking the energetic couple. "Well," remarked Ralph, in answer to the inquiry of his chum, "she and her brother actually started with a caravan overland across China, skirting Thibet, and aiming to head northeast, so as to pass through a portion of Siberia, and after that reach Russia. They have been gone a long time now, and I wonder if I will ever see her face. Sometimes it seems too good to be true." There was no letter at the post-office for Ralph. He was getting used to this daily disappointment. Still, Frank could see the look of pain that flashed across Ralph's fine face, though he tried to conceal it with a little laugh. Arrived at his boarding place, the boys entered. It did not take Ralph long to take a bath, and get into his ordinary clothes, after which they hurried to the Allen home, where Frank followed suit. Although Frank said nothing more about the strange actions of Minnie, it was very plain to his friend that he felt the snub deeply. "If I thought he wouldn't be mad with me, I'd be tempted to try and find out from Minnie what she meant," Ralph was saying to himself, as he sat opposite his chum at the table, and noticed the little frown that occasionally came upon the open countenance of the one he had in mind. But he knew Frank's ways, and that the other would not like any meddling in his own private affairs. "Better let him settle it in his own fashion," was the conclusion Ralph reached. "But if Lef Seller has had anything to do with it, I'm sorry for him, that's all. Once Frank makes up his mind that these pranks of Lef have reached a limit, he's going to give him an _awful_ licking; and I know it." Frank had been watching his sister Helen at supper. He knew that there was something worrying her, too, and the strange thought came that perhaps it might be along the same lines as his own vexation. "I wonder, now, could that be possible?" was the question that kept confronting him. Having once given way to this suspicion, he could not refrain from trying to find out the truth. Helen had gone upstairs, on some small excuse. He was surprised to find her in her room, and with traces of tears in her beautiful eyes. "Why, what's the matter, sister mine? Has anyone been abusing you? I wonder if I could guess. Is it about Minnie?" he asked, gently, for Frank was very fond of his only sister, but two years younger than himself. She looked at him in surprise. "Why, Frank, however did you guess?" she exclaimed. "Because," he replied, steadily, "she gave me the cut direct when Ralph and myself were heading home from the athletic field this evening. She and Dottie Warren were in the carriage, and Minnie looked right through me when I bowed. Whew! it gave me a shock, I tell you." "The mean thing, to carry it to you! I suppose I've said something or other to give her offense, although I tried in vain to remember any cause; but since she chooses to include all my family in her resentment, I'm not going to do the least thing in the way of an apology," exclaimed Helen, warmly. "I'm of the impression that it's me who's to blame, though I don't know what I've done," said Frank, immediately. "If I did, I'd apologize decently, and have it over with, whether she accepted it or not. But Ralph suggests that perhaps it's the work of some outsider, who wants to make trouble between Minnie and the Allens." "Oh, how mean! And from the way you talk, I can imagine who it is you have in mind. That wouldn't be the first time Lef Seller has been guilty of meddling!" exclaimed the girl, indignantly. "It was Ralph who said that. He heard Lef laugh when she cut me, as if it tickled him. If I could only get proof that he's been telling yarns about me, I'd soon settle old scores with him. But you won't try to make up, will you Helen?" "Certainly not! I'm the innocent party. Minnie chose to give me to understand that she'd prefer to go out with Dottie this afternoon. I just turned away and came straight home. I think she called out after me, but I wouldn't turn my head an inch. I shall decline to ever speak to her again until the time comes when she apologizes. There!" and Helen stamped her little foot on the floor, for emphasis. Frank sighed, and went back to the library, where Ralph was chatting with Mr. Allen, always deeply interested in the strange life story of the boy from Paulding. Three times that evening Frank went to the telephone and held a little confab with some unknown parties. Each time when he came back he would be smiling in a way that mystified his friend, who wondered what the particular business could be that took up so much of his time. But then, a captain of a school football eleven, on the eve of a great struggle, must have no end of difficulties to straighten out; and doubtless Frank found much to talk about with the various members of his team. Helen had come down again, and showed nothing of the dreadful shock her feelings had sustained when her one particular chum so basely deserted her. She sang for Ralph, and the three of them also joined their voices in many of the school songs dear to the heart of all Columbia students. "Ten o'clock, and time I was getting away to my little den," remarked Ralph, at last; for even the best of evenings must come to an end. "Wait just a few minutes," said Frank, mysteriously. "What's all this? You're up to something or other," laughed the other. "I'm waiting, that's all," returned Frank, calmly. "Waiting for what?" "To hear the signal--there it is!" as three distinct knocks sounded on the outside of the house. "Why, whatever does it mean, Frank," asked the visitor, as he arose to get his cap: for they were again in the little den Frank called his sanctum, where he kept all his beloved traps connected with the sports he delighted in, most of them decorating the walls. "They're all on deck, thank goodness! And now it's safe for you to go home," was the rather startling remark of the other. Ralph looked at the speaker a moment, and then, as a light dawned upon his comprehension, he burst out into a genuine, hearty, boyish laugh. "Say, you don't mean to tell me you've gone and got a bodyguard to escort me to my own dear little home, do you, Frank? Well, of all the pranks, this certainly takes the cake! What do you think, that they're already getting down to their fine little work, and mean to kidnap me?" he exclaimed, greatly amused. "No, but I know that crowd better than you do. When two sneaks like Tony Gilpin and Asa Barnes make up their minds to gather a bunch of skunks after their own stripe, and waylay a fellow they hate, they lose no time about it. There's only one more day between now and Saturday, when we play Clifford; and I saw them turning to notice whether we kept on together. They know you are here, sure." "But I might slip out the back way, and give them the merry ha! ha!" suggested Ralph; "though I hate to crawl that way from such cowards, not one of them willing to face me outright." "But that isn't it. We have talked it over, and come to the conclusion that half of the fun would be lost unless those whelps were treated to a dose of their own medicine. They need a good sound licking, and I give you my word for it, they're due for one if they try to tackle you on the road home to-night," and Frank, as he spoke, brought his fist down sharply on his knee. "Who did you invite to the party?" inquired Ralph, still laughing at the absurdity of his requiring a bodyguard. "Let me see," replied Frank. "There's Lanky Wallace, for one; Buster Billings, for the second, and Paul Bird, for the third." "Three good men, and true. I see that I'll be well protected on my journey of half a dozen blocks!" cried Ralph. "Oh, that's only a beginning. Each one of them agreed to get two other fellows belonging to the team, if possible; for they want all the practice they can get. So there will be nine in the bunch that follows after you; ten, counting myself!" "Oh, splash! That's an army! Why so many, Frank, when I'd be willing to go anywhere with just you along for company," demanded the other. "Thanks for the compliment; but, you see, everybody wanted to go, and bring others, and so I had to let 'em have their way. Now, you'll probably never see a sign of our crowd as you walk along, whistling and seeming to be unsuspicious. But at the first sign of trouble, lift your sweet voice and sing out the rallying cry we all know, 'Columbiad!' That will fetch us on the jump, Ralph. Hold them off as best you can for a dozen seconds, and then prepare to laugh." "All right, seeing that it's your joke. Honestly, I don't think they'll pay any attention to poor me; but since Coach Willoughby believes I ought to play with the regulars, and any hurt to one is an injury to all, I'll accept the guard of honor; only _please_ don't tell anyone about it to-morrow, unless you want me to be the butt of ridicule for the whole school." "Wait and see," was all Frank would say; and with this Ralph had to be content. The two friends separated at the door. Frank rather ostentatiously bade his visitor good-night, and Ralph sauntered down the walk to the gate, as the door closed. Although he looked around once or twice, and thought he caught a fleeting glimpse of several flitting figures, Ralph walked bravely on his way, whistling merrily, as though he had not a care or trouble in the wide world. When he had gone a couple of blocks, he came to a portion of the road when the shadows were densest. Here the trees grew close to the thoroughfare, and this fact made it a splendid hiding place for anyone so inclined. There was a legend told of a peddler who had, once upon a time, been set upon by tramps at this point, and robbed and beaten, so that he died of his hurts. Even bold people were wont to hurry their steps a trifle when passing this ill-omened place. Ralph, however, kept on at his customary pace, still whistling one of the songs he had so lately sung with Frank and Helen Allen. Just as he was half-way past the shadowy spot, he heard a sudden shrill sound, not unlike a referee's whistle on the football gridiron. Dark figures immediately sprang up close by, and the rush of many feet told that the danger anticipated by Frank was about to materialize. Ralph at once threw himself into a position of self defense, and at the same time shouted out the call for assistance so well known to all the sons of Columbia High. CHAPTER IV TREACHERY IN THE CAMP "Columbiad! Columbiad!" It was the call for assistance, known to, and respected by, every boy who loved the name of Columbia High School--a rallying cry in time of emergency, when the enemy had carried the ball down close to the home goal, and almost supernatural efforts were needed, in order to beat back the rising tide. Never did the old familiar yell of "Hey, Rube!" appeal more positively to canvasmen connected with a traveling circus, when set upon by rowdies in some wayside town, than did this shout. Ralph had no time for more. From three sides he found himself attacked by unknown foes. Some had their hats drawn far over their faces, in order to conceal their identity, while others had gone still further, and tied handkerchiefs over the lower half, with the same purpose in view. A jargon of angry cries arose, each assailant seeming desirous of venting his especial method for showing dislike. "Down him, boys!" "Spank the cub!" "Send him back where he belongs; we don't want poorhouse brats here!" "Do him up! Butt in, fellows! Make a clean sweep of it now!" Among all these outcries, only that one concerning the "poorhouse" stung the ears of the boy at bay. It was so cruel, so mean, so utterly uncalled for, that his whole body seemed to quiver with indignation, and a burning fire shot through his veins. He had thrown himself into an attitude of self defense, with his back against a tree. In this way he was able to avoid considerable punishment, since the attacking force could not completely surround him, the tree being an unusually big one. [Illustration: HE HAD THROWN HIMSELF INTO AN ATTITUDE OF SELF-DEFENSE.] So far as he could see, there were at least half a dozen opposed to him. Evidently Tony and Asa did not mean to take any chances when trying to put the new candidate for honors on the regular team out of the running. What with all the row connected with their rush, the cowardly assailants were themselves unable to hear the patter of swiftly-approaching footsteps, coming from the rear. They evidently shouted, in order to keep their courage up, and prevent Ralph from recognizing any one particular voice. The beleaguered boy was himself fighting like a cat at bay. He had no positive assurance that friends were near, and with so many eager hands striving to reach his face and body, he had to retaliate, giving blow for blow. Once he managed to dash his clenched fist into the face of a fellow who, in his eagerness, had rushed in too close. "Wow!" bellowed the stricken party, and somehow it seemed to Ralph that the voice was that of Tony Gilpin. More than once he was himself the recipient of blows, some severe and others of a glancing nature. For a brief period of time there was a constant maelstrom of hands flying back and forth, accompanied with shouts, jeers and grunts. "Oh, you cowards!" called Ralph, as a blow struck him on the back of the head, and almost stunned him for a second; one of the crowd, not daring to face the boy at bay, having crept alongside the tree to watch his chance. He could easily believe that this was Asa Barnes. Immediately a mad desire possessed him to pounce upon that sneak and return the blow with interest. Despite the array of threatening fists that formed a half-circle in front, Ralph threw himself around to one side of the tree, eager to come in contact with the object of his especial contempt. So speedy were his movements that the treacherous one could not get out of the way, nor was he, anticipating such a bold act on the part of the boy who had been held up on the road. Just as Ralph pounced vigorously upon him, he caught sight of a number of dark figures jumping into the fray. At the same instant new shouts arose, a volume of sound that made the welkin ring, and brought satisfaction to the heart of the one in peril. He knew then that his call for assistance had been heard--that Frank and his football comrades had reached the spot, and were in the act of practicing their gridiron tactics upon the unfortunates who had fallen into the very trap they had themselves set. "Help! help! fellows, take him off!" shrieked the one against whom the angry Ralph had collided; for both of them had gone down in a scrambling, kicking heap. Fear caused the under dog to make frantic efforts to escape; and while Ralph was able to get a little satisfaction out of his attack, he found it utterly impossible to hang on to the squirming figure, which, eluding his grasp, presently rolled over and over, bounded to his feet, and fled like the wind. Meanwhile there was taking place a furious fight. The disguised crowd found itself outnumbered two to one, and while they struck back whenever possible, the one thought in their minds was escape. "Cut it!" shouted the one who seemed to be a leader. "Don't let them get away! Take 'em prisoners!" whooped a tall lad, who was doing his share of the mauling. But that was easier said than done. The now sadly demoralized enemy scattered in every direction, some running wildly down the road, and others vanishing in the darkness of the wood. "They're gone!" cried Lanky Wallace, in disgust, as he found that the fellow he had embraced was no other than his fat friend, Buster Billings. "Let me go, hang it! You've squeezed the last breath out of me! I'd had that dub, only for your interference. Such rotten luck!" gasped the stout one, as he shook himself free from Lanky's encircling arms. Frank was at the side of the boy they had rescued just in time. "How is it, Ralph, did they pummel you hard?" he asked, solicitously. "I gave 'em more than I took; but my head sings a bit from the nasty knock that sneak Asa Barnes gave me from behind!" replied the other. "From behind!" echoed Lanky, indignantly; "well, wouldn't that jar you some now? But what else could you expect from that snake in the grass? He never fought fair in all his life. I hope you got one or two in back on him, Ralph." "Didn't you hear him howl for help?" replied the other, quickly. "That was when I nailed him. I guess his head rings about as much as mine does. But, boys, you came just in time. I was in a tight box. And I'm ever so much obliged for the help." "Don't mention it, old chap. We really needed the exercise, and the only thing I complain of is that it all happened too fast. Why, I don't believe I really got my windmill working freely when I was threshing the air. Zip! and they were gone," and Paul Bird laughed heartily at the hasty way in which the enemy had vanished. "You're sure they didn't get you?" persisted Frank. "I guess I'm all right," laughed the other, as he swung both arms back and forth, and bent his body to test his muscles; "you see, there wasn't time enough for them to do much damage. And they were all so mighty anxious to reach me they really interfered with each other." "As we came up on the run, I thought I heard one fellow give a whoop of pain, as if he had run up against something. Was that your fault, Ralph?" demanded Lanky. "Sure. And what's more, I expect it was Tony. If he shows a black eye to-morrow, give me credit for one goal kicked, boys," replied the party addressed. Bones Shadduck was lighting a match. "Hello! What's that for?" asked Jack Eastwick. "I picked up a hat just now, and the idea struck me that possibly there might be some more headgear lying around. We'd like to know who these pirates are, you see, and here's a chance to get a line on 'em," explained the other, as he bent low to scan the ground in the immediate vicinity. "Matches--who's got any? Pass 'em around, fellows!" called Buster. Immediately there was quite an illumination around that part of the road, half a dozen tiny torches burning at once, as eager eyes scanned the ground. Twice cries of satisfaction announced that a find had rewarded the search, but the supply of matches gave out, and, besides, it seemed that there were no more hats or caps to be gathered in. "Three times, and out, boys! Now we'll be able to learn who some of the crowd must have been. I think I ought to nail this gay old cap. Nobody but Bill Klemm ever dared wear such a screamer as that," announced Lanky, holding the object of his derision aloft. "And this looks like the hat I turned over to Jay Tweedle the time I accidentally knocked his off in the river, and it sank. I know it is, fellows!" exclaimed Frank, who had been one of the lucky discoverers. "Well, we're getting a line on the bunch, all right," laughed Jack. "If only Ralph marked both Tony and Asa, and we've got the hats of three more, it looks good to me," chirped Lanky. "Fall in, fellows!" called Bones Shadduck, assuming the air of a drum major, as he waved an imaginary baton in the air. With considerable talking and laughter, the squad gathered around Ralph. "Here, what's all this mean?" laughed Ralph. "Want to make me a high muckamuck, a grand sachem surrounded by his valiant bodyguard? I object. I'm only a common worm, like the rest of you, and not fit for these great honors. Take Frank there, and put him in the center of the bunch; he's the captain of the crew!" "Worms! Hear him rant, fellows, will you? Compares us to the lowly angleworm of commerce. And this is the reward we get for sacrificing our sleep to rescue the perishing! I call it base ingratitude, that's what!" cried one. "But just now you're the guest of honor, Ralph; the one bright particular star that has attracted the attention of all the meaner ones. Just hold your row, and let us run this funeral, will you?" declared Buster. "Oh, well, have it your own way, fellows. You're a good lot, anyhow, to pull my chestnuts out of the fire for me," concluded the one upon whom all these attentions were being showered. And so they marched through the streets singing one of their school songs. The good people of Columbia were quite accustomed to such "stunts" on the part of the students, especially when there was a day of sport close by. At such times the thriving town on the bank of the Harrapin was wont to assume all the airs of a college center, and enthusiasm run rampant. So, while many heads were thrust from doorways or windows as the procession trailed along, no adverse comments arose. Many of those same men were old graduates themselves, and such patriotic songs only served to awaken the spirit that never could be wholly eradicated from their systems. In such fashion was Ralph West conducted to his humble boarding place. And hearty were the "good nights" that accompanied the scattering of the band of defenders. Frank and Lanky walked home together. "That job's done, anyhow," remarked Frank, with evident satisfaction. "And well done, too. Only one more night to consider, and the glee club has its regular meeting then. We must keep a close watch on Ralph. Those chumps mean to get him yet if they can. I only hope I have just one more whack at some of that bunch. I never hit a follow with more vim in my life than to-night, when I came up against that chap with the handkerchief across his face." "I heard him grunt," observed Frank, with a chuckle, "and really I felt sorry for him. I think you struck him with both fists together in the excitement. But it's a shame that Columbia fellows are fighting among themselves just now, when we ought to be united, and showing a common front against the enemy." "Oh, these represent only a tail-end fragment. Don't count them as much. Outside of possibly a dozen students, I firmly believe the school _is_ united, and that you posses the confidence of the whole town. This is our lucky year. I tell you we just _can't_ lose," and Lanky emphasized his words with a smack of one hand in the palm of the other. "I feel the same way," said Frank, "but, all the same, I'll be better satisfied when the game has been played. There's many a slip, you know. An accident might mar the finest play the gridiron ever knew. And then the treachery of these fellows always annoys me. An open foe I can meet boldly, but deliver me from the snake in the grass that steals up in the rear to upset your calculations." "Never mind, it'll be all right, Frank; but here we are at your gate, so good night," and Lanky hurried on. CHAPTER V THE SIGNAL PRACTICE The next day was Friday. And with that battle of the gridiron gladiators looming up just ahead, it can be readily understood that Mr. Amos Wellington, not to mention Mr. Oswald, and the women teachers in Columbia High School, found it a most difficult task to get any satisfaction out of the many classes before them that day. Football was in the air! The very tang of the frosty morning seemed to suggest ideal weather conditions for the coming struggle. Wherever boys congregated, on the campus before the morning session, or down in the lunch room during intermission, when they sampled the various types of sandwiches and pies supplied by Mrs. Louden, nothing was talked of but the chances of Columbia against the seasoned players of Clifford. "They're heavier than our men," one would lament. "But the day of weight in football is gone," cried another, quickly. "Yes, for the game as played to-day calls for agility and pertinacity more than heft. And we've got the boys who can do stunts, believe me, fellows!" remarked a third deeply-interested student. "They practice for the last time this afternoon, don't they?" "Yes, but mostly on signals, I understand. Now the team has been selected, they want to work in harmony," remarked the fellow who seemed to know, because he had a big brother on the eleven, and that was a great honor for the entire family. "There's one weak spot," grumbled another prophet of evil. "Name it, Sandy." "Yes, tell us where it is. I've gone over the whole bunch ever so many times, and with the new men I think it couldn't possibly be improved." "That's just it; you've put your finger on the sore the first thing. Now, don't all jump on me at once, and say I'm knocking, for I'm not. I think a heap both of Ralph West's playing and that of Bones Shadduck. They're cracker jacks, and far superior to the fellows they displaced." "Then what are you kicking about, Sandy?" demanded Molly Manners, the dudish student, who, while no athlete himself, always felt a decided interest in the accomplishments of his more muscular comrades. "Lack of practice in common will bankrupt us. That's what worries me. You see, Bones and Ralph haven't worked with the rest, to any extent, at least. How can they fill their parts in the machine? I'm dubious, that's all, even while hoping for the best," went on the croaker. "Well, now, don't let that keep you awake tonight. Coach Willoughby has been training the scrub just as he did the regular team. They know the same plays, and once the signals are decided on the whole thing will move along like a well greased machine. He's done wonders with the raw material. And if Columbia wins this year, much of the credit belongs to the trainer, our old Princeton grad." "Hear! hear! Three cheers for Coach Willoughby!" And they were given with a will. Frank and Ralph came together at intermission. While they munched a bit of lunch, they naturally fell into conversation, and, of course, their talk must be in connection with the stirring events of the preceding night. "Have you met Tony?" asked Frank, with a chuckle of amusement. "No. You see, he's a junior and I'm only a soph, so we run in different grooves. What about him, Frank?" asked the other, eagerly. "I was sent into Miss Condit's room with a message from Mr. Wellington, and, of course, I felt a little curious to know how Tony looked. While I waited for an answer to the note I carried, I glanced over to where he sat. Would you believe it, he had turned deliberately around in his seat, so that his back was toward me." "Then perhaps I did put my mark on him?" suggested Ralph, eagerly. "Well, now, you certainly did. As I glanced further along I saw a mirror at the side of the room, and just then discovered that he was facing it. He turned fiery red when he caught my look, for I really couldn't keep from grinning, because, as sure as you live, my boy, our friend Tony is nursing a most beautiful black eye!" "It serves him right. He had no business to bother me so. I only struck in self-defense, and everyone is entitled to that privilege," declared Ralph. "Well, I should say so," remarked his friend, quickly, "and I hope you did as well by that sneak of an Asa. But he was wise enough to stay home to-day. When you get that fellow off his guard you can catch a weasel asleep." The ending of the recess brought their conversation to a close, but after school, Ralph, possessed by a sort of fascination to behold his work, haunted the campus until Tony appeared, surrounded by several of his set. The two rivals met face to face at the exit of the grounds. Tony glared at the author of his woes, and his two chums made threatening gestures; but, of course, they did not dare place a finger on Ralph at such a time. But, at any rate, Frank had certainly not understated the facts, for Tony was the possessor of a fine black eye. Of course, it was easy for him to invent a plausible excuse for this mishap; he had run slap against a door when getting up in the dark. And, of course, nobody believed him, though only a select few understood the true origin of his damaged optic. Ralph said never a word; but he could not keep from smiling a bit as he turned away; and this must have been gall and wormwood to the other fellow. An hour later and the chosen eleven, together with the substitutes, gathered on the field for their last instructions, and the trial of the signal code. Frank and the coach were frequently in secret confab, and the others regarded this as having more or less significance. "What did your investigation result in, Mr. Willoughby?" Frank was asking. "Just what we expected. I have learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that the secret signals of Clifford were given to Bellport by some traitor. A dozen people I interviewed were positive in that belief. For while there is as yet no proof, they declare that on no other grounds could the Bellports know just what play was coming every time the other captain called out his numbers," replied the coach, in a firm voice. "Well, it is what may happen to us, unless we change backward at the last minute. That would confuse Clifford, and set them on the wrong track," remarked Frank. "Just so, and the advantage would be with us. If they can down you boys squarely and fairly, I'll be the last one to knock, but this thing of trickery makes me angry. Because they feel that they were fooled by Bellport is no reason they should want to pass it along, and defeat you unfairly. I'm surprised that there is no clean-minded fellow on their team who will positively refuse to take advantage of such a mean game." "If Cuthbert Lee was still on the Bellport team," said Frank, "I'm sure he'd never have listened to such a thing. It would be just like him to go to the other side and tell them to change their signals, as they had been betrayed. He was a lover of clean sport." "Then I only wish there were more like him, Frank. The trouble is, too many boys, yes, and young men, too, believe that anything is fair that promises to bring the advantages to their side. Love of school is all very good, but it should never step in the way of honest dealing," observed the Princeton man, soberly. "Then we'll go on with the signals as they have been used?" asked the other. "To-day, yes, but in the morning we'll get the boys together early, and change the whole order, so that things mean just the opposite of what they are now. You get my meaning, don't you, Frank?" "Yes, and think it a capital idea. I've always been told that the truly wise man is he who grapples with adversities, and makes them work to his advantage. And that is what you propose to do now. Watch Lanky; he's up to some mischief or other. I can tell it in his actions. There he goes after the ball that he purposely kicked into those bushes, I believe." "Well, he's got it all right, and is calling to Substitute Buster that it's up to him to try for a field goal," commented the coach, smiling. "Yes; notice, however, that Lanky makes no effort to hold the ball for the kick, but has set it there on the ground," continued Frank, who knew the joking propensities of his chum so well that he could quickly guess when the other had any lark coming. "I suppose Lanky doesn't want to take chances of a bad kick, and, considering how near the game is, you can hardly blame him. Perhaps he's had some experience with Buster's kicking before. There he goes now!" "Look at Lanky, sir, with his fingers in his ears!" Hardly had Frank spoken when Buster, swooping down, with all sail set, on the inoffensive oval, brought his right foot against the ball with a tremendous effort. The result was certainly astonishing, for there was a sudden heavy detonation, and the football arose about ten feet, in a sadly flattened condition, while the kicker sat down heavily on the ground, looking dazed. Lanky had substituted some cleverly constructed gas balloon, placed in an old cover, for the genuine article, having previously hidden the fraudulent contraption in those bushes until the chance came to utilize the same. There was a brief silence, and then a shout went up from the husky band of players, who caught on to the joke. All but the dazed Buster, who, still sitting there and gaping at the seeming remains of a once fine oval football, shook his head and turned appealingly toward the coach, called out: "Say, that wasn't my fault, Mr. Willoughby. Now, who pays for that ball, anyhow?" which remark brought out renewed shrieks from the others, some of whom fairly fell over with the violence of their merriment. When the joke was explained to the fat boy, of course he laughed heartily, for his nature could not take offense at anything. Then the work began in earnest. The efficient coach drilled the players in all the various plays that were apt to come up during the course of the game. He expressed his pleasure at the masterly way these were carried out. "I'm satisfied that the changes I made have vastly strengthened the whole team," he said, as he and Frank came together during a period of rest, after a fierce foray, in which every player worked systematically, and really clever passes and runs were made around imaginary hostile forces. In other days they had rubbed up against the scrub team, and practiced all their arts against real foes, but this last practice was to be in secret. Signal work and the drilling of Ralph and Bones in their respective positions, must occupy much of the afternoon. To keep spectators away from the field, several dozen boys had volunteered to patrol the neighborhood, completely surrounding the open. Thus it would seem that there could be no one close enough to overhear when the signal numbers were deliberately called by the captain. "Still, I'm under the impression that there may be someone hidden in those bushes, or in a hollow tree, watching our work, and drinking in all we say. When fellows descend to such low practices as betraying their schoolmates to the enemy, they become very crafty. On the whole, it will be better to change the code just before the game to-morrow," remarked the coach, later on, during another rest. Frank said no more. Secretly, however, he was planning to find out, if it could be possible, that this idea of Mr. Willoughby had reason back of it. In other words, he had made up his mind that when the crowd of players went back to town, he would find some opportunity to drop behind, and keep watch over that field. For the third and last time, play was resumed. Again did the coach follow the carefully arranged maneuvers. Up to the present he had found it necessary to stop them in the midst of the play to start afresh, because of some inaccuracy. Not once did this occur now. "Well, sir, how was that?" asked Frank, as, with disheveled hair and soiled clothes, he came out of the fracas and sought the side of the man who knew. There was hardly any need to ask. Coach Willoughby's bronzed face was all smiles. "Fine! I never saw the thing executed better, even by the leading colleges. Depend on it, my boy, if you and your men do as well as that to-morrow, and there's no treachery shown, you're going to mow Clifford down far worse than she suffered at the hands of Bellport. I congratulate you, every one, for the fine form you show. It does my heart good to see it. And now, home, lads, and see to it that you don't overeat to-night, and go to bed at a reasonable hour. That's all from me, and I feel that my work is well done!" The afternoon had worn away while they strained and labored, trying for the last time some of the plays by means of which they hoped to carry the ball into Clifford territory during the coming game. Each member of the team felt more or less weary when the coach declared that they had done enough, and dismissed them for the day. "Don't forget the secret directions given for an early morning meet in the place selected, to go over the changed signals," was spoken in the ear of every fellow before they started back to town. Frank held out behind the rest, pretending to be busy with a number of things that fell to his lot as captain of the eleven. He had whispered his intentions to Lanky, and the latter, while laughing at his fears, promised to keep any of the others from returning to look for the leader, should they notice his absence. Watching his chance, Frank dropped behind some bushes. Then, without wasting any time, he started to crawl back to where he might have a view of the wooded side of the athletic field. Perhaps, after all, the fears of the coach had been groundless. He would spend a short time watching, and then, if nothing developed, he could hasten home. At the same time, the thought of how Clifford had been deceived and beaten by the too free handling of their secret code, gave Frank an uneasy feeling. When he had gained a position that would allow him to observe the ground he deemed most suspicious, he waited for developments. "What was that?" he asked himself in another minute; for it seemed to him that he had heard a sharp crack, as of a rotten branch giving way. Then his attention was attracted toward a certain spot, where something had undoubtedly fallen to the ground. Eagerly he riveted his eyes on the place, and in this way became aware of the fact that something was certainly moving up among the branches of the pine tree. Then an object came heavily to the ground, rolled over once or twice, and scrambled half erect. Though some little distance away, Frank could see that this was no animal, but a human being, a boy at that, who was rubbing his elbow furiously, as though it had been smartly tapped in his fall. No need to put a label on this fellow to signify what his presence meant. Frank knew that he was looking on a spy, who had been perched among the thick branches of that pine tree during the better part of the afternoon, making notes of the signal play of the Columbia eleven! And he was now moving off, possessed of information that was of tremendous value to the Clifford team! CHAPTER VI AT THE SINGING SCHOOL Frank did not hesitate a minute. He believed that it was his duty, if possible, to overtake the spy, and not only learn his identity, but in some fashion make him promise not to reveal what he had seen and heard. He started as fast as he could, making allowances for the fact that he did not wish to alarm the fellow too soon. The shades of evening were not far away, since night comes early in mid-November, and try as he would, he found it impossible to decide as to whether the other was someone he knew or a stranger. As he ran quickly over in his mind the list of those who would come under the head of suspicion, he put them aside, one after another. It was certainly not Lef Seller or Bill Klemm; another look, and he was just as positive that it could not be either Asa Barnes or Tony Gilpin. Perhaps, after all, this cunning spy might be some enthusiast from Clifford, who, believing that his team had suffered through treachery on the preceding Saturday, when Bellport overwhelmed them, wished to even matters by picking up Columbia's signals. "As if two wrongs ever yet made a right," said Frank bitterly, as he continued to chase after the unknown. He was gaining rapidly. Still, in order to do so, he had to keep his eyes fixed for the most part on the moving figure ahead, and in this way was unable to properly watch his footsteps. Consequently, it was not at all surprising when he suddenly stepped on a stick that broke with a sharp twang. And, before he could dodge behind a tree, the fellow beyond had turned his head. Frank knew instantly that he was discovered. He had stood perfectly still, in the hope that he might escape observation; but when he saw the other take to his heels, he realized that it was now destined to be a stern chase. So he, too, started to run at top speed, which meant a hot pace, since Frank was something of a sprinter on the cinder path. At least, that turn on the part of the other had told him one thing--it was no Columbia fellow who had played this miserable trick upon the football squad; so undoubtedly he must belong in Clifford. Despite the efforts of the school authorities, there was always more or less laying of wagers on these games. Driven away from the racetracks by recent strict State legislation, it seemed that those who made books were seeking all manner of sports, in order to carry on their games of chance. So Frank consoled himself in the belief that this might be some agent of these gamesters, rather than a Clifford schoolboy intending to take a mean advantage of the rival team. He was outrunning the fugitive, and it looked as though, if the chase were continued five minutes more, Frank was sure to overtake him. Then the road leading north toward the river was reached. To Frank's disgust, he saw the other drag a bicycle out of some bushes, and, while he made a swift rush, hoping to yet come upon the fellow before he got away, it was only to see his intended quarry spin off along the road. Frank followed a short distance, still cherishing a faint hope that something might happen to upset the other, but gradually the figure of the fleeing spy began to vanish, and he had to give it up. The last he heard from the fellow was a sharp howl of derision. Evidently his sudden coming on the scene had given the coward a great scare, and he was now rejoicing over his narrow escape. "Too bad that he got away," thought Frank, as he started across a field to take a short-cut that would save him considerable in his walk home. "I don't even know who he is. But, at any rate, this settles the question of signals. We wouldn't dare use the old ones now." He made direct for the home of Buster Billings, where Coach Willoughby was stopping, he being an old friend of the family. "Hello, how did you make out?" was the way he greeted Frank when the football captain was ushered into his room, where he was dressing for dinner. "You guessed right, sir," answered Frank, gloomily. "Then there _was_ a spy around to pick up our signals?" asked the coach, smiling. "He was hidden up in that big dense pine tree, and I guess he could see everything we did, as well as hear my signals. It's a shame that we have to go up against such trickery as that, sir," declared Frank, warmly. "That's all right. Remember what we concluded would come out of this thing. If those Clifford players are small enough to take advantage of this find, let them, that's all. We'll fix it so that they'll make some tremendous blunders before they decide that honesty is the best policy. But I'm glad you found out. Now, tell me all about it, Frank," and the coach put both hands on the shoulders of the young athlete, in whom he had taken great interest. Frank made a wry face. "There isn't much to tell. No _veni, vidi, vici,_ about this, for, while I came, and saw, I didn't conquer by a long shot. The fellow dropped down out of the tree, and made off, with me tagging behind. Then he discovered me, and ran. I followed suit, and was rapidly overtaking him, when we reached the road that turns toward the one along the river bank leading to the Clifford bridge." "Yes, and then?" continued the coach, expectantly. "I lost him! He had a wheel hidden in the bushes, and pedaled away, giving me the laugh as he went out of sight. That's all, sir," concluded Frank. "Did you get a square look at the fellow?" inquired Mr. Willoughby. "Enough to make sure that he didn't belong in Columbia, so far as I could tell. I guess he came from Clifford, all right, sir." "Well, it makes little difference, so long as we know the signals are off. Forewarned is forearmed, they say. Forget all about it, my boy, and we'll fix matters so that we can profit from our seeming misfortunes." So Frank went home to clean himself, and eat his supper. The consolation given by Coach Willoughby did much to cheer him up, and he managed to put the ugly business out of his mind. Indeed, he had a host of other things to bother him. The game on the morrow, of course, meant much to an enthusiast like Frank. Then, again, there was that strange matter in connection with Minnie Cuthbert. Frank thought a good deal of Minnie, and they had been great friends for a long time. To have her cut him dead was bad enough, but to act as she did toward his sister Helen seemed outrageous. "There is something wrong about it," Frank said, as he dressed. "Minnie isn't the kind of a girl to do such a thing unless she believes she has a mighty good excuse. Well, I can't do anything to bridge the gap. It must go on until something happens to bring about an explanation. Until then it is my policy to simply leave matters alone, and pay attention to my own affairs." But when he got to thinking of how Lef Seller had on one other occasion played a trick that, for a time, made trouble between Minnie and himself, he shook his head wrath fully, and muttered threats that boded no good to that prank-lover, should he prove to be guilty in this present instance. Helen, being a girl, knew how to disguise her feelings. She seemed quite herself, and Frank could not help wondering if, after all, she had cared more for Minnie than she did for Flo Dempsey, with whom she intended seeing the great game on the morrow. "Going to the meeting of the glee club to-night, Helen?" he asked, after supper. She looked at him with a smile. "Why not? I'm just as fond of singing as ever. I hope you don't mean to stay away for any reason, Frank?" came her quick reply. That decided Frank. Any hesitation on the part of his sister, and he meant to remain at home; for, somehow, he felt that he hardly cared to mingle with the crowd, where Minnie must assuredly be, since she was one of the leading singers. "Why, sure. I guess a little relaxation from the strain will do all of the team good. Some of the other fellows are going to come in a bunch, with Ralph and Bones." "What is that for?" asked Helen, who could see from the smile that crossed his face that there was a reason. "Oh, it's just like the class spreads, where they want to break the jollification up by kidnapping the president; some fellows are after our two new recruits, that's all," he replied. "But this is different. Why should any Columbia boy want to kidnap Ralph? It would spoil the game to-morrow, and perhaps defeat our school." "And that's just what these fellows would like to see. A case of sour grapes with them. But we're going to protect our men to the limit," declared Frank. "How mean and contemptible of them! They ought to be ashamed of themselves." "Well," said Frank, soothingly, as he saw how the indignant girl took it to heart in connection with Ralph, "Never mind now, but go and get your things on. We might as well make a start now. You know, we don't practice to-night at the school, because they're fixing the ceiling in the assembly room. It's to be at Dyckman's Hall." "I promised that we would drop around and take Flo with us," remarked Helen, with a quick look upward, and a little smile. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter; that is, it won't take us much out of our way," returned Frank. "No, it isn't so far as the Cuthbert's," and with this parting shot, Helen ran upstairs, leaving Frank to ponder over her meaning. The glee club usually met in the hall at the high school. It was connected with the educational department, in that the school authorities encouraged its existence, for the study of music was along the lines of the ordinary duties of the classes. Of course, when fifty or more young people come together of an evening, they are bound to make merry. Consequently there was always an air of jollity connected with these weekly singing society meetings throughout the winter months. Both Bones Shadduck and Ralph West were present. They showed up with a bunch of others, and secretly Ralph reported to Frank that they had seen no sign of the enemy while on the way thither. "But don't let that make you careless," retorted the other, "for these chaps are as cunning as Indians, who always attack, they say, just before dawn, when the men on guard are apt to be sleepy. Watch out, Ralph. We need you too much to have you taking chances." But the evening passed quickly, with the customary songs and merriment. Minnie was, of course, present. She had come with Dottie Warren, and once, when it chanced that she and Frank met face to face, she looked annoyed because she had to speak. However, Frank's nod was just as cold as her own. He sang with even more vim than customary, just to show her that he was not caring in the least. Still, there were curious eyes that noted the breach, and more than one group of girls commented on the fact. "They've certainly had a falling out," said Emily Dodsworth, the primp, and she tried to look horrified, even while secretly pleased, because she was herself very fond of Frank. "Isn't it dreadful, girls? But then I thought their friendship was too sudden to last long. Perhaps Frank may understand now that 'old friends are sure, old ties endure.'" It was nearly ten o'clock, when the singing school was supposed to close. Frank found himself wishing that it were over with. Somehow, he felt very tired, though suspecting that his weariness might be more of the mind than the body. Still, with that great game to be won on the morrow, he believed that he ought to get between the sheets as soon as possible now. It was just at this time he saw Lanky Wallace heading toward him. Lanky was not in the least a diplomat. Whenever he had anything worrying him, the fact seemed to stick out all over his face, bringing wrinkles to his usually placid brow. It was so now. Immediately Frank began to scent trouble, though, for the life of him, he could not understand just how it could come while the boys were still at the singing school. Surely, none of those schemers would dare sneak into the hall and kidnap either of the two new recruits. He hastily glanced around and heaved a sigh of relief when his eyes fell on the figure of Ralph close by, as he chatted with Helen and Flo. At least it could not be him. "What's ailing you, Lanky?" he demanded, as the other rushed up to him. "It's Bones--they can't find him anywhere, and I guess he's been carried off by some of those disgruntled chaps!" exclaimed the other, with a look of dismay. CHAPTER VII THE ABDUCTION OF "BONES" "What's that?" demanded Buster Billings, who happened to be nearby. "Goodness, they are saying poor Bones Shadduck has been kidnapped!" exclaimed a shuddering girl, and the news was flashed all through the several groups. The singing for the evening was done. The Columbia High School Glee Club had never before been so well attended. Time was when it consisted of a baker's dozen of students, but there were an unusually large number of good voices in the various classes this year. Frank was, of course, much worried by the news. "Are you sure, Lanky? Perhaps he's just stepped out to saunter around with one of the girls, like some of the others have done," he observed. "Well, we thought of that, and hunted high and low. Why, even Allie Sawyer, who generally takes up so much of his time, hasn't seen him for ten minutes." "So long as that?" answered Frank, with a smile; "but we must get busy, and learn if any one saw Bones go out." "I did!" spoke up a girl just then. "When was this?" asked Frank, turning on her quickly. "Not more than seven or eight minutes ago. I was standing in the doorway, and had to move aside for him. And he spoke to me, too," came the reply. "And what did he say?" continued the other. "Why, you know Bones has a dog?" "Yes, a bulldog named Kaiser." "He brought him along to the hall to-night," continued the girl. "That's a fact, Frank; for the ugly brute came near taking a hunk out of my leg when, by the merest chance in the world, I happened to rub up against him!" declared Tom Budd, the boy gymnast, who was constantly doing stunts, as though possessed of an insatiable desire to stand on his head, walk on his hands, or throw somersaults. "The dog was howling, oh, so mournfully," continued the girl. "I heard him, and it really got on my nerves. Well, I guess it acted the same way with Bones, for he said that he was going out and remonstrate with Kaiser." Frank and Lanky exchanged glances. "Told you so!" declared the latter, triumphantly. "Well, it certainly looks as though there might be something in it. Bones must have forgotten the warning, in his sudden desire to stop the howling of the dog. He went out, and as he hasn't come back, we'd better be looking after him. Come along, some of you fellows. If they've carried him off, it's up to us to rescue our right guard!" There was an immediate rush made for the door of the hall. Dyckman's was situated just on the outskirts of the town. It had once been some sort of church, and was now used for a variety of purposes connected with the life of the community, from political meetings to dancing classes. As the stream of boys poured out of the building, the howling of the bulldog nearby became more furious than ever. It immediately attracted the attention of the observant Frank. "Hark!" he said, holding up his hand to indicate that silence would be necessary if they hoped to succeed in accomplishing anything worth while. "What is it?" demanded Lanky, eagerly; "do you see Bones, or did you hear him shout for help?" "Neither. I was thinking of his dog," was the reply. "What of old Kaiser, Frank? How does he come in this game?" asked Buster. "You can tell from the way he's acting that Bones has never been near him. More than that, I believe the smart dog knows that something has happened to his master, for he's just wild to get free!" declared Frank. "Sure as you live! Just listen to him growl and bark. I never heard a bulldog do that before!" cried Ralph. "Oh, Kaiser is only a half-breed mongrel, but looks like a full-blooded bull. But an idea just occurred to me, fellows." "Then let's have it, Frank. We're short of ideas at present, just as we are of a bully good football player needed in to-morrow's game. What is it?" asked Molly Manners, unduly excited by these strange occurrences. "Perhaps the dog might lead us to where Bones is!" said Frank. "Say, now, that's just a crackerjack suggestion. Of course, he will, if someone could only hold him in by his leash!" exclaimed Lanky, with the light of anticipation shining on his face. "Come on, let's try it!" shouted another fellow. "But who's going to unfasten Kaiser, and hold him?" asked Frank, always practical, even at such moments as this. "Here's Buster, he knows the dog better than anyone else," said Jack Eastwick, pushing the fat boy forward. "Oh, yes, I've had an intimate acquaintance with him. He's tasted of me three different times," declared the unwilling candidate for honors. "Still, he knows you?" said Jack, in a wheedling voice. "Sure, and I think he likes me, which shows Kaiser has good taste. But I'm willing to be the victim, if you'll all promise to see that my remains are gathered up and given a fitting burial. Everyone who likes a good show, this way, now. The only and original dog-tamer is about to give an exhibition of how not to do it." Kaiser was acting in a very ugly way, as they approached the spot where he had been tied up by his master, upon reaching the hall. He jumped up and out in a furious manner, always in the one direction, Frank noticed. "You see, fellows, he pays no attention to us. His growls are for someone else, and he is trying to break loose, in order that he may chase after them. I shouldn't be surprised if we had some success, after all. Do it, Buster. The whole world is looking to you now as the hero of the occasion." Buster gave Frank a plaintive look, as he bent down, and began to speak soothingly to the furious dog. "Listen to his soft soap talk, would you!" "Buster knows how to lay it on; he's kissed the blarney stone!" "Pat him, why don't you, old fellow; he likes the taste of you all right!" But to none of these suggestions did Buster pay the least heed. He was working with the end of the rope all the time he talked so soothingly to the brute. Frank suspected what might happen if this suddenly came free when the dog was making one of his frantic plunges. Consequently, he made sure to be ready to seize hold, so as to assist the fat boy. It was just as he thought. Only for the quick clutch he made, the dog must have sped away like the wind, and they would have been as badly off as before. But with the weight of the two boys on the rope, even the powerful Kaiser was not able to go faster than the crowd could follow. "Ralph, keep close beside me!" called out Frank, who did not want a second disaster to overtake them while trying to remedy the first. It was really a curious sight to see that crowd of boys rushing over the territory adjoining Dyckman's Hall, following the pair who pooled their strength in order to restrain the wildly eager dog. Frank quickly took note of a certain fact. "We're heading for the water, fellows!" he exclaimed, as well as he was able, while being tugged along by the erratic rushes of Kaiser. Nearly everyone knew what he meant. It was that the abductors of Bones meant to duck him in the river, and treat him so harshly that he would be in no condition to play in the morrow's game. Still, that did not surprise anyone. They might easily have expected just such an ending to the affair, knowing as they did what conscienceless scamps were in all probability engineering the kidnapping affair. The dog had led them in almost a bee line for the river. Several hundred yards had already been covered, without the least sign being seen of those whom they fully believed must be ahead somewhere. "Ain't this fierce?" gasped Buster, as he held on to the rope with a desperate clutch; indeed, but for the sustaining hand of the more agile Frank, the fat boy must have fallen flat on his face more than once as he tripped over obstacles in the way. "Kaiser'll eat 'em alive if he gets half a chance! Listen to him growl, will you? Don't let him loose, Frank, on your life, or he'll just murder some of them!" exclaimed Jack Eastwick, who was running alongside the two who gripped the leash. "If Buster ever falls flat I'll never be able to hold on alone. Be ready, somebody, to take hold!" was what Frank cried in return, as he was dragged along by the furious rush of the dog, more eager now than before. But no one appeared to be particularly anxious to extend a helping hand. The appearance of Kaiser was not at all reassuring, and none of the boys fancied being "liked," as Buster admitted he was. "Listen!" called Molly Manners, suddenly. Everyone strained his ears. It required some effort to catch any sound from beyond. Kaiser was making such terrible noises as he ran, and the rush of many feet over the ground rather deadened anything else. Still, between times they caught what seemed to be boisterous laughter, accompanied by a loud splashing, as of somebody being cast into the river, to be hauled out again, only to have the operation repeated. "They're ducking Bones, that's what!" coughed Buster, in real indignation. Just then he struck some sort of obstacle that caused him to fall flat on his stomach with a fierce grunt. Of course, the rope was torn from his hands. And as the shock was too much for Frank to stand, he, too, was compelled to release his clutch in order to save himself from a bad tumble. There was a furious burst of savage satisfaction from the tugging dog at the end of the leash, and then he vanished from their sight, running like mad! CHAPTER VIII THE LINE-UP WITH CLIFFORD "Oh, won't they get it now!" cried Jack Eastwick. "Keep on running, fellows. Some of them may be half killed, if that dog gets hold of them! Faster, boys; faster!" Frank himself increased his speed. He had no love for the miserable cowards who, in order to gratify their private spite, would cripple their school team until the enemy must have an easy victory on the morrow. And yet he did not like to imagine what terrible things might follow if Kaiser got in among the boys who were treating his master so shamefully. Perhaps they deserved whatever befell them; but Frank was himself a boy, and in a position to understand the true meaning of such a prank as was now being pulled off. There had come a decided change in the racket ahead. No longer was it hilarious shouting and jeering, such as indicated sport for the boys, but something else to the human frog. True, the sounds had even grown in volume, but they were of a more serious nature. "Listen to 'em howl, would you?" cried Lanky. "The shoe's on the other foot, now. Wow! ain't they getting nipped hard, though?" shouted Herman Hooker, hardly knowing whether to be pleased or frightened. "Faster!" gritted Frank, between his teeth, for he did not like those shouts. Possibly the boys had picked up clubs, and were trying to beat Kaiser off, in order to continue their cruel sport of tossing poor Bones into the water, and pulling him out again by means of a rope fastened around his ankles. Now the runners were close upon the spot. "They're scattering!" called Lanky, as the shouts appeared to come from various localities. "And I think Bones has got hold of the dog. I can hear someone speaking to him, and trying to quiet the brute!" gasped Paul Bird, who was also a keen runner, able to "keep up with the procession" as well as the next fellow. "That's true. Hold on to him, Bones, old fellow!" Frank managed to shout. A dozen seconds later, and they came upon the river bank. The half moon up in the western sky gave enough light to show them how matters stood. "Hurrah! Kaiser cleared the decks! The last of the pirate horde has fled!" cried Amiel Tucker, whose reading was always along the old-time romances. "And there's our friend Bones, all to the good, fondling that bristly terror! I say, three Bones for cheers!" shouted Red Huggins, known among his mates also as "Sorreltop," and who, when greatly excited, often became twisted in his mode of speech. They clustered around, while Kaiser growled deeply, and licked the face of his young master. Jones was soaked to the skin, and already shivering, though possibly more from the nervous strain than the cold. Frank immediately took off his own coat, and threw it over the shoulders of the boy who had been ducked again and again. "What happened to you, Bones?" asked Lanky, who always wanted to know the full particulars, for he expected some day to branch out as a shining light in the legal profession, and believed he ought to practice while young. "They jumped me, that's all," chattered the other, trying to laugh. "When you went out to quiet your dog?" "Yep. I hadn't gone half way when they pounced on me. Couldn't let out more'n a little peep when they covered my head with some sort of old horse blanket, and grabbed hold of me. After that it was all over. I heard good old Kaiser carrying on to beat the band. Oh, how I did wish he could break loose! Wouldn't he have scattered the bunch, though!" observed Bones, as he calmly accepted a second coat offered by another sympathizer. "Which he did in the end, anyway. Say, what did he do to those sharks?" demanded Buster, coming panting up at this moment. "You missed the sight of your life. They were having a grand good time dousing me in the drink, you see, when, all of a sudden, Kaiser burst among them. Such whooping and howling I never heard in all my life! You'd sure thought a lunatic asylum had broken loose, boys," and Bones laughed as well as he could between shivers. "And then what?" persisted Lanky. "Oh, they scooted like fun. Some went one way and others tumbled into the river, they were so badly scared. I think Kaiser nipped a few of the bunch before he ran over to lick my face, and I got a cinch hold on his collar. Only for that, he'd have gone back again, and mauled a few that couldn't run fast enough. But how did you come to think of putting him on the scent, fellows?" "Give Frank here the credit for the bright thought," said Paul. "Yes, he's all to the good when it comes to a question of doing something in an emergency. The balance of us were jumping around like so many chickens with their heads off, when he suggested that Kaiser would lead us to the place where you were. It was a grand idea, and it worked, too," remarked Lanky, warmly. "Oh, piffle! Cut that out. If I hadn't thought of it, somebody else would have, in about a second. I just happened to get in first, that's all. But we must rush Bones home in a hurry, before he takes cold. A chill just now would knock him out of the game to-morrow, and hurt our chances of a win," with which Frank assisted the wet victim of the kidnappers to his feet. Bones protested, but they would not listen to him. He was rubbed down with many willing hands, and patted and pounded in a way to start his circulation going at fever heat. Kaiser hardly knew what to think of all this good-natured tussling, and many times growled his disapprobation, so that a word from his master was needed to influence him not to sink those gleaming teeth in the limbs of Buster or Lanky. All the while they were making for town. Fortunately, Bones did not live a great distance off, and by making haste, they presently reached his house. Buster volunteered to remain over with him and see that he was properly looked after. "Somebody explain to Mattie King just why I can't get back!" he called out. "Oh, don't bother yourself about that, Buster," remarked Jack Eastwick, coolly, "for I'd already made up my mind to see her home." "You have? I've got half a notion--but, no, this once won't count. It isn't often you get a show, Jack, so improve the shining opportunity," answered Buster, from the stoop of the Shadduck home. Of course, as the crowd wended its way back to the hall where the glee club had met for this one occasion, while the assembly room in high school was being repaired, the talk was wholly upon the late "unpleasantness." "It certainly was that to those chumps," laughed Lanky. "Oh, how much we missed in not being on the spot! All Buster's faults for stumbling when he did, and letting go of the rope. Why under the sun didn't he hold on with a death grip?" demanded Tom Budd. "Hold on? Goodness gracious, that dog would have dragged him over every rock and stump for a mile. A pretty sight he'd have been after that. I think Buster showed the finest judgment of his life in knowing when to _let go_!" said Lanky. "Yes, that's so. They say a stitch in time saves nine. Think how many stitches would have been needed to sew Buster up if he needed mending," spoke up Sorreltop. When finally they arrived at the hall, the girls, and those among the boys who had failed to join in the hunt, were, of course, just wild to hear about what had happened. Everything else was, for the time being, forgotten, as they clustered around and excitedly demanded that the facts be given. One told a portion, and another took up the recital. In this fashion, by degrees, the entire story was made known. Nor were the boys at all backward about giving the credit for the ingenious thought to Frank, who laughingly tried to declare that he deserved no more applause than the balance of the flock. "They're all good fellows, every one, and as much deserving of your praise. We are of the opinion that there will be several limps noticeable at the game to-morrow, so if you happen to observe any fellow making a face as he walks, just whisper one word in his ear in passing. Do you know what that word is?" he asked. "Kaiser!" they roared in concert. "Oh, Kaiser, don't you want to buy a dog?" sang Jack Eastwick, and amid much laughter and merry exchange of talk, the glee club disbanded for that evening. Ralph walked home with Frank and Helen. Others among the boys persisted in hovering near them, greatly to the annoyance of Ralph, and the amusement of the girl, who thought it something of a joke. Frank had Flo Dempsey on his arm, and seemed to be unusually merry. To tell the truth, though, considerable of this was assumed. He happened to know that just back of them, Minnie Cuthbert and her new friend, Dottie Warren, were walking, and undoubtedly they could hear much that was being said. That night, when alone in his room, Frank seemed to lose much of his merry demeanor. His face took on the grave look that had characterized it of late, ever since that minute when Minnie had given him the cruel cut direct. "I wonder will I ever know what is the matter?" he mused, as he undressed, preparatory to tumbling into his inviting bed; "or must it always remain a deep mystery. I never thought she could treat a fellow that way, cutting him out without giving him the least chance to explain. But I'm not going to complain. They say there are as good fish in the sea as ever yet were caught." With this philosophical reflection, he jumped into bed. Having a good control over himself, Frank was able to go to sleep. In this way, when he awoke in the early morning, he was refreshed and feeling splendid, so easily does youth recuperate. "Anyhow, it's going to be a sharp day. That air feels like snow, only the sky is clear. Great football weather! I wonder how it will all come out," and hustling into his clothes, he immediately went out to the place arranged for the secret meeting to practice signal work. The others were soon on hand, and under the coaching of the experienced old Princeton graduate, they went through all their paces with a cleverness that caused their trainer to nod his head in satisfaction. "That's enough, boys," he said, warmly. "You've got your work cut out for you to-day, and it would be poor policy to tire you at this early hour. Back to the house now, and eat a breakfast such as I laid out for you; nothing more, mind. Everyone of you must consider himself at the training table now, until that game with Bellport is over with on Thanksgiving morning. That's all!" When, about ten o'clock, Frank reached the athletic grounds, clad in his soiled suit and with his entire bunch of players along, he found that a tremendous crowd had swarmed over the big field, fully equal to any that had witnessed the hard-fought baseball battles during the preceding Spring and early Summer. It was an enthusiastic crowd, too, shouting until the sound was not unlike the roar of a tempest. Thousands of miniature flags were waving, representing both schools. There were also many from Bellport present, some to enjoy the game, others to get points with regard to the playing of the Columbia eleven, against which their own team expected soon to be pitted. "Ain't this the greatest sight ever?" asked Lanky, as they came upon the field, and the waving flags and handkerchiefs made the grandstand look like a vast flower garden in a strong wind. "Columbia! _Veni! vidi! vici!_ to-day we swallow the rooster!" came a concerted shout, as Herman Hooker got his cheer band in working order. The emblem of the Clifford school was a rooster, while that of Columbia, like Princeton, was the tiger. Immediately the Columbia fellows began booting an old ball about, and falling on it with reckless abandon, just as they had been taught to do by the coach. "Look there, will you!" exclaimed a girl close to Minnie Cuthbert in the grandstand. "How nice and white the suits of Clifford seem, while our boys are dirty. They ought to be ashamed, I should think. We have just as good a laundry in Columbia as they have up above." But to those who knew more about such things there was an atmosphere of strictly business about the soiled suits of Frank's team. They looked as though they were on the field for hard work, and not to show off, or "play to the gallery." And the wise ones took stock of this fact. Some of the sporting men even began to hedge in their bets, and might have tried to even up all around, only that they happened to know of a secret upon which they were building great hopes. And that secret concerned the signal practice of the Columbia eleven! The Clifford boys were continually waving their hands to some people in the crowd they recognized. There was an air of assurance about them that seemed to loudly proclaim the fact that they anticipated no great trouble in putting the "Indian sign" on Columbia. On the other hand, the home team seemed to notice nothing, save the fact that the ball was there to be shot around, and tumbled on heavily. They had a grim look, too, and in vain did the girls try to attract their attention, for it was rarely that one of the eleven so much as turned a look toward the spectators. All of their time was taken up in play, and observing their rivals. "Just wait, and we'll dirty those sweet white suits some," chuckled Lanky, as he passed the ball like lightning to Shadduck. Minnie was watching one player intently. For the first time in a long while he did not look along the rows of faces until he saw her waving wildly, and doff his cap, or in this case, wave his hand, since he had no cap to lift. She trembled with secret delight as she finally saw Frank raise his head when the ball was in another quarter. But when he made a motion with his hand, it was in a different direction entirely, and looking over, Minnie saw that Helen and Flo Dempsey sat there. "They're getting ready to line-up. See, the referee has the two captains over by him. It's going to be a toss for position," cried one eager spectator. "Not much choice to-day, though, since the wind is light," returned another. "But there always is one side better than the other. The sun will be in the eyes of the fellows who lose. That may count for something. And the breeze may grow stronger as the game goes on. There, Frank has won, for he's taking his men to the lower goal. But that gives Clifford the kick-off. That looks bad." "Oh, I don't know. It will only spur them on to working a little harder. Wait and see. I've got a hunch that Frank Allen has a surprise or two up his sleeve for these gay white birds from up river. I'm not worrying. I've seen that boy on the baseball field, and on the river in the boat races. He is all there with the goods, and they're a full yard wide. You hear me!" and the enthusiast jumped to his feet, to flap his elbows as though they were wings, while he emitted a shrill crow that caused a laugh to break out in the immediate vicinity. "Now we're going to see some fun!" called a fellow who was waving the colors of Clifford with great vim. And under the eyes of thousands of eager spectators, the rival elevens took the places assigned to them to await the signal for play. CHAPTER IX A HARD FOUGHT FIRST HALF Although there might be changes at any time during the progress of a fiercely contested game, the line-up at the start was as follows: _COLUMBIA._ Comfort. _F.B._ Allen, Captain. West. _R.H.B. L.H.B._ Wallace. _Q.B._ Shadduck. Oakes. Harper. Bird. Daly. Eastwick. Morris. _R.E. R.T. R.G. Center. L.G. L.T. L.E._ _CLIFFORD._ Evans. McQuirk. Roe. Gentle. Ross. Adkins. Smith. _L.E. L.T. L.G. Center. R.G. R.T. R.E._ Style. _Q.B._ Coots. Wentworth. _L.H.B. R.H.B._ Hastings, Captain. _F.B._ Clifford was to kick off. Hastings, the big captain, stood there, poising himself for the effort, and every eye was glued upon his really fine figure. Hastings knew it, and purposely lingered just a trifle longer than he would have done had there been no mass of spectators hedging in the field on all sides in a solid bank of humanity. There was a shrill whistle, the referee's signal, and it called into life the twenty-two motionless figures that stood about the field. Big Hastings ran forward, glancing sharply about to see that his men were on the alert, and the next moment his shoe made a great dent in the side of the new yellow ball. Away it sailed into the air, far over toward Columbia's territory. Straight toward Lanky Wallace, the plucky little quarter-back, it came, and Wallace was right under it. Into his arms, with a resounding "pung!" the spheroid landed, and, like a flash, the quarter passed it to Jack Comfort for a return kick. Comfort's toe found the pigskin as if his shoe belonged there, and back through space went the twisting oval, in a long spiral curve, while the cohorts of both teams loosed the yells that had been long on tap. "Oh, wow!" "Pretty work!" "That's the stuff, old man!" "Fine footwork!" These cries of encouragement to both sides were soon lost in the riot of cheers and appeals to the teams to "go in and win!" Big Hastings once more had the ball, and booted down the field with a tremendous, smashing kick. Lanky and Oakes ran to get under it, with good intentions, but with misdirected energy, and collided forcefully, while the ball bounced from Lanky's shoulder and rolled along the ground, a prize for whoever could first get it. "A miss!" "By jove, our fellows have lost the ball!" "Get to it, Columbia!" Exclamations of dismay, and frantic appeals came from a thousand throats. Like mad the whole twenty-two players darted for the yellow spheroid. There was a mixup, a confused mass of struggling forms, an indiscriminate whirlwind of waving arms and legs, and then, after the frantic blowing of the referee's whistle, and when, slowly, player after player crawled off the heap, Frank emerged, somewhat bruised and dazed, but with the precious ball tucked under his arm. "Oh, good!" "Fine, old man!" "Columbia's ball!" "Frank's got it, all right! That's the stuff. Did you see him slide right in front of Ross, their husky right guard, and cover it? Say, this is a little bit of all right--all right!" cried an enthusiastic follower of Columbia. It was on Columbia's twenty-five yard line now, rather closer to the goal than Captain Frank liked, but he resolved to get right into the play now, and called for the line-up. There was a whispered conference between Wallace and Allen, and then the quarter began calling the signal, emphasizing the first number. A thrill seemed to run through the Clifford players, and when Paul Bird snapped back the ball to the captain, instead of to the quarter, who, all along, had acted as if he meant to take it, there was a sudden rush on the part of Clifford, but it was too late. They had prepared for a play around their left end, but Frank quickly passed the pigskin to Ralph West, the left half, who sprang forward on the jump, and tore through a hole made between the unsuspecting right guard and tackle of Columbia's opponents. Through Ralph plowed, heaving and plunging his way, aided by a splendid interference, knocking aside Wentworth, the opposing right half, and struggling forward for a good gain. "Oh, look at that, would you! Look! Look! He'll get a touchdown!" "Touchdown nothing!" growled a disgusted Cliffordite, "What's the matter with our fellows, anyhow, to be fooled like that?" "Guess they read our signals wrong!" retorted the admirer of Columbia High, with a chuckle. "Oh, wow! Look at that! Hastings nailed him that time!" Ralph had gone down under a fierce tackle by the big opposing captain, but the plucky left half had made a good gain, and, as he rose and held his hand on the ball until Bird came up to take it, there was an outburst of cheers that warmed his heart. "Good work, old man!" whispered Frank, as he ran up. "We fooled 'em that time!" Herman Hooker led his gallant band of shouters in an impromptu war-dance back of the grandstand, their frenzied shouts of joy at the splendid play sounding loud above the other yells. Then came quiet, while the players again lined up, and the calling of the signals could plainly be heard across the gridiron. It was useless for Clifford to listen, if, perchance, she had sneakingly obtained a line on the play system of Columbia, for Lanky was using the changed code, and only he and his men knew it. Slowly he called off. It was an indication for Frank to take the ball, on a try around right end. Back came the oval with a clean snap, and the next moment Frank, with it firmly tucked under his arm, was circling around Evans, while Oakes, Harper and Shadduck had gotten into play on the jump, and had successfully pocketed their opposing end tackle and guard. Forward leaped Frank, with Shadduck and Oakes forming splendid interference for him. Down the line they sprinted, while once more the frenzied shouts broke forth: "Touchdown! Touchdown!" "Go it, old man! Go it!" It began to look as if Frank would score, for big Hastings was the only man available to tackle him, as the other two backs had played in so far that they were now hopelessly in the mixup of tangled figures. "Go on! Go on!" "Yes he will! Wait until Hastings tackles him!" this from a boastful Clifford player. Hastings was waiting for the man with the ball, but Frank was running behind Shadduck and Oakes now, and they were on the alert. Hastings made a dive between them, seeking to come at Frank, and for one fearful moment there was fear in the hearts of his friends that the plucky right half would be downed. But Oakes fairly threw himself at the big opposing captain, and the two went tumbling in a heap, thus ending any chance Hastings had of tackling the man with the ball. Amid such yells as were seldom heard on the gridiron, Frank, accompanied by Shadduck, whose interfering services were no longer needed, touched the ball down exactly in the middle of the line, behind the two posts, while the straggling Clifford players straggled madly down the field, but too late. Behind them came their leaping, dancing and exulting opponents. "Touchdown! Touchdown!" "Oh, you, Allen!" "Great work, old man! Great work!" And indeed it was a splendid run. Such shouting and yelling as there was! Herman Hooker and his band of "Indians" were hoarse with their efforts thus early in the game, but gallantly they kept at it. There was a little silence while the Clifford players lined up back of their goal posts, and then Ralph West kicked goal, the ball sailing true between the posts, and making the score six to nothing in favor of Columbia. "That's the stuff! That's going some! Keep it up, you Columbia Tigers, we're all proud of you!" hoarsely called a big man, stamping about and waving his cane adorned with Columbia colors. He had graduated from the old school twenty years before, and he had never lost his love for it, nor for her sons of the gridiron. There was an exchange of punts on the next kick-off, and when that sort of playing was over, Clifford had the pigskin on Columbia's thirty-yard line. "Now, fellows, go through 'em!" grimly called Hastings, and Style began to give the signals in a snappy voice. In another instant Wentworth, the Clifford right half, hit the line with a tremendous smash, going for a hole between Eastwick and Daly. Their mates rallied to their support, but there was smashing energy in the attack of Columbia's opponents, and hold as Frank and his players desperately tried to, they were shoved back, and Wentworth had gained four yards. "Another like that!" called Hastings. "Go to 'em, now! Eat 'em up!" Once more a smashing attack, and three yards more were reeled off around Shadduck's end. "This won't do, fellows!" said Allen, seriously. "We've got to hold 'em!" "How's that? Guess we're going some now, eh?" demanded a Clifford admirer, who sat next to Mr. Allen. "Yes, you have a good team," was the answer. "But our boys are only letting you do this for encouragement." "Oh, ho! They are, eh? Just watch." Indeed, it looked a little dubious for Columbia. Her players were being shoved back for loss with heart-stilling regularity. There was no need for Clifford to kick, and all of Frank's frantic appeals to his men to hold seemed of no avail. There was somewhat of a bitter feeling when, after some tremendous line-smashing, Coots, the left half, was shoved over the line for a touchdown, and that gave the cohorts of Clifford a chance to break loose. They did not kick the goal, however, and that was some encouragement for Columbia, since it left them one point to the good. Once more came the kick-off, and then, when Columbia had the ball, and had lined up, she went at her opponents with such smash-bang tactics, such hammer-and-tongs work, that she tore big gaps in the wall of defense, and shoved player after player through. Frank was sent over for a seven-yard gain, then came a fine run on the part of Ralph, netting eighteen yards, while the crowd went wild. There was grim silence on the part of the Clifford adherents as the line-up came on the ten-yard mark, and then, amid a great silence, Comfort smashed through for another touchdown. "Oh, wow! How's that? Going some, I guess, yes!" howled the big man, who had been a player in his youth. "Oh, pretty work!" The goal was missed, for the ball had been touched down at a bad angle, but the score was now eleven to five in favor of Columbia, and there were still several minutes of play left in the first half. There was only a chance for an exchange of kicks however, ere the referee's whistle blew, signifying that time was up, and the players, who were just ready for a scrimmage, with the ball in Clifford's possession on her opponent's fifteen-yard line, dissolved, and raced for their dressing rooms. CHAPTER X A SCENE NOT DOWN ON THE BILLS Columbia enthusiasm broke out louder than ever when the intermission between the two halves was called. Their boys had thus far not only held their own, but scored more than twice as heavily as the enemy. Still, the Clifford enthusiasts did not appear to be downcast. "Wait," they kept saying mysteriously on all sides, while shouts of encouragement went out to Hastings and his doughty warriors. "What do they mean by that?" asked Mr. Allen, of the man from above, who sat near him on the bench of the grandstand. "Well, Clifford is a slow team to get started. They always do better in the second half of a game. That with Bellport was a fake, because their signals had been given away. They learned this when the first half had been played. It made them savage. The result was Bellport didn't score again, and Clifford made a few points before the end came. They'll wake up presently!" was the confident reply. Among the most enthusiastic of the vast crowd was Minnie Cuthbert. She waved her little banner and joined her voice in the general clamor, for the mad excitement had seized girls as well as boys and men. And yet all the while she seemed to have eyes for no one but the agile captain of the Columbia team. Wherever he happened to be, her gaze was either openly or covertly upon him. Again she saw Frank wave his hand cheerily, and looking in the direction where his attention seemed to be directed, she discovered that Helen and Flo Dempsey were flourishing bouquets of flowers made up of purple and gold, to illustrate the school emblem. And, moreover, Minnie understood full well that these had undoubtedly come from the conservatory of the Allens. Somehow, it pained her to know it. From that time on she resolutely set her eyes toward anyone on the field, so long as it was not Frank. There was much consultation during the rest spell. Coaches and captains had their heads together, trying to ascertain if it were possible to strengthen their teams by bringing in a fresh man as substitute. Several had been more or less injured in the fierce mass plays, and were showing it, despite their efforts to appear natural. Not for worlds would anyone of them express a desire to be taken out of the game. If the captain decided against their continuing, well and good, for he was the sole judge of a man's fitness; but each fellow believed he could still carry himself to the end. The general excitement was such that a man might be seriously hurt and not be aware of it, buoyed up, as he was, with the wild desire to accomplish glorious things for the school he loved. "How are you feeling, Bones? Any bad result from your immersion in the cool drink last night," asked Lanky, as he and the right guard came together. "Not an atom, glad to say. You fellows saved me by your prompt action, and the general rubbing down I had after the rescue. True, my left wing feels sore to the touch after that slamming I got when I went down with the ball over their fifteen-yard line, and a dozen fellows piled on top; but I don't think it's broken, and I haven't said anything to Frank, because I'm afraid he'd yank me out." Lanky carefully massaged the arm in question, eliciting a few grunts from the stoical player under the process. "Only bruised, old fellow. By the way, have you noticed any limpers around this morning--among the spectators, I mean?" he remarked, whimsically. "Sure, two of them, Jay Tweedle and Bill Klemm," laughed the other immediately. "They hustled away when they saw me looking, and it was all they could do to keep the agony off their faces. But it would have to be more than a mere dog bite to keep any fellow with red blood in his veins away from a scrap on the gridiron like this, though I reckon both of them are hoping to see Clifford win, hands down." "Well, there's another poor chap limping somewhere around the grounds--Asa Barnes. Good old Kaiser must have put his teeth in his calf pretty sound, for you can see the tear in his trousers' leg. That was a great time, and I envy you the privilege of having seen it. What a scattering of the boasters, and all on account of one dog!" "Yes, Lanky, but _such_ a dog! He thinks the world of me. Why, I could hardly tear myself away from him this morning, he wanted to come with me so bad. After this you needn't ever think of giving me a guard; Kaiser can fill that position up to the limit," said Bones, proudly, as became the owner of such a wonderful canine. "Time's nearly up. Are we going to bring any new horse out of the stable? Did any fellow make serious blunders? Is anyone hurt?" asked Lanky. "If they are, they keep it to themselves. But there's Shay coming out, while Eastwick goes to the seats. I was a little afraid that Jack might prove too light as a tackler. Why, twice he failed to bring his man down, and was carried more than a few yards before another fellow caught on. Shay ought to be an improvement." "What do you think, so far, Bones?" "We've about held our own, that's comforting," was the reply. "But the score isn't as big as I hoped it would be," expostulated Lanky. "Yes, but we owe that first touchdown and goal to the fact that Clifford was confused with the signals you called. They thought they meant the old version, and rushed to meet the play. That gave us almost a clear field." "I guess you're right," returned Lanky, thoughtfully. "Now, see where we stand. They got a clear touchdown, and were over our fifteen-yard line when play was called. I tell you, we're going to have our work cut out to score again, and you can see that every fellow of the opposition is out for blood. To be licked by Bellport hurt; a second drubbing is next to unthinkable with them. Mark my words, they'll die hard!" "Bones, you're right. We've got to do our level best in the second half. Once let us develop a weak spot, and they'll aim for that every rush. There's Frank calling to me again. Five minutes more, and we'll be at it, hammer and tongs," and Lanky hurried away to where the captain stood, with the very last word in the way of orders. The line of play had been decided on long before. This had been arranged in accordance with what they knew about Clifford's line-up. Just as Lanky had declared, once let a weak place show, and from that minute on the opposition bends every effort toward pushing the ball in that quarter, until, finally, the defense gives way, and the oval is carried triumphantly across the line. Gradually the players began to take their places again. Clifford, too, showed a new face; Hollingsworth being substituted in place of Evans, as right end, the other having been injured in a scrimmage, thought not enough to get out at the time. It was Columbia's kick-off this time, and Jack Comfort was the one to do the honors which would inaugurate the second half of the game. Just as he stood there ready to make the first move, the picture was one that would never be forgotten by the thousands who witnessed it. Every breath seemed hushed. A mighty silence hung over the wide field, as eyes were riveted on the crouching figures, whose faces, so far as seen, because of the disfiguring head harness, showed the earnestness that possessed each soul. It was at this critical moment that suddenly loud shouts arose. They seemed to come from behind the grandstand, and quickly swelled in volume, until it was a deafening roar that broke forth. Frank called out something, and the referee instantly blew his whistle, to signify that delay was imperative until the cause of all this row could be ascertained and the noise quelled. It was simply impossible to continue the game while so much racket held, as the players would be wholly unable to hear the signals. But now the tenor of the wild cries began to be understood. Players looked at each other in blank dismay. Never before had they heard of a football game having been interrupted by such a strange and terrible cause. "Mad dog! Mad dog!" That was what the people were shrieking over and over. The entire mass of spectators seemed to be writhing as they leaped to their feet. Faces grew white with sudden fear. Women and children cried and shrieked, and hands were wrung in the abandon of despair. It was easy to discover the immediate scene of the disturbance, for there the lines swayed more violently than elsewhere. People crushed back against each other, forgetting all else in the frenzy of fear that possessed them. What could be more terrifying than the coming of a mad dog in the midst of such an assemblage of merrymakers, out for a grand holiday? "Run, you fellows; he's heading out on the field! Get a move on you!" roared a voice through a big megaphone. It was, of course, the wonderful cheer captain, Herman Hooker, who thus gave warning of the coming peril. Indeed, his cry was hardly needed, for the two elevens could mark the passage of the terror by the swaying back of the lines upon lines of spectators, all of whom seemed to be possessed of a wild desire to climb up on the highest seats, so that the panic was fierce. Then through the mass came the running beast, with his head close to the ground, and trailing a chain behind him. His actions were certainly queer, and well calculated to strike terror into the timid hearts of the helpless ones gathered there to witness the spectacle of a football contest, and not a mad dog hunt. And running valiantly after the brute came Officer Whalen, doubtless intending to attempt to shoot the animal when once he found a chance. Suddenly the raging brute uttered a series of fearful sounds, and started directly for one of the players on the field, as though intending to attack him first. The vast crowd shrieked all manner of imploring directions, and unable to render assistance, just stood there and looked and prayed. But Frank Allen neither started to run nor moved to the aid of the threatened player for he had discovered that the one who stood there was Bones Shadduck, and in the leaping dog he had recognized the persistent Kaiser! CHAPTER XI CLIFFORD'S LAST HOPE "Why doesn't the fool run?" cried one man, quivering with suspense. "It's too late now! See, he's going to tackle the brute! He's got his hands out ready! Gee! what nerve!" bellowed another, this time from Clifford. A third laughed harshly, for the strain had been beat on everyone. "Its all off, fellows. That's _his_ dog!" he shouted. "Well, I'll be hanged! Look at him jumping up to lick the boy's face, will you? Did you ever? This takes the cake!" The crowd had by this time discovered that it was a false alarm, and by degrees the hysterical feeling wore off, though there were many who would not soon forget the awful sense of fear that had almost paralyzed their systems. Kaiser had apparently broken loose long after Bones had left home, and determined to find his beloved master, had trailed him to the football field. Possibly the faithful animal believed that there might be further need of his services, and that there were more fellows in need of trimming. Of course the game had to be delayed until Bones could lead Kaiser away, and secure him in a little room under the grandstand. The crowd howled and cheered as he went by, and Shadduck grinned in his usual happy fashion, feeling that for once at least he was in the exact limelight--thanks to Kaiser! Once more the two opposing teams faced each other on the field. The rushers were crouched, ready to spring forward as soon as the ball had been put into play. Comfort prepared to send in his best kick, after which the whole field would be in motion in the mad endeavor to urge the ball toward the goal of the opposing side. Jack was a famous punter and also a gilt-edged drop-kicker. He had a peculiar spiral kick that was calculated to be exceedingly puzzling to the enemy. And since much depended upon how far he sent the oval into the enemy's territory, all eyes were eagerly glued upon him now. "Plunk!" Away sailed the ball with the most erratic motion the Clifford men had ever seen in all their experience. Some ran this way, and then suddenly changed their course, as they realized the deceiving nature of the ball's aerial flight. But the Columbia ends knew just how the full-back would send the ball, and they shot for the spot, determined to reach there almost as soon as the enemy, and cut short his advantage for a run. Coots managed to catch the ball, and darted back with it, but was downed, almost in his tracks, by a fierce tackle on the part of Shadduck, who had slipped through the interference. "Down!" howled Coots, after he had recovered his wind. The players lined up, while Style began calling off the signals. The Columbia players braced for the attack they knew would soon come. And come it did. Their line tottered and wavered under the smashing impact, but it held, and Wentworth was hurled back for a slight loss. "That's the way to do it!" cried Frank, in delight. "Hold 'em again, fellows, and they'll have to kick!" Once more Clifford, in desperation, for she wanted to keep the ball, tried for another advance, this time around her opponent's left end. But Morris and Shay were on hand, and nailed the player before he had gone two yards. "They've got to kick!" came the cry, and indeed that was the only play left for Clifford. Still, it might be a fake one, and Frank signalled this to his men, so that they might be on the alert. But Comfort ran away back, and it was well that he did, for the ball was booted well into the Columbia territory. The full-back caught it and managed to rush back fifteen yards before he was fiercely downed. "Now's our chance, fellows!" called Frank, while Paul Bird came up, took the pigskin and waited for Lanky to give the signal. "I-m-p-o-r-t-a-n-c-e!" spelled out the quarter. Instantly after the last letter was given, there was a sudden movement. The center had flashed the ball to Allen, who started furiously around the outside of the Clifford line. West was running diagonally, and passed him. Many did not notice that as they crossed Frank dexterously passed the ball to Ralph, but kept on running and dodging as though he still held it. The trick was not a new one by any means, but when well done it was apt to deceive at least a portion of the rattled opposition; so that several of the Clifford players were, for the instant, really in doubt as to which of the two half-backs carried the ball. Thus in the beginning the force of pursuers was divided. Ralph was a sprinter, and could avoid interference in a manner that was simply marvelous. He had the entire bunch against him, trying to block his play, but with wonderful skill managed to dodge each in turn, until when finally brought down he had reached the enemy's ten-yard line! A burst of applause from the eager spectators; then again absolute silence, for once more the heavily breathing players had gathered in battle array. Again came a hot scrimmage. The ball was over the side lines now, and out of bounds. So it had to be brought in. Clifford had it for a change, but the conditions were desperate with them now, with their home goal close behind. Let a Columbia player once get his hands on the oval, and the chances were he could carry it over the line for a touchdown. The man who did the thinking in this emergency knew his business. When the next scrimmage was on, many of the spectators were astonished to see a Clifford player jump away from the melee with the ball in his grasp, and hurl himself deliberately across his own line. Immediately the crowd gave expression to their feelings. Some cheered, while others groaned, as the play was understood best. "Why, that man is a traitor to his team!" exclaimed one indignant fellow. A Columbia graduate, who happened to be sitting next to the speaker, gave him a look of contempt, as he remarked: "On the contrary he proved to have an exceedingly clever head on him. Stop and think for just a minute. They were close up to Clifford's goal. The chances were ten to one in that scrimmage that Columbia would get the ball, and with the next play carry it across the line. That meant a touchdown. Then if they could kick a goal, as is likely, they would count six. As it is now, Columbia gets only two because that quick-witted fellow put it over his own line. More than that, the next play is back at the twenty-five yard line; so you see how easily Clifford gets out of a bad corner." As little time as possible was lost getting in position again. So eager were both sides to accomplish things that they begrudged the fleeting seconds. The tide of battle surged back and forth. Dozens of plays were pulled off that it would take many chapters to describe. But what cheered the enthusiasts of the home team was the fact that most of the work was being done on hostile territory! In between times when there was no need of silence the raucous voice of Herman Hooker could be heard, as he led his band around back of the crowd, and shouted again and again in unison the thrilling yell of Columbia, with the intention of stirring the blood in the veins of each player, and investing him with renewed pluck and zeal. As if it were needed, when each one of those sturdy champions had already been keyed up to top-notch speed. Time was slipping away, and despite the almost superhuman efforts of Clifford they could not seem to get the ball over that strenuously defended line of their opponents. In vain did the rooters urge them on to renewed efforts. Columbia seemed to have thrown up a stone wall in front of her goal lines, and no matter what strenuous plays were called off they were met with a stubborn tenacity that robbed them of results. Only seven more minutes remained of the second half. Columbia adherents were jubilant. They already began to discount a victory, and were winding up preparatory to making the air ring with their shouts. The wise ones kept close watch of the play. They had known occasions just like this when the winning team became over confident, and the last few minutes witnessed their utter rout. Would it happen so in this case? Clifford was exerting every effort to bring about such a happy condition of affairs. Frank had warned his men against the slightest slackening of speed or vigilance. No game is won until the referee's signal announces that the end has come. Now the determined Clifford hosts had carried the ball over into the territory of their rivals. Columbia was visibly weakening before these fearful plunges, and it seemed as though flesh and bone could not hold out against them. Seconds counted now. How desperately Frank and his backers fought to ward off the threatening evil. Every lawful tactic that would bring about delay was brought into bearing. Twice had the ball gone out of bounds, which necessitated a new alignment, and consequent passage of those precious seconds. Columbia was on the defensive; but it was a splendid exhibition of harrying play they put up, thanks to the instructions of Coach Willoughby. On their fifteen-yard line they faced the Clifford crew for the last struggle. Despite the prediction of the man who had declared them a great second-half team, Clifford had failed to add to their score during the half hour that had elapsed, that lone touchdown standing to their credit. "Boys, we want a bigger score than this!" called Captain Allen eagerly, when time was taken out to enable some wind to be pumped back into Style. "We've got thirteen points, and they have five. It's too close a margin. We've got time enough to make another touchdown." "If we can get the ball," added West. "We've _got_ to get it!" cried the captain. "It's the first down. Hold 'em, and throw the man with the ball for a loss if you can. They may kick on the second down instead of waiting for the third. Then we'll have 'em." The whistle blew and Style came slowly back into the line. He was pale and weak, as the manner in which he gave the signals showed. There were anxious looks on the faces of his mates, and glances of eager expectation on those of his opponents. Wentworth came smashing for a hole he expected would be opened up between Daly and Shay, but Shay was ready and did more than his partner to block off the play. Wentworth was hurled back, and there was a net loss of two yards to Clifford. "Look out for a kick!" warned Frank. It came, for Clifford was desperately afraid, and Comfort got the ball. Tucking it under his arm, with head down, he started for the goal line, well protected. The enraged Clifford players managed to get at him, however, and he was downed after he had covered fifteen yards. But it was a good run back, and Columbia had the ball, and there were still several more minutes to play. "At 'em now, fellows! Tear 'em apart!" cried Lanky Wallace. He called for Ralph West to take the ball around Smith, as the quarter had noticed the weak defense the right end was putting up. Around circled West, and he made a good gain before he was downed. Again came smashing plays--several of them, Columbia keeping possession of the ball. In vain did Clifford brace and hold. It was useless. She was being shoved right up the field. Her men were exhausted and discouraged. Columbia's were eager and triumphant. "Touchdown! Touchdown!" came the insisting cries from the spectators. The ball was on Clifford's fifteen-yard line. "Touchdown it is!" declared Wallace grimly. He called his signal with snap and vim. Frank got the ball and made a desperate dive for a big gap that was opened up between Roe and McQuirk. Forward he staggered while Shadduck and Oakes managed to circle around to form interference for him. "He's through! He's through!" came the cry, and indeed the captain was through the Clifford line, and legging it toward the goal. Hastings started after him, but slipped and fell. Then, like a flash, Wentworth emerged from the tangle of players and set off after Allen. He came on like the wind, and managed to slip past Shadduck, but Oakes was on the alert and tackled off the plucky Clifford right-half. Then it was all over but the shouting. With the fall of Wentworth ended Clifford's hopes of preventing another touchdown, while as for her own hopes of making one they had vanished some time ago. Allen touched down the ball. Amid frenzied cheers the goal was kicked, making the score nineteen to five in favor of Columbia. There was preparation for another kick-off, but before it could be made the whistle blew; and the game had passed into history. CHAPTER XII DR. SHADDUCK FEARS AN EPIDEMIC "There he is!" "Cut him off; he's trying to dodge us!" "No you don't, Frank; we're just bound to give you a ride around. These things don't happen every day. Up with him, fellows!" Fully fifty wild Columbia students had gathered around the captain, effectually blocking his escape from the field. Frank, suspecting some such design, had tried his best to slip off unobserved; but hundreds of eyes were on him, and even his fellow players showed treachery, handing him over to the crowd. He was immediately hoisted upon the shoulders of several brawny chaps, and with a motley crowd following, after they set out to parade the field, shouting the battle cry of the school, and singing the famous song that always thrilled the hearts of Columbia's patriotic sons and daughters. Those who had remained in the grandstand cheered as the procession swept past, and among these was Minnie Cuthbert. Frank never looked that way once, she noted, and yet there had been a time, not so very far back, when he would have thought of her the first thing. And yet Frank was perfectly conscious that she was standing there, leaning over the railing, and watching the fun with eagerness. Sometimes it is possible to see without looking direct. When he could escape Frank hurried home. He was of course overjoyed to realize that his team had won the game; but the strain of those last ten minutes had been simply terrific. What would it be with the Bellport eleven, every member of which had undoubtedly been present, picking up points that would be useful in the big Thanksgiving Day game? Of course there must a celebration that night. Victory deserved something of the sort, and the boys were bound to make the fact known to every citizen of the town. Fires would be blazing, horns tooting, firecrackers exploding, and a general hurrah taking place, with crowds of students, roaming around, and ringing the various college songs they loved so well. Frank found a warm welcome at his home. His father declared he was proud of the fact that he had a boy so well able to manage affairs of great moment. It was a great day at the Allen house, and Helen, for the time being, even forgot her grief in connection with the unexplained desertion of her once fondly loved chum, Minnie Cuthbert. Just after lunch Frank was called to the telephone. Ralph had dropped in to talk over matters connected with the game, which, of course, must be the one important topic of conversation among the Columbia students until the concluding meeting came about that would settle the championship. "Hello! who's this?" Frank asked, as he picked up the receiver, and placed it at his ear. A laugh was the first sound he heard. "That you, Bones?" he demanded, thinking he recognized a peculiarity about this chuckle that stamped the identity of the one who seemed so merry. "Sure; that you, Frank? Say, it's an epidemic that's struck us!" called the one at the other end of the wire. "What do you mean. Make it plainer; I'm all up in the air," answered Frank, who knew Bones was a great fellow for joking, and wondered what he had in hand now. "They had my dad guessing some, I tell you. He began to think it was his duty to warn the town authorities so that they could take proper precautions; for honest now, it did look like the whole place was overrun with frisky canines, snapping at every one they met!" "What's that you say?" asked Frank, pricking up his ears at the mention of dogs; for the memory of several recent experiences was fresh in his mind. "Why, you see, every one's getting bitten. It's the latest fad. My dad had just three come to him early this morning to have wounds cauterized to make sure!" "Good gracious! you don't say?" ejaculated Frank, waiting for further explanations, which he knew would not be long in coming. "Yes, and the funny part of it is all of them were boys. The dogs seem to have taken a great fancy for the breed. Guess you could give a close hazard about who they were. Perhaps you know their limp, for they showed it plain enough at the game," went on Bones, with another series of chuckles. "I saw Bill Klemm rubbing his calf and talking to Jay Tweedle; yes, and when they walked off I thought each of them seemed to have a stiff leg. How about that; were they to see the doctor?" asked the captain of the football team, eagerly. "Sure as you live, and Asa Barnes ditto. Asa said he was passing an empty lot last night when a brindle cur just deliberately jumped out and nabbed him. Of course he kicked the beast away, and it ran off howling; but his father, on being told the circumstances this morning, thought he ought to have a little caustic applied so as to take no chances. Think of it--a brindle cur, and that sneak kicked him! Oh! my!" "And where did Bill say he got his dose from?" "He's got a little bit of a poodle, you know. Well, he had the nerve to declare the baby beast bit him! Dad said he found it hard to believe, for judging from the marks of the teeth it was a jaw three times as big as Tiny's that did the business. Dad knows better now." "Then you told him all about Kaiser's work last night?" "Sure; I had to. He was for putting off to warn the town police to look out for all brindle dogs, and shoot 'em on the spot--which spot I don't know. But you see, somebody had told him about Kaiser acting that way at the field, and he was ready to order him massacred before he went mad too. So I had to relate the dreadful story of how Bill and Asa and Jay got their little tattoo marks." "What did he say then?" asked Frank, greatly amused. "Nearly took a fit laughing over it. Instead of being chloroformed or otherwise exterminated Kaiser is going to get a new collar now, dad's especial gift. Hurrah for Kaiser! He's the whole circus every time!" "Yes," said Frank, quickly, "he came near getting his finish though to-day. Old Officer Whalen was on his trail and meant to fill him full of holes, if he could ever get close enough. It was a narrow escape for Kaiser." "A narrower one for the crowd. Did you ever see Officer Whalen practice firing at a mark? Well, I have. The man couldn't hit a barn door thirty feet off. Can't you come over, Frank? I've got something to propose to you. The afternoon is too fine and bracing to stay cooped up in the house. We'll soon have to hibernate, you know. Come along!" called Bones. "Ralph is with me." "All right. Bring him along. Glad to have him." "Look for us soon then. I've got something I want to ask you anyway. Good-bye," and Frank turned from the phone to explain to the wondering Ralph just why he had been so overcome with merriment. Of course Ralph thought the joke a good one when he too heard the particulars of the sudden run upon the good doctor's supply of liquid caustic. "No wonder they limped after all that; the remedy was worse than the disease, I reckon. I don't suppose anything serious will come out of those bites now?" he said, after he had stopped laughing. "Oh! hardly. Thousands are bitten every year by angry dogs, and how few cases of hydrophobia you hear about. They'll limp around a little while and then forget all about it But Bones wants us to come over to his house, so if you have no objections we'll just saunter across lots and see what he's got going." "Just as you say." remarked Ralph, rising immediately; "though unless you object I thought of dropping in at the post-office on the way. There's a mail in, and possibly a letter might come for me that I could get before the carrier came around." Frank looked at him with pity in his eyes. He knew how secretly Ralph was suffering all the pangs that can come with hope long deferred; and that each day seemed like an eternity to the boy who was yearning to feel the loving arms of a mother about his neck, a mother whom he had never known. "Certainly; that's only a step out of the way. But be careful as you go, and if you see a brindle pup in a vacant lot run for your life! They're mighty dangerous, I'm told," at which both boys laughed again, and the cloud passed from Ralph's rather pale face. As chance would have it, as they issued from the front door a vehicle passed the house, and in it were seated Minnie Cuthbert and Lef Seller, the fellow whom she had more than once declared she never meant to speak to again. It was Lef's rig, and the object he had in view in thus deliberately passing Frank's home was obvious. Frank, after that one start, was prepared. He immediately doffed his cap with the most excruciating politeness. Minnie turned white, then red. She hardly knew what to do under the circumstances; but found herself nodding her head as though she could not help it, even after cutting Frank on the preceding day. Frank saw the grin of triumph on the face of his rival, but though his blood was fairly boiling with indignation at his coming out of the way to let him see their renewal of friendship, he simply looked after the vehicle and smiled. Ralph was chuckling as if amused. "Sometimes girls' friendships are so quickly changed they make me think of that wonderful Finnegan and his report of the accident on his section of the railroad. You know how his boss had taken him to task because he stretched things out so. When the old train had another wreck he just wrote out his report: 'Off again, on again, gone again, Finnegan.' Yesterday it was you, to-day Lef, and tomorrow--well, tomorrow hasn't come yet, so we won't anticipate. Come along, Frank," and linking his arm in that of his chum, Ralph drew him away. And in the lively talk that followed Frank soon forgot his bitter feeling at the strange actions of the pretty girl he had once thought so charming. CHAPTER XIII THE GREAT MARSH "Glad to see you, fellows! Say, by the way, I hear that Clifford won the great football match against Columbia!" was the way the way Bones Shadduck greeted them as they reached his door and rang the bell. "You don't tell me," said Frank, with a smile; "when did it happen?" "Oh! last night some time. It was a great victory. I'm told they nearly painted the town red over it," responded the other. "Well, for my part I prefer to do the celebrating after the thing is over to shouting before hand. Perhaps they celebrated too hard, and that might account for several fool plays that were made. I had an idea that several of Clifford's best players looked rather red-eyed, as though they didn't get much sleep," remarked Frank, as they entered. "And I shouldn't be surprised if you were right. I was told they had a dance and it was all hours of the morning when they went home," echoed Bones. "But what did you want us over for in particular?" asked Frank. "Something to show you and then a proposal to make. I had a birthday to-day, and my dad's been mighty good to me. What do you think of that?" Bones whipped out a beautiful shotgun from behind a case and handed it over to the others to admire. "Looks like a dandy, all right. And I wager she'll do some good work when you get to looking over the sights. Handles great, too. Although I think I like my own gun a little the better, still that's only a matter of prejudice. You're lucky to have such a dad, Bones," remarked Frank, as he drew an imaginary bead on some object seen out of the window. "And now for my proposal. I'm just wild to try the new gun, and I had word from father's farmer, Benson, that the ducks were in the old swamp that adjoins our big patch of ground over Wheaten way. I can get our horse and the three of us might take a spin over to see what we can do," suggested Bones, eagerly. "But I thought duck shooting was always done in the early morning?" ventured Ralph. "It usually is; but in some localities there is apt to be a good evening flight. That happens to be the case over at the swamp. I've seen them come in there to spend the night by twos and dozens, until the air was thick with them. And I've had the best sport of my life in knocking them over on a runway, or rather flyway. Say you'll go, Frank?" pleaded the enthusiastic sportsman. "Well," answered the one addressed, "it always appeals to me, and in this case I'd just as soon be away from town to-night, because the boys are going to do stunts, and they hinted that they might get hold of me to ride me around, something I object to seriously, on general principles. So far as I'm concerned I'll be delighted to go along, Bones." "Ditto here," exclaimed Ralph; "only I shall have to go to be the pick-up, for I haven't got a gun. I used to handle an old one of Mr. West's, but, of course, didn't bring it along with me." "Oh! that's easily fixed. If you don't mind you can use my old one. She's a steady shooter. If you cover your bird you get him every time. And I've got plenty of shells. Suppose you chase back and get your double-barrel, Frank, while I see about the rig. Ralph will stay with me and help, I know." It was speedily arranged and Frank, on returning with his gun, found the others ready to make a start. Just as he had said the arrangement pleased him first-rate, for he really did want to get out of town until a late hour that night. It was not at all to the liking of the football captain to be carried around on show, just as if he were a hero on exhibition; especially when he avowed that he deserved not one whit more honor for the victory than each other member of the team. "I hope they get Lanky, and trot him around some to see how he likes it. He was scolding me for not behaving right to the boys to-day, when they grabbed me on the field after the game. I'd give something to see him wallowing around on a platform and made to bow to the right and to the left, over and over again." All of them laughed heartily at the picture Frank conjured up. Then they clambered into the vehicle and the start was made. They had been wise enough to hide the guns, so that while some of the boys who were on the streets saw them ride off, they had no suspicion that the one bright particular star of the intended celebration intended to be far away at the time. It was a ride of more than ten miles. The horse, while not a fast animal, could keep up a steady pace, and in good time they arrived at the farm which Doctor Shadduck owned. As the afternoon was passing, and night comes early after the middle of November, the three young sportsmen hastened to head for the swamp where they anticipated having an hour or so of pleasure before dark actually shut in. Bones had often come up here on a similar errand, though this was his first visit this year. Still, he kept things in such shape that there was little time wasted making the necessary arrangements. He had a few painted decoys that had seen much service and these they carried along with them from the house. Seeing Frank curiously examining one of the stools he carried, Bones broke out into a hearty laugh. "Wondering what peppered that wooden decoy so, eh, Frank? I'll tell you, though you'll never enjoy the story as much as I did the actual thing. I had a cousin up here last winter. He was from New York City, and had never shot at real game, though he was a deadly marksman when it came to the trap, and could break bats and clay pigeons right along." "I've seen the breed," commented Frank, with a grin. "Well, when we came crawling out here I forgot that I had asked Benson to put my little flock of decoys out for me. The first thing I knew I heard a bang close to my ear, and then a second shot, after which Cousin Hal jumped up shouting that he had knocked over the entire bunch. He had, but you ought to have seen his look when I sent him wading out to retrieve the game. Still, he laughed himself at the joke, and begged me not to tell it till after he left." "I guess they'll float about as well as ever, even if weighted down with shot. Have you got a boat up here, Bones?" asked Ralph. "Sure I have, and a dandy one to shoot out of, being flat-bottomed and steady as a church floor. But I only use it to retrieve the game generally; because you see, we can shoot from the land as the ducks fly over to enter the swamp." Frank had often heard of this style of shooting, and wanted to try it; so that he was very glad he had come. After the tremendous strain of the morning some relaxation of this kind would be a good thing too, for all of them. "I told my people not to expect me home to supper; and also that they might be having game tomorrow for dinner, if we were lucky," remarked Frank. "And nobody will bother whether I show up or not," observed Ralph, with a nervous little laugh. "Never mind, old chap, I calculate that there's going to come a decided change in your condition before a great while. You're showing true grit in bearing up as well as you do. Any day you may get the letter that tells you the ones you look for are on the way here. Then your troubles will be all in the past. Hello! how's this Bones? Have we arrived?" and Frank looked around curiously when the guide came to a sudden halt. "Here we are, fellows. You see that abrupt break in the heavy line of trees. It seems to form a sort of avenue, and the ducks in flying toward the swamp just naturally drive into it, following after each other as though it were really a road. In fact, few of them ever enter the swamp by any other way than this." "If we're going to shoot over a place like this, as the ducks come in, why the decoys?" asked Ralph. Bones laughed as he replied: "I generally keep them out here during the season, in a little shelter I have. Nothing like making fellows useful, you know; and while we were coming I thought three could carry them better than one! Sort of making you work your passage, see?" Knowing the ground, and the habits of the waterfowl, Bones quickly placed his two friends. Then they anxiously awaited the coming of the first game. A sort of routine had been arranged. This was to prevent any waste of ammunition, through two of them shooting at the same quarry. "Frank, you try the first chap, Ralph the second, and I'll experiment with my new gun when the next pilgrim spins along. Don't forget that they are swift customers right here, and the chances are you'll shoot back of them," said Bones, as they stood at their posts. "There, Frank!" exclaimed Ralph, as a couple of dark objects suddenly burst into view, and sped past them. But Frank was not taken unawares. He had shot ducks more than once before, and knew how to properly gauge their flight. Beginning a little behind the pair he swept his gun forward so as to pass them; and at just the instant it covered the game in its swinging movement he pressed the trigger. One of the ducks fell, stone dead, and the other went on with diminished speed as though crippled. Almost instantly the second barrel spoke, and this time down came the second bird. "Fine!" exclaimed Bones, who had never seen Frank shoot before; "why, really, I'm ashamed to show my clumsiness before such a crack shot." "None of that, now. And don't believe I can do that sort of work right along. Next time it may be a clean double miss. Ducks are unreliable things. I've known the best of shots to miss, time and again. Ralph, step up and toe the mark. You're next on the docket," laughed Frank, as he hastily replaced the discharged shells with fresh ones. "Better retrieve your game while the balance of us keep a lookout. Otherwise we'll get things mixed, and perhaps lose some of it. Did you mark the places?" said the host of the little hunt. "Oh! yes, I always do that. It gets to be a habit with any fellow who hunts much. I think they fell dead, so I oughtn't to have much trouble," replied Frank. "Beware the oozy spots along the border of the marsh. I've had no end of trouble getting stuck instead of duck," called out Bones, as the other moved away, carrying his gun along with him as a wise hunter always does. Just as he retrieved the second victim to his accuracy he heard a single shot, and a heavy body fell not ten feet away. Ralph had dropped his first duck also. "There you are," remarked Frank, throwing the three birds down, as he returned to the rendezvous; "and they do certainly look fine and plump. Reckon you have quite a few muskrats in this old marsh of yours, Bones. I saw a lot of houses in the water, made of sticks and trash?" "I was told there were. Of course I've seen the little varmints at times, when I've been hiding in a duck-blind; but they never trouble me, and I don't go out of my way to interfere with them. Ah! there!" He threw up his gun, and a second later two shots rang out in rapid succession. Quite a bunch of teal had swung into the avenue, heading for the marsh. They were just everlastingly hurrying, as Ralph said, and while Bones succeeded in knocking down a couple, one only wounded, which he never did find, he declared he ought to be ashamed for not doing better. "Still, I like the feel of the gun all right. I'll do something worth while when I get used to the hang of it," he remarked, as he went off to look for his game. Then Frank had another chance. Sometimes the ducks were higher up; then again they came at such speed that it was next to impossible to make a hit. So the fun went on for three-quarters of an hour. It was actually getting dusk, and the flight seemed about over. Ralph had dropped a single duck, and gone off to try and find it, though Bones said he doubted whether he would succeed, because of the gathering gloom. About five minutes afterwards, as he and Frank were sitting there on the log, exchanging stories of former hunts, they heard Ralph calling. "Hello! what's the matter?" exclaimed Frank, starting up. "I don't know, but I can give a pretty good guess," remarked Bones; and then elevating his voice, he shouted: "What d'ye want, Ralph?" "Better drop over here, please!" came the reply. "He's in some sort of trouble," suggested Frank, judging from the half apologetic tone of his chum. "Yes, and I expect stuck in the ooze of the marsh, worse luck!" grunted Bones. CHAPTER XIV THE DANGERS OF THE MUCK HOLE "Where are you?" called Bones, as he and Frank pushed forward in the gathering dusk. "Here! Be mighty careful, fellows, or you'll get in too!" came the answer, not far away. "Told you so," remarked the doctor's son, with a little laugh; "poor Ralph; I pity him, because I've been there myself. When I come alone out here I always carry a short rope along. If I get stuck it helps me out." "A rope? How under the sun can that help?" demanded a voice close by; showing that they were very near the boy who was stuck in the ooze, and also that he was alive to the inconvenience of his position. "Why, you see, in most cases there's a limb of a tree hanging over, and it's dead easy to throw the rope across it. After that, one can pull out, unless he's allowed himself to sink too deep. Got a match with you, Frank?" asked Bones. "Lots. I've found them handy on too many occasions lately to go without. Here you are, Bones. Going to make a fire, are you?" and Frank, bending down, commenced to assist in gathering some dead leaves together. "Well," replied the other, "we ought to have some light to see how to work him free. It would be a tough joke if the whole bunch of us got stuck. I don't hanker after such an experience. Things are pretty dry up here, so we must be careful not to let the blaze spread any." The fire was quickly a positive fact, and being fed with some small branches it leaped up grandly. In this fashion the entire neighborhood was illuminated. Frank looked around. The sight was peculiar, and as the marsh ran into an actual swamp, he thought he had seldom seen a more weird effect. Still, what interested him most of all was the picture of Ralph, up to his knees in the soft slime that lay concealed under the dead leaves and green scum. "I've tried all I could to get out, fellows, but the worst of it is, when I lift one foot the other only goes that much deeper down. If a fellow could only get hold of enough stuff to make a sort of mattress he might roll over on it and do the trick that way. I'd be trying that if I had daylight, and was alone here," remarked the imprisoned boy, calmly. "Say, I never thought of that. It's a clever idea, all right. Next time I get stuck I'm going to see how it works," remarked Bones. "Why not now, since you haven't your rope along. Here's just the ticket--some old fence rails lying in a heap. Cheer up, comrade, we'll have you out of that in a jiffy now," sang out Frank, seizing one of the long, cast-off rails, and dropping it on the surface of the muck. Bones fell to along side, and between them they speedily formed a regular corduroy road out to where Ralph stood, watching the building with interest. One of them got on either side. Then, with the aid of other rails they pried Ralph loose, so that he could crawl over to the "mattress," and get secure footing. After that nothing was needed but to walk ashore. "I'm a fine sight, mud up to my knees, my hands full, and I tell you, it isn't just as sweet as it might be," lamented Ralph, as he started to scrape himself off with a splinter. "Hold on, we'll play valet to you. Take that leg, while I manage this one, Frank," observed Bones, who was really enjoying seeing some other fellow in the same mussy condition that had been his lot more than once. They scraped so well that presently Ralph declared he felt quite presentable once more. "But I'll make sure to let nobody see me in this condition," he added; "and this pair of trousers will have to go to the cleaner's Monday morning, you bet." "Well, are we off now?" asked Frank, as he started to make sure that the fire was extinguished to the last spark. "That's the ticket, Frank," observed Bones, approvingly, "I like a fire all right, but hate to see it burning up a marsh or a woods. Had one little experience that I aint going to forget in a hurry. I guess she'll do now. Let's shoulder our game and make tracks for the farmhouse. Supper will be ready, I suppose." "Supper?" echoed Ralph. "Why, sure. You didn't suppose I meant that we'd go hungry when I invited you to come up here for a little relaxation, after our big strain this morning? Benson promised to have something for us. They're only plain country folks, you know, so don't expect much style, fellows." "Style!" exclaimed Ralph, with a snort, "do I look like I could put on a heap, with these mussed-up trousers? All I ask is a chance to wash my hands and face. But it was mighty good of you thinking of the grub part, Bones." "I don't see how. I always eat with Benson when I come up here for a shoot. It was only a case of selfishness. Say, this is something of a load--four apiece all around, and they're heavy chaps, too. This one is so fat he actually burst when he fell." "But I have no use of any game. Perhaps you'd better give the farmer my share, for his kindness," suggested Ralph. "That's nice of you, old fellow. And I'll take you up on it, too. Benson has no time to shoot, and I don't believe he knows how; but all the same he does like a taste of game, to sort of change the bill of fare. Follow me, now, for the house." Bones led the way, and presently they arrived at the farmhouse, a low-roofed building, where light gleamed cheerily in the small windows. Benson had a wife and several small children. The table was set, country fashion, right at one end of the big kitchen, and the odors that greeted the hungry and cold boys as they entered certainly promised an appetizing repast. Ralph was soon made happy with a tin basin and a bucket of water. He managed to repair damages pretty well, and was only too willing to respond to the farmer's hearty invitation to take a chair and "set-to." Perhaps it was their sharp-set appetites that made them think the food tasted unusually fine. No matter, there was a great abundance, and by the time they got up from the table every fellow declared he could not eat another mouthful if he were paid for it. "I'll have your rig at the door in short order," declared Benson, as he went out with a lantern. With a ten-mile drive, and a horse far from fresh, Bones had decided that they would do well to start without any delay. He had tried out his gun, and was satisfied; while on Frank's part, he rejoiced in the fact that he would be away from town while all the glorification was going on. "Hold on, Mr. Benson, that's enough. Eight is all we want to take back with us. Ralph here is boarding and has no use for his share. So he asks you to accept it," called out Bones, as the farmer started to toss the game in the back part of the doctor's buggy. "That's kind o' him, and I'm sure much obliged. We don't get any too much game up here, close as we are to the marsh. I'm too busy, you see, and then besides, I never was a great hand to shoot. In summer I pull in quite some fish at odd times, and that's all the sport I take." It was about eight o'clock when they finally left the farmhouse. The good wife and the three children called out good-bye, as Bones chucked to the horse, and they were off. "It won't be so awful dark on the road, for there's a half moon peeping out up yonder behind those clouds," said Frank. "Glad of that," returned Bones, who was doing the driving, "because you see, the road is pretty rough till we get on the main one, and if it was pitch dark we might stand for getting tumbled into a ditch alongside. There are same nasty places I've got to look out for. I know them pretty well though; ought to, for I've been in two of 'em." "We'll help you look out then. I wouldn't hanker after a tumble into a muddy ditch just now," laughed Frank. "Think of me, fellows! Why, my lower extremities are still damp from one trip. That was bad enough, but think of going in head first! Ugh! excuse me, if you please!" groaned Ralph. They made out to get along with little or no trouble. The horse kept the middle of the road as a rule, and three pair of keen eyes were quite enough to pilot the vehicle along toward the junction of the two thoroughfares. When the firmer road was reached Bones declared he was glad. "Now we needn't worry, boys. Get-up, Strawberry; it's home for you and another measure of oats. I had the farmer give him only a small quantity. Keep a horse a bit hungry if you want him to hustle for home," he remarked. "Sounds reasonable at any rate, Bones. And Strawberry is doing pretty good hustling right now, considering the heavy condition of our weight, in the way of game. My folks will think I'm something on the shoot, I guess," remarked Frank, humorously. "You really got seven--" began Ralph, when his friend interrupted. "Never mind about that. One fellow is always lucky above the rest. Never knew it to fail. To-day it might be me, to-morrow you. So it goes. Forget it, both of you." Ralph said nothing more. He knew the nature of his chum, and that Frank had not a selfish bone in his body. If there was any sport going around he wanted every one to have their full share of it, nor could he rest happy unless this were so. They had passed over several miles of the main road, and all of them were somehow feeling a bit drowsy from their unusual exertions of the day, when, without warning, the horse snorted and came to a full stop. "What's this mean?" demanded Bones, in astonishment. "There's something on the road ahead of us," declared Ralph, bending forward in order to see the better, for the shadows fell across the tree-bordered pike. "I'm not sure," ventured Frank, "but it seems like some sort of vehicle to me. Perhaps there's been an accident. Wait while I jump out and go to see!" CHAPTER XV FRANK TURNS CHAUFFEUR "Don't you want your gun?" asked Bones, in a low voice, that showed some trace of excitement; for, truth to tell, Bones was inclined to be suspicious by nature, and there had been stories told lately throughout that section, of raids by thieving tramps. Possibly that may have been one reason why Bones was so desirous of having company on this little excursion up to the farm to try his new gun. "What for?" asked Frank, surprised, as he dropped out of the vehicle. "Oh! there's no telling. This may be just a trap to stop any travelers and make them hand over. It's been done before. I'd hate to lose my double-barrel the first thing." He was groping under the seat for the aforesaid article at that very moment, as though he would feel safer with it in his hands. But Frank laughed scornfully. "Don't you believe it, Bones. Ten to one this is some vehicle that has left the road and gone into the ditch. I'm only afraid I may find the driver badly hurt in being thrown out, that's all." He left the buggy as he spoke, and walked hastily forward toward the dark object that seemed to be half on the road and partly among the trees. "Why, it looks like an automobile," said Frank to himself, as he came closer; and five seconds later he added positively, "That's just what it is. I wonder what's happened now?" He soon knew. Upon reaching the scene he found that the car must have suddenly swerved from the road and struck a tree, head on. It could not have been going at a very rapid pace at the time, for although some damage had been done to the hood, and one of the lamps seemed to be smashed, the machine did not appear badly damaged. Some one was grunting close by, and as Frank drew near he saw a figure crawling out from the bushes. "What's happened here?" he asked, promptly. The figure of a man started up, and as Frank struck a match he saw that the other seemed to be decently dressed, although his clothes were somewhat torn after his headlong flight in among the bushes. "We had an accident," muttered the man, staring hard at him; and Frank thought with a look not unlike suspicion on his scratched face. "I see you had," returned Frank, at the same time noting almost unconsciously from the way the machine headed they must have been coming away from Columbia at the time; "but you speak as if there might be another party along with you. Did he get tossed out too when you hit the tree?" "I don't know. I wasn't seeing anything just then but a million stars. He don't seem to be in the car, does he?" ventured the other, who was rubbing himself all over as if trying to ascertain whether any ribs, or other bones, had been broken in his rough experience. "Then he must be in the bushes, the same as you, though it's a miracle how he went out, being behind the steering wheel; and also how he missed hitting this tree. Fortunately it happens to be a small one. Let's look and see." As he spoke Frank lit another match and started to examine the bushes alongside the stranded car and beyond. By the time he had used three matches success rewarded his efforts, for they found the man. "He's dead!" exclaimed the stranger, in horrified tones. "Oh! perhaps not. He may only have fainted from the shock," and lying down, the boy put his head down close to the chest of the motionless man. "His heart is beating and that proves he is alive. Take hold here and we'll carry him to the car. Perhaps he'll come to his senses when I dash a little water in his face. Lift his heels and I'll look after his head," and Frank took hold of the broad shoulders as he spoke. In this fashion they managed to move the unconscious man to the road. He was laid down alongside the car. Meanwhile, the other two boys had come up, Bones urging the frightened horse along with the whip. "What is it, Frank?" asked Ralph, jumping out. "Been an accident; a car rammed a tree. Both passengers thrown out, and one of them is injured; Anyhow he seems to have been knocked senseless. I'm going to get a little water in my cap and try to bring him to," with which Frank darted to the other side of the road, where his quick ear caught the trickling sound of a small stream gurgling among mossy stones. He was back in less than a minute, and immediately started splashing some of the water in the face of the unconscious man. "He's coming around," said the other man, watching these operations with eager eyes; and who several times looked at the three boys as though wondering what they could be doing there on that lonely road at such a late hour, for it was now past nine o'clock. Frank turned aside to see whether he could not light the remaining lamp of the car, which did not appear to have been broken, and had possibly only gone out through the sudden concussion, as acetyline burners often will. He found that it was readily made to shed light again, and once his work here had been done it was only natural for the boy who delighted in machinery of all kinds to take a hasty look at the car. "I think it might run still. Nothing vital seems to be broken, anyhow," he said aloud, as he came back to the little group. The second man was recovering, but groaning more or less. "He ought to be taken to your house, Bones, to let your father examine him. I'm afraid he may be badly hurt," said Frank; "if you can help him into the tonneau of the machine I'll try and see if it will work." "Say, can you run it?" asked the second man, eagerly. "I know something about cars; enough to drive this one, if it isn't damaged in its working parts. I couldn't guarantee to patch it up, though. Wait and let me see." He bent over the car, and presently gave the crank a couple of whirls to turn over the engine. Sure enough, there was an immediate response, and the whirring that followed announced that, strange to say, the machine had not been vitally injured in the smashup, though badly damaged with regard to looks. Frank backed out, and with a few deft manipulations that proved the truth of his assertion that he could run a car, managed to head the machine once more toward Columbia. Neither of the men seemed to notice just what he was doing. The one who had appeared to Frank first was bending down over his friend, and they were holding a whispered conversation. "Put him in; now Ralph," said the new chauffeur, quietly, "you and Bones come along after, and leave my gun and the ducks at my house. I'll be home long before you get there, I reckon, unless this old machine takes a notion to be tricky again and dump us." Still groaning, the man was lifted into the tonneau. "How do you feel, sir?" asked Frank, solicitously; although, truth to tell, he could not say that he liked the looks of either of the parties, judging from what little he had seen of them by the light of the lone lamp. "Pretty bum, boy. The trouble is, my right arm hangs down like it might be broken; and without it I can't handle the wheel, you see. My friend here don't know nothing about a machine, the worse luck. So I don't see but what we've just got to let you do the drivin' for us. It's nice in you proposin' it, too. Ugh! that hurts some, I tell you!" The man accompanied his words with more or less vehement expressions that did not raise him the slightest in the estimation of Frank. However, he was evidently in great bodily pain, and that might in some measure excuse his strong language. The second traveler got in alongside his friend, as though he feared he might be needed sooner or later, if the other started to faint again. "I'm going to get you to a doctor as soon as possible," remarked Frank, as he started off. He heard the calls of his chums and answered back. Then the car lost the slow-moving buggy on the road. Frank did not dare drive very fast. He was not familiar with the machine; and besides, possibly it was acting freakish--at least the man declared that it had jumped aside straight at that tree without his doing anything. On his part Frank accepted this version with a grain of allowance; for he had long since scented liquor around, and could guess the real reason for the accident. As he guided the car Frank could hear the two men talking behind him. The murmur of their voices just reached him, though he could not make out anything they said. Once the man who had come out of the mishap in better trim than his companion seemed to be groping around under the seats as if searching for something. "It's here, all right, Jim!" Frank heard him say, in a satisfied tone. A minute later he was asking about the road, where it led, and what the intentions of the boy at the wheel were. Frank repeated what he had said before, to the effect that he thought the wounded man ought to see a physician with as little delay as possible, and therefore he was heading back to Columbia so as to take him to Dr. Shadduck. "Who?" exclaimed the wounded man, as the name was mentioned. "Doctor Shadduck, the father of one of my chums, who was with me duck shooting," replied Frank, thinking it strange why the man while apparently suffering so much should care who attended him, just so long as he could get relief speedily. Again the two men conferred in low tones. Frank could hear the wounded one muttering again. Perhaps his arm had commenced to hurt once more; or, it may have been something else that started him off. And even while Frank was wondering who these parties could be anyway, with their strange actions and apparent unwillingness to return to Columbia, which place they must have recently left, a heavy hand was laid on his arm, and a voice said: "Say, look here, we don't want to go to Columbia, and what's more, we ain't meaning to let you take us there! Just ahead is a road that runs off from this. They told us it runs over to Fayette. Perhaps you don't want to go that way, but forget all that and turn off, because you've just _got_ to take us! No words now, but shove us along lively!" CHAPTER XVI AN UNWILLING PILOT Frank Allen felt a sudden thrill shoot through his entire body when the gruff command to change his course was growled into his ear. He had not been at all inclined to look upon these two travelers in a favorable light; but this was the first intimation he received that they might be even worse than they appeared. Of course he made no immediate reply. In fact, he was still dazed by this puzzling turn in the strange little adventure. He had believed that in helping the luckless victims of the accident he was furthering his own interests, in that he would reach home long before his chums. Now it began to look as though he had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. He tried to collect his thoughts and reason out the case. Why should these men so seriously object to returning to the town of Columbia? Had they been guilty of doing something unlawful that made the place dangerous to them? Once before Frank had become mixed up with a clique of men for whom Chief of Police Hogg had warrants. He remembered the circumstance clearly, and wondered whether history could be about to repeat itself again. And then, why should the mention of Doctor Shadduck's name affect them both in that strange fashion? Did they know the foremost physician of Columbia, a man of considerable property interests, and said to be the wealthiest man in the county? "The car!" Frank came near exclaiming these words aloud, so abruptly did they form in his mind! Now he remembered why the automobile had somehow seemed familiar to him, and why Bones had shown such interest in it. "Bones thought it was an exact duplicate of the new machine his father bought last week; but I believe it's the doctor's own car! These men have stolen it for some reason or other," Frank was thinking, even while he stared ahead at the white road over which they were moving at a fair rate of speed. His pulses throbbed with the excitement, even more than when Clifford threatened Columbia's ten-yard line with an irresistible forward rush that morning. Hearing the men talking behind him he strained his ears to try and catch a few words, in the hope that he might discover what it all meant. "It's all your fault, Bart," grumbled the injured fellow. "I don't see how you make that out, Jim?" replied the other, gloomily. "I wanted to turn and head for Fayette, but you said the other road was best," the heavier fellow went on. "I think so yet, but who'd expect that we'd have such a wreck? I tell you, man, we're mighty lucky to come out of it as well as we did," said the other. "That's easy for you to say, but my arm feels tough. I reckon she's broke sure enough. That means delay and trouble, just when things looked so bright. It's a shame, that's what. Sure we didn't lose it in the accident, are you, Bart?" The lighter man seemed to again feel down at his feet. "I tell you it's there safe and sound. Given four hours, and we'll be where they ain't going to find us. Keep up your nerve, Jim. Luck's still with us, I know," he went on. "Is it? Well, I'm beginning to suspect there's been a turn in the tide. When the machine took the bit in her mouth and slammed us up against that tree, it looked to me like we had run into bad weather. But we must be near that road, Bart!" "Reckon it's just ahead now; I remember that big tree we passed comin' out," replied the uninjured one of the precious pair. "All right. Don't let the kid get past. Seems to me he's some slippery. I seen his face somewhere before," grunted the sufferer. "Course you did. He was the feller that captained them boys this morning in the game we watched while waitin' for our chance," said the other. "He was, hey? Well, you want to keep your eye on that boy, then, mark me. They told me some high-colored yarns about him at the inn." Frank was not in the least elated over hearing himself praised. In truth, just then he was wrestling with the puzzling problem presented by his strange situation. What "chance" did the man called Bart refer to? Who were these mysterious men, and what did they have in the bottom of the tonneau that seemed so precious in the eyes of the fellow who was badly hurt? He could, for the time being, forget his severe injuries to make inquiries concerning this package, hence it must be of considerable value. Were they thieves? If this was indeed the new machine belonging to Bones' father, it looked suspicious, to say the least. What could he do? They wanted him to take them somewhere, and in a hurry, too; were they in full flight, desirous of getting to a certain place before the pursuit became too fierce? If Frank shivered while considering these momentous things, it could hardly be wondered at. The situation was one to give concern to the bravest man, and, after all, he was but a boy, though possessed of more than the average courage for one of his years. "There's the road on the left, kid!" suddenly exclaimed Bart. "I see it, sir," replied the young pilot of the damaged car, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, in the hope that the two men might not suspect that he had guessed their secret. "Be sure and turn in; and be careful not to upset us," continued the other. "Yes," said the wounded fellow, quickly, "one accident is more'n enough for me, to-night. Hey, that's a good sweep around, youngster; I see as you know your business all right. Now, are we headin' straight for Fayette?" "Yes, sir," replied Frank, readily. "How far is that away from Columbia?" "Twelve miles, about, sir, as the road goes," answered the new chauffeur. "We strike the railroad at Fayette, don't we?" continued Bart, eagerly. "There is one there, but not the same that comes to Columbia," and when he said that Frank was certain that one of the men chuckled; it must have been Bart, for the wounded fellow was in no mood for merriment, what with his groans and grunts that signified pain. "That's right. And we're glad to hear it. Wouldn't give a cent for a chance to ride back to your slow old town. New York's good enough for us, hey, Jim." "It sure is, if I ever live to get there. Wish there happened to be a doctor on this here road somewhere," said the second traveler. "What for?" asked his comrade, quickly. "I'd get him to take a look at this arm, that's what." "Huh! dangerous business, Jim. Don't you think of it 'less it's just positively necessary. Delays might cost us dear. There's going to be a big hello when our old friend gets out of that sleep." Frank realized that the men were apparently getting to that point where they cared little how much he knew. They evidently meant to make such use of him as seemed necessary. Once he thought that it might be a good thing if he pretended to lose control of the car, just as Jim had evidently done. Then he changed his mind, and for two very good reasons. In the first place, there was always the risk of being hurt himself in the consequent collision with a tree. Frank could not forget that his duty was to keep himself in good condition, so long as his school looked to him to lead his team to victory in the triangular series of football contests. Then, again, he seemed to feel that it would be cowardly to desert the post into which a strange accident had thrust him. Better stick it out until something cropped up whereby he could make at least a try to defeat the purposes of these two rogues. He had heard enough to want to know more. Probably they would not seek to injure him so long as he made no positive move toward interfering with their game, whatever that might be. They were talking again. Once more he strained for hearing in the hope of picking up further clues that would enlighten him with regard to their aims. "It's the safest way, Bart. If they can't get word to Fayette till mornin', we can give 'em the laugh. You've just _got_ to do it," said the wounded man, with a degree of force that marked him as the head of the expedition. "All right, if you say so, Jim. I'd a done it up the other road, if you hadn't banged us into that tree. Say when," replied the other, who was moving about as though doing something. Frank managed to take a swift look over his shoulder. It only puzzled him the more, for Jim seemed to be fastening something about the lower part of his legs. What could he want leggings for? And what could it be that Jim insisted he should do? "I know of a doctor about two miles further on here," Frank said, thinking that it might delay matters some if they concluded to stop over; at least give him a chance to either escape, or render the machine useless for further flight. "You do, eh? Well, tell us when we get there, and p'raps I might make up my mind to hold over a bit. Are you ready, Bart?" said the heavier man. "Yes. As well here as anywhere," came the reply. "Bring her to a stop, kid; here, alongside this telegraph pole. That's good. Now, Bart, do it!" Frank felt more than curious to know what the men had in mind. As soon as the car came to a stand the lighter man, who had not been hurt in the accident, jumped rather clumsily from the tonneau. Frank noticed this with surprise, for up to now he had looked upon the other as rather agile. Could he have been injured after all, and was just beginning to feel the effect of his headlong plunge into the bushes? Judge of his utter amazement when he saw Bart at once seize hold of the nearby telegraph pole and begin to climb up with a series of sturdy kicks that apparently glued each foot in succession to the pole. Frank no longer wondered, for he knew that the man had been strapping a pair of lineman's climbing spurs to his legs when bending down in the tonneau of the stolen car! CHAPTER XVII A DESPERATE REMEDY "All right, Bart?" called out the man in the car, as the other seemed to have reached the cross-bars far up the pole, over the lower of which he threw a leg, after the confident manner of one accustomed to such antics. "Sure. It was dead easy," came floating down from above. "Then get to work, and make a clean job of it. Look here, boy, don't you be thinkin' of leavin' us in the lurch just now. I ain't fit to run this shebang, so we need you, and need you bad. I reckon you know what this is, don't you?" and the fellow showed something that glistened like steel in the mellow moonlight. Frank could not help feeling a little chill; still, he, was not given to showing the white feather easily. "Of course I do. It isn't the first time I've seen a revolver," he managed to say, with a nervous little laugh. "All right, then; don't get gay, and make me ugly, or something might happen. Hey! Bart, why don't you get busy?" raising his voice again. There was a sharp click, and a clear "tang," as of a strained wire snapping. Frank understood now what was doing. These men had fear of pursuit, and were cutting the telegraph wires in order to prevent direct communication between Columbia and Fayette! A second and a third metallic "pink" announced that the man up among the cross bars was indeed using his cutters with effect. At that rate he would have the entire sheaf of wires severed in another minute or so. The matter began to assume gigantic proportions to the boy, as he sat there in the car and listened. Certainly these men must have desperate need for delay in the pursuit, if they went to such extremes in order to accomplish it. And they seemed to have provided against such a contingency, too, which would indicate that they were now only carrying out a part of a well-laid plan. What could he do? Half a dozen ideas thronged into his brain, but they seemed so utterly useless that he discarded them as fast as they arose. He must in some manner get away from their company before arriving in the neighborhood of Fayette; because if they were as desperate as they appeared the chances were they might see fit to tie him up, and leave him under some farmer's haystack, where he would not be found for hours. "That light ahead is the doctor's place," he said, finally. The man called Bart had apparently severed the last of the wires. He was even then coming down the pole hastily, as though eager to be on the move. "It is, eh?" remarked the other, with a plain sneer, as though he guessed the sudden hope that had leaped into being in the heart of the boy; "well, seein' as how we've been held up here so long I reckon I'll have to let that chance get by me. Seems like I can move that arm a little. P'raps she aint broke after all." Bart jumped rather clumsily into the car. "Hit her up now, kid. We ought to make up some for the time we put in here. Been a preachin' to him, ain't you, Jim? It's just as well that he knowed how things lie, 'cause we can't afford to have any foolin'?" he observed. "I warned him that we wouldn't put up with any hoss play. If he tries to run us into the bushes he's goin' to get himself into a peck o' trouble. Likewise, keep a still tongue in your mouth when we go past the doctor's house; understand!" Jim thought it good policy to accompany these last words with a vigorous prod between Frank's shoulder blades; and there could be no mistaking the nature of the hard object with which he did this punching. To tell the truth Frank had really thought of doing some shouting just when they were in front of the little house where the country doctor lived. His plans had been in a sort of chaotic state at best, for he could not see just how anything of this sort might avail to divorce him from the unwelcome company of these two rascals. "I'm not saying a word," he remarked, with another little nervous laugh, as the speeding machine passed the home of the medical man, perched on a little knoll. While he bent forward and seemed to be scanning the road ahead, so as to avoid a collision in case they met another vehicle coming the other way, Frank was again doing his best to conjure up some wild plan that might promise him the desired chance to escape from the company of these two desperate men. He now had not the least doubt but that they were thieves of some sort. What he had heard them say with reference to some person who would not be apt to wake up for several hours, made him think again of Doctor Shadduck. The gentleman was a rich man, and accustomed to dealing in many enterprises that necessitated the employment of considerable means. Possibly these men had managed to hoodwink the capitalist in some fashion, and when their opportunity came had run away with something valuable belonging to him. They may even have used some of the good doctor's chloroform, or other drugs, to put him in a condition whereby he could not give the alarm or start a pursuit for some hours. It was really thrilling; but Frank had no desire to see anything further of his unwelcome companions. He wished he had the nerve to turn the car from the road; but the chances of being injured himself discounted this desire. Surely there ought to be some other way whereby he could say good-bye in a hurry. They would not search long for him if he once got away. Since Jim admitted that his arm was feeling better perhaps he would try and guide the machine into Fayette. Meanwhile Frank could be trying in some fashion to warn the authorities. The sound of their voices just reached him as he sat there thinking. They were talking low now, as if desirous of not letting him hear, but Frank possessed keen ears, and could catch certain words, especially in Jim's heavier tones. "It's just got to be did sooner or later. He could ruin all our game if he wanted to. I've risked too much now to take chances. Don't you go to showing any of your squeamishness, Bart; I won't have it," he was growling. They must be referring to the boy who sat at the wheel and guided the moving car. Bart evidently said something more, for presently the voice of Jim once more came to the listening ears of the one so deeply interested. "He ain't goin' to be hurted, I tell you. But his mouth has got to be kept closed, unless you want the hull county on our heels. I seen that feller play, and I know what he's capable of doin'. So just shut up, Bart, and do what I says, hear?" Evidently the other finally agreed to abide by the decision of his leader; for they both relapsed into temporary silence. "I _must_ find some chance to jump!" Frank said over and over to himself, after having heard what had passed between the two men back of him. To do it then and there invited a dislocated shoulder when he struck the hard ground. And then again there was that ugly, shiny thing which Jim had taken such deliberate pains to show him; he did not fancy being used for a target. "How far along are we now?" asked Jim, close to his ear. "About five miles out of Fayette, I think?" replied Frank, who had frequently come over this some course on his wheel, and knew the country well. "Huh! that's encouraging. Keep her going like she is, bub. You seem to know how to run a machine, all right. Steady! there comes something ahead. Give 'em the horn, boy, and steer to the right, d'ye hear! Not a peep as we pass, remember!" Again came that wicked punch in the small of Frank's back. "I'll remember," he said, hastily, as he turned as far out as the nature of the road permitted, and at the same time caused the horn to give a few croaks. It was another auto approaching, as the several lights announced. Frank's heart seemed to be in his throat as the two machines rapidly approached each other. What would he not have given for a chance to shout out, and tell the parties who were in the other car that he was held under duress, and compelled to play the part of chauffeur to these fugitive rascals; but he dared not, with that desperate wounded man right at his back. Judge to his astonishment when he saw that the other car held a number of Columbia people, among the rest Minnie Cuthbert and her father. He only had a quick glimpse of them as the two machines passed; but it was enough to show him a look of sheer astonishment on the face of the girl, which told that she must have recognized him. "Hello! Frank!" came a voice booming after them, as the other car slowed down suddenly; and he believed that it must be Mr. Cuthbert who called, possibly influenced by Minnie. "Silence! not a word, do you hear?" exclaimed Jim, emphasizing his words with a further display of significant pushes with that hard object. "And keep her going, kid, keep her going right along," added the other man, grimly. "Are they turning around, Bart?" demanded the stout party, savagely. "Naw. Nothing doing this time. There they start up again, and headin' the other way. It's all right, pard, all right sure." "Lucky for them it is," grunted Jim; though he sighed in relief because the peril had passed; "them fellers seemed to know you, son?" "Yes, they are Columbia people," replied Frank, shortly, for he had experienced a bitter disappointment when he realized that this sudden little chance had slipped away without helping his forlorn cause a mite. Three more miles or so had been passed over when suddenly there flashed into his mind a brilliant idea that promised results. Just ahead was a bridge over Juniper Creek, quite a good sized stream that flowed into Harrapin River above Clifford. Passing down the incline that led to the bridge, Frank managed to make the car act wobbly, as though there might be something the matter. And as it ran on to the boards of the bridge itself, he brought it to a sudden stand. "What's wrong here?" demanded Jim, angrily. The engine had stopped working. "I'll get out and see," observed Frank, suiting the action to the word, and opening up the hood of the car. "Don't you try to run away, son, if you know what's good for you," said the man, after Frank had used a wrench on the engine. "Try cranking her again, and see if she refuses to work. There--hold on, you fool--why, he's crazy, Bart!" for Frank had suddenly whirled around, and taken a plunge over the side of the wooden bridge into the cold waters of Juniper Creek! [Illustration: FRANK HAD SUDDENLY PLUNGED OVER THE SIDE OF THE BRIDGE.] CHAPTER XVIII MATCHING WITS "After him, Bart! We mustn't let him get away!" exclaimed the stout man, as he hurriedly climbed out of the tonneau of the automobile. "Not me! I ain't hankering after a cold bath just now," answered his companion, who had jumped out on the other side, and was running around. "Run down to the bank and get hold of him, if you can!" continued Jim, harshly. This seemed at least reasonable, and Bart had no objections to trying to do something along such lines. "Don't see anything of him here!" he announced a minute later, as he appeared below, and ran along the bank of the stream. The moon had gone behind a cloud, as though wishing to favor the escape of the unwilling chauffeur. "Hang the luck! Well, come up here then, and we'll put off. P'raps I might manage with my other arm. We can't hang around here, with time flying. The town's close by. Hurry up, Bart!" But when Bart reached his side, he found the other breathing out threatenings in a fashion that denoted a new difficulty. "What's wrong now?" asked the slim man, who was panting from his exertions. "That clever little scamp has dished us, that's what; carried away the spark plugs of the machine with him, and without them we might as well try to move this bridge. I was a fool to trust him one second. We've just got to find him, Bart, that's all there is to it! Either that, or walk into Fayette, and perhaps lose that train. Come on back again. You take one side, and I'll look over the other. He's there, sure, unless he got drowned, and that I don't imagine is the case." Bart was fully awake to the great necessity of finding the boy, after hearing what Frank had done as he jumped from the car. Each of them hurried around the approach of the bridge, and slipped down the bank. "Any sign of him over there, Jim," called Bart, as he pushed his way into the bushes and reeds that bordered the creek. "Don't see none yet, but keep on further down. Like as not as he just drifted with the current a bit, and then crawled out. Get him, if you find his tracks, I feel like I could do something to him for playin' this trick on us. Hello!" "What's doing, boss?" called the other. "Here's where he crawled out, all right," replied Jim, excitedly. "How d'ye know it is?" demanded the other, across the water of the creek. "It's all wet. I'll follow it up, and nab him in a dozen winks. He can't have got far away, I reckon." "What d'ye want me to do, Jim?" called his companion, after a wait. "Go back to the bridge, and cross over here." "All right. Keep right after him. The moon's going to come out again right soon. If you see him, give him a shot to make him stop!" and shouting in this vein, Bart turned to retrace his steps back to the bridge. He was somewhat out of wind by the time he had half mounted the abrupt bank that served as the base for one end of the bridge. All at once he heard a sound that electrified him. It was the cranking of the car! "Hi, Jim! here he is! Come back! He's going to leave us in a hole! Head him off up the road there! Hurry, Jim, hurry!" The climbing man could hardly finish shouting, so short was he of breath; but perhaps it may have been the absolute necessity for prompt action that forced him to continue the balance of the sheer ascent. The answering cries of his companion welled up from somewhere down along the side of the stream, and the crash of his plunging footsteps could be heard as an evidence that he understood the danger menacing them. As Bart pulled himself up alongside the approach to the bridge he saw a boyish figure spring into the fore part of the damaged car. Then came a series of quick pulsations that announced the fact of the machine working, as if nothing had ever been the matter. "He's going off with it, Jim! Stop him! He's carrying our stuff with him! Head him off! Puncture a tire for him! Give him a shot, Jim!" howled to the thoroughly demoralized Bart, starting to stagger after the retreating automobile himself, with his hands extended, as though he would fain seize hold upon it. "Good-bye, fellows; your cake is dough!" shouted the one who sprawled in the front seat of the car and guided its destinies. Frank had purposely thrown on considerable power in making his start, for he knew what if ever there was need of haste it was right then and there. Jim was running ahead there, with the intention of cutting him off, and little though he had seen of the gentleman, he felt that he had no desire to prolong the acquaintance further. Now the friendly moon could no longer hold back behind that floating black cloud, and with her first appearance Frank turned an anxious face toward the spot where a violent agitation in the brush announced the presence of the running Jim. "Hold up there, boy! Put on the brake, or I'll----" but the rest was unheard, for Frank had dropped as low as he could in the front of the car, though still keeping his hands on that guiding wheel. He heard the sharp discharge of a weapon, thrice repeated. His heart seemed to come up almost in his throat, for this thing of being under fire was a new experience for the young athlete. Perhaps the man had tried to simply puncture the tire, although this would in the end delay their departure. Frank never knew the truth in connection with the firing. Then, in another second or two, he realized that he had passed beyond the zone of danger, with a clear road ahead of him! "Hurrah!" He could not help giving vent to his delight in this one shout. Just half a mile further on another road branched off from the one he was flying over. He remembered that by a circuitous way it would eventually take him to Columbia, passing through first the village of Stagers, and then a larger place known as Plattville. His pulses were bounding with triumph as he let the car out notch by notch. Why, after all, the smash could have done no serious damage to the machine. What was fifteen miles when in such a splendid traveler as this new auto of the good doctor's? He made the turn, and presently dashed into the first village. Here he stopped at a tavern long enough to make an examination, to ascertain whether his supply of gasoline might be sufficient to carry him home. He also wished to impress the fact of his having been there upon the hotel keeper. In case anyone tried to cast any doubts upon his story, it might be well to have evidence that he had visited Stagers that night. And during his brief stop Frank took occasion to look at the object lying in the bottom of the tonneau, and which had seemed to be especially valuable in the eyes of the two unprincipled men. It was a common variety of grip, made of some good leather. He did not bother opening the same, thinking that possibly Doctor Shadduck might be better qualified than himself for that task, but he placed it at his feet in front. Once again Frank was on the move. He really hoped that nothing would interfere with his reaching Columbia safely, now that fortune had been so kind. The road was not the best possible for a machine, and often he had to slow up rather than take unnecessary chances for an accident. Whenever he thought of the pair of rascals left behind, he laughed. He felt that he could afford to loosen up a little after such a strenuous time. But in his wet condition he found rapid traveling rather unpleasant. True, he had borrowed a heavy coat from the hotel man, to whom he had explained the case in a few sentences; but in spite of this protection, he soon began to shiver. This compelled him to reduce speed still more. When he reached Plattville the road would be better, and besides, he might find a chance to get a drink of warm coffee or tea, if the eating-house were open at such an hour. Cheered by this thought, he set his teeth together, resolved to stick it out to the end. But Frank was not apt to forget that ride in a hurry. It was now a quarter to ten. He found this out by striking a match and looking at his watch, the moon having retired once more behind the clouds. But Frank was under the impression that he must be close to the town now. "I believe I remember that windmill on the left, and the big water tank on the hill. Yes, Plattville must lie down there in the valley. Now to slip along the down grade. Just seven miles from home; but I wish I was there now," he was saying, as he passed over the crest of the elevation. Yes, there were many lights in sight, and how they cheered him, after his lonely ride along the wretched road from Stagers. He felt like shouting again, so buoyant had his feelings become. What would Bones say when he learned the truth; and doubtless Doctor Shadduck would be pleased at getting his new car back, damaged as it was. So Frank, running downhill, crossed a bridge, and came into the town of Plattville. On ordinary nights, doubtless, the place would be quiet enough at this hour; but Saturday was different. Quite a number of persons were on the main street, and cast curious glances at the lone traveler who had entered the town. Straight to the leading hotel Frank went. He had been here before, and even taken a dinner once upon a time, when his club came over to play the Plattville boys. A small-sized crowd stood around the door of the bar room. Frank could see that there seemed to be some signs of excitement, though he did not suspect that it could have anything to do with him. Hardly had he brought the car to a stop when some of the men crowded around, and one of them shouted out: "Hi! sheriff, here's the identical car you was readin' to us about in that ere dispatch from Columbia. And here's one of the thieves come right in to give hisself up! Surround the machine, boys; don't let the feller escape; and look out, for they do say he's a desprit case! come out here, Sheriff Tucker!" CHAPTER XIX AT THE END OF THE CIRCUIT A tall man came running out of the hotel. "What's that you say, boys?" he was demanding, as he advanced eagerly. "Here's luck for you--the very car you said was stolen over in Columbia! See if it ain't, sheriff!" cried the fellow who had done all the shouting. "It's the same make car, as sure as you live. I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be Doc. Shadduck's new one," observed the official, glancing at a yellow paper he gripped in his hand, and which, as he held it close to the one burning headlight of the car, proved to be a telegraph dispatch. "That's right, sheriff; it is Doctor Shadduck's car," said Frank cheerfully, as he proceeded to alight. "Hey! he's goin' to try and run for it, sheriff; nab him!" exclaimed the voice. "You admit that this is the car stolen from Columbia this very night do you?" demanded the stern-faced man laying a hand on Frank's shoulder. "Of course I do, sheriff; but I'm shivering all over. I've been in Jumper Creek not long ago. Come in with me while I get a cup of hot coffee, and I'll tell you the story. You ought to know me, sheriff; I'm Frank Allen. I've seen you in my father's store more than once." "What's that. Well, I declare now if it ain't so! This is getting mighty interestin', sure. Here, Dobbs, you watch this car until I come out. Now, my boy, come along with me," said the sheriff. "All right, sir; just wait a couple of seconds. There's something here in the car that Jim and Bart seemed to think a heap of, and so I wouldn't like to lose sight of it just now." Saying which Frank bent down and took hold of the little leather bag. He had been surprised before to find it quite heavy, a fact that had convinced him it must hold something which had been stolen from the doctor over in Columbia. Fortunately there was hot coffee to be obtained. While it was coming Frank entertained the kindly sheriff with a rapid account of what had happened, commencing with the duck hunt, and the finding of the stranded car on the road home. "Well, I never!" the other kept saying, as he sat there with his eyes glued on the face of the young speaker, and drinking in his words. When Frank told of how he jumped over the railing of the bridge that spanned Juniper Creek, the sheriff brought his hand down upon his knee with a resounding slap. "Beats anything I ever heard, I swan if it don't! And they tell me that you captained them boys as played the Clifford football team to a stand this mornin'. I don't wonder at it; they ain't much as could stand up before such pluck! And so you went souse into the creek? Ugh! it must a been a cold bath, Frank. Go on," he exclaimed, enthusiastically. "Oh! that's about all. I crawled out below, and when they came down to hunt for me, because I'd fixed it so the machine couldn't be run, I just crawled up the bank, jumped aboard, and was off. Jim banged away after me a few times, but he was hurt so he had to use his left hand, and I knew he couldn't hit a barn. That's all. Here comes my coffee; I only hope I don't take cold." The elated sheriff watched the youth gulp down the hot drink, admiration in his eyes. "I'll see to it that you have a big fur coat the rest of the way. And I'm goin' along with you, boy, to be in at the finish. This is too good to lose. Ain't had so much excitement in six months. Jim and Bart is loose on the community. I'll just have word sent around so they kin be pulled in if they try to get aboard any train." Ten minutes later and Frank again jumped into the captured car. He was now warmly clad in a heavy automobile coat that would defy the bracing air as they headed for Columbia, just seven miles distant. "We'll make it in a quarter of an hour, easy," he remarked, as the sheriff took a seat beside him. "I reckon we oughter, Frank. I'd sure like to be in your shoes for this. They'll think more of you in Columbia than ever, I reckon," remarked the officer, as they made a flying start, amid a few cheers from the gathered crowd. "Did you telegraph along the line about those men?" asked Frank, desirous of seeing justice meted out to Jim and his companion. "I did, and told the operator at Fayette to pass the good word along everywhere. There's some reward out for the apprehension of them fellows, and its enough to make every chief of police keep busy in hopes of corralin' the same. Now tell me what them men looked like. That job of cuttin' the wires was a cute one. I reckon that Bart he's been servin' his time as a telegraph wireman, and knows all the dodges." Frank could not decline, although he would have much preferred keeping silent as he drove the big car onward. The sheriff had been so kind to him that he felt as though he could not refuse to aid him in any way possible. So he described both men as nearly as he could, considering what few glimpses he had had of their faces. The seven miles proved a short ride. Having more confidence in the machine now that the road was fine, and that hard object no longer prodded him in the back, Frank let out quite some speed in places. "I wonder if Bones and Ralph have gotten home yet?" he was thinking, as the outskirts of Columbia came in sight. Turning several corners, he arrived in front of Doctor Shadduck's place. The house he saw was all lighted up. And standing in front was the vehicle he and his two chums had used in their little expedition after the ducks of the marsh. "That tells the story. Bones has arrived ahead of me, after all. Wonder if its struck him that he saw his father's new car, and me in it driving those two precious rascals off so cheerfully?" Frank chuckled at the thought. Just then there came a big shout, as a figure rushed down the steps of the house. "Here's the car, dad! And Sheriff Tucker's got one of the thieves in custody, too! He's carrying your bag. Hey, Ralph, come out and see the fun!" Of course it was Bones, and since Frank was bundled up in that great wolfskin automobile coat, with a hat pulled down over his eyes in place of the cap he had lost in Juniper Creek, it was not strange that the other failed to recognize his comrade. "Halt! hands up, Bones!" cried Frank, throwing the little leather bag forward menacingly. "What! great smoke! if it ain't Frank--and he's brought the car and the bag back home! Ralph said he would, just as soon as he heard about it; but I was a doubter. I thought they'd just eat you alive, Frank, old boy. Where'd you get the coat, and how'd the sheriff happen on you? Did he do the rescue act?" demanded Bones, throwing his arms around the other, enthusiastically. "Did he? Not if he knew it, young man," replied the officer himself, with a shake of the head; "but let's get inside, and the whole story can be told while Frank warms up again. Your dad must see to it that the boy don't take cold, for he's been in Juniper Creek to-night!" "Wow! now you have excited my curiosity some, Mr. Sheriff. Hurry in, Frank, and let's hear what happened after you left us. We just got home five minutes ago, and found the whole place upset. Those slick scoundrels worked a confidence game on my governor--left him in a stupor in his private office, after supper, with the door locked, and skipped out with his new car and some valuables, including negotiable stocks worth a good many thousands, and all his expensive new surgical tools that he kept in that glass case, you remember, in his consulting room." And Bones rattled this off at a tremendous rate. "Oh! I see," exclaimed the sheriff just then; "so that's who Jim and Bart are. A couple of smart ones have been going around visiting doctors upstate this two months past, and stealing their instruments, to sell again in New York. I reckon we'll try to make this their last job, all right." "But your father--surely he couldn't have been lying there all this time?" observed Frank, wondering how the news could have been wired or phoned over to Plattville if this were so. "Oh! no; Mr. Willoughby happened to drop over to ask dad something, and when they couldn't get any answer, he broke in the door of father's den. They found him just beginning to come out of his sleep, for, what do you think, those rascals had chloroformed him, as sure as you live," replied Bones. "I understand now. Of course a general alarm was sent out for the thieves. But they couldn't have reached Fayette if they tried," laughed Frank. "And why not?" asked Bones, quickly. "Wires down. Bart, the fellow who wasn't hurt, shinned up a pole, by the aid of a pair of lineman's spurs he carried with him, and cut every blessed wire soon after they made me turn into that road leading to Fayette," replied Frank. Doctor Shadduck they found pretty much himself. He greeted Frank warmly, as did also Coach Willoughby. "He's all wet, dad; he's been in Juniper Creek, the sheriff says. There's a story back of it, and I'm just dying to hear it," cried Bones, shoving the other forward. "First of all, please see if everything is safe here," said Frank, as he thrust the bag into the hands of the doctor. "Everything they got, so far as I can see, is here. It's wonderful how you happened to get hold of them, and the car too," said the doctor, shaking the boy's hand again warmly. "There's where you're mistaken, dad; it didn't happen at all, and I'd wager on it that Frank played a right hot game with those two rascals, and beat them out in a square deal," declared Bones, sturdily. "Bully for you, Bones," remarked the sheriff; "you just bet he did. Wait till you hear the whole story. It's the greatest ever." Of course Frank related all that had happened to him; but first of all the wise physician insisted upon giving him something that would prevent any ill effects following his cold plunge and subsequent wild ride. Meanwhile Frank's father and mother were called over, and the story had to be told again for their benefit; though Frank tried to beg off, and declared that after all it had been just good luck that carried him through. CHAPTER XX FRANK'S LUCK Perhaps it was just as well that a day of rest followed that strenuous Saturday. Frank found himself somewhat stiff and sore when he awoke, and acting under the advice of his father he remained in seclusion the better part of the day. But the story had gone around, and the doorbell of the Allen home was kept busy throughout the whole afternoon. Half a dozen of Frank's most intimate chums dropped in to hear the story, and Frank finally declared he would have to get it set up in type and copies struck off if the demand kept on. There were grown people who came also. Among others was Mr. Cuthbert. Frank found his hand trembling a little nervously when he saw him, thinking that possibly Minnie had sent a message; but it seemed that if he had come over at her earnest solicitation the gentleman had been instructed not to mention that fact. "We believed it was Frank in that car," he said, as he shook hands warmly with the boy; "and I even called out, for some of us thought he looked toward us rather appealingly; but as no answer came we concluded it must have been a mistake. To think we were so close to those wretches, and didn't suspect anything wrong. Have you heard the latest, Mr. Allen, and you Frank?" "Are they caught?" asked Frank, instantly, jumping at the truth from the expression he saw on the gentleman's face. "So it is said; and I was told that Sheriff Tucker was the one who cornered the pair of rogues after all," replied Mr. Cuthbert. "Hurrah!" cried Ralph and Paul and the others in a chorus. "Well, I'm glad that it fell to my friend, the sheriff of the next county. He was mighty good to me and deserves all the reward there is coming," was the remark of the one who was supposed to be the most interested. He was secretly bitterly disappointed because Minnie had not come over, or asked her father to carry a message. Evidently, whatever it may have been that had come between Minnie and her former friends, the Allens, it was proving an insurmountable barrier. And on Monday when Frank went to school, as usual, he had to submit to being asked a thousand questions. Often he utterly refused to answer anything further, he became so weary of hearing about the matter. Minnie appeared as distant as ever. But one thing Frank happened to see that gave him more or less satisfaction; and this was the utter humiliation of Lef Seller. Lef had been standing around, listening to what was being said; and the air of utter unbelief upon his sneering face told that had he dared he would only too gladly have called the whole story a freak of the imagination; and that in reality the credit belonged to Sheriff Tucker, who had only allowed Frank to assume the laurels because he wanted to get credit at the Allen department store, where he was known to trade. Just then Minnie happened to pass in company with her new chum, Dottie Warren; and thinking to add a drop of bitterness to Frank's cup of joy, Lef immediately posted after the two. There were some words between them, during which it seemed as though Minnie might be accusing Lef of saying something to which she seriously objected. At any rate she walked on with her head held high in the air, while Lef shrugged his shoulders, and not daring to look toward the grinning group of boys, sauntered off. Still, that new quarrel between the others did not heal the breach that separated old friends. Frank tried to forget, and laughed as merrily as though there was not a cloud on the horizon. Professor Parke even called Frank into his study and requested him to relate the strange thing that had happened. The head of Columbia High School had a very tender spot in his heart for Frank Allen, not alone because he was a bright pupil, but on account of the clean character he bore among his fellows. Coach Willoughby was staying over to see the last game of the season. He declared that while he was losing money every day he remained away from his law business, he could not find it in his heart to desert the boys until they had safely landed that beautiful silver cup in a deciding victory over Bellport. Truth to tell, the old Princeton graduate was a thorough sport, and once he had yielded to the call of the game he could not break away. "Don't you come out to practice for several days, Frank," he advised, "on Wednesday perhaps, when we start to go over the entire thing again and try new signals, it will be time. There are a few weak spots in the team that need help, and I'm going to devote two afternoons to them exclusively. Wander around, and limber up with walks or a bicycle ride. But please don't employ your spare time rounding up any more rascals, will you?" "I'll try not to," laughed Frank; "but what's a fellow to do if they will persist in throwing themselves at your head?" "That's a fact, they did kidnap you, to be sure. Well, next time try and see to it that the other fellow goes into Juniper Brook and not you. That's a dangerous trick at this cold season of the year; and especially taking a long ride afterward in an open car. I wonder you didn't come down with pneumonia, Frank," said the coach, as he threw one arm affectionately across the other's shoulders. "Oh! everybody was so kind. I had the loan of a coat first, and an old hat; then Sheriff Tucker got me a big shaggy automobile fur coat, which with the hot coffee helped ward off a cold. Finally Doctor Shadduck dosed me good and hard. Nothing doing in that line for me this time," laughed the boy. It was on Tuesday afternoon that the time began to drag most heavily on his hands. Paul and Ralph, together with Bones, had gone to the recreation grounds to talk over matters with the coach, and try out some new plays. Frank really knew of no one whom he cared to look up just then. A reaction seemed to have set in after his recent excitement, and things were most woefully dull. The weather still held dry and fair to a degree that was considered extraordinary for November, usually so dismal with the approach of winter. "I wonder if it wouldn't be worth while to take a spin on the wheel," he mused as he considered the matter; "the chances are the weather will change any day now, and then good-bye to wheeling for the season. Besides, I really believe I'd like to turn down that road to Fayette, and take another look at that old bridge. There are a few things I don't quite understand about that affair." The thought aroused him. Again he felt the blood circulating through his veins with the old-time vigor; the stagnation had departed, and it was with considerable elation that he hurried to get his bicycle. The fact that the bridge was a matter of ten miles or more away did not give him cause for worry. He could easily make it in an hour or less, and be back long before suppertime. As he passed the school building he waved his hand to old Soggy, the janitor and custodian, who was busily engaged with his daily duties. "Off after another lot, are ye?" laughed the good-natured old fellow; "well, this time bring 'em in yourself, and don't be botherin' no poor sheriff to help out. You ought to be ashamed, my boy!" Frank knew that old Soggy would have his joke, and he only laughed in response. That was the one thing objectionable in doing anything out of the ordinary run; every person thought they had a right, either to make a hero out of him, or else sneer at the story as something like the accepted fish yarn. His wheel was in good shape, as always; the road seemed much better for a bicycle than it had been for a car, and with the bracing atmosphere made a combination difficult to surpass. Before the hour was up he had dropped off at the bridge, and stood there leaning on the rail looking down. "H'm! after all, it was a good thing I knew so much about this same place. If I'd jumped ten feet further along I'd have come slap down on that ugly looking bunch of rocks that stick their noses up above the water. Juniper is low, like all the other streams around here, after this dry fall. But I knew there was a deep pool right under and below the bridge." So he mused as in imagination his eye followed his course after reaching the water. He could see just where he had crawled out, as Jim discovered later, when the fugitive was already half-way back to the road again. "He had to run uphill, and that's one reason why he couldn't head me off, as Bart wanted him to do. Then that lame arm prevented him from shooting decently. On the whole, I guess I was mighty lucky," he concluded. After lingering around for a short time he once more mounted his wheel and headed back toward Columbia. There were short-cuts that he knew from former usage, by means of which several miles might be saved. Something seemed to beckon him along this course, though he hardly understood why he should want to shorten his run when he was out for the exercise and air. It was while he was traversing a farmer's lane that would bring him out on the other road, and save two miles around, that Frank for the first time noticed some one moving across a field, and heading almost directly toward him. He noted the fact with some surprise, because he happened to know that the farmer was the possessor of a very vicious bull, which he often allowed the freedom of that very pasture, in the summer and fall, for exercise, so that the boys of Columbia always went around when making for the old "swimming hole." He had noticed the animal only a couple of minutes before, trotting around back of the haystacks that ran along one end of the field. If he ever caught sight of that feminine figure crossing his preserves there would surely something be bound to happen. Frank, impelled by some sense of coming trouble, came to a stop and caught hold of the high rail fence to hold himself on his wheel while he looked. Somehow there seemed something wonderfully familiar about the figure of the tripping maid; and his heart seemed to almost stand still as she raised her head to look around, and he discovered that it was Minnie Cuthbert, evidently on the way to visit an uncle, who lived a short distance beyond Farmer Blodgett. Just as he made this interesting discovery he heard a dull roar that struck a note of dismay at the door of his heart. The savage bull, whom every one feared, had discovered the fair trespasser on his preserves, and was coming on the run! CHAPTER XXI THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUD "This way, Minnie! Run as fast as you can!" The girl had looked back and discovered the advancing bull, which sight caused her to shriek and became panic-stricken. Fortunately the animal pursued peculiar tactics while bearing down upon his expected victim. Running forward for a short distance, he would stop to bellow furiously and toss up the turf with his short horns, upon which gilt balls had been fastened by the farmer owner. Frank had jumped the fence like a flash, and was already rushing toward Minnie. She caught sight of him, and naturally changed her course so as to head in his direction. Perhaps just then she hardly knew who it was coming to her assistance; but turned to any port in a storm. When they met it was at a distance of possibly thirty yards from the fence. Frank immediately clutched her arm and began to hurry her toward the haven of safety as rapidly as he could. "Oh! Frank, he is coming faster!" gasped the girl, who had been constrained to look back over her shoulder toward the threatening danger. "Never mind! Run! run!" cried Frank, trying to instill new courage in her heart. At the same time he knew full well that they would never be able to reach the fence and climb over before the enraged animal came up. Something else must be done. How could he attract the attention of the bull to himself while Minnie clambered over? The question was not difficult to solve. She was, by the strangest accident in the world, wearing a red sweater that buttoned down the front. In other days they were known as Cardigan jackets, and Frank could easily remember how charming Minnie had looked many a time the previous winter in this same garment. It was this that was adding fuel to the rage of the angry bull, always attracted by a flaming color. Frank without regard to the feelings of the astonished girl caught hold of this outer apparel, and with one effort ripped the buttons loose. It was no time for courtesy, nor could he waste a precious second in explaining just why he did this strange thing. Another effort and the sweater was in his hands. Minnie seemed to realize by now what he had in his mind, for a weak little smile appeared on her white face as she looked up at him. "Run straight to the fence and climb over! I'll follow you, but never mind me! Quick, Minnie, do as I say!" he exclaimed. There was unconscious authority in his voice, just as when he called to his players on the diamond or on the gridiron. Minnie ran on, obeying his instructions thus far. She undoubtedly expected that Frank meant to cast the offensive red sweater on the ground, so as to attract the attention of the beast for a dozen seconds, time enough to allow of his finding safety beyond the barrier. As she neared the high rail fence she turned her head again to look. To her horror she saw Frank standing there, waving the scarlet jacket wildly to and fro. He was challenging the oncoming bull to make a run at him, actually endeavoring to attract the animal's attention, so as to give Minnie ample time to escape. Even as she stood there with quaking knees, staring, she saw Frank suddenly and nimbly jump aside, and avoid the first mad rush of the bull. "Oh! Frank; run! run! He will kill you!" she shrieked, wringing her hands hysterically; all the past forgotten in that one minute of terror. "Get over the fence! Get over the fence! The longer you delay the worse for me! Climb over, Minnie!" came back the answering shout, as Frank poised himself to repeat his former tactics. Crying, she obeyed, though it seemed as though her half-blinded eyes could hardly show her how to catch hold of the various bars; but presently she had succeeded in gaining the outside of the enclosure, and through the spaces between the rails she looked again, her heart almost standing still with dread. Frank was still on his feet, though he had been put to his best efforts in order to escape those threatening horns. "Now run, Frank! I'm over the fence!" she cried at the top of her voice. "All right! I'm coming!" he replied, as best he could, for his antagonist just then made another vicious lunge, and it was only by a shave that the athletic boy managed to escape those golden balls that surmounted his massive head. Now that he had accomplished the main object of his labor Frank could devote his energies toward his own escape. When the bull passed him he turned and bolted in the direction of the friendly fence. The distance was too great to think of making it in one run. As he flew along he expected to hear the pounding of the bull's hoofs on the hard turf behind him, nor was he mistaken. "He's coming, Frank! Oh! be careful!" Minnie was calling this in trembling tones, and yet Frank paid little or no attention to her warning, for he had to depend upon his own instincts just then. At the proper instant he whirled around. Already he had stamped the situation in his mind, and knew to a fraction just how far away the fence lay. Again he managed to escape the rush of the beast. Had he been an experienced Spanish bull-fighter he could hardly have done better. And again he changed his position. All he wanted was one more chance, and he knew he could win out. This time the animal, growing more and more enraged, came within a foot of striking the boy, who was beginning to get winded with his efforts. "Now!" cried Minnie, who seemed to recognize the opening when it appeared. Already was Frank in full motion, sprinting for the near-by fence with all his might and main. He reached it even as the bull was bearing down after him. One tremendous effort and he had mounted the rails to fall in a heap on the other side--safe! The bull came to a sudden halt within the enclosure, and vented his fury in more bellowing and tearing up of the turf. Minnie was at the side of her champion in a moment. "Oh! Frank, are you hurt?" she exclaimed, as she caught hold of him in her anxiety; and almost breathless as he was, the boy could not help feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the prospect of the breach between them being healed in this wonderful manner. "Not a bit, Minnie, only short of breath. Here's your sweater, safe and sound. Excuse me for taking it in that rude way, but you see there wasn't much time for explanations," he managed to say, as he started to put it on her again, an operation to which she submitted with pleasure. "And now," said Frank, as arm in arm they started to walk away from the scene of the adventure, he rolling his wheel as he went, "what was all this trouble about, Minnie? What terrible thing have I done to make you treat both Helen and myself so? Neither of us have the least idea, and she's very unhappy over it. Please let me know." Minnie looked troubled, and yet a gleam of hope began to appear in her gray eyes. "Oh! if you only could explain it away, I'd be so glad, Frank; so glad," she said. "Is it anything that Lef Seller has been saying about me?" he asked, shortly. "No, no. This is a matter that concerns only you and I. It was about a letter you wrote, a note rather, that was intended for Helen, and which--Oh! I don't know what to make of it, I've tried so hard not to believe you meant it; but every time I look at that note it stands out so plain, and gives me a shock." She clung to his arm, and let her head sink as she spoke. Frank knew that she was crying softly, too, and he was the most mystified boy that could be found. "A note that I wrote to Helen, and about you! Why, Minnie, surely you must be mistaken. I don't ever remember doing anything of the kind!" he declared. "But I've got it still, Frank, right here in my little bag. Ten times I tried to destroy it, and just couldn't," she exclaimed, looking up at him. "Let me see it, please," he said, his eyes filled with wonder. With trembling hands she opened the little bag, to which she had unconsciously clung through all her recent peril. From this she took a folded piece of paper, that had apparently been frequently handled, to judge from the creases. When Frank examined what was written upon it his face first took on a look of astonishment, and then amusement. "I see," he said, slowly, "this is evidently about half of a page, and torn in a diagonal way. Notice Minnie that it is only a _portion_ of a note. There is another half, which will give it an entirely different version! I admit that I wrote this note to Helen in school one day. Then I changed my mind, and tore it in half, intending to destroy it. Where did you happen to find this piece, Minnie?" "On the floor in the hall. Soggy was sweeping out when I went back for something I had forgotten. Just by accident I saw your writing, and unconsciously stooped to pick it up. Oh! Frank, what a cruel shock it gave me," she said. "Well, as near as I can remember, I tried to thrust both pieces into my desk. This one must have fallen to the floor either then or later, and was swept out. Perhaps the other half may still be there, Minnie! Will you go with me around to the school now? The sooner this strange thing is cleared up the better." "If you say so, I'll be glad to go, Frank. But it's enough for me to hear you say that it was not intended to warn Helen against me," she replied, smiling up through her tears. "Wait and see the proof first," laughed Frank. They reached the high school building in due time. Soggy, the janitor, was just about locking up, and upon hearing their request readily allowed them to enter. Going straight to his desk, Frank fumbled around inside eagerly, and then with an exclamation of triumph drew out something. "There, look!" he exclaimed, as he fitted the ragged edges of the two pieces of paper together on the top of the desk. "You see they match perfectly. Now read out loud what I was writing to my sister that day, and changed my mind, intending to talk with her when we got home." And Minnie read this: HELEN Don't believe all you hear. In the first place it's nonsense to think that you could expect the truth from one so shallow as Min erva Stone. I never liked her. She may seem all right as a friend, but I'd advise you to have little to do with her. She says one thing to your face and another to your back. I'm afraid she's deceptive, and that's about the meanest trait any girl can have. Bett er let your new friendship gradually cool, and drop her altogeth er. Honestly, to tell the truth, I think Minnie Cuthbert ought to be en ough chum for you. FRANK. When she finished this she looked up at him with tear-steeped eyes. "We're friends again once more, Minnie, are we not." he asked, smiling. "Yes, good friends; true friends, I hope Frank!" she replied as they clasped hands, and a pair of happy gray eyes looked up shyly into the darker orbs of the boy. CHAPTER XXII HOW BELLPORT BUCKED THE LINE As so frequently happens, Thanksgiving Day was overcast and cold, the air having a tang as of threatening snow. "Bully football weather!" shouted the fans, as they crowded into the great park-like field at Columbia; the toss of a coin during the week having given Frank's team the privilege of playing on their home grounds. There was even a greater crowd present than on the occasion of the game with Clifford. This struggle was to effectually decide the ownership of that coveted silver cup, and the championship of the tri-school league for the season. Everybody who could possibly get there was present. The grandstand seemed to be a waving mass of color with the various little flags, and the gay wraps of the school girls, intensely interested in this battle of brawn and skill between their brothers. Naturally those from Clifford gathered together for the most part; and Bellport had sent an enormous delegation to whoop things up for her sturdy team. Indeed, those Bellport players did look like a serious proposition as they scampered back and forth across the field before the time for play had arrived. Many a timid heart among Columbia's friends felt as though the chances were very much against such a victory as had been won over Clifford. Such enthusiasm as abounded! Cheers arose everywhere. Bands of students went about, headed by some valiant cheer captain, and made all other sounds insignificant beside their clamor, as they chanted their school yell in common, or sang the favorite songs of their classes. "We're going to see a hot old game, anyhow!" cried Buster Billings, as he sat on the bench in the grandstand, being reckoned of little account as a football player, however much he might shine in baseball. "What's Bellport's line-up? Seems to me nearly every face here is familiar; and I reckon their entire baseball squad has qualified for the gridiron," remarked another observer. "Just as you say, there's not a fellow missing," sighed Buster; "but then, none of them happens to be gifted with the heft that fastened its fatal clutches on me at an early age. I'd give the world to play football, but though they've tried me several times, it's always back to the scrap heap for poor Buster boy." "Well, they left me out this time, too; my first half in the game with Clifford wasn't a howling success. But at any rate I'm a sub, and if a few of the boys get carried off the field they may call on me," and Jack Eastwick patted his chest in anticipation of the slaughter to come. For the concluding tussle of the High School League the contending teams presented this line-up: _COLUMBIA._ Comfort _F.B._ Allen, Captain. West. _R.H.B. L.H.B._ Wallace. _Q.B._ Shadduck. Oakes. Harper. Bird. Daly. Shay. Morris. _R.E. R.T. R.G. Center. L.G. L.T. L.E._ _BELLPORT._ Clay. Coddling. Smith, Jr. Lacy. Alpers. Macy. Smith, Sr. _L.E. L.T. L.G. Center. R.G. R.T. R.E._ Snodgrass. _Q.B._ Banghardt. Bardwell. _L.H.B. R.H.B._ Lee, Captain. _F.B._ The same referee officiated who had managed the game with Clifford so well. And the coach of each team was busily engaged giving the last instructions, since the time specified for the opening kick-off was very near. Columbia was not boisterous, but there was a look of grim determination visible on the faces of Frank Allen and his fellows that counted for much. "It's better to shout after you're out of the woods, fellows," said the captain, as he drew his squad around him for a last word ere going upon the field. This time Frank was lucky, and won the toss. He immediately selected the goal from which the cold November wind blew, as that gave Columbia considerable advantage to start with, though it would be evened up later when the second half brought about a change in base. Still, by then the wind might have died out, and the advantage lost. Lee opened matters with a beautiful kick, but the oval was captured, and it came Columbia's turn. Comfort smashed out a fine one, sending the oval far down the enemy's territory. And so fast did the other Columbia fellows chase after it, that when Bellport secured the ball through a clever catch, they found no chance to do anything more than return the kick. After that the fight was on. Columbia sent the ball back into the territory of the enemy, and at such a bewildering angle, thanks to the wonderful spiral kick of Jack Comfort, that the player who attempted to clasp it in his arms allowed it to get away. "Go it, you tigers!" shrieked many in the crowd, as they saw several Columbia men making furious efforts to reach the rolling oval before any of the enemy could throw themselves upon it. But Coddling was there in time to drop on the ball, though hardly had he done so than Shadduck landed on his back, together with various others belonging to both teams. Now Bellport had the ball, and there was great curiosity to know what success they would have in bucking the Columbia line. Report had it that never had Bellport been so strong in her line of attack; and Clifford enthusiasts had warned their neighbors of what was in store for them this day. Bellport rushed into the fray. The artful Lacy, he who had played such a clever game as shortstop in the baseball tournament the preceding season, snapped the ball to Snodgrass, who plunged straight for the middle of the Columbia line backed up by a solid wedge that seemed capable of carrying the heavy quarter-back through. There was a confused mass of struggling players, and a great cloud of dust, in which figures were to be seen pushing this way and that. [Illustration: THERE WAS A CONFUSED MASS OF STRUGGLING PLAYERS.] "He's down!" shouted hundreds as the dust passed off with the wind, and they could see the situation again. "But he took several yards with him, and Bellport has the ball. What d'ye think of that sledgehammer way of carrying things, eh? Wait till Snodgrass and Banghardt and Bardwell get working together, and you'll see the Columbia defense crumple up like dead leaves in a fire!" Of course it was a Bellport admirer who said this; but those who heard only laughed and waved their Columbia flags the more fiercely. They had full confidence in their boys, and knew what Frank could get out of them in an emergency. Once more the teams were lined up, watching each other like so many wild animals, hungry and eager. Lee shouted out some signals in his sonorous voice. It sounded very like the previous set, but only those in the secret could know whether the slight difference meant a new change of action or not. Then the ball was put in play. Like lightning it passed from Lacy's hands. Snodgrass made out to receive it, and once more plunged for the center, as if intending to break through, with several of his fellows backing him up. The deception was so complete that the vast majority of the audience really believed he carried the ball with him. So a great whoop went up when he was dragged down by one of the Columbia tacklers. "But look at Smith, Sr., running! He's got the ball, fellows! He's after a touchdown, and he won't be happy till he gets it! Wow! that's going some!" "He'll never make it! There's West in the way, and Allen bearing down on him like a pirate ship under full sail! What did I tell you? That Ralph West is the best tackier in the county! They made no mistake when they booted Tony Gilpin out and made room for West. Where is the ball now, fellows?" "Under Smith, Sr., and on Columbia's twenty-five yard line!" admitted Buster Billings, unwillingly. "And Bellport has still another chance to carry it over! If the wind was favorable Lee could boot the pigskin across your goal, and not half try. But I guess they'd rather depend on breaking through, or getting around the ends. Keep your eyes on those boys, for they're as full of schemes as an egg is of meat." "That sounds encouraging. I was afraid our fellows might have too easy a snap, and disappoint their friends by not half trying. Just wait yourself, Bellport. It was the same thing in baseball last summer; and yet Columbia flies the banner, all right. You may be treated to some surprises yourself, old chap," remarked Buster, condescendingly. Again the scrimmage was on. The Columbia tigers were so fast on their feet that Clay, who got the ball this time, was unable to accomplish much before they pounced upon him and bore him heavily to the ground. "How's that?" shouted Buster, "our fellows just eat up such easy plays. Bring out some of your fancy stunts, and do something, can't you?" Three minutes later and the ball came to Columbia. It was time, for Bellport had, by a series of bull-like rushes, carried it over the twenty-yard line. "Now to get back some of that lost ground. There they go! See Shadduck run, will you? He's Mercury, with wings on his feet! Look at him dodge that left guard! Say, he's going to make it yet, as sure as you live he is! Bully boy, Bones! Go it! Go it, you darling! Oh! what a heart-ache I've got! He's over the line, boys; over the line! A touchdown for us to start things!" and Buster danced in his excitement, like a rubber ball. "No he ain't," snarled a Bellport backer, "they downed him before he got there! Notice that just three of our fellows are settin' on his back. He tried mighty hard, but they nailed him a little too soon!" "You're mistaken. He held the ball over the line, and it counts for Columbia, as you can see if you look again," remarked Mr. Allen, who was sitting near. "That's so," grumbled the discomfited Bellport man, "and with that wind it's goin' to be as easy as pie to boot the ball over for a goal. Shucks! what ails our fellows to-day? They never did sloppy work like that with Clifford." "There was a reason, they say. Clifford claims that her signals were sold to Bellport. Anyhow, there's going to be nothing of that kind to-day, but clean fighting. There goes Frank to kick goal, and he'll do it, too," answered Buster. The goal was made easily, thanks to the favoring wind. Then again the ball was put into play, and fierce ran the rivalry. Sometimes the fighting was on Columbia territory, and then again the tide of battle shifted until it was Bellport's line that was threatened. Now and then the cheers of the enthusiasts arose and swelled over that fiercely-contested field like thunder. Back and forth they swung, both now doggedly determined. A score of plays were made that brought out cheers from the spectators, regardless of school affiliations; for they liked clean football, and could applaud clever work, even on the other side. When the heart-rending agony was finally relieved by the referee's whistle announcing the end of the first half, that score of six by Columbia was the entire counting! CHAPTER XXIII WON BY FOUR INCHES "See 'em getting Hail Columbia from their coach because they made that fool play! Next time it'll be different," growled the unhappy Bellport backer. "I hope so," replied the cheerful and optimistic Buster, composedly. Frank, as he came in from the field, dusty and disheveled, looked eagerly at a certain part of the grandstand where Helen sat alongside her chum Minnie. Immediately both girls waved their flags at him, and called out something, which, of course, was utterly drowned in the furious shouting that arose. But Frank would ten times rather have heard what they said than to listen to the cheers of the multitude; for he knew that love and friendship endure, while the admiration of the crowd is as fickle as the weather, praising one day and on the next condemning. Both teams held earnest consultations during the interval between the halves of the game. New plays were planned whereby advantage might be taken of some supposed weak spot in the line of the enemy's defense. And singular to say, not a single change had as yet been made in the line-up, something remarkable indeed, when in other days half a dozen casualties must have resulted from those furious clashes. Doubtless there were those who suffered in silence, fearing lest they be taken out, if their real condition were made known; and every man was wild to finish in what promised to be the most exciting football game that had ever happened in the tri-school league. "There they go to take position. Now for another heart-breaking period of suspense. But they've got the advantage. It's an up-hill fight for Bellport; six to nothing, and half the time gone. If they can only keep the others from scoring it isn't necessary to make any more," said Buster to Jack Eastwick. "No chance for me to get into this game. That Shay is a sticker. But I candidly admit he's something of an improvement on myself, and I hope he holds out. But mark me, Buster, there's going to be some changes before the game ends," remarked the other, confidentially. "What makes you say that, Jack?" asked his friend, curiously. "Because those Bellport bulldogs have got blood in their eyes now. The coach has been combing them down, and they're just bound to carry things before them, or die trying. It's going to be hotter than ever, Buster." "But Frank has been saying things, too. And our boys have the benefit of the experience of one who was a terror on the lines of Princeton, my especial friend, Coach Willoughby," remarked Buster, proudly. "He's set 'em up a few capers that are going to surprise our good Bellport friends. I'm game to stack up on Columbia. I only hope some of those Bellport players like Bardwell and Banghardt don't try foul tactics on us, like they did in baseball, that's all." "The referee has his eye on 'em. He has been warned, and let them try it at their peril. If those two dangerous half-backs are put off the team it'll go to pieces in a hurry, mark my words. That's what I'm expecting it to end in." But Jack was mistaken. Bellport knew the folly of attempting anything that had a suspicious look. Brawn and strategy and agility must carry the day, no matter which side won. Shrilly blew the whistle, and once more the ball, yellow no longer, for it had been ground into the dirt, sailed through the air. There was an exchange of punts that ended when Bellport held the pigskin on her forty-yard line and the signal came for a play around Columbia's left end. "Watch out now, fellows!" warned Frank Allen. "Don't let 'em get through, or past you." "Eighteen--twenty-seven--sixty--all together--fourteen!" chanted Snodgrass, and back the ball was snapped to him. In a flash he passed it to Bardwell, who started as though to circle Shadduck at right end. And then that trick, so often worked, so effective when it comes out right, and so futile when it does not, was tried. Bardwell passed the ball to Banghardt on the run, and the left-half started for the end where Morris was. How it happened none of the Columbia players, not even Morris himself, could tell, but he was drawn in by the double pass and his end was free to be circled by Banghardt. Even the Columbia two half-backs were fooled, and no excuse for it, either, as they admitted afterward, for they had often worked the play themselves. Be that as it may, Banghardt was past, and with no one between him and the goal line but Comfort. But the full-back was a tower of strength, and with eagerly outstretched hands he waited the oncoming of the left half. "Get him, Comfort! Get him!" pleaded the crowd. Straight at the full-back came Banghardt, and then, with a sudden shifting, he turned aside, and Comfort grasped only the empty air, while the man with the ball, amid the wild, excited cries of the adherents of his school, while the grandstands fairly rocked under the impact of thousands of stamping feet, touched down the pigskin. "Touchdown! Touchdown for Bellport!" howled the enthusiasts, while the dazed Columbia team crawled out of the scrimmage and wondered how it had happened. So, too, did some of the Bellport players themselves wonder, for the play had come like a flash from a clear sky. The goal was easily kicked, tying the score, and then the big crowd sat up and wondered what would come next. "It's going to be a hot game all right!" was the general verdict. "Here's where we beat you, Columbia!" called a Bellport supporter, as he turned to Buster with a grin on his face. "Oh we've got you in a hole dead sure. We've got your number." "Oh, have you!" retorted Buster. "Wait. Don't count your chickens until they're out of the woods." After the kick-off there followed some line smashing tactics on both sides. Once Bellport was penalized for off-side play, and once Columbia lost the ball for holding in the line. Bellport was later penalized ten yards for a second offense in off-side work, and then the players seemed to realize the importance of being careful, and they got down to business. How they ever stood the smashing, banging tactics, the fierce tackling, the eager runs, the line bucking, the giving and taking, only one who has played football, and who knows the fierce joy of the game, can understand. Nervous women cried out in alarm as they saw the struggling mass and heap of boyish humanity. There were several times when the play had to be stopped to allow the dashing of cold water over some unlucky chap, to bring him out of a half faint, and the number of lads who lost their wind, and had to have it pumped into them by artificial respiration was many. But no one was seriously hurt, though Coddling had to leave the field because of a broken finger and Harper was replaced at the Columbia right guard because he was so disabled from a fierce piling-on of players that he was useless in the line. Ten minutes more to play, and the score tied! Back and forth the players had surged, up and down the field, now kicking, now plunging into each other's line, now circling the ends. It was the most fiercely contested game that had ever been played in the league. The Columbia-Clifford contest was as nothing to it. "Hold 'em, Tigers! Don't let 'em score again! Rip out another touchdown! Go at 'em!" How the cohorts of Columbia begged and pleaded! No less did the friends of Bellport. A touchdown, a field goal, or a safety for either side now would win the game and the championship. Which would it be? To which side would it go. A thousand admirers of either team asked those questions. Bellport had the ball, and had, by a smashing rush, carried it three yards through Columbia's line. It was on the latter's forty-yard line now, but it had been there before, and had not advanced much farther. That last attack, though, had had power behind it. "Look out!" warned Frank. "They may do us!" The play looked to be another rush on the part of Bellport, and with fierce and eager eyes her opponents watched for the slightest advantage. Bardwell came on with the ball like a stone from a catapult. He hit the line between Shay and Daly, but he did not go through. With desperate energy, borne of despair, the guard and tackle held. And then, wonder of wonders, probably because he was dazed by the impact with which he hit the line, Bardwell dropped the ball. Like a flash Daly had fallen on it. "Our ball!" he fairly howled, and when the crowd knew that they went wild--that is, the Columbia contingent. But the time had slipped by. There were but three minutes more of play. "Quick now, fellows. Line up! Get a touchdown!" begged Frank. "Break the tie!" Into the play plunged the doughty captain himself for a ten-yard gain, for the shock of surprise at their misfortune still held the Bellport players spellbound. "Another like that!" cried the throng. A fake kick netted eight yards additional, and then followed more line bucking. "A goal from the field," suggested Wallace, when time was taken out to allow Alpers to get back his end. "No, straight up the field--rush it!" ordered Allen. Once more he made a slight gain. "One minute more!" warned the time-keeper. "Oh, can we do it!" panted Wallace. He called on Ralph West for a straight plunge between guard and tackle. The plucky left-half drew a long breath, and gathered himself for the tremendous energy he knew would be needed. They were but four feet from the goal line. The ball _must_ be shoved over if human lungs and muscles could stand the terrific strain a moment longer. Amid a solemn silence came the signal. Like a shot West plunged forward, with the ball tightly tucked under his arm. Into the line he went, smash bang! Oh, what a great hole there was torn for him by the strenuous Shay and Daly! Through it West went, and in vain did Lee and Bardwell try to stop him. As well try to stop a rushing torrent as the Columbia players now. They were going to have that touchdown or tear up the goal posts. With the quickness that argued how well he knew the need of haste, West placed the ball down beyond and over his head after he had fallen in a fierce tackle. Over the line--over--ah, was it over? The chalk-mark was obliterated at this point. Was it over? "Touchdown!" howled the Columbia players madly. "Never. It's not over!" retorted Bellport's men fiercely. There was a wild dispute, and in the midst of it the whistle blew, ending the game. Who had won? It would take a measurement to decide. The linesmen came hurrying up, while the crowd chaffed at the delay and did not know who to cheer. Anxiously the measure was taken, and while hearts wildly beat the announcement was made. "The ball is over by four inches. Columbia wins the touchdown!" "Oh, wow!" "Hurrah!" "We win!" "Eleven to six!" "The silver cup is ours!" And then such a riot of wild cries, such stamping of feet, such waving of banners and streamers of ribbon! The great championship game was won by Columbia! Columbia! "Columbia! Columbia the Gem of the Gridiron!" came the eager shouts. And the players filed off the field. CHAPTER XXIV THE MESSAGE FROM TOKIO.--CONCLUSION That Thanksgiving night Columbia went wild. True, the first snow of the year began sifting down, and the ground was covered with a white mantle; but such a little thing as that could not quench the ardor of those happy fellows. And so for hours the town resounded with cheers and songs, while in several places great bonfires along the banks of the Harrapin told of the general rejoicing. How could they help it when Columbia High had completed the greatest year in all her history--first there was the winning of the baseball championship; then came the hotly contested inter-school rowing races, in which she won new laurels with her young athletes; and last but not least, both Clifford and Bellport had gone down to bitter defeat before her gridiron warriors! Frank would have begged off, but even the girls insisted that it would be a shame to spoil the fun. So he had to join in the festivities, and shout with the rest of Columbia's brave sons and fair daughters, as the gigantic procession wound in and out through all the town, greeted by answering cheers from the equally enthusiastic fathers and mothers from the windows. "There's only one more thing we ought to scoop in this year," said Paul Bird, as he and Frank stood with the girls and watched the antics of Herman Hooker and his band of comical players, wherein the most astonishing stunts were indulged in with amazing instruments manufactured for the occasion. "You mean the hockey championship, I suppose?" returned Frank, smiling. "Yes, and from the expression on your face, old fellow, I'm of the opinion right now that you mean to have a look-in on that later on when the river is frozen again." Frank laughed and nodded. "Some of us have been talking it over. You know Clifford has been unbeaten in that line for years. They have the best skaters up there in the State, they claim. If we think to accept their standing challenge this year it's up to us to put a better team on the ice than last season," he remarked. "Well, they did snow you under, for a fact. But experience showed that there were two fellows on your team who ought never to have been there. They lost the match through their clumsiness. Isn't that so, girls?" demanded Paul. "Everybody said so," declared Helen; and Minnie nodded her heard to indicate that she was of the same opinion. "Then it must be so," laughed Frank. "But those fellows are not on the team this year. We've been keeping quiet about who is going to play. The committee have selected a certain number of players, and the best will be chosen in time. Mark my words, Paul, we mean to try and give Clifford the biggest kind of a fight this winter. Whether we can win or not depends on many things. Time will tell." And time did tell, for what manner of hockey was played that winter on the ice-clad surface of the neighboring Harrapin can be found recorded in the next volume of this series of High School sports, entitled: "The Boys of Columbia High on the Ice; or, Out for the Hockey Championship." When the first of December came around shortly after that great Thanksgiving Day game, Ralph West sought out Frank once more. His face told of excitement, and Frank was consequently ready to expect some important news. "Did you get your usual monthly allowance from Uncle Jim's office?" he asked. "Yes, yesterday. I suppose he left word before he went that it should be sent while he was away. But I've heard from him direct," replied Ralph, his face glowing with the eager light of anticipated happiness. "You have? A letter from China or Russia or Siberia, which?" "You're away off, Frank. This was a cablegram. I just got it at the office, for I have wandered in there often in hopes of such a thing, and know the operator. It was from Tokio, and I suppose your Uncle Jim must have followed Mrs. Langworthy and her brother Arnold Musgrove there. Perhaps they gave up all hope of getting to Russia through China. I don't know how that is, but here's what it says," and he handed a message to Frank, who glanced down at these words: "Leave here next steamer for States. Mrs. Langworthy accompanies me. Keep up a good heart, for there is much joy in store for you. JAMES DECATUR ALLEN." "Hurrah! that's glorious news, old fellow! From my heart I congratulate you! Now, I know Uncle Jim well enough to feel sure that he'd never cable like that unless he was absolutely positive of his ground. Like as not, that monster of an Arnold--why wasn't his name Benedict like the Revolutionary traitor, has confessed; for you don't notice his name among the expected travelers." "Well, I don't know how I'll ever be able to stand the weeks that must pass before they get here in Columbia. You must help me, Frank, you and Helen," declared Ralph, gripping the hand of his chum almost savagely. "We will, all right. The time will fly, because you're anticipating happy news. Just think of the extravagance of Uncle Jim, sending nearly thirty words in a cablegram. It costs twenty-five cents a word to London, and goodness knows how many times that from Tokio here. He knows what he's doing though, and I warrant you it's the lady's money that pays for that cablegram," whereupon Ralph impulsively raised the paper to his lips and kissed it, then blushed like a girl. With such good and true friends around him, it may be sure that Ralph was not going to be left alone much of the time. They made him join in all their sports, and with the coming of winter a dozen new things presented themselves to the boys and girls of old Columbia High. Minnie was happier than ever, since that little shadow was removed, and her former warm, friendly intercourse with Frank and Helen renewed. Many times she thought of how valiantly Frank had stood there, holding the attention of that terrible bull, so as to allow her time to clamber out of harm's way; and never without a shudder, as she contemplated what a terrible thing might have happened had the boy slipped when avoiding those rushes of the enraged animal. Never would she allow that old red sweater to leave her possession. The very sight of it always made her sigh with satisfaction. It had undoubtedly had much to do with the savage attack of that animal, whose pasture she so unwittingly invaded; but had that event not happened, perhaps the mystery of that torn paper would never have been explained. Nothing could again cause her to ever doubt the fidelity of Frank Allen; and to the end of the chapter they must always be, as she had said that day, "good friends, true friends!" THE END. 
37929	----	FENN MASTERSON'S DISCOVERY Or The Darewell Chums on a Cruise BY ALLEN CHAPMAN AUTHOR OF "BART STIRLING'S ROAD TO SUCCESS," "WORKING HARD TO WIN," "BOUND TO SUCCEED," "THE YOUNG STOREKEEPER," "NAT BORDEN'S FIND," ETC. [Illustration: _The_ GOLDSMITH _Publishing Co._ CLEVELAND OHIO MADE IN U.S.A.] COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT 1 II. A MYSTERIOUS CAVE 11 III. SAVING THE AUTO 22 IV. PLANNING A CRUISE 30 V. CAPTAIN WIGGS'S PROPOSAL 39 VI. IN PERIL 45 VII. AN ELEVATOR BLAZE 52 VIII. FENN HEARS SOMETHING 61 IX. OFF AGAIN 71 X. THE CHASE 78 XI. ON LAKE HURON 85 XII. NED GETS A FISH 92 XIII. CAUGHT IN THE LOCK 99 XIV. MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS 108 XV. A QUEER FIND 115 XVI. FIRE ON BOARD 123 XVII. A STRANGE VISION 133 XVIII. AN EXPLORING PARTY 140 XIX. FENN BECOMES ILL 147 XX. OUT ON A HUNT 155 XXI. THE CHINESE BUTTON 162 XXII. FENN'S MISHAP 171 XXIII. THE SEARCH 180 XXIV. FENN IS CAPTURED 188 XXV. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 194 XXVI. FENN'S ODD DISCOVERY 202 XXVII. A TIMELY RESCUE 213 XXVIII. RUTH TELLS HER SECRET 220 XXIX. A BAFFLING SEARCH 230 XXX. THE DISCOVERY--CONCLUSION 239 FENN MASTERSON'S DISCOVERY CHAPTER I AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT "Hello!" exclaimed Fenn Masterson, as he opened the front door of his home, in response to a ring, and admitted his chum, Bart Keene. "Glad to see you, Bart. Come on in." "What's the matter with you?" demanded Bart, throwing a strap full of books into a corner of the hall, as if he cared very little for the volumes. "Why weren't you at school to-day, Stumpy?" "Oh, I was a little hoarse this morning--" "What are you now; a mule?" inquired Bart. "No--Oh, hang it, you know what I mean--" "Sure!" interrupted Bart. "You slept in a stable last night, and, when you woke up you were a little horse. I know." "I had a little cold this morning," went on Fenn. "Mother made me stay home. Thought I was going into consumption, I guess. I'm all right now." "Gee, I wish my mother had made me stay home to-day," proceeded Bart. "The algebra lesson was fierce. We all slumped." "What! You don't mean to say the professor floored Frank Roscoe?" and Fenn looked much surprised. "Yes, and Ned Wilding, too. I tell you, Stumpy, it was a good thing you slept in that barn and became a little horse, or you'd have gone down to defeat on that problem about multiplying sixteen x, y, z's by the square root of the difference between--" "Pooh! That's easy," declared Fenn. "I remember it." "Easy? Here, let's see you do it!" exclaimed Bart, and he grabbed the bundle of books and proceeded to take out the algebra. "Never mind--there's no hurry about it. I'll show you later," spoke Fenn. "Besides, I've got to take my cough medicine now. Come on up to my room." "Cough medicine?" repeated Bart, with a reproachful look at his chum. "Yes, cough medicine," answered Stumpy, seeing that his visitor rather doubted him. "Mom made me take it. It's awful nasty stuff, full of tar and horehound and pine--ugh! I hate it." "Moral, don't try to fool your mother and pretend you have a sore throat, when you don't want to go to school for an algebra exam.," said Bart solemnly. "No, honest, I did have a sore throat this morning," declared Fenn. "It's all better now. I guess I don't have to take that medicine. But come on up to my room. I've just got a fine collection of minerals." "Minerals?" "Yes, I'm going to collect them now. I sent for a small case, of various kinds, and I'm going to add to it. There are lots of minerals in this section of the state." "Let's see, the last thing you were collecting was Indian arrow heads," said Bart, in musing tones; "before that it was postage stamps, and before that, postmarks. Then, once, I remember, it was jackknives, and before that--" "Oh, let up!" begged Fenn. "Are any of the other fellows coming over?" "Before that it was butterflies," went on Bart relentlessly. "I guess your mineral collecting craze will last about as long as any of the others, Stumpy." "Well, all the others were too much trouble," declared Fenn, trying to justify himself. "It's no fun to be sticking stamps and postmarks in a book, and I had to chase all over the country after butterflies." "To say nothing of getting on bad terms with half the boys in the school for trading them poor knives for good ones, when you had that craze," remarked Bart. "Oh, I intend to make a fine collection of minerals," declared Fenn. "I'll not get tired of that. You see minerals are easy to get. All you have to do is to pick up stones as you walk along. You put them in your pockets and, when you get home, you look in the catalog, see what kind they are, so as to label 'em, and put 'em in one of the little numbered squares of the cabinet. Why, collecting minerals is fun. Besides, it's valuable information. I might discover--" "Sure, of course. Oh, yes--you might discover a gold mine or a hole filled with diamonds!" interrupted Bart. "Oh, Stumpy, I'm afraid you're a hopeless case." "Wait until you see my minerals," asserted the stout youth, as he led the way up to his room. "When are the other fellows coming over?" "Oh, Ned'll be along right away. Frank Roscoe said he had to go on an errand for his father. They both are anxious to see what sort of a game you worked so's to stay home to-day. They might want to try it themselves." The two chums were soon busy inspecting the case of stones which Fenn had bought. There were small samples of ore, spar, crystals and various queer rocks. "There's a piece of stone I found out near the river," said Fenn, pointing to a fragment of a bright red color. "Maybe it's a new kind of ruby. I'm going to show it to a jeweler." "It's red glass!" declared Bart. "It is not!" "I tell you it is! Look, it's a piece of a bottle. You can see where it curved for the bottom," and he pointed it out to Fenn. "I guess you're right," admitted the collector, as he tossed the red object away. "Never mind, I'll get some good specimens yet. Hello, there's Ned's whistle," and he looked out of the window, which, as it was late in June, was wide open. "Come on up, Ned!" he called, "Bart's here!" "Coming!" cried Ned. "Lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis! Lord Mount Saint Dennis Morency Caldwalder de Nois approaches!" "Yes, I guess it is 'De Noise' all right," murmured Bart. "Since he's been studying French history he's been getting off such nonsense as that every chance he has." "Greeting, fair and noble sirs!" cried Ned Wilding, reaching the door of Fenn's room, for, like the other chums, he had the run of the house, "greeting, most noble lords of the high justice, the middle and the low. I give thee greeting!" "And I give thee that!" interrupted Bart, putting out his foot, and, with a sly motion, upsetting Ned as he was making a low, exaggerated bow. "First down! Ten yards to gain!" he cried good-naturedly, as he arose, for Ned was a lively, quick-witted youth, full of fun, and never serious for more than a minute at a time. "I hope that jarred some of the foolishness out of you," observed Bart. Suddenly a head was poked in the open window, and a voice exclaimed: "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am the original and only genuine second-story burglar!" "Frank Roscoe!" exclaimed Fenn. "How did you get there?" "Climbed up over the porch," replied the newcomer. "I rang the bell until I was tired, and nobody answered." "That's so, I forgot. Mother's out this afternoon and there's no one down stairs. But why didn't you do as Ned did, walk in? The door's not locked. I didn't hear you ring." "I prefer this method of stealing into houses," replied Frank, a tall dark youth, as he bounded from the window sill into the room. "It's more romantic. Besides I needed exercise, and it was easy climbing up the porch pillar." "Don't give us any romance," begged Bart. "No, don't," advised Ned, rubbing his thigh where he had come down rather heavily. "The days of romance are dead." "That's not the only thing that's dead in this town," put in Fenn. "Things are getting rather dull. We need some excitement to keep us awake." The two newcomers soon learned the reason for Fenn's absence from school that day. They examined his cabinet of minerals and made more or less sarcastic comments about his new fad. "Yes," went on Bart, after a pause. "I wish we could have some fun, as we did when we were off camping in the woods, last summer." "And rescued Frank's father from that sanitarium," put in Ned. "Well, we had a pretty lively time when you slipped off to New York, and the lodging-house keeper held you a prisoner, Ned," said Bart. "You had some romance then." "Not the right kind," declared Ned. "I'd like some more fun such as we had when the King of Papricka tried to fool us." "Sure! When we got carried away in the captive balloon," added Frank. "That was a time!" "And do you remember when we fastened the ladder on the donkey's back, the night we were going to rescue Frank's father," suggested Fenn? "How he ran away in the woods?" "Yes, and how it rained," put in Ned. "Gee, that was fierce!" "But we had a good time," remarked Frank. "Father can never forget how much you boys did for him." "It wasn't anything!" exclaimed Ned. "Say, do you remember when they thought we blew up the school with dynamite?" "Do I? I should guess yes," replied Ned. "Yes, and how Ned thought he was going to become a millionaire with that investment which made him a fugitive!" spoke Bart. "Oh, yes, we had good times then. But we don't seem to be having them any more. It's nothing but measly old algebra exams. that no fellow can pass. I wish--" But what Bart wished he never told, for, at that instant there came from the street outside a series of sharp explosions, that sounded like a Gatling gun in full operation. "What's that?" cried Fenn. "It's an automobile!" replied Frank, who was nearest the window. "It's running away, too, from the looks of it. They've opened the muffler and are trying to reverse I guess! Something's wrong! There's going to be an accident!" The other boys crowded up back of Frank to see what was going on. The street in front of Fenn's house sloped sharply down to a cliff at the end of the thoroughfare. Across the highway was a stout fence, designed to prevent any one from driving over the cliff, which was quite high. Toward this fence a big touring car, which, as the boys could see, contained an elderly gentleman and a young lady, was rushing at furious speed. "Stop! Stop!" cried Fenn in desperation, thinking the man in the car did not know or realize his danger. "The street ends at the fence! You'll go over the cliff!" As the auto whizzed past the house the girl in it gave one glance at Fenn. The youth thought her the most beautiful person he had ever seen, though there was a look of terror in her eyes. "He can't stop!" shouted Bart. "Something's wrong with the machine!" Indeed this seemed to be true, for the man at the steering wheel was frantically pulling on various levers and stamping, with his feet, on some pedals in front of him. The young woman in the car half arose in her seat. The man, holding the wheel with one hand, held her back with the other. She gave a startled cry and, a moment later the auto had crashed through the fence, as though it was made of paper, and the front wheels disappeared over the edge of the cliff. "Come on!" cried Bart. "We must go to their help!" "I'm afraid they're dead," spoke Frank solemnly, as he quickly followed his chums from Fenn's house. CHAPTER II A MYSTERIOUS CAVE Running at top speed the four boys hastened down the street toward where the automobile accident had occurred. Several other persons followed them. "They've gone over the cliff!" cried Fenn. "No, the rear wheels are caught on the edge!" declared Ned. "You can just see the back part of the car!" "But the man and young lady must be pitched out! It hangs nearly straight up and down!" said Frank. "I wonder if they could possibly be alive?" asked Fenn, as he hurried along, a little in the rear of the others, for, because of his stoutness, he was not a good runner. "I'll never forget how she looked up to me, as if she wanted me to save her." By this time the chums had reached the broken fence that had proved so ineffectual a barrier to the cliff. They leaped over the shattered boards, accompanied by a number of men and boys. "Gee! They're goners!" exclaimed a boy named Sandy Merton, peering over the edge of the cliff. "It's a hundred feet to the bottom!" "I wonder what caught the auto?" said Bart. "Why didn't it fall?" "A wire caught it," answered Fenn. "Look," and he showed his chums where several heavy strands of wire, which had been strung on the fence to further brace it, had become entangled in the wheels of the auto as they crashed through. The wire was twisted around some posts and, with the broken boards from the barrier, had served to hold the car from going over the cliff. There it hung, by the rear wheels only, a most precarious position, for, every moment, it was in danger of toppling over. "But where are the people?" asked Frank, as he peered over the edge of the cliff. "I can't see them?" "They're all in pieces," declared a gloomy looking man. "They're broken to bits from the fall." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Bart. "Here, let me have a look!" Lying flat on his face he peered over the edge of the precipice. Then he uttered a cry. "I can see them!" he shouted. "They've landed on the ledge, not ten feet down. They're under some bushes!" "Get some ropes, quick!" cried Fenn. "We'll haul 'em up before the auto falls on 'em!" "No danger of that," declared Bart. "They're off to one side. I'm afraid they're badly hurt, though." "Somebody go for a doctor!" urged Fenn. "I will," volunteered Jim Nelson, who had the reputation of being the laziest boy in the town of Darewell. Perhaps he was afraid of being asked to help haul the auto back from the perilous position. "Telephone for 'em!" called Frank, knowing Jim's usual slowness, and realizing that the lazy youth would welcome this method of summoning the medical men. "Tell 'em to come to my house," supplemented Fenn. "We will carry the man and girl there." "Good idea," commented Frank. "You've got more room than any of these houses near here," for, in the immediate vicinity of the cliff there were only small cottages, and some of them were unoccupied. "But how are we going to get 'em up?" asked Fenn. By this time a large crowd had gathered. Some had brought ropes, and there were all sorts of suggestions as to how the rescue should be effected. "I'll get them; or at least I'll go down and put a rope around them, so they can be hauled up," suddenly declared Frank. "I know how to reach that ledge. There's not much danger. Where's a rope?" Several were soon produced, some neighboring clothes lines being confiscated. It seemed that all the crowd needed was some one to give orders. In a few minutes, with a rope tied around his waist Frank was being lowered over the cliff. Willing hands let him down until he was on the ledge. Then, having fastened the rope about the form of the unconscious young woman, padding it with his coat, so the strands would not cut her, he gave the signal to haul up. There was a cheer as the body was laid gently down on the grass at the top of the cliff, and some one called: "She isn't dead! She's breathing!" It was harder work for Frank to adjust the rope about the man's body, as he was very heavy, but the lad accomplished it, and the crowd above hauled the unfortunate automobilist up. Then Frank was raised from the ledge. "Carry 'em to my house," cried Fenn. "The doctors will soon be there if Jim hasn't forgotten to telephone for 'em." On stretchers, improvised from pieces of the fence, the bodies, of which that of the girl alone seemed to contain life, were carried to Fenn's house. The crowd followed but, at the door a constable named Darby, at Fenn's orders, refused admittance to all save the three chums, and those who had borne the stretchers. "The doctors will need room to work," declared Fenn, when there were murmurs at what was his right, to exclude the mob from his home. "I'm glad mother's out," he said. "This would scare her into a fit." "The doctors are coming," said Jim, who came into the house a moment later, after the man and young woman had been laid on beds where Fenn directed. "I telephoned to all in Darewell, but only three were home." "That ought to be enough," declared Fenn. "I hope they can save their lives. There doesn't seem to be any evidences of injuries." The medical men, under the direction of Dr. Fanwood, the eldest of the practitioners, made hasty examinations of the two victims of the accident. "I think we'll have to operate on the man," declared Dr. Fanwood. "We'll need several things from my office. Who can go for them?" and he looked at Fenn, whom he had doctored ever since Fenn was a baby, on the few occasions when that healthy youth needed medicine. "We'll go!" offered Frank, Bart and Ned at once. "I guess we can use all three of you," decided Dr. Fanwood. "Dr. Kyte and Dr. Feldon will need things from their offices. Now I tell you what to do, just take our horses and carriages, which are tied out in front, and drive after the things. That will be quicker." Then, the three physicians having given the chums a list of what they needed, proceeded to get ready for the operation. The girl was in a semiconscious condition, but a hasty examination showed that the worst she was suffering from was shock. She could be left alone for a time. While the medical men were preparing to attend to the man, Constable Darby kept guard in front of the house, before which it seemed as if half the population of Darewell was gathered. Jim Nelson was sitting in the front hall, ready to go on an errand if needed, but, on the whole, rather hoping that he would not be required to run. The hasty telephoning had been quite a strain on his lazy nature. Fenn, at the suggestion of Dr. Fanwood, remained in the room where the young lady was, to be at hand in case she recovered consciousness. "My, things have happened suddenly," thought Fenn, as he looked at the silent form on the bed. "We were just wishing for something like our old adventures again. This seems to promise a good beginning." The four boys, who, because of their intimate association, and from the fact that they lived in the town of that name, were known as "The Darewell Chums," had been through some lively times together, as has been related in the previous books of this series. In the first volume called "The Heroes of the School," I related how the four took part in a peculiar mystery, and solved it to their satisfaction, though, at one time, when they went up in a balloon, and were captured by the enemy, it looked rather dubious for them. The boys were wide-awake lads, full of energy and resources, and they managed to free themselves from a difficult situation. Their home town was on the Still River, which flowed into Lake Erie, and Darewell was a few miles from that great body of water, on which they often enjoyed themselves rowing or sailing. In the second volume of the series, "Ned Wilding's Disappearance," there was set down the story of what happened to Ned when he tried to do a little financial business on his own account. He went to New York, and there by some curious mis-chances, he had to hide, almost as if he had committed a crime. But, by the aid of his chums, and a poor lad whom they once befriended, Ned was rescued. In the third volume, "Frank Roscoe's Secret," I told of a queer case of persecution. Frank and his chums went camping and Frank's manner, which had been not only strange but sometimes unaccountable, became still more curious and bewildering, for one of his good nature. His chums did not know what to make of him, and there was considerable worry on their part. But it turned out that Frank was the one who had to worry, because of the danger to his father, whom he had always supposed was dead, but who turned out to be alive, though in captivity. How the boys discovered Frank's secret, and how they helped him to rescue his father was related in the book together with various other happenings during their encampment in the woods. And now the Darewell Chums seemed to be in for another series of adventures, if Fenn was any judge. The young woman on the bed tossed and turned in the fever of a delirium. The lad became rather frightened, and was going to call one of the doctors, though he knew they must be very busy preparing for the operation. Suddenly the young woman sat up straight in bed. Her light jacket, which had not been removed, bore many dirt-stains, where she had fallen upon the ledge. She struggled to get it off. Fenn started to help her, thinking one of her arms might be broken. Suddenly she exclaimed: "The cave! Oh, the cave! It was hidden but I can see it now! And the men! See, there are the men, digging, digging, digging! I must stop them! They will take all--" She fell back upon the pillows. "What cave? Where is it? Can I help you?" asked Fenn eagerly. "The cave! They are in it!" exclaimed the young woman again. "The mysterious cave! If I could only find it! I must find it--my father--his wealth--search for the cave--I--he--" "Yes, yes," spoke Fenn, advancing to the side of the bed. "Perhaps I can help you find it!" He hardly knew what he was saying, so great had been the strain of the accident, and so strangely did the words of the young lady affect him. She opened her eyes, which had been closed when she was talking. A look of consciousness came over her face. "Was I speaking?" she asked in different tones than that she had used before. "Did I say anything? What has happened? Where am I? Where is my father?" "The automobile went over a cliff," explained Fenn. "You were hurt, and so was your father, but not badly, I hope. He is here. The doctors are with him." "I must--Oh, let me go to him," and she arose from the bed. "What did I say just now?" she demanded suddenly. "I know I was unconscious, but I was saying something." "It was about a cave," replied Fenn. "Oh!" she exclaimed in such a voice that Fenn was alarmed. "I was afraid so! Why did I do it? Forget it, please! Forget that I ever mentioned it! I don't know--" She seemed about to say something more, but her face suddenly became pale, and she fell back on the pillows. "Doctor!" cried Fenn, very much frightened. "Ah, I'm just in time, I see," remarked Dr. Kyte, coming into the room at that moment. "I'll attend to her now, Fenn. She has only fainted." CHAPTER III SAVING THE AUTO Fenn's brain was in a whirl. The manner of the girl, her strange words, her sudden fright when he had sought to recall to her what she had said, and her reference to a mysterious cave, all served to give the lad much to think about. Coming as it did, on top of the automobile accident, it added to the excitement of the day. He was glad, when he got down stairs, to find that his three chums had returned with the things for which the physicians had sent them. "Well, were you playing nurse?" asked Frank. "Say," declared Fenn earnestly, "I certainly was up against it. I had a delirious patient, who was talking about caves and strange men." "Tell us," suggested Bart, and Fenn related what the girl had said. "That's nothing," declared Ned. "She was talking in her sleep." "No, it was delirium." "Well, that's the same thing," retorted Ned. "It doesn't mean anything. She was all worked up over the accident. Probably she looked ahead, saw the fence, and got scared half to death. Then, when the auto went over the cliff, and she and her father were spilled out, it might have looked as if she was falling into a cave. That's all." "I don't believe it," declared Fenn determinedly. "I think there is something back of her talk. She was only partly delirious. Besides, she knew she had been talking about a cave, for she asked me to forget all about it. There's something in all this, and don't you forget it. Some day I'll find out what it is." "You're a regular mystery solver, you are, Stumpy," declared Ned. "Fenn! Fenn!" exclaimed an excited woman, coming into the dining room where the boys had gathered to talk. "What has happened? What is the matter? Are you hurt? Was there an accident? Why is Constable Darby in front of the house, keeping the crowd back?" "There was an accident, mother," said Fenn, "and a man and a girl who were hurt have been brought here. I told them to fetch them in. I thought you wouldn't care." "No, of course not. Poor things! I'm so sorry! Are they badly hurt?" "I'm afraid the man is, but the girl seems to be getting better, except that she fainted awhile ago," replied Fenn, and he briefly related what had happened. Just then Dr. Fanwood came into the room, to ask Fenn to heat some water, and he remarked: "It is not so bad as we feared. The young lady is suffering from nothing but shock and some bruises. The man, her father, has a bad wound on the head, but nothing serious. They will both be all right in a few days. It was a narrow escape." "Who are they, Doctor?" asked Mrs. Masterson. "I have not been able to question either of them," replied the physician, "but, from papers which we found in the man's pocket I take him to be Robert Hayward, of Bayville, Wisconsin. The young woman is evidently his daughter, Ruth, though what they can be doing so far away from home, in an automobile, I do not know." "Is he dangerously hurt?" asked Mrs. Masterson. "Well, it would be dangerous to move him for a few days, as complications might set in. If he could stay here--" "Of course he can," interrupted Fenn's mother. "He and his daughter, too. We have plenty of room." "I am glad to hear you say so," replied the doctor. "They will get well more quickly if they are kept quiet. Now I must go back to my patient." He took the hot water Fenn gave him and left the room. The four chums and Mrs. Masterson discussed the recent happenings, and the crowd outside, learning from the constable that there was no one dead, or likely to die, went off to look at the auto which still hung over the cliff. Mrs. Masterson rather ridiculed Fenn's idea that the girl's talk had a bearing on some mysterious happenings, and she was of the same opinion as Ned, that it was merely the raving of delirium. But Fenn stoutly clung to his own idea. "You'll see," he declared. The doctors left presently, and Alice Keene, Bart's sister, who was something of a trained nurse, was installed to look after Mr. Hayward. Miss Hayward declared she was not ill enough to be in bed, and wanted to look after her father, but Mrs. Masterson insisted that the young woman must consider herself a patient for several days, and declared that she would take care of her. "Come on, boys," suggested Fenn, when the excitement had somewhat calmed down. "Let's see if we can't save the auto." "I'm afraid if we disturb it the least bit it will go over the cliff," said Ned. "It's hanging on by its teeth, so to speak." "We'll try, anyhow," decided Bart. "I'd like to help haul it back. Maybe we'd get a ride in it, after Mr. Hayward gets well." "That's all you care about it," taunted Frank with a laugh. "No, but if we do save it, I guess you wouldn't refuse a ride in it," retorted Bart. "It isn't often you get the chance." "That's so," agreed Fenn. "But come on. If we wait much longer the crowd will get around it and, maybe, loosen the wire that holds it." The four chums hurried to the scene of the accident. They found that the weight of the big car had stretched the wires so that the machine hung farther than ever over the edge of the cliff. "It's going to be a hard job to save that machine," declared Ned. "How are we going to do it?" "Let me think a minute," spoke Bart, who was usually fertile in devising ways and means of doing things. "What ye goin' to do?" demanded Constable Darby who, having found his post as guard at the house an empty honor, had assumed charge of the machine. "What you boys up to now? You'd better move away from here." "We're going to rescue Mr. Hayward's auto for him," declared Fenn with more assurance than he felt. "He wants it hauled back," he added, which was true enough. "Wa'al, ef he wants it, that's a different thing," replied the constable, who evidently recognized that Fenn had some rights in the matter, since the injured persons had been carried to the lad's house. "I guess we've got ropes enough," spoke Bart. "The next thing is to get some pulleys and find something strong enough to stand the strain. I guess that big oak tree will do. Who knows where we can get some pulleys?" "There are some at our house," said Fenn. "The painters left them there when they finished the job last week. I can get them." "Good!" cried Bart. "You get 'em, and we'll get the ropes in shape." When Fenn returned with the pulleys he found that his chums had taken several turns of one of the ropes about a tree, that was to stand the strain of hauling the auto back on firm ground. The pulleys were arranged so as to give more power to the hauling force, and then, the cables having been cautiously fastened to the back of the auto, Bart gave the word, and half a score of boys assisted the chums in heaving on the rope. There was a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether, but the auto never budged. "Once more!" cried Bart. "Hold on!" a voice urged, and the boys, and others in the crowd saw a telephone lineman approaching. "That wire holds the wheels!" he explained, pointing to where the wire from the fence was entangled in the spokes. "You fellows hold on the rope and I'll cut it for you!" Drawing out a big pair of cutters he crawled under the rear of the auto, and, lying on his back, proceeded to sever the wire strands. "Keep the rope taut!" urged Bart. "When the wire is cut there'll be a heavy strain." The boys, and several men who had taken hold of the hempen cable, braced themselves. There was a snap, as the cutters went through the wire. "Look out!" cried the lineman. There was a creaking of the ropes. A sudden strain came on them, so powerful, that those holding the strands felt the hemp slipping through their fingers. "She's going over the cliff!" cried Bart. "Hold her, boys! Hold her!" CHAPTER IV PLANNING A CRUISE Farther and farther over the cliff slid the heavy auto. The boys and men, holding the rope, were pulled slowly along, as is a losing team in a tug-of-war. "Snub your rope, boys!" a voice suddenly called. "Snub her! That's the only way to hold her back! Take a half hitch around that stump, and you'll have her! She's got a little too much way on for you! Snub her! Snub her, I say!" Bart gave one glance at the man who had called these directions. He saw a short, squatty figure, wearing a dark blue cap, with some gold braid on it. One glance was enough to show that the man knew what he was talking about. Bart let go his grip of the rope. The auto slipped a little faster then, for there were not so many hands holding it. But Bart knew what he was doing. He grabbed the free end of the rope and, following the directions of the newcomer, who aided him, he took a couple of turns about a big stump. This "snubbed" or slowed up the progress of the ponderous car, and a moment later it came to a stop. "Now you've got her!" exclaimed the squatty man. "She'll hold until you can get a couple of teams to haul her back. You can't do it alone. Too much steam needed!" "That's where you're right, Captain Wiggs!" remarked Constable Darby. "I was jest a goin' t' tell th' boys that myself, but it's better t' have th' advice come from a regular sea-farin' person I s'pose." "I'm no sea-faring person," replied the captain. "The Great Lakes are good enough for me, but those who cruise on them know a thing or two, even if they're not of the salt water." "Your advice came just in time, Captain," said Ned, for the boys knew the commander of the steamer _Modoc_, which was one of the Great Lakes fleet of freight carriers, and occasionally tied up at Darewell. "I should say it did," added Frank. "My arms are nearly pulled off." "I'll go up the street and see if I can get a couple of men to bring their teams here and haul the auto up," volunteered Fenn. "I guess Mr. Hayward will pay them." The others thought this suggestion a good one, and, in a short time Fenn returned with two men, who each drove two powerful horses. The animals were hitched to the rope and, after a little pulling and hauling, under the direction of Captain Wiggs, who naturally took charge, the auto was hauled back to the street, not much damaged from the plunge over the cliff. The crowd stood around for some time longer, looking at the touring car until Fenn had the men haul it to a barn near his house. The boys would have liked to have run it themselves, but, as they knew very little about cars, and as they were not sure of the condition of the machinery of this one, they decided the slower method of propulsion would be best. In the morning there was a great improvement in the condition of Mr. Hayward and his daughter, Ruth. In fact Ruth could be up, Dr. Fanwood said, though she must not exert herself. That afternoon after school the three chums wanted Fenn to go for a walk, but he made some excuse and hurried home. He found Miss Ruth, who looked prettier than ever he thought, sitting in the parlor in an easy chair. "I don't believe I thanked you and your friends for what you did for my father and myself," she said, with a smile, as she held out her hand to Fenn. "Oh, it isn't necessary--I mean we didn't do anything--" and poor Fenn became much confused. "I--er--that is we--saw the auto go over and we hurried out." "Oh, it was awful!" exclaimed Ruth, "I thought I was going to be killed! It was terrible!" "It was a lucky escape," murmured Fenn, sympathetically, wondering if the girl would make any reference to the cave she had raved about. But she did not, and, after asking Fenn to bring his three chums, that she might thank them personally, she went back to her room. "I wish I dared ask her about that mysterious cave," thought Fenn. "There's something back of it all, I'm sure. She acts as if she was afraid I'd find it out." A few days later Mr. Hayward was able to be up, and after that his recovery was rapid. He explained to Fenn, and the boy's parents, that he was in the timber business, and had some mining interests. His daughter's health was not of the best, he added, and, in the hope of improving it, he had taken her on a long auto trip. They intended to go to Maine, and camp in the woods, and were on their way there when the accident happened. "I'm sure I can't thank you for all you have done for me," said Mr. Hayward, looking at Fenn and his parents. "Those other boys, too; my daughter tells me there were three of your chums who helped." "Oh, we didn't do so much," murmured Fenn. "Anybody would have done the same." "Yes, but you did it," replied Mr. Hayward. "I appreciate it, I can tell you. I wish I could show you how much. Perhaps I can, some day. I'll tell you what I wish you'd do; come out and see me. It's not so very far to Bayville, and we can show you some great sights there, I tell you. You could make the trip along the Great Lakes, and they're well worth seeing. My daughter and I would make you comfortable, I'm sure." "It's very kind of you to give the boys that invitation," said Mr. Masterson. "I'm afraid it's too long a trip for them." "Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Hayward. "They can go by boat all the way. It's a fine trip." "I'm sure you would enjoy it," said Ruth, smiling at Fenn. "Then we'll go!" exclaimed Stumpy, with more energy than the occasion seemed to call for. "I wish you would," added Mr. Hayward, and then he and Mr. Masterson began a discussion of business matters. A little later that evening Fenn, going in the parlor for a book, saw Ruth sitting there in the darkness. "What's the matter?" he asked with ready sympathy. "Are you ill? Shall I call my mother?" "No--no, I'm all right--I'll be all right in a little while. Please don't call any one," and the girl seemed much alarmed. "I--I was just thinking of--" "Is there anything worrying you?" asked Fenn boldly, as the memory of what she had said in her delirium came back to him. "Can I do anything to help you? Is it about a cave?" "Hush!" exclaimed Ruth, in such tones that Fenn was startled. "Don't speak of that. Oh, I don't know why I mentioned it. I was not myself! Forget it, please. It might cause a dreadful--Oh, I can't talk about it!" She was whispering tensely, and she came close to Fenn. In the next room Mr. Hayward could be heard telling Mr. Masterson something about his large business interests. "Don't let my father hear you," pleaded Ruth. "But perhaps I can help you," insisted Fenn. "No--no one can--at least not now," she said. "Don't ask me. I must go now. Good-night," and she hurried from the room, leaving a much-puzzled lad behind. He forgot all about the book he wanted, so wrought up was he over what Ruth had said. He decided it would not be proper to question her any further, though he wanted very much to aid her if he could. The next morning Mr. Hayward announced that he felt well enough to proceed. The auto had been repaired, and the gentleman and his daughter, bidding their hosts farewell, started off. They had decided to return home, as Ruth was so upset over the accident that a camping trip was out of the question. "Now don't forget, I expect you boys out to visit me," called Mr. Hayward, as the four chums waved their hands to father and daughter when the auto puffed off. "Come early and stay late!" "Poor girl," murmured Mrs. Masterson, as she went back into the house. "She seems worried over something, but I don't see what it can be, for her father is very wealthy, according to his talk, and she has everything she wants. Maybe she misses her mother. She told me she had been dead only a few years." But Fenn knew it was something about the mysterious cave that was worrying Ruth, and he wished, more than ever, that he could do something to aid her. It was a week after this when, school having closed for the summer term, the four chums were gathered at Fenn's house. Frank, Ned and Bart had arrived at the same time, to find Stumpy absorbed in the pages of a big geography. "Going to take a post-graduate course?" asked Bart. "No, he's looking for Bayville, to see if he can't catch a glimpse of Ruth," spoke Ned. "I was planning a vacation trip," replied Fenn, with dignity. "A vacation trip? Where?" "On the Great Lakes," answered Fenn. "I think it would be just the thing. I've been looking it up. We could go down the Still River to Lake Erie, and then to Lake Huron. From there we could visit the Straits of Mackinaw, and then, after a trip on Lake Michigan, go through the Sault St. Mary to Lake Superior. Then--" "Yes, and then we could sail to Bayville and you could visit Ruth while we sat on the bank and caught fish!" interrupted Frank. "Oh, Stumpy, it's easy to guess what you are thinking about!" CHAPTER V CAPTAIN WIGGS'S PROPOSAL Fenn had to stand considerable "jollying" on the part of his chums, but, though he blushed and was a little annoyed, he took it in good part. "You can talk about Ruth all you like," he said, "but, just the same, if you have any plans to beat a cruise on the Great Lakes, why--trot 'em out, that's all. We've got to go somewhere this vacation, and I don't see any better place, though I've looked through the whole geography." "And the only place you could get to was Bayville," interrupted Ned. "It's all right, Stumpy. I agree with you, that it would be a fine trip." "How could we make it?" asked Frank. "Walk, of course," replied Bart, with a grin. "It's water all the way." "Funny!" answered Frank, poking his sarcastic chum in the ribs. "I mean where could we get a boat?" "Hire one, I s'pose," put in Fenn, who had been busy marking an imaginary cruise in lead pencil on the map of the Great Lakes. "That would be pretty expensive," said Bart. "We're not millionaires, though we each have a little money salted away in the bank." The boys discussed the proposed cruise for some time longer, but there seemed no way of going on it. To hire a steamer or motorboat for such a long trip was practically out of the question for them, and, with much regret they all admitted it could not be considered. "Come over to-morrow night," invited Fenn, when his chums left that evening. "Maybe we can think of something by then." The next afternoon Fenn, who had gone to the store for his mother, stopped, on his way back, at the public dock of the Still River, where several vessels were loading with freight for Lake Erie ports. There was much hurrying about and seeming confusion; wagons and trucks backing up and going ahead, and scores, of men wheeling boxes and barrels on board lighters and steamers. "Port! Port your helm!" suddenly called a voice, almost in Fenn's ear, and he jumped to one side, to allow a short, stout man, with his arms full of bundles, to pass him. "That's it!" the man went on. "Nearly run you down, didn't I? Thought you were a water-logged craft in my course. Why, hello! If it isn't Fenn Masterson!" "Captain Wiggs!" exclaimed Fenn, recognizing the commander of the _Modoc_. "Looking for a berth?" went on the captain, as he placed his bundles down on the head of a barrel. "I can sign you as cleaner of the after boiler tubes, if you like," and he looked so grave that Fenn did not know whether he was joking or not. It was a habit the captain had, of making the most absurd remarks in a serious way, so that even his friends, at times, did not quite know how to take him. "Yes," he went on, "I need a small boy to crawl through the after boiler tubes twice a day to keep 'em clean. Would you like the job?" "I--I don't believe so," replied Fenn, with a smile, for now he knew Captain Wiggs was joking. "All right then," said the commander, with an assumed sigh. "I'll have to do it myself, and I'm getting pretty old and fat for such work. The tubes are smaller than they used to be. But I dare say I can manage it. Where you going?" he asked Fenn suddenly, with a change of manner. "No place in particular. Home, pretty soon. Why?" "I was going to ask you to come aboard and have a glass of lemonade," invited the captain. "It's a hot day and lemonade is the best drink I know of." "Oh, I'll come," decided Fenn, for Captain Wiggs's lemonade had quite a reputation. Besides there were always queer little chocolate cakes in the captain's cabin lockers, for he was very fond of sweet things, as Fenn knew from experience. "Haven't saved any more sinking automobiles, lately, have you?" asked the commander, when Fenn was seated in the cabin, sipping a glass of the delicious beverage. "No. Mr. Hayward has gone back to Bayville." "Bayville? Is that where he lives?" asked Captain Wiggs. "That's it," replied Fenn. "Why?" "That's odd," mused the captain. "I'm going right near there, this cruise. You see I've got a mixed cargo this trip," he explained. "I've got to deliver some things at several lake ports, but the bulk of the stuff goes to Duluth. Now if you would only ship with me, as cleaner of the after boiler tubes, why you could go along." "Could I?" asked Fenn eagerly. "Sure." "And--and could you take any other boiler tube cleaners, or--or any other help?" "Well, I need a couple of lads to dust the coal," said the captain, so seriously that Fenn thought he meant it. "You see if coal is dusty it doesn't burn well," he added. "We have to dust off every lump before we can put it in the boiler. Now a couple of handy lads, who were quick and smart could--" "Maybe you could use three," suggested Fenn, with a smile. "Sure I could," spoke the captain. "That's it!" he added quickly. "You and your three chums! Why not? You four could come along, and, if necessary, you could all dust coal. We use a lot of it. Come on now, here's a proposal for you," and the captain smiled good naturedly. "You four boys come along and make the trip to Duluth with me." "Would it--would it cost much?" asked Fenn, seeing a chance of carrying out the cruise he had planned. "Not a cent. I tell you I'll use you boys in more ways than one. Dusting the coal is only a small matter. There is the smoke stack to be scrubbed, the dishes to be hand painted and the windows to be taken out and put in again." "Do you mean it?" asked Fenn. "I mean, do you really want us on this trip, Captain Wiggs?" "Of course I do. I sail in three days, to be gone a month or more. If you boys want to have a good vacation come along. Get the permission of your folks and let me know to-night." "I will!" exclaimed Fenn, his brain whirling with the suddenness of it all. "I'll tell the other boys right away," and, not even pausing to thank the captain for the lemonade, he hurried up the companion ladder, out on the deck of the _Modoc_ and, jumping to the dock, ran up the street as fast as he could go. CHAPTER VI IN PERIL "Here's the stuff from the store, mom!" exclaimed Fenn, as he rushed into the house. "What's the matter?" asked his mother anxiously. "Has there been an accident, Fenn?" "Got to find the boys! Captain Wiggs! _Modoc!_ Going on a cruise! Tell you later!" was what Fenn exclaimed in jerky sentences as he hurried down the side steps and out of the yard. "Oh, those boys! They get so excited you can't do anything with them!" exclaimed Mrs. Masterson. "I wonder what they're up to now?" If she could have seen her son and his chums, whom he met on the street, soon after his hurried exit, she would have been more puzzled than ever. "Great news! Great!" yelled Fenn, as he caught sight of Frank, Ned and Bart approaching him. "We're going with Captain Wiggs to make a tour of the Great Lakes! Whoop! Hold me down, somebody!" He grabbed Ned and Bart, each by an arm, and began whirling them around in a good imitation of an Indian war dance. "Here! Let up!" cried Frank. "What's it all about? Who's killed?" "Nobody, you ninny!" shouted Fenn. "We're going on the _Modoc_!" "Who says so?" "When?" "How many of us?" "Where?" "Are we all going?" All Fenn could do was to nod his head vigorously. He was all out of breath. As soon as he could get enough wind to talk, he rapidly explained what Captain Wiggs had said. "Does he mean we're to work our passage?" asked Frank. "I don't know as I care to shovel coal, if that's what he means." "I guess he was only joking about that part of it," answered Fenn. "I'm going, if I have to scrub the decks. It will be sport." "That's right," chimed in Bart. "I don't mind working my way for the sake of the trip. When can we go?" "Let's go down to the wharf and have a talk with him," suggested Ned, and they all agreed this was a wise idea. A little later they were in the large cabin of the _Modoc_, which, for a freight boat, was well fitted up. Captain Wiggs repeated the invitation he had given to Fenn. The boys would be welcome to make the trip with him, he said, as long as their parents consented. They would need an outfit of clothing, with rough garments for stormy weather, which might be encountered. "And we'll do anything we can to help you run the boat," added Bart, who felt that some return ought to be given for the captain's generosity. "Well," replied the commander, in drawling tones, "I don't expect too much. But if you could manage to keep the door mats clean it would be a great help." "Door mats--on a ship?" questioned Ned. "Yes; of course," replied the captain, with an assumption of dignity. "You see the salt spray gets all over the deck, and if it's tramped into the cabins it makes the floors dirty. My steward is very particular about clean floors, and I thought that if you could help keep the mats clean, why it would make his work easier, and he wouldn't grumble so much. However, if it's too much trouble, why of course--" "Oh, we'll do it," hastily agreed Fenn, fearing that the trip might be called off. He did not quite know how to take the captain's remarks, for the commander had not the least suspicion of a smile on his face. After all, thought Fenn, it might be necessary to clean the door mats, and he resolved to do his share of it. "Well, now that that's settled," went on the commander, as if a load had been taken from his mind, "we'll go into further details." He then explained to the boys what they would need in the way of clothing and baggage, and he briefly described the trip. The duration of it was a little uncertain as he could not tell how long he would have to wait at Duluth, after unloading, before he could get a cargo to bring back. "I guess I'll get you home safe in time to begin the fall term of school," he said, "and that ought to answer." "It will," declared Ned. "It's mighty fine of you to ask us." "Oh, I guess you'll be worth your salt," commented Captain Wiggs. "Besides attending to the door mats, I may expect you to look after the scuttle-butt, now and again." Fenn wanted to ask what the scuttle-butt was, but as the steward came in just then, to get some orders, the boys decided it was time to leave. They promised to be on hand the day set for sailing, and then, with their minds full of the happy prospect ahead of them, they went ashore. The parents of the lads offered no objection to their making the cruise in company with Captain Wiggs, who was well known in Darewell. In due time valises and trunks were packed and the four chums, the envy of their less-fortunate school companions, strolled down to the wharf and boarded the _Modoc_. The steamer was a large one, and had good accommodations for passengers, though she seldom carried any. This time, besides the boys, there was only one man, who was making the trip for his health. He was Burton Ackerman, who lived in a small town not far from Darewell. They found that their staterooms, which were of good size, adjoined one another. They put away their belongings, and then went up on deck. The _Modoc_ had cast off, and was slowly gathering speed as it dropped down the river toward Lake Erie. "Don't forget the scenery, boys!" called the captain, as he passed. "We won't," answered Ned, with a laugh. The boys had often made the trip to Lake Erie, and there was little of novelty for them in this. But, when the steamer had gotten well out on the big body of water, they crowded to the rails, for they had never been out so far as this before. "It's almost as good as an ocean voyage," exclaimed Bart. "What are you thinking of, Stumpy?" asked Frank, noticing that his short chum was rather quiet. "I know," declared Ned. "He's wondering if he'll see Ruth." "Oh, you--" began the badgered one, when the attention of the boys was taken from tormenting their chum by several sharp blasts of the _Modoc's_ whistle. There was an answering screech and Frank suddenly exclaimed: "Look there, boys!" They all looked. On the port side, bearing right down on them, and coming at full speed, was an immense grain barge. It appeared to be unmanageable, for the whistle was frantically blowing, and a man in the pilot house was waving his hand. "Toot! Toot! Toot! Toot!" screamed the whistle of the _Modoc_. "She's going to ram us!" cried Fenn. "We can't get out of the way in time!" There was a confused jangling of bells from the _Modoc's_ engine room, followed by more whistles, and then the steamer began to swing around. But still the grain barge came straight on. A collision seemed inevitable. CHAPTER VII AN ELEVATOR BLAZE From somewhere Captain Wiggs reached the deck on the jump. He tore past the boys on the run, and fairly burst into the door of the pilot house, where the first mate was in charge. "We'd better get ready to jump!" cried Frank. "It looks as if we were going to be cut in two." "Grab life preservers!" shouted Ned. "Here are some back here!" He turned to lead the way to where, under an awning, some of the cork jackets were hung in racks. Before he could reach them a peculiar shiver seemed to run over the _Modoc_. "She's hit us!" yelled Bart. "Everybody jump!" The boys made a rush for the rail, intending to trust to their swimming abilities rather than to chance remaining on the steamer after the grain barge had hit her. But their plans were suddenly frustrated for, as they reached the rail, something that towered away above their heads loomed up, and the grain vessel came sliding along side of the _Modoc_, just as if the two craft were about to tie up together for loading purposes. The grain barge only bumped gently against the side of the steamer. The shrill whistles ceased. The jangling bells were silent. By the narrowest of margins a bad collision had been avoided. Out of the pilot house came Captain Wiggs, running along the rail until he came opposite the pilot house of the grain barge. Then, standing on a signal flag locker the commander addressing the man in charge of the vessel which had given them all such a scare, exclaimed: "Say, what in the name of the Sacred Cow are you trying to do, anyhow? Don't you know how to steer, you inconsiderate slab-sided specimen of an isosceles triangle!" "Sure I know how to steer," replied the man, who was as cool as the captain was excited. "I was steering boats when you was a baby. But I'd like to know how in the name of Billy Hochswatter's mud-turtle any one can manage a boat when the steam steering gear breaks just as another vessel gets in front of me." "Oh, then that's different," replied Captain Wiggs, with an understanding of the difficulties of the situation. "Yes, I guess it is," retorted the other. "Why didn't you use the hand gear?" asked the commander of the _Modoc_. "That got jammed just as they were swinging my boat around, and all I could do was to signal for a clear course." "Well, I gave it to you, but I almost had to rip my engines off the bed plates to do it," retorted Captain Wiggs. "I reversed at full speed, and swung that wheel around until it looked like a spinning top. Only for that we'd be on the bottom of the lake by now." "That's right," agreed the other pilot. "You had your nerve with you. Well, as long as there's no damage done I s'pose you can go ahead. I'll have to lay-to for repairs." "Um," was all Captain Wiggs replied, for he had not quite gotten over his scare, used as he was to narrow escapes from danger. Slowly the _Modoc_ was backed away from the side of the grain barge, and, when at the proper distance, she was sent ahead again, the other craft coming to anchor. "I hope I don't meet him again this voyage," murmured Captain Wiggs, as he walked up to where the four chums stood. "He's the most unlucky fellow I know. Something is always happening to his boats." "Who is he?" asked Ned. "Captain Streitwetter. He's a German from Germanville. Did you hear him mention Billy Hochswatter's mud-turtle?" "Yes," said Bart. "What did he mean?" "That is a story," replied Captain Wiggs gravely, "which can only be told after the dinner dishes are washed. You'd better look after them," and with that he walked away. "There he goes again!" exclaimed Frank. "You never know what he is going to say. I believe he's stringing us." "I almost know it," retorted Fenn. "It's only a way he has, but the trouble is we don't know whether or not he wants us to do the things he says. I wonder if we had better do anything about the dishes?" "Of course not," said Frank. "The cook sees to that." "But maybe the cook is sick," insisted Fenn. "Captain Wiggs might want us to help." "If I thought so I'd offer at once," put in Ned. "I used to do it at home, once in a while, to help out." "I'll go ask him," volunteered Fenn, and he started to find Captain Wiggs, when he was halted by seeing the commander step from behind a pile of boxes. The captain was laughing heartily. "That's the time I had you guessing; didn't I?" he demanded. "Wash the dishes. Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! That's pretty good!" The boys, looking a bit sheepish, soon joined in the merriment at their expense, and the little pleasantry served to banish the nervous feeling that remained after the narrow escape from the collision. "Billy Hochswatter's mud-turtle!" repeated the captain. "That's what Captain Streitwetter always says when he's excited. I don't believe there ever was such a person as Billy Hochswatter." "I either," added Fenn. "I must go down to the engine room to see if we suffered any damage," the commander of the _Modoc_ went on. "You boys amuse yourselves as well as you can until dinner time. You don't have to peel the potatoes," he added with a wink. "We'll have to get even with him, somehow," suggested Ned, when the captain was out of hearing. "How?" asked Bart. "I haven't thought it out yet, but we must play some kind of a trick on him. He'll think the Darewell chums are slow if we believe all he tells us, and don't come back at him. Try and think up something." "Good idea," commented Fenn. "We'll have the laugh on him, next time." The day passed quickly, for there were many novel sights for the boys to see. Captain Wiggs was kept so busy, for there were some repairs needed to one of the engines, because of the sudden reversing, that the boys did not see him again that day. He did not appear at dinner or supper, and the steward said the commander was taking his meals in the engine room. The _Modoc_ was going along at less than her usual speed, but was making fairly good time. "Well, I s'pose we might as well turn in, boys," suggested Fenn, about nine o'clock. "I believe that is the proper term aboard a ship." "Yes, messmates," spoke Ned, assuming a theatrical attitude, "we will now seek our downy hammocks, and court 'tired nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep,' to arise in the gladsome morning, and 'you must wake and call me early; call me early, mother dear, for I'm to be Queen of the May, mother; I'm to be Queen of the May!'" "We'll call you 'loony,' instead of 'early,' if you get off any more of that nonsense," murmured Frank. "That's what," agreed Fenn. "You're not studying English Lit. and French history now, Ned." "Very well, most noble gentlemen," went on Ned. "I shall obey you, right gladly, I ween!" and he made a dive for his stateroom before Bart, who made a sudden grab could lay hands on him. The others soon turned in, and, in spite of their new and strange surroundings and beds, were soon sound asleep. It must have been about midnight that Fenn was awakened by hearing a great tramping on deck. It was followed by confused shouts, and then came the jangling of the engine room bells. The _Modoc_ seemed to increase her speed. "I wonder if there's another collision coming?" he said as he sat up. He heard Bart moving in the next room, and presently Frank's voice was heard calling: "Say, fellows, something's wrong." The noise on deck increased, and it sounded as though several men were running to and fro, dragging ropes about. "I'm going up!" decided Fenn, jumping out of his berth and hastily pulling on his clothes. From the open doors of his chums' rooms he could see that they, too, were attiring themselves with little regard for how they looked. Up on deck they hurried. As they emerged from the companionway their eyes were met with a bright glare. "A fire!" exclaimed Ned. "The boat's afire!" "Don't say that! Don't say that, young man, I beg of you!" besought a man, attired in his trousers and night shirt, as he approached Ned, who recognized him as Mr. Ackerman, the sick passenger. "What is it?" inquired Fenn, who was right behind Ned. "He said the ship was on fire," repeated Mr. Ackerman. "I can't stand it. I have heart disease. Excitement is bad for me. Do, please, one of you, go and find out how fast it is burning, and come back and tell me." He sat down at the head of the companionway, as coolly as though he had asked to be informed which way the wind was blowing. Evidently he knew how to take care of himself, so as not to aggravate his malady. "The ship isn't on fire!" exclaimed Bart, crowding past Ned and Fenn. "But something evidently is burning," insisted Mr. Ackerman. "I can smell smoke, and see the reflection of the blaze." This was not strange, considering that the _Modoc_ was in the midst of a cloud of vapor, and that bright tongues of fire could be seen close to her bow. "It's a big grain elevator on shore that's burning!" exclaimed Frank. "See! There it is!" As he spoke the smoke which enveloped the steamer was blown aside. The boys could then note that, during the night the vessel had approached close to shore. They were near a good-sized city, and, among the wharfs was a big building, built to hold grain in readiness to load on the lake steamers. From the top of this flames were shooting high into the air, and the _Modoc_ was approaching it at full speed. CHAPTER VIII FENN HEARS SOMETHING "What's the matter? Can't Captain Wiggs stop the ship?" cried Fenn, for it certainly looked as if the _Modoc_ was going to run, full tilt, into the flames, which were right at the water's edge, as the elevator was on the end of the wharf. "Clang!" The half speed bell sounded from the engine room. The steamer began to slacken speed. "Clang! Clang!" Two gongs. Stop the engines. The _Modoc_ was going ahead under her own momentum only. Then another signal. Under the stern of the steamer the water boiled and bubbled as the great screw was reversed, to check the vessel's way. The jingling bell, following the signal to reverse, indicated to the engineer to back his machinery at full speed, and the big craft fairly quivered, so great was the strain of stopping her up short. But they were master-hands aboard the _Modoc_ and she swung broadside to a wharf as gently as a boy brings his toy boat to a stop. From the deck men leaped to the string piece, with great ropes in their hands, which they made fast to butts and piling. The steamer was tied up, so close to the burning elevator that the boys could feel the heat of it. "What are you going to do, captain?" asked Mr. Ackerman, who seemed to have recovered from his nervousness, when he found the _Modoc_ was in no danger. "I'm going to help douse that fire!" cried the commander. "Lively with that hose, men! Lively now! Snatch her quick and I'll give you all the water you can handle!" Several brawny deck-hands began pulling a line of hose over the side. Other men were lowering a big boat, into which the men with the hose jumped. The hose was unreeled after them as they pulled out on the lake, in front of the burning elevator. "I'm afraid it's a goner," remarked Captain Wiggs, as a gust of wind sent the leaping flames licking along the surface of the water. "How did it happen?" "Whose place is it?" "What are you going to do?" Those were some of the questions which the boys asked Captain Wiggs. He answered them all, comprehensively. "It's an elevator in which the owners of the _Modoc_ are interested," he said. "I was to call there to-morrow for a load of grain. I was heading for the wharf, intending to tie up until morning, when I saw flames shooting out of the top of the shaft. I've got a powerful pump aboard, and I knew they didn't have any fire boat in town, so I speeded the _Modoc_ as close as I could. I don't believe I can do much, but I'm going to try. I'm afraid the fire has too much start." "Can we go ashore and watch it?" asked Ned. "I guess so. Don't go too near, and be careful you don't fall off the pier. It's deep water all around." Captain Wiggs hurried down to the engine room, for the men with the hose in the boat were now as close as they dared to go to the fire, and could use water. "Come on, fellows!" cried Ned. "We don't often get a chance to see a big fire like this." They leaped to the wharf, since no gang plank had been run out, and were soon hurrying along the pier to shore. The elevator was several slips or piers distant, and the boys would have to go ashore to reach it. As they ran on they could hear the big pump of the _Modoc_ beginning to force water from the lake through the hose, the nozzle of which the men in the row boat directed at the fire. In the street along the water front the four chums found a great crowd. Every one was hurrying to the blaze. Men were shouting, boys were yelling, and even women and girls had hurriedly dressed to come out to the conflagration. "The whole block back of the elevator'll go, if they don't stop it pretty soon!" yelled a man as he passed on the run. "Here comes the water-tower!" shouted several. "Look out there!" "Clear the way!" An insistent clanging of a fire gong to the accompaniment of barking dogs told that some piece of apparatus was dashing along the street. The boys felt some one from behind thrust them to one side. "Look out!" a policeman shouted in their ears. "Do you want to be killed?" They shrank back, burying themselves in the crowd on either side of the way, just as the water tower, with the plunging horses foam-flecked and heaving, dashed by. "They've sent for more engines from Frenchtown!" cried some one in the throng. "They'll need all they can get." "The warehouse'll go next!" "They'd better use dynamite!" "This shows we ought to have a fire boat!" "This department don't know how to handle a blaze like that!" Remarks of this nature kept floating to the ears of the boys as they hurried along, arm in arm, so they would not become separated in the press that was on every side of them. Above the din sounded a shrill whistle, and a fire-engine, spouting sparks, with the stoker at the back, clinging to the rail with one hand, and with the other throwing soft coal on the glowing mass under the boiler, crammed his head out to see how much farther the panting horses had to run. The blazing elevator was hidden from sight of the boys by several buildings that intervened, but by looking up they could see the lurid sky, and the smoke-laden air, in which glowed dull red sparks, like stars. Suddenly the crowd, of which the four chums formed a part, swung around a corner. Then a terrible, but vivid scene was presented. On the end of a big wharf, with the black lake as a background, was the flaming structure. It stood out boldly, like a picture framed in ebony, illuminating itself by leaping, licking tongues of yellow fire, that seemed to tumble and toss--to twist and coil about like devouring serpents. Up shot the flames--far above the slanting, narrow roof of the elevator. The windows shone out as though millions of candles had been placed in them. Through some casements, darting spears of fire glanced, as if to transfix anything in their path, not satisfied with what was within. The piles of grain made a dense smoke, and the peculiar structure of the building, like some immense chimney, gave a draught that seemed to doom the elevator to complete destruction. At the foot of the building could be seen a dark mass of firemen, moving here and there. In spots it was illuminated by little spurts of flame, where the engines were puffing like mad to send the quenching water on the fiercely burning timbers. "They'll never stop that fire!" shouted a man close to the chums. "The roof'll cave in soon!" "Why don't they use the stand pipes in the elevator?" asked another man. "No engine they've got can throw water to the roof." "The stand pipes are melted by now," was the answer. "They tried 'em, but it got too hot. There she goes!" The flames seemed to make one final leap, as if to reach a higher point in the air than they had yet attained. There was a sound as though a great gun had exploded and the roof, blown off by the heated air inside, and by the gases generated from the burning grain, was scattered into a thousand pieces. Then, as if satisfied that it had accomplished what it set out to do, the fire died down a little. The top stories of the elevator toppled in, and the mass seemed to crumple up. Owing to the packed heaps of grain it was burning slowly, now that most of the wood work was consumed. "That's another blow to Hayward!" spoke a voice so close to Fenn's ear that the boy started in spite of himself. "Hush!" cautioned a man, who was beside the one who had first spoken, "some one might hear you." "No one knows what I'm talking about," was the answer. "I guess Hayward will be willing to talk business now. He can't stand many such losses as this, even if he does own most of Bayville. I understand he didn't carry much insurance on this grain, as it was stored for quick movement. Now, when I see him--" The man stopped suddenly, for Fenn was looking right at him. Somehow the youth knew instinctively that he was talking about the Mr. Hayward who had been injured in the auto accident. What could it mean? Why was the speaker glad that the westerner had suffered a loss in the elevator fire? Fenn wanted to hear more. But the man who had first spoken, said nothing further. He grasped his companion by the arm, and nodded toward Fenn. The other boys were still watching the fire, and were some distance away from Stumpy. "Were you--" began the first speaker, looking at Fenn, when his companion suddenly drew him back among the crowd. "Stop! Stop!" Fenn heard him whisper. "I must get hold of him and--" There was some mystery here. Fenn vaguely felt it, but he could not tell what it was. There was a movement in the throng, and Fenn's chums were pressed back to where he stood. "Here comes some more engines!" was the cry. Additional steamers, summoned from an adjoining city, rattled up. The fire, which had died down, seemed to break out afresh, as the flames seized on new material. "I tell you I'm going to find out about him!" This was the voice of the man who had spoken of Mr. Hayward. Fenn glanced around. The fellow, who had a sinister face, was making his way toward him. "Maybe they're thieves or pickpockets," thought Fenn. "I guess we'd better get out of here while we have the chance." He leaned forward and grasped Bart by the arm. "Come on!" he hoarsely whispered. "What for?" inquired Bart. "The fire isn't half over." "Come on," repeated Fenn earnestly. "I think Captain Wiggs may want us." He was so insistent, and nodded in such a peculiar way that Bart realized something unusual was in the wind. Pulling Ned and Frank close to him, Fenn whispered: "I think some pickpockets are trying to rob us. I've brought my money with me. Let's get out of here." The boys made a quick turn in the crowd, and worked their way to where the press was not so thick. Fenn led the way, looking back to see if the men were following. They were. The man with the sinister face, and his companion, were trailing close after the boys. "Come on!" cried Fenn, suddenly breaking into a run. But the men were not to be so easily left behind. They, too, quickened their pace, and pursued the four chums, though what their motive was the boys could only guess. CHAPTER IX OFF AGAIN The boys soon found themselves mixed up in another part of the crowd, that had, apparently, come down a side street leading to the lake front. They had some trouble disengaging themselves from it, and, when they again had a fairly clear street to run through, they were some distance from the fire. "Did we lose 'em?" asked Fenn, panting from the run. "What? Who?" asked Frank, who did not exactly understand the cause for the sudden retreat. "Those two--pickpockets," replied Fenn, not knowing exactly how to classify the strange men. "Here comes a couple of fellows on the run," said Ned. "I guess they're still after us. Let's wait and ask what they want. They haven't any right to follow us." "No, no!" urged Fenn. "Come on back to the steamer." He seemed so much in earnest that his chums did not stop to ask questions, but increased their speed. Just as they reached the wharf, at the end of which the _Modoc_ was tied, another fire engine, hastening to the elevator blaze, dashed by. There was a quick clanging of the gong, and a shrill screech from the whistle. It was instantly followed by a shout. "The engine struck one of the men!" cried Frank, looking back. "He's knocked down! Run over I guess! Come on back!" The boys hesitated. They did not want to leave an injured man, even if he and his companion had been pursuing them. The street, at this point, was deserted, save for the two strangers. The engine did not stop, the horses being urged on by the driver, who did not want to have the reputation of arriving last at the conflagration. "Come on back and help him," urged Bart, who was always anxious to aid persons in distress, even if they were enemies. The others hesitated. It was rather a risk, Fenn thought. But the problem was solved for them. The man who had been knocked down by the engine arose to his feet. Supporting himself on the shoulder of his companion he limped off up the street, and away from the boys. "I guess he isn't badly hurt," remarked Ned. "He'll not chase us any more. That engine came along just in time." "Except I guess it's too late to help put out the fire," said Frank. "There can't be much left of the elevator." "But what did we run for?" asked Ned. "Who were those chaps, Fenn?" Fenn explained what he had heard, and expressed the belief that the men had some business enmity against Mr. Hayward. "They seemed delighted that the elevator, containing his grain, burned down; or at least the one man did," he said. "Then, when they saw I was listening, though I didn't really intend to, they acted as though they wanted to get hold of me, and see why I was so interested. I thought they might be pickpockets, but now I don't believe they were." "We must tell Captain Wiggs about it," suggested Frank. "I don't believe I will," answered Fenn. "I don't want him to laugh at me, and I think he surely will if I suggest that the men chased us. He'll probably think we took two harmless citizens for burglars. No, I think the best plan will be to wait and see what turns up." "I'll tell you what you can do," spoke Ned. "What?" inquired Fenn. "You can ask Captain Wiggs who owned that grain in the burned elevator. He'll know, as he was going to get a load there." "Good idea," responded Fenn. "I will." The boys were soon aboard the ship again. They found that the men in the rowboat had returned, as the side of the elevator nearest the lake had all burned away, and their hose was no longer effective. The fire was under control now, but was still blazing well. Enough engines had arrived to prevent it spreading. "Well, this knocks my plans all askew," remarked the commander of the _Modoc_, when the boys came on deck. "I don't know where to get my grain, now." "Did you say the same company that owned this steamer owned that grain?" asked Fenn, seeing a good chance to obtain the information he wanted. "No, I said they owned the elevator," replied the captain. "The grain is a separate matter. I don't know whose that was. Whoever it belonged to won't get much good from it." "Is there any way of telling who owned it?" asked Fenn, for he thought, even though the men had mentioned the name "Hayward," that it might be some other man than the one injured in the auto accident--some one else than the father of Ruth. "Why, I can tell by looking at my order slips," replied Mr. Wiggs. "Why are you so interested?" "I was wondering if it was any one I knew," answered Fenn, a little evasively, as he did not want to explain what had happened. "Um--let's see," and Captain Wiggs who, followed by the boys had gone to the main cabin, began thumbing over the pages of a small book he took from his pocket. "'Proceed to'--no, that's not it--'take cargo'--um--no, it must be on the next page--Oh, yes, here it is. 'Get cargo of grain at Lakeville, from Robert Hayward Company.' That's it. The grain belonged to Robert Hayward--why--er--say, boys, that's the name of the man who was hurt back there in Darewell--he and his daughter Ruth--you know him--why, Fenn, he was at your house!" "So he was!" exclaimed Fenn, his knowledge thus unexpectedly confirmed. "Quite a remarkable coincidence!" went on the Captain. "Very strange! Well, strange things are always happening. You didn't hear what started the fire, did you?" "I heard a policeman say it was spontaneous combustion," said Frank, "but they always give that as a cause, when they can't think of any other." "I don't s'pose they'll ever find out," remarked the captain. "Well, I can't do anything more. We'd better turn in, although it's most morning. Soon as it gets daylight I'll have to hustle around and find out what I'm going to do." Captain Wiggs was a very busy man the next day, sending messages to the steamer's owners to ascertain their wishes. The boys visited the elevator, in which great piles of grain were still smouldering, in spite of the tons of water poured on them. Fenn kept a lookout for the mysterious men, but did not see anything of them. Captain Wiggs had to remain tied up at Lakeville until he received orders to proceed to the next port for a cargo that would be awaiting him there. The boys spent the time on shore, visiting various scenes of interest. "Well, we're off again!" cried the commander, on the morning of the third day, as he came hurrying down the dock, waving a telegram in his hand. "Tying-up is no fun. You may get under way as soon as possible, Mr. Sidleton," he added to the first mate. Steam was up, and, in a short time the _Modoc_ was again plowing the waters of Lake Erie. Gradually Lakeville was left behind, and soon they were out of sight of land. "Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!" A bell suddenly sounded, with queer double strokes. "Eight bells!" exclaimed Captain Wiggs, as he arose from a deck chair where he had been sitting, to the boys. "Time for mess," and he led the way toward the dining saloon. As he was about to descend the companionway he looked over the rail. Astern of the _Modoc_ was a small steam yacht, coming on at a swift speed. "That's queer," murmured the captain. "What is?" asked Fenn, for the boys were privileged characters. "That yacht," replied the commander. "She's been following us all the morning; ever since we left Lakeville. I wonder what the game is? Steward, bring me the glass," he called, and, when the binoculars were handed to him, the captain took a long look at the pursuing craft. CHAPTER X THE CHASE For nearly a minute Captain Wiggs continued his observation of the on-coming boat. Then, laying aside the glass, he remarked: "I can't make anything out of her. It's a strange boat. Never saw her on the lakes before. And they seem to have an uncommon interest in us. A couple of men on deck are taking turns in looking at us through a telescope." "Two men?" asked Fenn, beginning to get excited. "There are two on deck, but of course there must be more somewhere aboard," replied the captain. "And has one of them a--a sort of mean looking face?" went on Fenn. "Well, from what I can see of him through the glass, he doesn't look to be a very cheerful chap." "I'll wager it's those men after us!" exclaimed Fenn, turning to his chums. "What men?" inquired Captain Wiggs. "The men who chased us when we were at the elevator fire," and Fenn told of the adventure. "I wish you had mentioned that to me before," said the commander, looking grave. "This thing may be serious." "Why? Do you think they are thieves?" asked Bart. "There's no telling what they are," and the captain took another observation at the steamer in the rear. "You know the lakes are part of the dividing line between the United States and Canada. Often criminals from both countries find it to their advantage to conduct some of their operations on the water, and there are any number of questionable characters plying on this lake. I can't make out why those men should want you boys, or Fenn, more particularly, unless they think he may know something of their operations, and they want to stop him from talking." "Well, they can't prevent me!" boasted Fenn. "Don't be too sure," cautioned the captain. "Of course you have nothing to fear as long as you are with me, aboard the _Modoc_, but don't run any chances while ashore. Meanwhile those fellows have got to catch us first. They've got nerve, I must say, pursuing us as if they were government officers and we were smugglers." "Do smugglers cross the lake?" asked Ned. "They try to, and, sometimes they succeed. But I wish you boys would go down to dinner. I want to keep watch of this boat. When you finish, come up on deck, and you can stand guard, while I eat. We'll keep tabs on her then, and we needn't let any of the crew here know about it. It's just as well to keep matters a little quiet until we find out what it all means." The boys did not linger long over their dinner, and were soon on deck again. They found Captain Wiggs gazing at the pursuing steam yacht through the glass. "She's coming on," he said. "Seems to have plenty of speed, but I guess we can show her a little ourselves. I'll give orders to the engineer to increase our rate some. Then we'll see what happens. You keep watch, and let me know when I come back." He handed the binoculars to Fenn, and went below. The four chums took turns looking at the on-coming craft. Presently they noticed that their own steamer was making faster progress through the water. "I guess we'll leave 'em behind now," observed Frank. "Then you've got another guess coming," responded Fenn. "They've put on more steam." The other boat seemed to spurt through the waves that were piled up in front of her sharp prow. She easily kept right after the _Modoc_, and even seemed to approach closer. "I wonder what they'll do when they catch up to us?" asked Bart. "Wait until they catch us," suggested Ned. "Well, boys, how about it?" called Captain Wiggs, as he came on deck. "Have you polished up the anchor chain, as I asked you to. The regular polisher-boy is sick, and I'm short handed." "You didn't tell us--" began Fenn, when a smile on the face of the commander warned him that it was only a joke. "How is our friend, the enemy?" inquired Captain Wiggs, reaching for the glass. "Well, we haven't lost her," replied Frank. "So I see," observed the commander. "I think I'll have to try a little trick." He went to the pilot house and soon the _Modoc_ was sweeping away from her course in a long, graceful curve. "There, now we'll see if they are following us, or whether they are just on the same course by accident, and are using us for pace-makers," remarked the captain, as he came back to where the boys were. In less than a minute the course of the pursuing vessel was also changed, and on she came, after the _Modoc_, the black smoke pouring from her funnel, testifying to the fact that the engine room force was piling on the fuel to make more steam. "She's going to catch us or burst her boilers," remarked the captain, with a grim smile. "Well, we'll see. I made them show their hand. They evidently believe we're bound for the Canadian shore, and they think they have us outside the protection of the United States now, and can do as they please." He hurried to the pilot house, and soon there were several signals of the engine room bells. "We'll see if we can't get a few more knots out of her," observed the commander as he came back, and took a hurried look at the yacht astern. "I guess the _Modoc_ has some speed left in her yet, even if she is only a freighter." True, the big steamer did go faster, but so did the pursuing boat. The chase was leading straight toward Canada now. "Can't seem to shake 'em off," murmured the captain, with a somewhat worried look on his face. "I've a good notion to lay-to, and see what they want." "I--I wouldn't," said Fenn. "Why not?" asked the captain quickly. "You haven't done anything wrong; have you?" "No, but--" "Then I think I'll just ask them the meaning of this unwarranted chase. They haven't any right to keep after me like this, unless they're a government vessel, and they're not that or they would have shown their colors long ago. That's what I'll do. I'll stop!" He turned toward the pilot house to give the order. Fenn took up the binoculars, which the captain had laid down, and looked through them at the strange steam yacht. He could make out the two men on deck, one of them--he with the sinister face--staring at the little knot of boys, who seemed, so unaccountably, to have become involved in a mystery. Following the ringing of the engine room bells, the _Modoc's_ speed began to slacken. Captain Wiggs came back to where the boys were and remarked. "Now we'll see what will happen." Hardly had he spoken than there sounded from the pursuing craft, which had not slackened speed, a shrill hissing. Then a white cloud appeared to hover over her. "She's broken a steam pipe!" cried the captain. "Too much pressure! I thought she couldn't stand it!" The strange craft was almost lost to sight in the cloud of white vapor that enveloped her, while, from the midst of it, came excited cries. CHAPTER XI ON LAKE HURON "Somebody's hurt!" cried Fenn. "Shouldn't wonder," replied Captain Wiggs, coolly. "There generally is when an explosion occurs in a boiler room." "Aren't we going to help them?" inquired Frank. "I'll give them any aid they need," said the commander. "We'll see how much the damage amounts to. I'll steam back toward 'em." He gave the necessary orders, and soon the _Modoc_ was slowly approaching the disabled craft. The clouds of steam had somewhat dispersed, but that something was wrong was evident from the manner in which men were hurrying about the deck of the recent pursuing yacht. "I guess it wasn't as bad as I thought," remarked Mr. Wiggs. "They seem to have stopped the leak in the pipe. I hope none of the men are badly scalded. I'll offer 'em help, and they can take it or leave it. They've made enough trouble for me as it is." But the strange craft evidently did not desire any aid, nor did the commanders of it seem to court any investigation of what had happened. As the _Modoc_ approached the other boat's whistle sounded, and then it slowly started off, like a lame dog running away from a fight with a superior antagonist. "Had enough, eh?" remarked the captain. "I thought so. Well, I'm not sorry that I don't have to get to close quarters with them. It looks as if it was coming on to blow, and it's no joke to have to tow a disabled boat on Lake Erie in a storm." Seeing that his proffered offer of help was declined Captain Wiggs changed the course back to his original one. As the other craft turned about, and steamed slowly away, Fenn watched through the glass, and the last thing he could see was the man with the ugly face, standing at the stern, gazing at the _Modoc_ through a telescope. "He'll know me next time, anyhow," thought Fenn, as he joined his chums, who were talking of the strange finish of the chase. Discuss the recent happenings as they did, from all sides, the boys could not get at the bottom of them. No more could Captain Wiggs. But he soon found he had other things to think about than the chase which had ended so abruptly, for the weather changed suddenly, and there were indications of a heavy storm. "I'd like to make the Detroit River before the blow comes on hard," he remarked. "I've got a pretty heavy load aboard, and the _Modoc_, while she's a stanch craft, doesn't behave as well in a sea as she might. I've lost considerable time through that elevator fire, and stopping on account of those men chasing us, so I must make it up." The steamer was sent ahead at full speed, but the storm developed faster than the captain had calculated so that, when still several miles from a good harbor, the wind suddenly swooped out of the west and soon there was a heavy sea running. "Why, it's almost like the ocean," remarked Ned as, standing well forward, near the port rail, he looked across the lake and saw the big waves. "You'll think so, if this keeps up," responded Captain Wiggs. "Lake Erie can kick up as pretty a storm as I ever want to see, and I've been through some hard ones, I can tell you. This is nothing to what it will be if the wind increases." And that the wind intended increasing was evident from the way it howled over the big expanse of water, which was dotted with white-caps. Through the waves the _Modoc_ labored, her powerful engines and screw sending her ahead gallantly, though she rolled and pitched in a way to make the boys think they were on an ocean liner instead of a lake steamer. It grew quite dark, partly because of the clouds that gathered, and because evening was approaching. Then the rain, which had held off for a while, came down with a suddenness that was almost like a cloud burst. Fortunately the boys, on the advice of the captain, had donned oil-skins, and they were protected, though sometimes it seemed as if the wind would drive the rain drops right through their garments. "This is a terrible storm!" exclaimed Ned, as he held on to the rail and tried to peer ahead through the mist and blackness. "Wait!" fairly shouted the captain. "You haven't seen any more than the beginning." "That's enough for me!" cried Fenn, as he made his way to the companionway and went below. The other boys followed, as the commander said it was hardly safe on deck. The _Modoc_ was now laboring amid the big waves. The lookout, scanning the waste of waters for a sight of land, could see nothing but blackness ahead. It did not seem quite so bad to the boys, after they were in the cabin, though they had to sit braced in chairs to avoid tumbling out when the vessel pitched and tossed, and it was quite a task to move about, for there was danger of bringing up against some piece of furniture, or the cabin partitions. "An ocean voyage isn't in it with this," declared Ned. "It's great!" "It may be, but it makes me feel sick," declared Fenn. "I'm going to lie down in my bunk." This he did, saying he felt better when stretched out. The other boys followed his example, as the pitching was a little too much for them. They soon grew accustomed to it, however, and presently they noticed that the motion seemed less violent. "We must have come to anchor," said Bart. "More likely we're inside some harbor," declared Ned. They went up on deck and found that, though it was still raining hard, the wind had died down a little, which made the boat ride easier. "Where are we?" called Fenn, to Captain Wiggs, who was pacing the deck. "Just entering the Detroit River," was the reply. "We'll tie up at Detroit for the night. How are you, boys?" "Better now," replied Ned. As soon as the _Modoc_ was well within the river the effects of the blow were no longer noticeable. In a short time the steamer was tied up at a dock and the boys turned in for the night. Captain Wiggs had some business to transact in Detroit, and spent nearly all of the next day there, giving the boys a chance to go ashore and see some of the sights. They resumed their trip that evening, through Lake St. Clair, and proceeding without stop to Lake Huron. Emerging well out upon this vast body of inland water, the boys, one bright morning, got a fine view of it. "Isn't it--isn't it big!" exclaimed Fenn. "It's--it's simply--" "Help him out, Ned," suggested Bart. "You ought to have some big adjectives on hand, left over from that last French history lesson. This is too much for Stumpy." "It certainly is a lot of water," commented Frank. "I thought Lake Erie was big, but this seems to beat it." The boys stood at the rail, absorbed in the contemplation of the beautiful scene before them. Captain Wiggs too, though he had viewed the lake many times, could not but admire the beauty of it as it sparkled in the morning sun. One of the men from the engine room suddenly appeared on deck, and, standing behind the commander, who was explaining something to the boys, waited until the captain had finished. "Did you wish to see me?" asked Mr. Wiggs, turning to the man. "Yes, sir. Mr. McDougall told me to ask you to step below, sir." "What's the trouble?" for the man seemed a little uneasy. "I don't know exactly, sir, but I think it's a leak." "A leak?" "Yes, sir. Mr. McDougall thinks some of the forward plates have started." "It must have been the storm," commented Captain Wiggs, as he hastened below. "Yet it's a good while taking effect. I hope it isn't serious." CHAPTER XII NED GETS A FISH "Hark!" exclaimed Bart. "What's that sound?" "The pumps!" replied Fenn. "They've started 'em. It must be a bad leak. We'd better get life preservers." "Don't get excited," counseled Frank coolly. "Wait until you see how bad it is. These steamers are all built with water-tight compartments, and it would take quite a hole to make one of them sink. The starting of a few plates wouldn't do it." His words calmed his chums, and, when Captain Wiggs came on deck, a few minutes later, he announced that the leak was not a serious one, though it would be necessary to go ashore to make repairs. It was found, on docking the _Modoc_ that the repairs would take about a week, and this period the boys spent in making excursions on shore, in the vicinity of the town. They had a good time, and the delay did not seem very long because of the many interesting sights. They visited a large saw mill where the logs, that had been brought down the lake in big rafts, were cut up into lumber, and the foreman of the plant showed them the various processes through which the tree trunks went before they were turned out in the shape of boards, planks or timbers. "Well, we'll start in the morning, boys," announced Captain Wiggs one night. "The _Modoc_ is in good shape again, and we'll have to make good time from now on, because of our delays." Early the next morning the vessel was under way again. Out on Lake Huron it steamed, plowing through the blue waters, under a sunny sky, while a gentle breeze stirred up little waves. "Why don't you boys do some fishing?" asked Captain Wiggs, as he noticed the four chums sitting near the after rail, talking among themselves. "We didn't know we could catch anything here," replied Ned. "I don't either," was the captain's answer, "but you can't tell until you try. There is plenty of tackle aboard, and you might land something nice. There are fish in the lake--plenty of 'em. The thing to do is to catch 'em." The boys needed no other invitation, and soon they had lines trailing over the stern of the ship, far enough away from the screw to avoid getting tangled in the blades. Mr. Ackerman, the sick passenger, who has improved considerably, also took a line, and joined the boys. "Let's see who gets the biggest fish," proposed Ned. "Let's see who gets the first one," supplemented Bart. "That's the best test." It did not look as if luck was going to be very good, for the lines had been over half an hour, and no one had had so much as a nibble. "This is getting tiresome," spoke Ned, as he assumed a more comfortable position in his chair. Then he tied his line to his wrist, propped his feet up on the rail, and lounged back. "Well, if that isn't a lazy way of fishing!" exclaimed Frank. "Why don't you sit up?" "I will when I get a bite," replied Ned. They resumed their waiting, with that patience which is, or ought to be, part of every angler's outfit. Suddenly Frank nudged Bart and pointed to Ned. The latter had fallen asleep in his chair. "Let's play a joke on him," proposed Fenn in a whisper. "I'll tie him fast in his chair." "No, let's pull up his line and fasten an old shoe, or something like that to it," proposed Frank. "He'll think he has a big bite." They started to put this plan into operation, when, as they were about to pull up Ned's line, they saw it suddenly straighten out. "He's got a bite!" exclaimed Fenn. "Yes, and a whopper, too," added Frank. "Look at it!" cried Bart, as some big fish, at the stern of the boat, leaped out of the water and fell back with a splash. Then the line about Ned's wrist tightened. He felt the pull and awakened. "I've got him!" he cried. "I've got the biggest one!" The next moment he went sprawling from his chair, while his arm was straightened out in front of him, for the strong line, to which a big fish was attached, was fairly pulling him along. "Look out! He'll go overboard!" cried Mr. Ackerman. Bart made one leap, and grabbed Ned around the waist. This saved the luckless youth from being pulled over the rail, but it did not release him from his predicament. "Oh! Ouch!" cried Ned. "It's pulling my arm off!" Indeed this seemed likely to happen, for the line was very strong, and the lad had tied it securely about his wrist. It could not slip over his hand, and the fish on the other end was tugging away for dear life. Doubtless it would have been glad enough to escape, but it was fairly caught, for as they afterward found, it had swallowed Ned's bait, hook and all. "Let go!" yelled Ned to Bart, who was clinging to his waist. "If I do you'll go overboard!" replied Bart. He felt his chum slipping from his grasp. "Give me a hand here!" Bart called to Fenn and Frank. They jumped to his aid, while Mr. Ackerman, in an excess of nervous fright, ran up and down the deck shouting: "Captain! Captain Wiggs! Stop the ship! A shark has got hold of one of the boys!" "What's that? What's the trouble?" asked the commander, hurrying up from the cabin. "A shark has got Ned!" repeated the invalid. "Shark? In Lake Huron?" replied the commander. "You're crazy!" "Guess it must be a whale, by the way it pulls," said Bart. "It's one of the big lake fish!" exclaimed the captain. "They're as strong as a pony. Wait, I'll cut the line!" "No, don't!" begged Ned, who, now that his three chums had hold of him, was in no danger of going overboard, though the thin, but tough cord, was cutting deep into his wrist, where he had foolishly tied it. "Here, lend a hand!" called Captain Wiggs to a sailor who was passing. The man grabbed the line with both hands and soon was able, with the help which Frank and Fenn gave him, to haul in the fish. It seemed as if they really had a shark on the end of the line, but, when the finny specimen was gotten on deck, it was seen that it was not as large as the boys had imagined. "Who would have thought it was so strong?" asked Ned, rubbing his chafed wrist. "The speed of the boat had something to do with it," said the captain. "You were pulling on the fish broadside I guess, but it is a very strong species even at that. They're not often caught on a hand line." "Are they good to eat?" asked Ned, wishing to derive some benefit from his experience. "Some folks like 'em, but they're a little too strong for me," answered the captain. "However, I think the crew will be glad to get it?" and he looked questioningly at the sailor who had helped land the prize. "Yes, sir," replied the man, touching his cap. He took the fish to the galley, where the cook prepared it for the men's dinner. The boys tasted it, but did not care for the flavor. "Aren't you going to fish any more?" asked the captain, as he saw Ned coiling up his line, after the fish had been taken away. "That's enough for one day," was the boy's reply. "The other fellows can, if they like. My wrist is too sore." "Lucky you didn't tie the line to your toe," said Frank. "Why?" "Because you'd probably be walking lame now, if you had. As it is you can't sign any checks for a while, I s'pose." "Oh, you and your checks!" exclaimed Ned, in no mood to have fun poked at him. "Moral! Don't go to sleep while you're fishing," said Bart. "Well, I did better than you fellows did. You didn't get anything," retorted the fisherman. CHAPTER XIII CAUGHT IN THE LOCK Ned, at the suggestion of the captain, put some salve on his wrist, for the cord had cut through the flesh. Then he had Bart bandage it up. This done the boys resumed their seats near the after rail, and talked about Ned's exciting catch. "I hope you don't try such a thing again," remarked Mr. Ackerman, as he came back from his cabin. "It's a little too much for my nerves." He sank down in a deck chair, and the boys noticed that he was quite pale. He seemed unable to get his breath. "Would you mind--would one of you mind, reaching in my pocket and getting a bottle of smelling salts that I carry," he asked. "I think if I took a sniff I'd feel better." "I will," volunteered Fenn, for Mr. Ackerman's hands hung limply by his side, and he seemed incapable of helping himself. "Is this it?" asked Fenn, as he reached in the upper right hand pocket of the invalid's vest and pulled out a small bottle. "No--no," was the answer, half whispered. "That is my headache cure. I think it must be in the lower pocket." Fenn replaced the headache cure and explored the lower right-hand vest pocket. "Is this it?" he inquired, drawing up a small box. "No, no--my dear young friend--those are my liver pills. Try again. I think it must be on the other side." He still seemed too weak to raise his hands. Ned was about to call Captain Wiggs, but Fenn made another try. "I have it!" he exclaimed, pulling out a shining metal tube. "No--no," said the invalid faintly, opening his eyes and looking at what Fenn held up. "That's my asthma cure. Try the next pocket, please." "Say, he'll kick the bucket if Fenn doesn't find that medicine pretty soon," whispered Frank. "Guess I'll help him." Fenn began a search of the lower left-hand vest pocket. He brought up a bottle, containing a dark liquid. Wishing to make sure he had the right stuff, he smelled of it, before asking Mr. Ackerman to open his eyes and look at it. "Is that it?" whispered Ned. "Smells bad enough to be it," was Fenn's answer. "No, no. You haven't got it yet," spoke the invalid, in peevish tones. "That is my heart remedy. I must kindly ask you to try again. I remember now, it's in my right-hand coat pocket." Fenn replaced the heart cure and made one more attempt. This time he brought up a short, squatty, round bottle. "That's it!" exclaimed the invalid joyfully, "Now, please hold it to my nose. Not too close." However, he spoke too late, for Fenn had placed the open phial right under Mr. Ackerman's nose. The invalid gave one sniff, and then jumped from the chair as if he was shot. "Wow! Ouch! Help!" he cried. "That's strong ammonia! I use it for hay fever. That's the wrong medicine! Oh! The back of my neck is coming off!" He held his handkerchief to his face, the tears coming from his eyes because of the strong stuff. "I remember now!" he managed to gasp. "I left my smelling salts in my stateroom. But I can get them now. I'm better--much better!" "I believe he is," remarked Frank, when Mr. Ackerman had gone below. "Say, isn't he the limit, with his different kind of medicines?" "You shouldn't make fun of him," spoke Bart. "Whew!" suddenly exclaimed the captain's voice. "I guess my invalid passenger must have been around here," and he breathed in the ammonia-laden air. "He seems to be quite sick," said Fenn. "Sick?" repeated the commander. "Say, I wouldn't want him to hear me, but he's no more sick than I am. He's only got a touch of hypochondriacism." "Will--will he die soon of it?" asked Fenn. "Die? I wish I had his chance of living," went on the captain. "I guess you don't quite understand. Maybe that word was too much for you. A person who has hypochondriacism has a little stomach trouble, and the rest is only imaginary. That's what Mr. Ackerman has. Every once in a while he takes a trip with me, for the sake of his health, he says, but I think it's to get away from working. Say, did he ask you to reach in his pocket for some medicines for him?" "Yes," replied Fenn, "and I had quite a time finding it." "I should think you would. He's a regular walking drug store. If he'd throw all his powders, pills and liquids away, and live out of doors, he'd be all right in a month. I'm not making fun of him, but I wish somebody would, some day. Maybe it would cure him." "He seemed pretty sick," ventured Bart. "But he was lively enough when he smelled that ammonia I gave him by mistake," said Fenn. "Ammonia?" questioned the commander, and the boys then told him what had happened. "Ha! Ho!" laughed Captain Wiggs. "That is the best joke yet! Ammonia! Oh my! I'll bet he was lively! Why, I can smell it yet!" The little experience seemed to do Mr. Ackerman good, and it was several days before he complained again. Then he was seemingly as badly off as ever, taking some sort of medicine almost every hour. But the boys understood him now, and did not waste so much sympathy on him. The _Modoc_ steamed on, covering many miles over Lake Huron until, towards evening one afternoon, Captain Wiggs announced that morning would find them at the entrance of St. Mary's river, the connecting link between Lakes Huron and Superior. "Can you boys stand a little jarring?" he asked, as they were in the main cabin, after supper. "Jarring? Why?" inquired Frank. "Because we've got to jump the ship over St. Mary's falls, and we don't always make it the first time," was the answer, given with much gravity. "Often we miss and fall back, and it jars the ship up quite a bit." "Oh, are we going through the 'Soo' canal?" asked Fenn eagerly, for he had been reading up about the Great Lakes, just before coming on the trip. "That's the only way of getting around the falls," replied the captain. "I see you don't put much faith in my jumping story." "We have to go through a lock, don't we?" Bart wanted to know. "Yes," said Captain Wiggs, spreading a map out on the table, "we go through the canal, and lock, being raised up several feet, to the level of Lake Superior. If all goes well we'll be through the lock by noon to-morrow." "Why do they call it the 'Soo' canal?" asked Ned. "Because it is named after the falls," was the commander's reply. "The falls are called Sault Saint Marie, and that word which is spelled 'S-a-u-l-t' is pronounced as if it were spelled 'S-o-o.' It is a French word, and means a leap, or water-fall. So you see when you say 'Sault (Soo) Saint Marie' you are really saying 'St. Mary's Waterfall.' The canal, and the city located along it, both take the name of the falls." The boys were up early the next morning to catch the first glimpse of the canal, lock and falls. It was some time before they reached them, however, and, when they did arrive at the canal, they found several vessels ahead of them, and had to wait their turn for entering the lock. They had a fine view of the surrounding country and the falls of St. Mary's, spanned by a big railroad bridge. When they approached the lock, they saw that the canal was there divided by two walls of masonry making two locks and enclosing a space that was laid out like a little park, with grass plots and trees. Along the edges of the retaining walls, which were very wide, many persons were walking. At last it was the turn of the _Modoc_ to enter the lock. She steamed slowly ahead, and an empty grain barge was also sent in at the same time, the lock being large enough for two vessels. When the craft were in, the immense gates were closed behind them. The _Modoc_ and the grain barge were now shut up in something like a box of masonry, with water for a bottom, and the sky for a top. The boys watched the men open the water-gates that let in a flood of liquid that swept in from Lake Superior, through the long canal. Slowly the two vessels began to rise. The water boiled and bubbled, churning into foam as it forced its way in. It seemed as though it was protesting at being made to hoist the ships, instead of being allowed to course on to the mighty ocean. Up and up went the great craft, being lifted as easily by the powerful water, as though some giant hand had reached down from the sky and was elevating them. A few feet more and they would be able to steam out on the upper lever of the canal, and thence into Lake Superior. Suddenly a rope, that held the grain barge from drifting too close to the forward gates, parted. The churning of the water sent the clumsy craft ahead, and, in a moment the bow was caught under one of the heavy beams of the gate. As the water was still lifting, the nose of the craft became depressed, while the stern rose. Then the barge swung over against the _Modoc_, and a projection on it caught against the latter craft. The barge was now held down, bow and stern, while, from beneath, it was being lifted by an irresistible force of water. The barge careened to one side, and the _Modoc_ began to heel over. "Shut off the water!" cried Captain Wiggs, who saw the danger. "Shut her off, quick, or we'll be stove in!" CHAPTER XIV MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS Under the forward gates, and through openings in them, the water was still bubbling and foaming, seeking to establish a level with that on the other side of the barrier. Lower and lower sank the bow of the barge, for it was held fast on the beam. The _Modoc_ heeled over more and more. "Shut off the water!" again cried the captain. Then the attendants at the lock were made aware that something was wrong. Orders were shouted; men ran to and fro. With immense levers they shut the flood gates, and, slowly and sullenly, as though cheated of its prey, the bubbling subsided. "We must pull the barge back!" cried one of the lock men, running up along the cement wall. "No, don't do that," advised Captain Wiggs, as he stood on the bridge of his vessel, while the boys, who were much alarmed by the impending accident, had joined him, for they were permitted the run of the ship. "Why not?" asked the man. "We've got to free her from that gate beam." "Yes, but if you pull her out from under the edge of that beam suddenly, she's sure to bound up, and then she'll come slap-bang against the side of my craft. Besides, I think she's held so tight that you can't pull her back." "What shall we do?" asked the man, recognizing that Captain Wiggs knew what he was about. "Let the water out from the rear gate," was his suggestion. "That will lower my vessel and the barge gradually. They'll assume their right positions, and no damage will be done. Then you can raise us again, and be sure no more ropes break. I don't want an accident like that again." The captain's advice was followed. When the water ceased coming in the forward gate, the men ran to the rear one and opened the valves there. Out rushed the imprisoned fluid, boiling and bubbling at a great rate. Slowly the two big vessels began to sink. The barge swung away from the _Modoc_ and then, a little later, when the water had fallen sufficiently, the bow was released from the projecting beam. The two crafts were now in the same positions they had been in when they first entered the lock. Men hastily fastened heavier ropes to the barge, and took several turns about strong bitts, so the ship could not again drift into danger. Then the flood was once more allowed to enter the lock. Again the vessels rose, and this time, without mishap, they were floated to the higher level of the canal. The forward gates were opened and out toward Lake Superior steamed the _Modoc_, followed by the slower grain barge. The boys looked around them, being able to get a better view now, as they were some distance higher, being on a level with the top of the falls, off to their right. They saw a long string of vessels, some waiting to enter the locks to proceed east, while others were coming west. "That was a narrow escape," remarked Bart, when the ship was again proceeding along. "Yes, we seem to be sort of up against lots of hard luck this trip," remarked the captain. "I think you boys must be responsible." "How?" asked Fenn, for the captain looked serious. "Why, you're regular Jonahs. If there were any whales in these waters I'd try the experiment of throwing one of you overboard, to see if I couldn't change my luck." "I'd be willing to jump over and take a swim," volunteer Ned. "It looks nice and cool in there, and it's hot up here." It was a warm July day, and the weather was humid and unpleasant. "Maybe when we get further out on Lake Superior, and come to some good place to tie up, I'll give you a chance to take a dip," responded the commander. "I'd like one myself." "Ned must take care not to go to sleep, or he'll be carried under by a big fish," suggested Fenn, taking precautions to get beyond the reach of his chum's arm. The _Modoc_ touched at a port of call that afternoon, and Captain Wiggs found awaiting him a message which changed matters so that he did not have to be in any hurry to conclude his voyage. "This will give us a chance to lay-to, and go ashore," he said to the boys. "You might as well have a good time while you are on this cruise. No telling when you'll get another." It was a day after this, one of the hottest that the boys ever remembered, that the _Modoc_ came to anchor off shore, near a little bay, on the edge of which, and about three miles away from where they laid-to, was a good-sized town. "Now for a swim!" exclaimed Ned. "Can we take the boat and go ashore, captain?" The desired permission being given, the four chums were soon rowing toward where they saw a sandy beach, that seemed to be put there on purpose for bathing. They hauled the boat up on shore and soon were disporting themselves in the water. "Oh, this is something like!" exclaimed Fenn, as he proceeded to float with nothing but his face out of the water. "Yes, you look just like a baby crocodile," replied Frank. "I do, eh?" asked Fenn, diving suddenly and coming up under Frank, whom he ducked unceremoniously. "Here! Quit-erurgle-gurgle!" called the luckless one, as he sank out of sight. Then the boys began to play tricks on each other, had impromptu races and diving contests, and enjoyed themselves to the limit in the cool water. "Let's dress and go on a little exploring trip," proposed Fenn, after they had spent an hour in the lake. "We've got time enough before we have to go aboard." His suggestion was well received, and soon the four chums were strolling back from the lake, through the dense woods that bordered it. They had not gone far before Frank, who was in advance, suddenly halted. He motioned to the others to approach silently, and they joined him on tip-toe. "What is it?" asked Ned. Frank pointed through the bushes. Beyond the screen of the underbrush the boys could see a road. It did not seem to be much traveled, but what attracted their attention was a big automobile, drawn back, and almost hidden in the thicket. "The machine's been abandoned," was Bart's opinion. "It is probably broken." "Hush!" cautioned Frank, and not a moment too soon, for, at that instant two men stepped cautiously out of the bushes near the auto. One of them produced a telescope, and pointed it at the lake, which was just visible through the trees. The boys looked at the man. He seemed a rough sort of fellow, with an unpleasant face. He was poorly dressed, and the lads noticed that, standing against a tree near him, was a rifle. But it was a sight of the man's companion which caused the boys to stare again and wonder. For the second man was a Chinese, though he wore American clothes. Under his hat, however, could be seen the tell-tale queue. The white man handed his Celestial companion the telescope, and murmured something to him, evidently in Chinese. The other replied and applied the glass to his eye. No sooner had he done so that he uttered an exclamation, and began jumping about. The other man snatched the glass and took a look. Then they both talked very excitedly, pointing to the lake and then at the auto. "I wonder what they can be up to?" whispered Fenn. At that moment he stepped on a loose branch. It broke with a sharp report, and the Chinaman and the white man glanced to where the boys were hidden. "Come on!" exclaimed Frank. "They may come after us!" CHAPTER XV A QUEER FIND Off through the woods ran the Darewell chums, and it needed but a moment's listening to tell them that the two mysterious men were after them. "Hurry!" called Frank to Fenn, who, because of his natural inability, was not able to run as fast as could the others. "Come on, or they'll catch you!" "I don't see--what we've done--that we--should run," panted the stout youth. "These woods--are free. Why haven't we--a right to walk in them?" "This is out west and they do things differently from what they do where we come from," responded Bart, looking back. "Evidently those men didn't want to be observed." "Are they coming?" asked Ned. "No," replied Bart, pausing in his race, "they seemed to have stopped in that little clearing we just passed through." "The Chinese is trying to induce the white man to come back," said Frank. This was the case for, as the boys watched, they saw the pig-tailed Celestial grasp his companion by the arm, and, pointing toward the lake, fairly pull him back along the path they had come. "They must be interested in some boat," suggested Fenn. "Say, fellows," he added hastily. "I'll bet I know what it is." "What?" inquired Bart, as he stooped over to pick a lot of burdock burrs from his trousers. "These men have something to do with the two who chased us back at the elevator fire. I'll bet they're part of the same gang, and they're trying to work some trick on the _Modoc_! We ought to hurry back and tell Captain Wiggs!" "Oh, you're 'way off!" declared Frank. "I don't believe these men even know those who chased us." "Then who are they?" demanded Fenn. "I don't know," said Frank. "Evidently they are interested in some boat they expect from across the lake. That is very evident from the way they acted; looking through the telescope, and all that. Perhaps they have mistaken our vessel for the one they are looking for." "No," remarked Bart. "I noticed when the Chinese pointed the glass he aimed it in a different direction from that in which the _Modoc_ lies." "Then what boat are they expecting?" asked Ned. "That's too big a question for me," replied Bart. "It certainly is a queer thing to see a Chinese and a white man in such close company, off here in the woods." "And then the auto," put in Fenn. "What do you suppose that's for?" "It's part of the same game," was Frank's opinion. "Well, I don't know that it's up to us to discover it," went on Fenn. "It's about time we got back to the ship, anyhow. Come on. We'll keep on this way, and fetch around to the beach in a circle. Then we'll not run across those two queer men." The boys advanced, laying their course as best they could. Now and then, through the trees, they could get a glimpse of the lake, and they knew they were going in the right direction. They came to a little gully, in a dense part of the woods, and had to descend into it, to get across, as it extended for quite a distance in either direction. Frank led the way, half slipping, half sliding down the sides. As he reached the bottom he gave a startled cry that alarmed his companions. "Hurt yourself?" asked Bart. "No, but look what I've found!" "A gold mine?" inquired Ned, with a laugh. "Part of a clothing store," replied Frank. "Look!" and he pointed to where, behind a clump of trees, was a large pile of men's clothing, hats, shoes, coats, vests, trousers and shirts. "That solves the mystery!" exclaimed Fenn. "How?" asked Bart. "Why there's been a big robbery! The men have hidden their booty in the woods, until they have a chance to carry it away. Those two men we just saw are members of the gang. They're keeping a look-out until their boat comes and then they'll take the stuff away. Yes, that's it!" "I believe Fenn's right," declared Ned. "Do you?" asked Frank quietly. "Then how do you account for the fact that all the garments are old? There's not a new one among 'em, not even the shoes. You can see for yourself." The boys looked more closely at the garments, which were arranged in piles, with canvas coverings tossed to one side, as though they had been protected from the weather, and recently opened. They did not touch the things, but it did not need a close inspection to show that Frank was right. The garments were all old ones. "If there was a robbery it must have been of a second-hand store," went on Frank, "and that's not likely. Besides, see here," and he pointed a little farther off, where a heap of Chinese clothing lay on the ground. "Well, if this doesn't beat the Dutch!" exclaimed Bart. "What do you make out of that?" It was a strange find. First to come across a Chinese and an American, in excited conversation in the depths of the woods, and then to discover a pile of clothes, such as are worn by white men, close to a heap, evidently discarded by a band of Celestials, was sufficient, as Bart said, to beat not only the Dutch, but the French, English, German, Spanish and a few other nations. The boys went closer to the garments of the Celestials. These clothes, as did the others, exhibited unmistakable signs of wear. But they were not piled in orderly heaps; instead, being tossed carelessly together, as if they were no longer of any service. "Isn't this a regular Chinese puzzle?" remarked Ned. "I believe they are Chinese smugglers!" chorused Fenn and Bart. "That's what," said Frank. "Those two men we saw were evidently the look-outs, watching for the boat load to arrive. When the travelers from the Flowery Kingdom land, they are brought here, to this secluded place, and here they take off their blouses and wide pants, and put on old American clothes. Old ones, so they attract no attention. I'll wager that's the solution to this Chinese puzzle." "But where do the Chinamen come from?" asked Ned. "We're a good ways from China." "From Canada," answered Frank. "I remember reading lately about a lot of Chinese who were taken into Canada from the Pacific coast. They were brought by rail to a place on Lake Superior about opposite here, and smuggled into this country in boats." "That's right," agreed Bart. "I read how one boat load, which the smugglers were bringing over, was caught in a storm, and all the Chinese drowned." "But why do they bring them over?" asked Fenn, who was usually too full of fun, or too interested in some girl, to pay much attention to current events. "Why, there's a United States law against letting any more Chinese come in," explained Frank. "The only way they can get in is to smuggle here. It's easy to get them into Canada, and then, if they can make a trip across the lake, and land in some secluded spot, they're all right, if they're not discovered, and that is no easy matter, as the Chinese all look so much alike." "Then that white man we saw must have been one of the agents engaged in smuggling," said Bart. "I've read they have a regularly organized company, and get good money from the Chinese whom they smuggle over. The pig-tailed chap with him, was evidently a helper or interpreter, who was on hand because the boat was expected." "That's why they were looking across the lake with a telescope then," ventured Fenn. "Say, it's as clear as daylight now. I wonder if we couldn't stay and see 'em land?" "Not much!" exclaimed Frank. "The chances are the plans are all off, for the time being. That white man will suspect we were spying on him, and when they ran back that time, I guess it was to signal to the boat not to land. We must have given them quite a scare." "But what was the auto for?" asked Ned, who liked to go into details, and who always wanted to know the why and wherefore of things. "I guess it was to take the Chinese to some place where they could stay until it was safe to venture out," said Frank. "Sometimes they have to jump around pretty lively, I imagine, especially if the government detectives get after them." "Perhaps we'd better go and tell Captain Wiggs what we have discovered," suggested Fenn. "He may want to notify the authorities." "Good idea," commented Bart. "Come on." As the boys started to leave the little gully where the clothing was hidden, they heard a noise behind them. Turning quickly they saw the white man and Chinese, as they broke through the underbrush. "They're after us!" exclaimed Fenn in a hoarse whisper. CHAPTER XVI FIRE ON BOARD But this time it proved to be the other way about. The two mysterious men, at the sight of the boys, dived back into the woods again, and showed no desire to come to closer acquaintance with them. Instead of taking after the four chums, the men acted as though they feared pursuit. "They're running away from us!" exclaimed Frank. "I guess we haven't anything to fear from them." Suddenly, through the forest, there sounded a shrill steam whistle. "What's that?" asked Ned. "Captain Wiggs, signalling to us," replied Frank. "I guess we've stayed in the woods too long. Come on." "Maybe it's the smugglers' boat," suggested Fenn. "I guess not," Frank remarked. "They've been signalled to keep off. That was the _Modoc's_ whistle. I recognized it." Frank's words proved correct, for, when the boys reached the shore, they again heard the signal, and saw steam coming from the whistle pipe of the vessel on which they were cruising. "Look there!" exclaimed Frank, pointing off to the left. The boys glanced in the direction, and saw a boat. From the funnels black smoke was pouring, as if every effort was being made to get up steam. "That's the smugglers' craft, very likely," the lad went on. "She's making fast time away from here." Captain Wiggs listened gravely to what the boys had to tell him. He agreed with Frank, that the smugglers of Chinese had tried to make a landing, but, evidently, had been frightened off. "What will they do now?" asked Ned. "Change the landing place to some other locality," replied the captain. "Up or down the coast. Up, I should say, seeing the way that steamer's headed," and he pointed to the craft, with the black smoke hanging like a cloud over it. The vessel was almost out of sight. "What will they do with the clothes?" asked Bart. "Oh, they'll take 'em along. Probably that's what the two men came to get, when they saw you and ran away. It's a well organized business, this Chinese smuggling, and there is a lot of money in it--for the agents. They are probably saying all kinds of mean things about you, for breaking up their plans." "Then I hope they don't catch us alone off in the woods, sometime," remarked Fenn. "That Chinese didn't look like a very pleasant fellow to meet after dark; especially if he had a grudge against you." "I think you've seen the last of 'em," declared Captain Wiggs. "If I thought it worth while I'd notify the government authorities, but, by the time I could get a message to 'em, the smugglers will be miles away. There's no telling where they'll land next time. The steamer will hang around the coast, until it gets a signal all is clear. Then the pig-tails will be dumped into a boat, rowed ashore, and the vessel will scoot off for another load in Canada." The anchor was broken out, hoisted, and soon, under a good head of steam, the _Modoc_ was proceeding over Lake Superior at a fast rate, for, though he carried no perishable freight, and had no special date of arriving at Duluth, Captain Wiggs believed in doing what he had to do as quickly as possible. That night Fenn, who was not sleeping as soundly as he should, in consequence of having eaten too much supper, was awakened by hearing a peculiar buzzing noise. At first he could not locate it, and then, after sitting up in his bunk, he decided it came from the stateroom adjoining his, and which had no occupant this voyage. "It sounds like a hive of bees," he said to himself. "I wonder if the captain can have any in there." Then the absurdity of such an idea was apparent to him, and he smiled at his notion. Still the buzzing continued, growing louder. Fenn was wide awake now. "Maybe something is wrong with the ship," he reasoned. "That sound might be water coming in through a leak. I think I'll tell the captain." He got up, and, moving about his stateroom, in search of his trousers and slippers, he knocked a glass out of the rack. "What's that?" called Frank, who was a light sleeper. "It's me," replied Fenn. "What's the matter? Sick?" "No, but I heard a funny sound, and I want to find out what it is. Maybe the boat's sprung another leak." "Oh, you're dreaming," commented Frank. "Go back to bed." "Well, you come in here and listen, if you think I'm dreaming," retorted Fenn. Frank jumped out of his berth and came into his chum's room. The buzzing had increased in intensity, and Frank had no difficulty in hearing it. "What did I tell you?" asked Fenn, in triumph. "It is a queer sound," admitted Frank. "What's in that next room?" "Nothing, that I know of. I passed it this morning, the door was open, and it was empty." "Then let's have a look," suggested Frank, stepping out into the passage. "Maybe you'd better--maybe it's a--" stammered Fenn. "Well, what?" demanded Frank. "Are you afraid?" "Maybe it's an infernal machine those smugglers put aboard," went on Fenn. "It sounds just like one." "How do you know how an infernal machine sounds?" asked Frank. "Well, I mean like I've read of their sounding." "Oh, that's different. But this is no such thing. Besides, how could the smugglers get one aboard? They haven't been near the ship." This was, of course, unanswerable, and Fenn followed Frank into the corridor, and to the door of the stateroom, whence sounded the peculiar buzzing noise. As they stood outside the portal it could be heard more plainly. "Here goes!" whispered Frank, turning the knob. Both he and Fenn started back in surprise, at the sight which greeted them. There, sitting in a steamer chair, in a big red bath robe, was the invalid, Mr. Ackerman. On the bunk in front of him was a small box, from which extended cords, terminating in shining metal tubes, which he held in his hand. The buzzing was coming from the small box. "Oh, boys, I'm glad to see you!" exclaimed the man who thought he was sick. "What's the matter?" asked Frank, in some alarm. "I'm taking a current of electricity, from my medical battery," was the answer. "Electricity?" repeated the two chums, in questioning accents. "Yes, from the battery. You see I couldn't sleep, and I often find a current of electricity is beneficial. I did not want to awaken Captain Wiggs with the buzz of my machine, for it makes quite a noise, so I brought it into this empty stateroom. I hope I didn't disturb you." Mr. Ackerman did not wait for the boys to answer. Instead he continued: "But I'm glad you came in. I want to take a stronger current, and it goes better if I have some one to share it with me. If you will be so kind, you can each take one of the tubes in your hand, and I will take hold of your other hands. Thus we will form a circle, with me in the center. I think I shall be able to get a current then, that will cause me to go to sleep." The boys were a little apprehensive, for, though they had taken electric "shocks" at school, during the experiments, they did not care for the amusement. However, they did not like to refuse, so, rather gingerly, Fenn grasped one handle, and Frank the other. Mr. Ackerman then did something to the battery which made it buzz louder than ever. "All ready," he announced, as he grasped Fenn's right hand in his left and Frank's left in his right. The instant that he did so it seemed as if the trio had been hit by something. They all doubled up, the arms of the boys and the invalid jerking like the legs of a frog. "Ow!" cried Fenn. "Let go!" called Frank. But there was no need for any one to let go. With an exclamation of great astonishment, Mr. Ackerman jerked his hands from the involuntary grip of the boys'. That at once broke the circuit, and the current ceased to have any effect. The machine was still buzzing away, however. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" murmured the invalid. "I meant to turn on the weak current, and I turned on the strong one! Did you get bad shocks, boys?" "Did we!" exclaimed Fenn. "Say, it feels as if I had eaten some strong horse-radish by mistake." "It seems as if a mule kicked me," remarked Frank, rubbing his arms. "I'm very sorry," apologized Mr. Ackerman. "I really did not intend that. I hope you believe I did not." He seemed quite distressed over the happening. "That's all right," spoke Fenn, good-naturedly. "We know it was an accident." "Rather a fortunate accident, too," went on the invalid. "My nerves are much calmer now. I really think I shall be able to go to sleep. I must have taken the right kind of a current without knowing it. I'll do it the next time I find myself too wakeful." "Please excuse us from helping," begged Frank, with a smile. "It's a little too much." "Oh, no, I wouldn't think of shocking you again," said Mr. Ackerman as he began to take the battery apart for packing. "I shall take the current alone. But there, I must not talk or I shall be awake again. I must hurry and get to sleep." "Isn't he the limit!" exclaimed Fenn, when he and Frank were back in the stateroom again. "He thinks that was fun for us." The electrical treatment appeared to improve the sick man, for, the next day he was much better, and even laughed and joked about the night's experience. The _Modoc_ continued on her course, putting many knots behind her, and the boys were more and more delighted with their cruise, which every day revealed to them new beauties of scenery. One afternoon, when they were within a day's travel of Duluth, Captain Wiggs, who was sitting on deck with the four chums, arose suddenly and began to sniff the air. "What's the matter? Is the cook burning the steak?" asked Fenn. "Something's burning," answered the commander, with a grave face. A moment later a sailor, much excited, came rushing up on deck. "Fire in the forward hold, sir!" he called. CHAPTER XVII A STRANGE VISION Captain Wiggs was not built on speed lines. He was short and squatty, and inclined to be fat. But the way in which he hustled about as soon as he heard what the sailor said was sufficient to qualify him to enter a go-as-you-please race of almost any kind. With a few jumps he was at the companionway leading below, and, as he went the boys could hear him call out: "Ring the fire alarm! Every man to his station! Someone tell the pilot to slow down! Signal to the engineer to get the pumps in gear!" Nor were the members of the crew slow to carry out the commander's instructions. One man rang the automatic fire alarm, that sounded in every part of the vessel. Another hurried to the bridge, where he delivered the message about stopping the boat. The _Modoc_ at once began to lose way and, a moment later, the vibration from the engine room told the boys that the pumps had been started. "Let's go below and see if we can help," suggested Bart, and the four chums went down in a hurry. They found men dragging lines of hose forward where little curls of smoke began coming from an open hatchway. "Drown her out, men!" cried the captain. "It'll be all day with us if the flames get loose in that dry freight!" Several of the men, dragging the snaky lines of hose, dropped down into the hold. They called for water, and the captain signalled for it to be turned on. The flat hose bulged out like a snake after a full meal, and a splashing sound from below told that the quenching fluid was getting in its work. "Can we do anything?" asked Fenn, as he saw Captain Wiggs taking off his coat and donning oil skins. "Not now, I guess. You might stand by for orders though. There's no telling into what this will develope." It was getting quite smoky below, and the hold, down into which the commander had disappeared, was pouring out a volume of black vapor. "Tell 'em to send another line of hose!" came a voice from below, and Fenn hurried to the engineer's room with the order. Several men sprang at once to obey. The hose was unreeled from a rack on the partition, and run out to the hold. Then the engineer started another pump, that had been held in reserve. There were now three lines of hose pouring water on the flames, which the boys could not see. That the blaze was not succumbing so quickly as had been hoped for, was evident by the shouts and excitement that came from the depths of the ship. "Tell 'em to give us more water!" yelled the captain to the boys waiting above. Frank rushed with the order, glad to escape the smoke, which was momentarily growing thicker. "Tell him he's got all the water I can give him!" shouted the engineer, above the noise of the clanking machinery. "One of the pumps has gone out of commission!" Frank shouted what the engineer had said to Captain Wiggs, below in the darkness. "Then we've got to batten down the hatches and turn live steam into this hold!" was what the commander called back. "Tell him to get up a good head!" Frank did so. When he returned Captain Wiggs was just making his way out of the hold. He was black, and smoke-begrimed, while he dripped water from every point of his yellow garments. "Is there any danger?" asked Ned. "There always is with a fire aboard a ship," answered the commander. "But I think we'll be able to hold her down if we get plenty of steam. Come on up, men," he added, and the sailors scrambled up. They looked more like colored, than white men. Captain Wiggs acted quickly. When the last man was up, the hatches, or coverings to the hold, were fastened down, and tarpaulins, wet with water, to make them air tight, were spread over the top. Then, from pipes which ran into the hold from below, and which were for use in emergency, jets of live steam were blown into the compartment. This, the commander knew, would penetrate to every nook and corner, reaching where water could not, and would soon quench the flames. "Now, all we can do is to wait," said the captain, as he sat down, for he was almost exhausted. That was the hardest part of all. When one can be busy at something, getting out of danger, or fighting a fire that can be seen, the nervous fear is swallowed up in action. But to sit and wait--wait for the unseen steam to do its work,--that was very trying. Still there was no help for it. Captain Wiggs looked to the other part of the cargo, seeing that there was no danger of that taking fire. The forward hold was separated from the others by thick bulkheads, and there was little chance of the fire breaking through. The hull of the _Modoc_ was of steel, and, provided the fire did not get hot enough to warp any of the plates, there was small danger to the ship itself. "We'll have to head for shore, in case it becomes necessary to break out the cargo," decided the captain, as he went on deck. "Come on, boys. We can do nothing now, and we want to get some of this smoke out of our lungs." The course of the ship was changed. Captain Wiggs got out his charts and looked them over. "Where will we land?" asked Fenn. "Not much of anywhere," was the reply. "There is no good harbor this side of Duluth, but I've got to do the best I can. There is a little bay, about opposite here. There's no settlement near it, but I understand there's a good shore, and I'm going to make for it, in case this fire gets beyond my control." Urged on by all the steam the engines could take, though much was needed for the fire, the vessel plowed ahead. "Land ho!" called the lookout, and the captain, taking an observation, announced they were close to the bay of which he had spoken. When it was reached it was found to be a secluded harbor, with nothing in sight on the shores of it save a few old huts, that appeared to be deserted. "Not a very lively place," commented the captain. "Still, it will do all right if we have to land the cargo." The anchor was dropped and then all there was to do was to wait for the fire to be extinguished. The boys remained on deck, looking at the scenery about them. Back of the bay, rising almost from the edge of the water, were a series of steep cliffs, of bare rock for the most part, but studded, here and there, with clumps of bushes and small trees, that somehow, found a lodgement for their roots on little ledges. "It's a lonesome sort of place," remarked Fenn. "Not a soul within sight." Hardly had he spoken than there was seen on the face of the cliff, as if by a trick, the figure of a man. He seemed to come out, as does a magic-lantern picture on a sheet, so quickly did he appear where, before, there had been nothing but bare brown rock. "Look!" exclaimed Fenn, pointing. "A Chinaman!" exclaimed Bart. "One of the smugglers!" The boys jumped to their feet, and approached closer to the ship's rail, to get a better view. As they did so the Chinese vanished as though the cliff wall had opened and swallowed him up. CHAPTER XVIII AN EXPLORING PARTY "Well, what do you think of that?" asked Fenn, in surprised accents. "Did he fall down?" "Doesn't look so," answered Frank. "I wonder if we really saw him, or whether it was a sort of day dream?" "Oh, we saw him all right enough," said Bart. "He looked to me just like the Chinaman we saw in the woods that day." "Just what I was going to remark," put in Ned. "I wonder if there are any more men up on that cliff?" "What's the matter, boys?" asked Captain Wiggs, approaching at this juncture. They told him what they had seen. "I don't see anything very surprising in that," replied the commander. "Probably he has a laundry up there, and he was out looking for customers." And the commander winked at the other chums, who joined in a laugh at Fenn. "That's all right," announced the discomfited one. "But I'll wager there's something queer back of all this. Do you know anything about this locality, captain?" "Not a thing, and I wish I knew less. I'd never be here if it wasn't for the fire. And I must take a look now, and see how our steam bath is affecting it. I guess--" "Look there!" suddenly cried Fenn, pointing to the cliff, at the base of which the lake waves were breaking. They all looked. There, on the face of the wall of rock, apparently supported by nothing, stood four men, two of whom were Chinese, dressed in the characteristic costume of that nation. The others were white men. They were close together, near a little clump of bushes, that sprang slantingly out from the surface of the cliff. "More of 'em, eh?" murmured the captain. "I wonder if they'll answer a hail?" He put his hands, trumpet fashion, to his mouth, and was about to call out, when a surprising thing happened. As the boys watched the men seemed to grow suddenly smaller. They fairly went down out of sight, vanishing as completely as though they had sank into the cliff. "Well, I never saw such a queer thing!" exclaimed Ned. "They acted just like a Jack in the Box, when some one shuts the lid." "That expresses it exactly," admitted the captain. "It is a queer thing. I think it will bear looking into. I wonder if they haven't something to do with the Chinese smugglers." "That's what we thought." "I believe I'll go ashore and have a look," decided the commander of the _Modoc_. "The government detectives ought to be told of what's going on out here in this lonely place." Captain Wiggs would have carried his plan out, but for the fact that an inspection of the hold showed the fire in the cargo to be smothered. The steam had done the work effectively and there was no more danger. Instead of having to remain in the secluded bay for some time, ready at any moment, when danger threatened, to break out the cargo, the commander found himself able to proceed to Duluth. This he decided on doing at once, as the exact extent of the fire-damage could not be ascertained until he reached a port where he could unload. Accordingly all plans of making any examination of the strange actions of the queer men were abandoned and, steam having been gotten up in the main boilers, the engines were started and the _Modoc_ was once more under way. As they left the little bay the boys kept close watch of the cliff, but there were no signs of life upon the brown wall of rock. If the men were somewhere within a cave on its surface, they did not show themselves. "I wonder if we'll ever solve that mystery?" inquired Bart, of no one in particular, as the four chums paced the deck. "I'm going to," announced Fenn, decidedly. "Yes, you're going to do a lot," returned Ned, with a laugh. "You were going to collect minerals, but I haven't seen you stowing any away lately, for your collection." "That's so, I forgot all about 'em," admitted Fenn. "I've got lots of time, though. You can't get any minerals out here," and he motioned to the expanse of water that surrounded them. "But I'm going to look into this Chinese business, though." "How?" asked Frank. "We're going farther and farther away every minute." "That's all right. We can come back," announced Fenn. "I thought you were going to Bayville to see Mr. Hayward, and--er--Miss Ruth," went on Bart. "Especially Ruth." "Well, I may yet," replied Fenn. "Bayville isn't so far from here. In fact it's within a short distance of where we anchored in that bay." "How do you know?" "I asked the captain," replied Fenn. "I was thinking of taking a boat and rowing there, if we'd stayed long enough." "But how do you figure on getting there now?" asked Ned. "I'm coming back, after we get to Duluth," was the answer. "Captain Wiggs has got to remain there for some time, and I don't see what there is to keep us. It's a city, and we've had enough of city life for a while. I was going to propose that, after we'd been there a couple of days, we go off on a little side trip, coming back in time to go home on the _Modoc_." "Good idea!" exclaimed Bart. "We could go on a little camping expedition." "That was my idea," added Fenn. "We've got enough money with us to hire a tent and a small outfit, all we'll need for a week or so. We've been camping in the woods before, and we know how to take care of ourselves. This cruising business is fine, but it's too lazy a life to suit me." "No, I s'pose we haven't had any excitement since we started," commented Frank sarcastically. "There was the elevator fire, those men chasing us; Ned nearly being pulled overboard with a fish; getting caught in the lock; the steamer on fire and the queer men on the cliff. Oh, yes, we've lived a very quiet and sedate life since we left home, Oh, yes, exceedingly quiet." "Well, I mean--Oh, you know what I mean," said Fenn. "We need more action--the kind we'll get if we go off on a trip by ourselves." "That's right," agreed Ned. "I'm with you, Stumpy. The sooner the quicker." "When do we get to Duluth?" asked Bart. "Very soon now," answered Captain Wiggs, who, coming up behind the boys, overheard the question. "I suppose you are all ready to enter port?" and he looked quizzically at the boys. "Ready. How do you mean?" asked Fenn. "Why you can pass the quarantine regulations, I suppose? Let me look at your tongues!" The boys were so surprised that, hardly knowing what they were doing, they stuck them out for the captain's inspection. "Bad, very bad," he murmured. "I'll have to attend to this at once." And he laughed heartily. "Sold again!" exclaimed Frank, as he drew in his tongue. "I thought we were going to get even with him." "So we are," declared Bart. "If not now, on the trip home. We owe him another one now." They were soon busy getting things in shape to go ashore and, when the _Modoc_ tied up at a big wharf, they were all ready to go to the hotel the captain had recommended, there to stay a couple of days, until they could start on their little exploring expedition. The captain had offered no objection to this, and had told them the best route to take. "But you must be back in time to sail with me on the homeward trip," cautioned the captain, mentioning the date and time he expected to start. "I'll not wait for you, remember. The _Modoc_ suffered very little damage from the fire. Less than I feared and there will be no delay." "We'll be here on time," Fenn assured him. The boys spent two busy days preparing for their side trip, and, bright and early one morning, they took a train that was to convey them to a little settlement, whence they were to start for a jaunt through the woods, carrying their simple camping outfit with them. CHAPTER XIX FENN BECOMES ILL "Well, now, what's our program?" asked Frank when the four Darewell chums were in the railroad train, speeding through the outskirts of Duluth. "I s'pose Fenn will make a bee line for Bayville and see Ruth." "I intend to go there, not only to see Ruth, but to see her father," announced Fenn coolly. "It's no more than right, is it? He invited us to come and see him, if we ever got out this way, and here we are. It would be mean not to pay a visit." "Oh, yes, Stumpy," remarked Ned. "We know just how you feel about it," and he laughed, whereat Fenn blushed, for he was rather sensitive concerning his liking for young ladies. "Leaving Mr. Hayward out of it, what do you intend to do, after we've got our camp established?" asked Frank, looking at Fenn, with whom this idea had originated. "I'm going to see what those men were doing on the cliff," was the decided answer. "Maybe they were Chinese smugglers. If they were--" "Yes, if they were I s'pose Stumpy will climb up there single handed, make 'em all prisoners, and then write a half-dime novel about it," put in Bart. "Not exactly," answered Fenn. "I don't see what's to hinder me giving information to the government, though, about the smugglers, if that's what they are. I understand there's a reward for that sort of information, and I could use a bit of spare cash as well as any one." "That's so!" exclaimed Ned. "I didn't think about that. I'm with you, Stumpy." "You'll want half the reward, I guess," interjected Bart. "Sure," said Ned. "Who wouldn't? Why can't we all go in on this thing?" "Of course we can," declared Fenn. "We'll go camping somewhere back of that cliff, and then we can--" "Hush! Not so loud!" suddenly cautioned Frank. Then, bending his head closer to his chums, as they were sitting in two seats facing each other he added: "There's a man a couple of seats back who's been watching us pretty sharply ever since we began talking this way. I don't like his looks." "Where is he?" asked Fenn in a whisper. "Don't look now," replied Frank, making a pretense of pointing out the window at a bit of scenery. "He's staring right at us. It's the man with the light hat, with a white ribbon band on, whom I mean. You can size him up as soon as he turns his head." The boys cautiously waited for an opportunity, and took a quick inspection of the man Frank had indicated. He was a total stranger to the four Darewell lads, as far as any of them knew, but it did not take long to disclose the fact that the man was much interested in them. He watched their every move, and, when any one of them spoke, the fellow tried to catch what was said. The man seemed like an ordinary traveler, and, except for a peculiar cast in one eye, was not bad looking. "Let's change our seats," suggested Fenn, when the train had proceeded some miles farther, and the car was not so full. "We want to talk, and we can't be whispering all the while." They moved farther away from the man with the cast in his eye, and were once more discussing their plans, when Frank again noticed that the man was listening. He, too, had moved up several seats, and, under pretense of reading a paper, was straining his ears for whatever the boys said. "Let's go into the other car," proposed Fenn. "If he follows us there we'll tell the conductor." But the man evidently did not care to run any more risks and the boys were not further annoyed. "I wonder who he was?" asked Ned. "Perhaps he had something to do with the smugglers." "Oh, I guess he was just some fellow more interested in the business of other persons than in his own," replied Frank. "I hope we didn't talk too much, so that he'll know what we are going to do." "That's so, he might go and give information to the government, and get that reward," announced Fenn. "I wish we'd been more careful!" "Well, I guess he'll have his own troubles finding that cliff," was Bart's opinion. "We didn't mention any special place. Our secret is safe enough." After further consideration of what they had said the boys agreed with this view. As they were now almost alone in the car they talked freely, deciding on what to do when in the woods. They had brought a small sleeping tent with them, some guns which they had hired and a limited supply of food. As they were going to be within reach of small settlements, villages or, at the worst, scattered farm houses, they calculated they could, from time to time, buy what they needed to eat. They had made a careful study of a map of the country they intended to utilize as part of their vacation trip, and decided on a place to camp that was not far from where they had observed the queer actions of the men on the cliff. It was also within a short distance of Bayville, where, as has been said, Mr. Hayward and his daughter lived. They left the train at a station, near the foot of a small mountain, on the slopes of which they were to pitch their tent. Their baggage and supplies was piled up on the platform and, Frank, surveying it, exclaimed: "Oh, dear, I wish we had that mule we used when we were rescuing my father. He could carry a good deal of this stuff, and we wouldn't break our backs." "Aw, don't mind a little thing like that!" advised Bart. "Why it's not far, and we can make two trips if necessary." They decided this would be the best plan, and, taking what they could carry, they set off into the woods, the station agent agreeing to look after what baggage they left behind, until they came back for it. The weather was fine, and the air, in that northwestern region, was clear and bracing. "I could carry twice as much as this," announced Ned, as he walked along, balancing his load on his shoulder. "Here, take mine then!" cried Frank quickly. "Not to-day," retorted Ned with a laugh. "I was only figuratively speaking." They picked out a good camping place, and, as they had brought the tent with the first load, they set that up. "Now for the rest of the stuff, and we'll be in good shape for the night," remarked Bart. "Come on, fellows. Why, Fenn, what's the matter?" he asked quickly, as he noticed the stout youth seated on a log. "Me? Nothing. I'm all right." "No, you're not. You're as white as a sheet of paper," went on Bart. "Don't you feel well?" "Sure. I'm all right. I guess I walked a little too fast; that's all." "Well, take a good rest before you make the second trip," advised Ned. "No, I'll tell you what we'll do," proposed Frank. "We three can easily carry what stuff is back there at the depot. Let Fenn stay here and rest, and we'll go back for it. Besides, we ought to leave somebody on guard," he added quickly, fearing Fenn might object to anyone doing his share of the work. "Oh, I'll be all right in a minute, fellows," said Fenn, trying to smile, but making rather poor work of it. "It's the heat, I guess." "It is hot," agreed Bart. "You go ahead and I'll catch up to you," proposed Fenn. "I'm feeling a little better now." "No, you stay here and we'll fetch the rest of the stuff," repeated Frank, and he insisted on it, with such good reason, also pointing out that if any tramps came along they might steal the tent, that Fenn consented to remain on guard. In fact he was very glad to do so, as he felt a curious sensation in his head and stomach, and he was not a little alarmed, as he had never been seriously ill. "I hope he isn't going to be sick," observed Bart, as the boys started back to the station. "We'll have to give up our camp if he is." "Oh, he'll be all right," asserted Ned, confidently. "It was only the heat and the walk." "I hope so," rejoined Frank. But when the boys returned with the remainder of the camp stuff two hours later, they found an unpleasant surprise awaiting them. In the tent, stretched out on some hemlock boughs which they had cut before leaving, they found poor Fenn. He was very pale and his eyes were closed. "He's asleep," whispered Ned. Frank entered softly and placed his hand on Fenn's head. "He's got a high fever," he said, with alarm in his voice. "Fellows, I'm afraid Fenn's quite sick." CHAPTER XX OUT ON A HUNT Frank's announcement seemed to strike a cold chill to the hearts of Ned and Bart. Sickness was something with which they had seldom come in contact, and they did not know how to proceed. "I suppose we'd better get a doctor," ventured Ned. "Where?" inquired Frank as he came from the tent. "There isn't one within five miles--maybe farther." "Haven't we any medicine?" asked Bart. "I thought you said you brought some along." "So I did," replied Frank. "Stuff for burns, cuts and stomach aches, but I don't know as it would be safe to give him anything when he has a fever." "Have you got anything for a fever?" inquired Ned. "Yes, some of those little, white tasteless pills, that come in small bottles. Homeopathic remedies they call 'em. I'll read the directions." At that instant Fenn murmured something. "He's talking!" exclaimed Frank, listening at the flap of the tent. "Water, mother. Give me a drink of water," spoke the sick boy. "He thinks he's home," said Ned. "Here, I'll get him a drink, and you read the directions on that bottle of pills," directed Bart. "Maybe we can give him some." Fenn drank thirstily of the spring water Bart carried in to him, scarcely opening his eyes, and, when he did, he did not know his chum. "The smugglers!" exclaimed the now delirious youth. "We'll catch 'em! Don't let Ruth fall into the cave. Look out!" The boys were much frightened, especially Ned and Bart. Frank, from the experience he had had with his father, knew a little more than did the others about cases of illness. He read what it said on the bottle of pills and decided it would be safe to give Fenn several of the pellets. "Now, we'd better get the camp in shape for night," said Frank. "We've got to stay here until morning, no matter what happens. We can't move Fenn until he's better." "Maybe he'll not get better," remarked Ned, rather gloomily. "Oh, cut out such ideas," advised Frank. "He'll be all right. Probably his stomach is upset. Now hustle around and get a fire going. I want some hot coffee, and so do you. Then we'll all feel better, after a bit of grub." Once Bart and Ned had something definite to do they did not worry so much about Fenn. Frank took a look at him, now and then, in the midst of the work of making the camp. "He's asleep," he announced after one inspection. "I think his fever's going down some." "That's good," commented Bart, his face losing some of its worried look. The boys ate a hasty supper and then made a more comfortable bed for Fenn. The tent was big enough for all four to stretch out under it, but the three chums decided they would take turns sitting up, in order to administer to the sick lad. Frank gave him some more medicine during the night, and, by twelve o'clock, Fenn was somewhat better, though he still had a fever. It seemed that morning would never come, but, at length, there shone through the forest a pale, gray light, that turned to one of rosy hue, and then the golden sunbeams streamed through the trees. "Thank goodness the night's gone," exclaimed Ned, who had the last watch. "It seems as if we'd been here a week, instead of a few hours." "How is he?" asked Bart of Frank, who had assumed the rôle of doctor. "No worse, at any rate," he said, as he felt of his chum's head. "Do you think we ought to get a physician?" "I think we'll see how he is to-day," answered Frank. "If he doesn't get any worse I believe it will work off. I'll give him some more medicine." There must have been some virtue in the pills, for, by noon, Fenn's skin was much cooler, and he had began to perspire, a sure sign that the fever was broken. His mind, too, was clear. "What's the matter? What happened?" he asked. "Was I sick?" "I guess it was a little touch of sun-stroke," replied Frank with a laugh. "How do you feel?" "Pretty good, only weak. I'm hungry and thirsty." "That's a good sign. I guess we can fix you up." Fenn made a fairly good meal on canned chicken and some biscuits which Ned concocted out of a package of prepared flour. "I think I can get up now," announced the sick youth, as he finished the last of his meal. "No you don't!" exclaimed Frank. "I'm the trained nurse in charge to-day, and you stay in the tent until night, anyhow." Fenn wanted to disobey, but he found he was weaker than he thought, so he was glad to stretch out on the blanket, spread over the fragrant hemlock boughs. He was so much better by night that the boys were practically assured he was out of danger. They felt correspondingly happy, and prepared as fine a meal as they could in celebration of the event. Fenn ate sparingly, however, and then fell off into a sound, healthful sleep. His three comrades took turns during the night watch, but there was nothing for them to do, save, now and then, to replenish the camp fire. The next day Fenn was so much better that he insisted on getting up, but he did not have much ambition to do things. "We'll go hunting, as soon as you are able," announced Frank, after breakfast. "Our pantry isn't very well stocked." "Don't wait for me," urged Fenn. "Go ahead. I can stay in camp, and look after things while you three are gone. I'll take my turn at hunting a little later." At first the boys would not hear of this, but, after Fenn pointed out that they must have stuff to eat, they agreed to go hunting the next day, leaving him alone in camp, if it was found, by morning, that he was well enough. Fortunately this proved to be the case and Ned, Frank and Bart, carrying the guns they had hired in Duluth, started off, cautioning Fenn to take care of himself, and not to wander away from the tent. "We'll be back as soon as we have shot something to eat," promised Bart. It was rather lonesome in camp for Fenn, after his chums had left. At first he sat in front of the tent, watching the antics of some squirrels who, emboldened by hunger, came quite close to pick up crumbs. Fenn scorned to shoot at them. "I think I'm strong enough to take a little walk," decided the youth, after an hour or so of idleness. "It will do me good. Besides, I want to get a line on just where that cliff is, on which we saw the queer men." He started off, and found he had regained nearly all his former strength. It was a fine day, and pleasant to stroll through the woods. Fenn wandered on, aiming for the lake, which was some distance away from where the tent was pitched. Suddenly, as he was going through a little glade, he heard a noise on the farther side of the clearing, as though some one had stepped on, and broken, a tree branch. Looking quickly up he saw, half screened by a clump of bushes, two Chinamen, and a white man. The odd trio, whose advance had alarmed Fenn, stopped short. Then one of the Celestials muttered some lingo to the other. An instant later the three drew back in the bushes, and Fenn could hear them hurrying away. "I'm on the track of the smugglers!" he exclaimed. "I'm going to follow them and see where they go! I must be nearer the cliff than I thought." Off Fenn started, after the three men. If he had known what lay before him he would have hesitated a long time before doing what he did. But Fenn did not know. CHAPTER XXI THE CHINESE BUTTON Game was not so plentiful in the woods about the camp, as the three chums had hoped. Frank, Ned and Bart tramped along, keeping a close watch for anything that would promise to restock the larder, but, for some time, the most they saw, were numbers of small birds--too small to shoot. "Why can't we scare up a covey of partridges?" asked Ned, rather disgustedly, after they had been out an hour or more. "Why don't you wish for a herd of deer, or a drove of bears, that is if bears go in droves," suggested Bart. "You want things too easy, you do." "I don't care whether they're easy or not, as long as there are some of them," retorted Ned. "I'd like to hear how this gun sounds when it's shot off." "Hark! What's that?" exclaimed Bart, looking up as a sudden whirring noise was audible in the air over their heads. The boys looked up, and, to their surprise, saw a big flock of wild ducks, flying quite low. It was rather early in the season for them, as they learned later, but they did not stop to think of that. Without further words, they raised their guns and blazed away. "Hurrah! We got some!" yelled Ned, as he saw several of the wild fowl tumbling earthward. "The other barrel!" exclaimed Frank. "We may not get another chance, and we'd better kill enough to last us a week." They fired again, and killed several more of the ducks. They found the birds to be in fairly good condition, though they would be fatter later on. "They will make fine eating!" remarked Bart, as he held up a string of the wild fowl. "Maybe Fenn won't like to set his teeth in a nice browned piece of roast duck." "Providing he is well enough to eat it," added Ned. "Oh, he'll be well enough," was Frank's answer. "But I'd like to get something else besides duck." "Well, we've got plenty of time yet," suggested Bart. "Let's go a little farther." Slinging their game over their shoulders, and reloading their guns, the boys once more started off. They had not gone far before a commotion in a clump of underbrush, just ahead of where Ned was walking, startled the lad into sudden activity. "Here's something!" he called in a hoarse whisper. "Yes, and it's liable to come out and shake hands with you, and ask how you like the weather, if you yell that way again," remarked Frank. "Don't you know any better than to call out like that when you're hunting?" "I couldn't help it," whispered Ned. "I saw something big and black. I think it's a bear." "A bear! Where?" cried Bart in a whisper, cocking his gun. "Go easy," advised Frank. "We stand a swell chance of killing a bear with these light shotguns. Where is it, Ned?" The boys were all speaking in low tones, and had come to a halt in a little circle of trees. All about them was thick underbrush, from the midst of which had issued the disturbance that caused Ned to exclaim. "There it is!" he said, grasping Frank by the arm, and pointing toward something dark. At that moment it moved, and a good-sized animal darted forward, right across the trail, in front of the boys, and, an instant later was scrambling up a tall tree as if for dear life. "Fire!" cried Ned, suiting the action to the word. He aimed point-blank at the creature, but, when the smoke cleared away, there was no dead body to testify to his prowess as a hunter. "Missed!" exclaimed Ned disgustedly. "And it was a fine chance to bowl over a bear cub, too." "Bear cub?" repeated Frank. "Take a look at what you think is a bear cub." Frank pointed to the tree, up which the animal had climbed. There, away out on the end of a rather thin limb, it crouched, looking down on the boys--a huddled bunch of fur. "A raccoon!" exclaimed Bart. "You're a fine naturalist, you are, Ned. Why didn't you take it for a giraffe or an elephant?" "That's all right, you'd have made the same mistake if you had seen it first," retorted Ned. "I'm going to have a shot at it, anyway." He raised his gun, but the raccoon, probably thinking now was the opportunity to show that he believed in the old maxim, to the effect that discretion is the better part of valor, made a sudden movement and vanished. "See!" exclaimed Ned triumphantly. "He knew I was some relation to Davy Crockett. He didn't exactly want to come down, but he had some business to attend to in another tree." "That's an easy way of getting out of it," remarked Bart, "but I'll wager you would have missed worse than I did if you had shot." "Oh, come on and stop scrapping!" exclaimed Frank. "We're not scrapping," retorted Ned. "Only I say I'm as good a shot as he is." "You can prove it, by shooting at a mark, when we get back to camp," suggested Frank. "Just now we're out hunting, not trying to decide a rifle match." But word seemed to have gone through the woods that three mighty boy hunters were abroad, and all the game appeared to have gone into hiding. Tramp as the chums did, for several miles, they got no further sight of anything worth shooting at. "I guess we'll have to be content with the ducks, and go back," remarked Frank, after a somewhat long jaunt in silence. "Fenn may be lonesome waiting for us." "I know my stomach is lonesome for something to eat," returned Bart. "The sooner some of these ducks are roasting, or stewing or cooking in whatever is the quickest way, the better I'll like it." "All right, let's head for camp," agreed Ned, and, having picked out their trail, by the help of a compass they carried, they were soon journeying toward where their tent was set up. "I hope Fenn is all right," remarked Frank, as they trudged onward. "All right? Why shouldn't he be?" inquired Bart. "Well, I was a little worried about leaving him alone." "Why Fenn is able to take care of himself," declared Ned. "Besides, what's there to be afraid of?" "I don't know," admitted Frank. "But suppose another spell of fever should suddenly develop, and he was all alone? It wouldn't be very nice." "Well, he was as anxious to have us go as we were to start off," remarked Bart. "I know it, but still, I can't help feeling a little anxious." "Oh, he'll be all right," declared Bart, confidently. "He'll have a good fire ready for us, coffee made, and all we'll have to do will be to clean these ducks and put them to roast." "I hope so," replied Frank. The boys, in the excitement of the chase, had gone farther into the woods than they had anticipated on starting out. Consequently it was later than they expected when they got to where they saw landmarks that told them they were near camp. "It's only about half a mile farther now," remarked Bart. "Give a yell," suggested Ned. "Fenn will hear it and know we are coming." The three chums united their voices in a loud hallo; and, when the echoes had died away, they listened for an answering cry. None came, and the woods were silent, save for the noises made by birds flitting here and there in the branches of the trees. "He didn't hear us," said Ned. "Try again." "Maybe--maybe he isn't there," suggested Frank, in a low voice. "Of course he is!" declared Ned. "Maybe he's asleep." "I guess he didn't hear us," suggested Bart. "The wind is blowing the wrong way. Let's yell again." Once more they shouted, but with no effect. There came no answering hail. "Come on!" called Frank, increasing his speed. The boys spoke but seldom during the remainder of the tramp to camp. When they came in sight of the tent they strained their eyes for a sight of their chum. He was nowhere to be seen. "Probably he's inside, lying down," spoke Ned. It needed but a glance within the canvas shelter, to show that Fenn was not there. In the gathering dusk Frank gave a hasty glance about the locality. The embers of what had been the campfire, were cold. There was no sign that Fenn had been there recently, or that he had made any preparations to receive his chums. "He must have gone off in the woods and forgotten to come back," suggested Bart. "Maybe he went hunting on his own account." "If he had, he'd have taken his gun," replied Frank, pointing to where the weapon stood in a corner of the tent. "Then he's out for a walk," declared Bart. "He's staying rather late," commented Frank. "I hope--" Frank did not finish his sentence. Suddenly, he darted forward and picked up something off the ground. "What is it?" asked Bart. For answer Frank held it out on the palm of his hand. It was a small object and the two boys had to bend close to see what it was. They saw one of the peculiar brass buttons that serve to hold the loops with which a Chinese blouse is fastened. "A Chinese button!" exclaimed Bart, in a whisper. "The Chinamen have been here!" added Ned. "It looks as if the smugglers had Fenn," said Frank solemnly. "They must have sneaked in here and carried him off!" CHAPTER XXII FENN'S MISHAP Fenn had not gone very far, in pursuit of the two Chinamen and their white companion, before he became aware that he was not as strong as he thought he was. In his legs there was strange trembling, and his head felt dizzy. "I guess I was sicker than I imagined," he said to himself, as he kept doggedly on. "But I'll trail 'em. I'm going to find out where they are staying, how they get to the cliff, and what it's all about." Ahead of him Fenn could hear the trio making their way through the underbrush. They seemed to be following some trail, as there was a faintly-defined path through the woods at this point. "They must be preparing to smuggle in a shipload of Chinese," thought Fenn. "Probably it's the same gang we scared off farther down the lake. They've come up here. Oh, if I had some way of sending word to a government detective, I could catch 'em in the very act! But, if I can find out where the landing place is I can show the officers how to get to it. That is, if they don't take the alarm and skip out. They must know me by this time." The trail was becoming more difficult to follow. It still led toward the lake and Fenn was sure he was on the right track. Already he had visions of what he would do with the reward money, after he had given his chums their shares. "Whew! But I'm getting tired!" exclaimed the lad, after making his way through a particularly thick bit of underbrush. "I wish some of the fellows were along to take up the chase. I wonder if they're going much farther?" He paused a moment to rest, and listened intently for a sound of the retreating footsteps of those ahead of him. "Why," he exclaimed, after a second or two. "I can't hear them!" There were no sounds save those made by the birds and small beasts of the forest. "They've distanced me!" Fern exclaimed. "I couldn't keep up with them! Now I've lost track of them! What shall I do?" He was trembling, partly from excitement, and partly from nervousness and weakness. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. He looked about him and saw, off to the left, a little hill. "I'll climb that, and see if I can catch a glimpse of them," he said, speaking aloud. The sound of his own voice seemed to bring his confidence back to him. His legs lost their trembling and he felt stronger. Up to the summit of the hill he made his way, finding it a more toilsome climb than he had imagined. He reached the top. Below him, stretched out like a narrow ribbon of gray on a background of green, was the little trail he had been following, and which had been taken by the three men. It wound in and out among the woods, extending toward the lake, a glimpse of the shining water of which Fenn could just catch. Something moving on the trail caught his eye. He looked intently at it, and, the next moment he exclaimed: "There they are! They're hurrying along as if a whole band of detectives was after them, instead of me alone. Now to see if I can't catch up to them." He gave one more look at the two Celestials and the white man, who, every moment were nearing their goal, and then, hurried down the other side of the hill, to cut across through the woods at the foot, and so reach the trail. Fenn had not gone more than a dozen steps when suddenly, having made a jump over a large boulder in his path, he came down rather heavily on the other side, in the midst of a clump of ferns. There was a curious sinking of the ground, as though it had caved in. Fenn felt himself falling, down, down, down! He threw out his hands, and tried to grab something. He grasped a bunch of fern, but this went down with him. "Help! Help!" he instinctively called, though he knew no one was within hearing, save, perhaps, those three strange men, and he did not believe they would help him if they did hear his calls for aid. Fenn was slipping and sliding down some inclined chute that seemed to lead from the summit of the hill, into the interior of the earth. It was so dark he could see absolutely nothing and all he could feel around him were walls of dirt. They seemed strangely smooth, and he wondered how he could slide over them and not feel bumps from rough stones which must surely be jutting out here and there from the sides of the shaft down which he had tumbled. He put out his hands, endeavoring to find something to grasp to stay his progress, and then he discovered the reason for his smooth passage. The walls of the curious slanting tunnel, in which he had been made an involuntary prisoner, were composed of smooth clay. Down them water was slowly dripping, from some subterranean spring, making the sides as smooth and slippery as glass. Fenn tried in vain to dig his fingers into the walls, in order to stay his progress, but he only ran the risk of tearing his nails off, and he soon desisted. All he could do was to allow himself to be carried along by the force of gravity, and the incline of the tunnel was not so great as to make his progress dangerous. "It's the stopping part I've got to worry about," thought poor Fenn. "I wonder what's at the end of all this?" Suddenly, as he was sliding along, feet foremost, in the darkness, his outstretched right hand came in contact with something that caused him to start in terror. It was a round, thin slimy object, that seemed stretched out beside him. "A snake!" he exclaimed. "I've fallen into a den of serpents!" He drew his hand quickly away, fear and disgust overpowering him for a moment. Then the thing seemed to be at his left hand. This time, in spite of himself, his fingers closed around it. "A rope! It's a rope!" he cried aloud, as he vainly tried to catch hold of it and stay his sliding downward. But the rope slipped from his fingers, and his journey down the curious shaft was unstayed. "This must have been dug by men," thought Fenn. "I'll wager the smugglers had something to do with it. Why, maybe it's one of the ways they land their men. That's it! I must be sliding right down into the lake. They use the rope with which to pull themselves up the slippery tunnel." This idea seemed feasible to him, and he made further efforts to grasp the rope, in order that he might stop and pull himself up, instead of being carried on into Lake Superior. For that this was to be his fate he now feared, since, as near as he could tell, the tunnel sloped in that direction. But though he occasionally felt the rope, first on one side of him, and then on the other, he could not get a sufficient grasp on the slippery strands, covered as they were with clay, to check his progress. "I guess I'm doomed to go to the bottom," he thought. "If I only fall into deep water it won't be so bad. I can swim out. But if I land on the rocks--" Fenn did not like to think about it. In fact his heart was full of terror at his strange situation, and only his natural courage kept him from giving way to despair. But he was filled with a dogged determination to save himself if he could, even at the end. Though it has taken quite a while to describe Fenn's queer mishap, it did not take him long to accomplish it. He was slipping along at considerable speed, being shunted from side to side as the tunnel widened or narrowed, but, on the whole, being carried onward and downward in a fairly straight line. Suddenly the blackness was illuminated the least bit by a tiny point of light below and in front of him. It looked like an opening. "There's daylight ahead," thought the boy. "That must be where the fresh air comes from," for he had noticed that the tunnel was not close, but that a current of air was circulating through it. Fenn was wrong as to the source of this supply, as he learned later, but he had little time to speculate on this matter, for, much sooner than he expected, he had reached the spot of the light. He saw, suddenly looming before him, an opening that marked the end of the tunnel. The shaft gave a sharp upward turn and Fenn was shot up and out, just as are packages that are sent down those iron chutes from the sidewalk into store basements. A moment later the boy, covered with mud from head to foot, found himself on a narrow ledge on the face of a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. He lay, partly stunned for a moment, and blinking at the strong light into which he had come from the darkness of the shaft. Below him rolled the great lake, on which he and his chums had so recently been sailing in the _Modoc_. Fenn arose to his feet, and gave a glance about him. "It's the same place!" he murmured. "The same place where we saw the men who so mysteriously disappeared! I'm on the track of their secret!" He looked at the ledge on which he stood. It was long and narrow, and, not far from where he was, he saw a partly-round opening, that seemed to be the mouth of another shaft, leading straight down. "Well, more wonders!" exclaimed Fenn, walking toward it. As he did so, he was startled to see the head of a man emerge from the second shaft. The fellow gave one look at Fenn and then, with a cry of warning to some one below, he disappeared. Fenn, startled and somewhat alarmed, hesitated. He was on the brink of an odd discovery. CHAPTER XXIII THE SEARCH Following the finding of the Chinese button, and Frank's conclusion that the smugglers had carried Fenn off, the three chums, back in camp, startled by the terror the thought gave them, stood looking at each other for several seconds. They did not quite know what to make of it. "Do you really think the smugglers have him?" asked Ned, of Frank. "Well, it certainly looks so. Fenn is gone, and this button is evidence that some Chinese have been here." "But might not Fenn be off in the woods somewhere, and the Chinese have paid a visit here while he was away?" asked Bart. "Of course that's possible. But I don't believe Fenn, sick as he was, would remain away so long." "Couldn't that brass button come from some other garment than one worn by a Chinaman?" inquired Ned. "It could, but for the fact that it has some Chinese characters stamped on the under side, where the shank is," and Frank showed his chums the queer marks, probably made by the Celestial manufacturer. "Then, here's another bit of evidence," and he pointed to the ground. Ned and Bart looked. There, in the soft earth, they plainly saw several footprints, made by the peculiar, thick-soled sharp-pointed shoes the Chinese wear. "They've been here all right," admitted Bart in a low voice. "What's to be done about it?" "I think we ought to see if we can't find Fenn," declared Ned. "We ought to follow and see where these Chinese footsteps lead. Maybe Fenn is held a prisoner." "That's what we ought to do," agreed Frank. "However, it is too late to do anything much now. It will soon be night. I think we'd better get something to eat, sleep as much as we can, and start off the first thing in the morning. Maybe we can trail the smugglers by following the Chinese footprints, and, in that way, we may find--Fenn." Frank hesitated a bit over his chum's name, and there was a catch in his voice. The other boys, too, were somewhat affected. "Oh, we'll find him all right," declared Ned, confidently, to cover up the little feeling he had manifested. "If those smugglers have him, why--we'll take him away from them, that's all." "That's the way to talk!" exclaimed Frank. "Now let's get some grub. What did we shoot all these ducks for?" The chums soon had a meal ready, but, it must be confessed, the ducks did not taste as good as they expected they would. However, that was more because of their anxiety over Fenn, than from any defect in the birds or their cooking. Morning came at last, after what the three Darewell boys thought was the longest night they had ever experienced. They only slept in dozes, and, every now and again, one of them would awake and get up, to see if there were any signs of the missing Fenn. "Poor Stumpy," murmured Ned, on one occasion, when a crackling in the underbrush had deluded him into the belief that his chum had returned, but which disturbance was only caused by a prowling fox. "Poor Fenn! I hope he's in no danger!" If he could have seen Fenn at that moment he would have had good reason for expressing that hope. "Now for the trail!" exclaimed Bart when, after a hasty breakfast, the three boys, shouldering their guns, were ready to start. "Which way, Frank? You seem to have run across the track of these smugglers, and it's up to you to follow it. Lead on." "I guess we'll have no difficulty in following the trail as far as it goes," remarked Frank. "When a Chinaman goes walking he leave a track that can't be duplicated by any other person or animal. Lucky it didn't rain in the night, for what tracks there are will still be plain. And we don't have to worry about a crowd walking over the place where they were. We're not troubled by many neighbors in these woods." They started off with Frank in the lead, and he kept a careful watch for the Chinese footprints. At first they were easy to follow, as the ground was soft, and the queer cork-soled shoes had been indented deeply in the clay. But, after a time, the marks became so faint that, only here and there could they be distinguished. Then it became necessary for Frank to station one of his chums at the place where the last step was seen, and prospect around, considerably in advance, until he picked up the next one. "If we had a hound we wouldn't have all this trouble," he said. "But, seeing as we haven't, we'll have to be our own dogs," retorted Ned. "I guess we can manage it." They followed the footprints of the one Chinaman for a mile or more, and then they came to an end with an abruptness that was surprising, particularly as the last one was plainly to be seen in a patch of soft mud. "Well, he evidently went up in a balloon," announced Bart. "It does look so, unless he had a pair of wings in his pocket," supplemented Ned. Frank went on ahead, looking with sharp eyes, for a recurrence of the prints. He went so far into the woods that Bart called to him. "Do you think he jumped that distance?" "I don't know," replied Frank. "I'm going to look--" He stopped so suddenly that his chums were alarmed and ran forward to where he was. They found him staring at some marks in the earth, and the marks were those they sought--the footprints of the Chinese. "How in the world did he ever get over that space without touching the ground?" inquired Ned. "He must be a wonder, or else have a pair of those seven-league-boots I used to read about in a fairy book, when I was a kid." "Look there!" exclaimed Bart, pointing up to a tree branch overhead. "Horse hair!" exclaimed Ned. "I didn't know a horse could switch his tail so high." "Horses nothing!" retorted Bart. "That's hair from the queue of a Chinaman, or I'll eat my hat!" "But what's it doing up in the tree?" demanded Frank. "That's how he fooled us," replied Bart. "He thought some one might trail him, and when he got to a good place, he took to the trees. They are thick enough here so he could swing himself along from limb to limb, and, after he covered twenty-five feet or more, he let himself down. It was a good Chinese trick, but we got on to it. His pigtail caught in a branch. I guess it hurt him some." "Yes, here are his footsteps again, as plain as ever," said Frank, pointing to where the queer marks were to be seen. "But, say, we've forgotten one thing," said Ned suddenly. "What?" asked Bart. "We haven't looked for Fenn's footprints. All along we've been paying attention to only the marks made by the Chink. Now where does Fenn come in? This Chinese fellow couldn't carry him; could he?" "Not unless the Chink was one of the gigantic Chinese wrestlers I've read about," admitted Bart. "That's so, Ned. We have forgotten all about Fenn's footprints." The three boys looked at each other. In their anxiety at following the trail of the queer marks they had lost sight of the fact that they wanted a clue to Fenn, as well as to the smugglers. "I suppose we'd better go back to camp and begin all over," suggested Ned. "No," decided Frank, after a moment's thought. "Let's try these prints a little longer. Maybe they'll lead us to some place where we can get on Fenn's trail." The others agreed to this plan, and, once more, they took up the search. They had not gone far before Frank, who was again in the lead, called out: "Here we are, fellows! This explains it!" Ned and Bart hurried forward. They found that Frank had emerged upon a well-defined trail, that led at right angles to the one they had been following. But, stranger than that was what the trail showed. There, in plain view, were the footprints of two Chinese and the unmistakable mark of a white man's foot. "There were two parties of smugglers!" exclaimed Ned. "Either that, or one member of the single party made a cut through the woods, came to our camp, and then joined the others right here," said Frank. "Still, I don't see anything of Fenn," remarked Bart. "No? What's that?" demanded Frank quickly, pointing to footprints, quite some distance back of the others. "Fenn's! I'll be jiggered!" cried Bart. "I can tell them by the triangle mark, made with hobnails that he hammered into the heels of his shoes, after we decided to come on this trip. He said that would prevent him slipping around on deck." "Those are Fenn's footsteps all right--unless some one else has his shoes," declared Ned. "Come on! We're on the right trail at last." And the boys hurried forward, hope once more strong in their hearts. CHAPTER XXIV FENN IS CAPTURED For several seconds after he had observed the man's head disappear down the hole in the ledge, Fenn waited. He wanted to see if the fellow had gone for reinforcements, or had retreated. After a minute or two Fenn decided that the man was as much frightened as he himself was. "I'll take a look down that hole," he decided. "I'm not in very good shape for visiting company," he went on, with a look at his clay-covered clothes, "but I don't believe those chaps are very particular. I wonder what I'm up against? This is a queer country, with holes in the ground almost at every turn, leading to no one knows where." He advanced toward the shaft, down which the man had vanished, and, as he reached the edge, he saw that it contained a ladder. The ladder was made of tree trunks, with the branches cut off about a foot from where they joined on, leaving projections sticking up at a slight angle, and making a good hold for the hands and feet. "Well, I s'pose I'm foolish to do this all alone, and that I had better go back to camp and get the boys," murmured Fenn, as he prepared to descend. "But, if I do, the smugglers may escape, and I'll lose the reward. There must be an opening at the bottom of this shaft that leads right out on the lake shore. When the boats land the smuggled-in Chinamen, they are probably taken up this shaft, then through the one I slid down, and so into the woods, and from there they are spirited wherever they want to go." He looked into the shaft, and listened intently, but could hear no sound. He was surprised to see that the opening, leading down to he could only guess where, was dimly lighted, seemingly in a natural manner. But his wonder at this ceased when, having gone down a little way, he noticed that the walls of the shaft were pierced, in the direction of the lake, with small openings, through which light came. The shaft, he then saw, was either a natural one, or had been bored, straight down the cliff, and at no great distance from the perpendicular face of it. The sides seemed to be of soft rock, or hard clay, and the tree-trunk ladders were fastened up against the walls by long wooden stakes, driven in deeply. There were several tree trunks, one after another, and from the smoothness of the jutting prongs it was evident that they were often used. Down Fenn climbed, stopping every now and then to peer through the ventilating and light holes. He caught glimpses of the great lake, that lay at the foot of the cliff, toward the bottom of which he was descending in this strange manner. "Queer I don't hear or see anything more of those men I was chasing," mused the boy as he paused a moment opposite one of the air holes to get his breath. "I wonder what became of the two Chinese and the white chap? Then there's that man who stuck his head up out of this hole. He looked like a miner, for his hat was all covered with dirt. That reminds me, where's my hat?" Instinctively he looked about him, as though he would find it hanging on one of the prongs of the tree-trunk ladder, which might answer as a hat rack. Then he laughed at himself. "I remember now," he said. "It flew off when I fell through that clump of fern into the hole I thought led to China. Guess I'll have to make my bow without my hat." He glanced below him. It seemed as if he was at the last of the ventilating openings for, further down, there were no glimmerings of daylight, which was fast waning. Then, as he looked, he caught the flickering of a torch, not far down. It waved to and fro, casting queer shadows on the walls of the shaft, and then the person holding it seemed coming up the ladder. "Now there's going to be trouble," thought Fenn. "We can't pass on this thing. Either he's got to wait until I get down, or I'll have to go all the way back to the top. I wonder if I better yell to let him know I'm here? No, that wouldn't be just the thing. I'll try to slip around between the wall and the ladder, and, maybe, he'll pass me." Fenn proceeded to put this rather risky plan into operation. Holding on by both hands to one of the projecting branches he endeavored to swing himself around. The man with the torch was coming nearer and nearer. Suddenly Fenn's hold slipped. He tried to recover himself but without avail. The next moment his hands lost their grip and he went plunging down into the darkness below, faintly illuminated by the smoking torch. Then he knew no more. When Fenn came to his senses it was only with the utmost difficulty that he could recall what had happened. He had a hazy recollection of having been in some dark hole--then a light was seen--then he slipped--then came blackness and then-- He tried to raise himself from where he lay, and a rustling told him he was reclining on a bed of straw. By the light of a torch stuck in the earthen wall of what seemed to be a cavern, Fenn could make out the shadows of several men, grotesquely large and misshapen, moving about. From the distance came a peculiar noise, as of machinery. Fenn's brain cleared slowly, though from the ache in his head, he knew he must have had quite a fall. He raised himself on his elbow, and gradually came to a sitting position. He drew a long breath, and started to get up. As he did so, he felt some one place his hands on his chest, and push him back, not rudely, but with enough firmness to indicate that he was to lie down. Instinctively he struggled against what seemed to him a dim shape in the half-darkness. "Lie down," a man's voice commanded. "You'll be all right in a little while. You had quite a fall." "What's the matter? Where am I? Who are you?" asked Fenn. "That's all right now, sonny," was the reply in such soothing tones, as one sometimes uses toward a fretful child. "You're in safe hands." "Has the kid woke up?" called a voice from the blackness beyond the circle of light cast by the torches. "Yes," answered the man who had made Fenn lie down. Following the words there was a sudden increase in the illumination of the cavern, and Fenn saw a big man approaching, carrying a torch. With him were several others. One of them had a rope. "Are you--are you going to make me a prisoner?" asked Fenn, his heart sinking. "That's what we are." Just then another man flashed a torch in the boy's face. No sooner had he done so than he called out: "Great Scott! If it isn't the very kid I chased!" Fenn glanced quickly up and saw, standing before him, the man with the sinister face--the man who had pursued him at the elevator fire. Beside him was a man with a peculiar cast in one eye, and Fenn knew he was the fellow who had listened to the conversation of the chums in the railroad car. CHAPTER XXV AN UNEXPECTED MEETING Along the trail, which they had thus suddenly come upon, fairly ran Frank, Ned and Bart. Now that they were sure Fenn was ahead of them, though they could not tell how long since he had passed that way, they were anxious to find their chum as soon as possible. "It looks as if Fenn was chasing the Chinese and the white man, instead of them being after him," suggested Ned. "Unless they are leading him with a rope," remarked Frank. "In that case he would be marching behind." "Well, I'll bet they'd have a fine time making Fenn march along with a rope on him," said Bart. "He'd lie down and make 'em drag him. That would be Fenn's way." "Unless he's too sick to make any resistance," replied Frank, who seemed to take a gloomy view of it. "Well, there's no good wasting time talking about it," declared Bart. "What we want to do is to find Fenn. Then we'll know exactly how it was." "That's right; save our breaths to make speed with," added Ned. Though the boys were not lagging on the trail, they increased their pace until they were going along at a dog trot, which carried them over a considerable space in a short time, yet was not too tiring. They caught occasional glimpses of the marks left by the feet of the Chinese and the white man, as well as prints of Fenn's shoes. "There they go, up that hill!" exclaimed Ned, who, for the time being, was in the advance. "Who? The men?" called Bart quickly. "No, the footprints. Come on," and he led the way up the little hill, up which Fenn had hurried the day previous, with such disastrous results. Fortunately the pace was beginning to tell on Ned, and, as he reached the summit, and started down the other side, he slowed up. It was to this circumstance that he avoided stepping right into the hole of the shaft, down which Fenn had taken that queer-sliding journey. "Look here!" yelled Ned, so excitedly that his two companions fairly jumped up to gain his side, thinking he must have come upon either Fenn or one of the men. "Somebody has fallen down that hole!" That was very evident, for the fresh earth on the edges, the scattered and torn clumps of fern, and the general disturbance about the mouth of the pit, showed that all too plainly. "See!" suddenly exclaimed Bart. "There's his hat!" and, turning to one side he picked it up from the ground, where it had fallen when poor Fenn took his tumble. "This shows he was here." "We were sure enough of that before," said Frank, "but it certainly does seem to indicate that Fenn went down there. I wonder whether he fell, or whether those men thrust him down?" Bart threw himself, face downward, close to the edge of the hole. He looked carefully at the marks on the edges. Then he got up and began looking about in a circle. Finally, he walked back some distance down the hill. "I have it!" he finally announced. "All right, let's have it and see if we agree with you," spoke Ned. "Fenn came up this hill all alone," declared Bart. "If you had looked closely enough you could see that the footprints of the Chinese and the white man go around the base of the hill to the right. Probably they made a turn, when Fenn wasn't looking. He thought they went up the hill. He hurried after them, and stepped right into this trap. Probably it was covered over with leaves or grass, and he couldn't see it, until it was too late. That's my theory." "And I believe you're right," declared Frank. "It sounds reasonable." "Then the next question is; what are we going to do about it?" inquired Ned. "No use standing here discussing what happened, or how it happened. What we want to do is to get busy and rescue Fenn." "That's the way to talk," declared Frank. "Wait a minute," suggested Bart. Once more he got down close to the hole, and peered into the depths. "See anything?" asked Ned. "There a way to get down," replied Bart, after a moment. "How; a ladder?" "No. Ropes. See, there are cables fastened to the sides of this shaft, and it looks as if they had been used several times." Bart reached down and got hold of a clay-covered rope, one of those which Fenn had tried so vainly to grasp. "That's funny," remarked Frank. "Looks as if this was a regular underground railway system." "I'll bet that's what it is," cried Ned. "This must be one of the means whereby the smugglers get the Chinamen ashore. Why didn't we think of it before? Let's go down there. We can easily do it by holding on to the ropes." "It's too risky," decided Frank. "There's no telling what is at the bottom." "But we've got to save Fenn!" exclaimed Bart, who rather sided with Ned. "I know that, but there's no use running recklessly into danger. We can't help him that way. If he's down that hole, or in the hands of the smugglers, we can do him more good by keeping out of that pit, or away from the scoundrels, than we can by falling into their hands. Fenn needs some one outside to help him, not some one in the same pickle he's in." Frank's vigorous reasoning appealed to his chums, and, though they would have been willing to brave the unknown dangers of the hole, they admitted it would be best to try first some other means of rescuing their chum. "Let's prospect around a bit," proposed Frank. "Maybe we can find some other way of discovering where this hole leads to. The lake can't be far away, and if we can get down to the shore we may see something that will give us a clue." "All right, come on," said Bart, and the Darewell chums started down the hill, in the direction of Lake Superior. As they emerged upon a bluff, which overlooked the vast body of water, they came to a pause, so impressed were they, even in their anxiety, with the beautiful view that stretched out before them. Under the bright rays of the morning sun the lake sparkled like a sheet of silver. "I wish we were all safe together again, aboard the _Modoc_," remarked Ned, after a moment's pause. "Same here," echoed Bart. "But, if we're--" He was interrupted by a sound off to the left. Gazing in that direction the boys saw, coming along the trail toward them, a man and girl. Something about them seemed familiar. "Mr. Hayward!" cried Ned. "And his daughter!" added Frank, in a lower voice. "Well! Well!" exclaimed the man, whose lucky escape from the automobile accident in Darewell, had led to the boys' acquaintance with him. "If here aren't my young friends, the Darewell Chums, come to pay me a visit! I'm very glad to see you, but I thought there were four of you." "So there are, father," interrupted Ruth. "Where is Fenn?" she asked, turning quickly to the three boys. "Is he ill--didn't he come with you?" "He's lost!" replied Frank. "We're hunting for him." "Lost?" repeated Mr. Hayward. "How? Where?" Frank briefly related what had happened since they had started from Darewell on the cruise to Duluth. "Well I never!" exclaimed Robert Hayward. "That's a great story! And the last trace you have of him is down that hole?" "The very last," answered Ned, looking at Ruth, and not blaming Fenn for thinking she was pretty. "This must be looked into," declared Mr. Hayward. "Lucky I happened to be out here with my daughter. You see I live several miles from here, but to-day, Ruth and I decided to take a little trip. I--I wanted to look at some land I--some property I am interested in out here. I was on my way to it when I saw you boys." The man seemed to have a curious hesitation in his manner and his words, and Ruth, too, appeared under some strain. But the boys were too anxious about their comrade to pay much attention to this. "Come on!" suddenly called Mr. Hayward. "Where are you going, father?" asked Ruth. "I'm going to find Fenn Masterson. I think I have a clue that will help us," and he strode forward, followed by his daughter and the wondering boys. CHAPTER XXVI FENN'S ODD DISCOVERY Mutual surprise showed on the face of Fenn, as well as on the countenance of the man who made this surprising announcement in the cave, where we have left that rather unfortunate youth. The boy, who had been prepared to meet a band of Chinese smugglers, now saw before him the mysterious person, who appeared to have some interest in the affairs of Mr. Hayward, and who seemed to be pleased that misfortune should overtake the man who had recovered from the auto accident near Fenn's house. "Well, how'd you get here?" asked the man gruffly, advancing closer to the captive, and holding his torch to throw the light on Fenn's face. "Slid part way, and climbed the rest," answered the lad, who decided to remain as cool as possible under the circumstances. "Humph! Well, I reckon you know where you are now?" "I haven't the least idea, except that I'm under ground." "Yes, and you're liable to stay here for some time. You'll find, before I get through with you, that it isn't healthy, out in this country, to pay too much attention to the business of other folks. I'll pay you back for spying on me. I thought I'd gotten rid of you some time ago, but I see you're still after me." "I'm not after you," answered Fenn. "I didn't expect to see you down here. Nor am I spying on you. You're mistaken." "Weren't you trying to hear what I was saying--the night of the fire--aren't you in the employ of Robert Hayward?" demanded the man, asking his questions too quickly to permit of any answer. "I'm not employed by Mr. Hayward, though I know him, and he is a friend of mine," declared Fenn. "I wasn't intentionally listening to what you were saying that night, but, when I found you were an enemy of Mr. Hayward, I wanted to know more about you." "How do you know I am his enemy?" asked the man. "From the way you talked. Besides, why did you chase after me, and try to catch us on the _Modoc_?" "That's something for me to know, and for you to find out," replied the man, with an unpleasant laugh. "You're too wise, you are." "Maybe I'll find out more than you want me to," retorted Fenn. "No danger. I'm going to put you where you can't do anything for a while, and, after you've cooled down a bit, I'll think of what to do next. Tom, come here," he called. A big man approached, and, at a nod from the fellow of the sinister countenance, gathered Fenn up in his arms, in spite of the resistance the lad made. Fenn soon found it was useless to struggle, so he remained quietly in the grip of the burly chap. "Take him to the inner cave," directed the man, whom the others addressed as Dirkfell, "and then come back. We need you in getting this last load out. After that we'll take a rest." Fenn tried to see where he was being carried, but it was almost impossible in the darkness. There were several flickering torches, stuck in the earthen walls of the cavern, here and there, and, by the glimmers of them, the youth could see men hurrying to and fro. Some carried picks and others shovels, while some bore boxes that seemed to be very heavy. "I wonder what sort of a place I've gotten into," thought Fenn. "Maybe it's--yes, I'll bet that's what it is--a gold mine!" For a moment the thought of this made his heart beat strangely fast. Then cooler reason came to him, and he recalled that the region around Lake Superior contained no gold, though there were mines of other minerals, some quite valuable. This train of thought was interrupted by the sudden stopping of the man who was carrying him, as though he was a baby. The fellow stooped down, kicked a door open with his foot, and, the next moment Fenn found himself in a small cave, lighted by a lantern hanging over a rough table, around which several chairs were drawn. "Here's where you stay until the boss tells you to come out," fairly growled the man. Fenn did not reply, and the fellow withdrew, taking care, as the lad noted, to lock the door after him. No sooner was the portal closed, than Fenn began an inspection of the place. He took the lantern and held it close to the door. It was made of heavy planks, and the fastening seemed to be on the outside. As for the remainder of the cave, the walls were composed of hard clay, or harder rock. The place was a sort of niche, hollowed out from the larger cavern. "Well, I seem to be in a pickle," observed Fenn grimly. "That comes of prying too much into other people's affairs, I s'pose. No help for it, however. I'm here and the next question is how to get away. I wish the boys were with me--no, I don't either. It's bad enough to be here myself, without getting them into trouble. "I guess they'll be surprised when they get back to camp and find me gone. I wish I'd left some sort of a message. They won't know where to look for me." But Fenn did not give his chums credit for their energy. The prisoner made a circuit of his dungeon, and concluded there was no way, at present, of getting out. He readily got rid of the rope that fastened his arms behind him. "I will just take another look at that door," mused Fenn, when, having completed his tour of inspection, which did not take him long, he again found himself in front of the portal. He held the lantern up as high as he could. "If I stood on a chair I could see better," he reasoned. He got one of the rough pieces of furniture, mounted it, and, was just raising the light up to the top of the door when his hand slipped and the lantern fell, smashing the glass, and extinguishing the wick. "Hu!" exclaimed Fenn, standing on the chair in the darkness. "Lucky it didn't explode and set fire to the oil. I'd been worse off then I am now." He was in total darkness, and was about to get down off the chair, and grope his way back to the table, when a gleam of light, showing through a crack in the door, attracted his attention. "Somebody is coming," he said. "Maybe they're going to let me out. Or, perhaps, they heard the lantern fall." But, as he looked, he saw that the gleam was not made by a torch or lantern being carried by someone approaching his dungeon. Instead it came from several torches stuck in the wall of the main cave. And, by the light of these torches Fenn made an odd discovery. Several men were digging in the sides of the cavern, loosening the clay and soft rock with picks and shovels. They were piling the material in boxes which were loaded into a car, that ran on a small track, and were hurried off, to some place that the boy could not see. As he watched he saw Dirkfell approach, and, by signs and gestures, for Fenn could not hear at that distance, the man urged the laborers to work faster. "They're mining," thought Fenn. "It must be valuable stuff, too, or they wouldn't take out such small quantities. And they must be working in secret, or they wouldn't take all the precautions they do, to remain hidden. There's something queer back of all this, and I'd like to see what it is." Fenn applied his eye closely to the crack in the door. He could see the men gathered about a cavity in the cavern wall, on which they were working, and, from the way in which they pointed at something the boy believed they must have come upon a rich deposit of whatever ore they were mining. "I wish I was out of this place!" exclaimed Fenn to himself. "If I had the boys here to help me I'll bet we could escape, and then there'd be a different story to tell. "There must be an opening, somewhere," he reasoned. "That air comes from under the door. It's fresh, so there must be some communication directly with the outer air, from the big cave." He stretched out flat on his face, and put his eyes as close as he could to the bottom of the portal. He saw light beneath it, and, jumping up, exclaimed: "That's it! I see a way to get out. But I must wait until the men have gone!" An idea had come to Fenn. The floor of the small cave he was in, was of earth. Between it and the bottom of the door, was quite a space. If he could enlarge this space, it might be possible for him to crawl under the door, and this he resolved to attempt, as soon as it would be safe. He felt in his pocket to see if his knife was there, and his heart beat more rapidly as his fingers closed on the handle. It contained a large, strong blade, and he thought he could do his digging with it. But it would be necessary to wait until the men got out of the way, and, if they worked in two shifts, this would not occur. Anxiously Fenn waited. Every minute seemed an hour as he sat there in the darkness, now and then kneeling down to peer under the door, to see if the men had gone. But, every time, he saw them at their queer operations, or taking something from the walls of the cave. He fell into a doze, to be awakened by the entrance of some one into his apartment. "Where's the light?" asked a voice Fenn recognized as belonging to the man who had carried him in. "It fell and broke," he answered. "Humph! Well, I'll bring another. The boss didn't give no orders to leave you in the dark. Here's some grub. It's supper time." "What day is it?" asked Fenn. "Thursday. Why?" The boy did not answer. He knew, however, that he had been in the cave a much shorter time than he supposed. It was the evening of the same day he had started to follow the smugglers. Now he appeared to have lost track of them, but he was in the power of a gang as bad, if not worse. The man brought another lantern, and also some water. The food was coarse, but Fenn ate it with a good deal of relish. "Guess you'll have to sleep on the table," the man went on, as he threw some blankets down. "There's no bed in this hotel," and he laughed. But Fenn was too busy thinking of his plan to escape, to care about a bed. He hoped, now that it was night, the men would stop working. And, in this, he was not disappointed. Some one called a signal through the cavern, and the men, dropping their tools, and taking their torches with them, filed out of sight of the boy, watching from beneath the door. He wanted to begin his digging at once, but concluded it would be safer to postpone it a while. He was sure it must have been several hours that he waited there in the silence. Then, taking an observation, and finding the outer cavern to be in blackness, he commenced to burrow under the door, like a dog after a hidden rabbit. The big blade of his knife easily cut into the soft clay, and, working hard for some time, he had quite an opening beneath the portal. He tried to squeeze through, but found he was a bit too big for it. "A little more and I can slip out," he whispered to himself. Faster and faster he plied the knife, loosening the earth, and throwing it back with his hands. Once more he tried and, though it was a tight squeeze, he managed to wiggle out. "Now!" he mused. "If I don't run into anybody I can get to the foot of the shaft, and go up that ladder. Guess I'll take the light." He reached back under the door, and got hold of the lantern, which he had placed near the hole, slipping it under his coat so that the gleams would not betray him. Then, remembering, as best he could which way the man had carried him, he stole softly along, on the alert for any of the miners. He had not gone more than a dozen feet, and had just turned a corner, which showed him a straight, long tunnel, that, he believed, led to the foot of the shaft, when, to his consternation, he heard a noise. At the same time a voice called: "Hey! Where you goin'?" Fenn resolved to chance all to boldness. Taking the lantern from under his coat, that he might see to run through the cave, he sprang forward, toward what he believed was the shaft down which he had come on the tree-trunk ladder. "Stop! Stop!" called someone behind him, but Fenn kept on. CHAPTER XXVII A TIMELY RESCUE Fenn's fear, and his fierce desire to escape from the cave, lent him speed. Forward he went, faster than he had ever run before. Suddenly there loomed up before him a dim, hazy light, but it was the illumination from the sun, and not from an artificial source. "It must be morning!" the boy thought. "I worked at that hole all night. But how is it that the sun shines down the shaft? I didn't believe it could. There's something strange here!" All these thoughts flashed through his mind while he ran on, intent on distancing his pursuer, who was close behind him. Fenn could hear the man's footsteps. Once more the fellow shouted: "Hey! Stop! You don't know where you're goin'!" "I don't, eh?" thought Fenn. "Well, I guess I do. I'm going to get away from you, that's where I'm going." The dim light became plainer now. Fenn could see that it came through an opening in the cave; an opening that was close to the ground. Clearly then, this could not be the shaft down which he had come. He was puzzled, but he kept on. He threw away the lantern, for he did not need it any longer to see where to go. Several other voices joined in the shouts of alarm, and in urging Fenn to stop. He did not answer but kept on. "If I can once get outside they'll not dare to carry me back," the lad reasoned. "It's only a little farther now." He was panting from the run, for the exertion, following his illness, and the experience he had gone through, was too much for him. He felt that he could go no farther. Yet he knew if he halted now the men would get him, and he feared for the consequences that might follow his attempt to escape. "Oh, if only some of the boys were here!" was his almost despairing thought. "If ever I needed help I do now!" The light was so good now that Fenn could distinguish the sides of the cave. He saw that he was running along a straight tunnel, quite high and wide, but which narrowed, like a funnel, as it approached the opening toward which he was speeding. "I wonder if there's room for me to get out?" he thought. "And I wonder where I'll be when I get out?" "Hold on! Hold on!" yelled the man back of Fenn. "You'll get hurt if you go any farther!" "And I'll get hurt if I go back," whispered Fenn, pantingly. "Stop! Stop!" cried another voice which the lad recognized as Dirkfell's. "Come back! I'll not harm you!" "He's too late with that promise," Fenn thought. A few seconds later he was at the opening of the cave. He fairly sprang through it, finding it large enough to give him passage standing upright. He leaped out, so glad was he to leave behind the terrors of the dark cave, and the mysterious men, who seemed so anxious to keep him a prisoner. "Free!" Fenn almost shouted as he passed the edge of the opening. He was about to give an exultant cry, but it was choked on his lips. For the opening was on the sheer edge of a cliff, without the semblance of a foothold beyond it, and below it there sparkled the blue waters of Lake Superior! Fenn felt himself falling. He was launched through the air by his leap for liberty, and, a moment later, the lake had closed over his head! Meanwhile Mr. Hayward, followed by his daughter, Frank, Bart and Ned was hurrying along, bent on discovering and rescuing Fenn. True, they did not know where he was, but Mr. Hayward had a clue he wished to follow. As he hastened along, he told the boys what it was. "My daughter and I have been sort of living in the woods for the past week," he said. "We have taken auto trips as far as the machine would go, and then have tramped the rest of the way. I want to see how my land is. It is some property I bought a good while ago, and which I never thought amounted to much. But I have a chance to sell it now, and I may dispose of it. "I was looking along the lake shore, the other day, for some of my land extends out there,--and I saw a boat, containing some Chinese and a white man. It was being rowed up and down the shore, and I thought, at the time, the men acted rather suspiciously. They seemed to be waiting for something to happen. I was too busy to pay much attention to them, but I believe now that they were part of that smugglers' band you speak of." "Why didn't you tell the police, father?" asked Ruth. "To think of poor Fenn being captured by them." "We are not sure he is captured by them, Ruth," said Mr. Hayward. "At any rate I'm going to the point on shore near where I saw the boat. It may be there is a tunnel running from that place on the hill, where Fenn disappeared, right down to the lake. In that case we may find some trace of him there. This region used to be worked by some ancient race, I understand, who dug deep into the earth after certain minerals and ores. There are several tunnels, shafts and queer passages through the hills and along shore, I have heard; shafts that used to give access to the mines. They have long been abandoned, but it is just possible that the smugglers may have discovered and utilized them." "Maybe they're hiding in a cave, somewhere, now," suggested Ned, "and perhaps they have Fenn a prisoner." "Oh dear! Isn't it dreadful!" exclaimed Ruth, with a shudder. The other boys could not help wishing she was as anxious about them as she was over Fenn. It made up, in a great measure, for all he was likely to suffer, Bart thought. He looked closely at Ruth. She seemed strangely excited, as though she feared some nameless terror. "This way!" called Mr. Hayward, leading the little party of rescuers through a short cut, and down a sloping bank to the shore of the lake. "Here we are. Now the boat, when I saw it, was right opposite that little point of land," and he motioned to indicate where he meant. At that instant Bart saw something black bobbing about on the surface of the lake. "What's that?" he cried, pointing to it. "A boat!" exclaimed Ruth. "There is the boat now, daddy!" "It's too small for a boat," replied Mr. Hayward. "It's a man! It's some one in the lake!" he added excitedly. "And he's about done for, too! I'll swim out and get him!" Before any of the boys could offer, or indeed make any move, to go to the rescue, Mr. Hayward had thrown off the heaviest of his clothing and plunged in. With powerful strokes he made for the black object, which, as the others could see, was a person making feeble efforts to swim ashore. With anxious eyes the three chums and Ruth watched the rescue. They saw Mr. Hayward reach the bobbing head, saw him place an arm about the exhausted swimmer, and then strike out for shore. A few minutes later the man was able to wade. In his arms he carried an almost inert bundle. "I got him, boys!" he called. "Who?" asked Ruth. "Fenn Masterson! I was just in the nick of time. He was going down for the final plunge," and with that he laid the nearly-unconscious form of Fenn down on the sandy shore. CHAPTER XXVIII RUTH TELLS HER SECRET "Quick! We must hurry him to a doctor!" exclaimed Ruth, as she bent down over Fenn. "Will he die, daddy?" "I think not. He'll be all right in a little while. But we'll take him to our house. Lucky the auto is not far away." "I'm--I'm all right," gasped Fenn, faintly. "I was just tired out, that's all. I didn't swallow any water. There--there seemed to be some sort of a current setting against the shore, and--I couldn't make any headway." He sat up, looking rather woe-begone, soaking wet as he was, and with some of the red clay still clinging to his clothes. Mr. Hayward was hastily donning his outer garments over his wet things. "I'll have the auto around in a jiffy!" he exclaimed. "Lucky it's summer, and you'll not take cold. Just rest yourself, Fenn, until I come back, and we'll have you all right again." "But how in the world did you ever get into the lake?" asked Ruth, as her father hurried away. "I jumped in." "Jumped in!" repeated Bart. "How was that?" "Now we mustn't ask him too many questions," interrupted Ruth. "He's not able to answer." "Oh yes I am," replied the lad who had been through rather strenuous times in the last few hours. Thereupon he briefly related what had happened since his chums left him to go hunting, ending up with his unexpected plunge into the lake. In turn Bart told how they had searched for him, and how, having met Mr. Hayward and his daughter, the hunt was brought to such a timely ending. "But what were those men taking out of the cave?" asked Frank, when Ruth had gone down the shore, along which a road ran, to see if her father was returning. "That's what we've got to discover," answered Fenn. "I think there's a valuable secret back of it. We'll go--" But further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the auto--the same big touring car that had so nearly come to grief in Darewell. The four boys got in, Fenn was wrapped in a lap robe, to prevent getting chilled on the quick ride that was to follow, and the car was sent whizzing along an unfrequented road to Mr. Hayward's home, several miles away. The three chums wanted to ask Fenn all sorts of questions about his experiences, but Ruth, who constituted herself a sort of emergency nurse, forbade them. "You'll have time enough after he has had a rest," she said. "Besides, he's just gotten over a fever, you say. Do you want him to get another? It looks as though he was." And that was just what happened. When the auto reached Mr. Hayward's home Fenn was found to be in considerable distress. His cheeks were hot and flushed and he was put to bed at once, though he insisted, with his usual disregard of trifles that concerned himself, that he was "all right." A physician was summoned, and prescribed quiet, and some soothing medicine. "He has had a severe shock," he said, "and this, on top of his former attack of fever, from which he had barely recovered, has caused a slight relapse. It is nothing dangerous, and, with careful nursing he will be all right in a few days." "Then, I'm going to take care of him," declared Ruth. "It will be a chance to pay back some of his, and his folks' kindness to me and my father. Now mind, I don't want you boys to speak to Fenn unless I give you permission," and she laughed as she shook her finger at the chums to impress this on them. Fenn, under the influence of the medicine, soon fell into a deep sleep, which, the pretty nurse said, was the best thing in the world for him. "I guess we'd better go back to camp," proposed Bart. "All we brought away from there are the guns, and some one might come along and steal the other stuff, which isn't ours." "That's so, those smugglers are still around I suppose," added Ned. "We had better get back, I think." "You'll do nothing of the sort," declared Mr. Hayward good-naturedly. "You're going to be my guests, or I'll be very much offended. We've not got such a fine place as some, but you're welcome to what there is. If things were different--but there, I want you to stay." He seemed affected by something, and his manner was so queer that the boys could not help noticing it. Ruth, too, appeared embarrassed, and, at first, Bart and his chums thought it might be that she was not prepared for company, since, as her mother was dead, she had the whole care of the house, though there was a servant to help her. But her invitation, which she added to that of her father's, assured the boys that they would be very welcome. "You can't rough it so much as you could out in the woods," said Ruth, "but I think you'll like it here. We have a motor boat, and you may wish to run it on the lake." "A motor boat!" exclaimed Bart. "That settles it! We stay!" "But what about our camp stuff?" asked Frank. "I'll send a man to gather it up and ship it back to Duluth," said Mr. Hayward. "There's no need of you going back there at all. I'll be glad to have you stay. We're a little upset on account of--" He stopped suddenly, and glanced at his daughter, who did not appear to be listening to what he was saying. But she heard, nevertheless, as was shown by her next remark. "Oh, dad means some of the servants have gone," quickly explained Ruth. "You see we had too many," she went on. "I decided we could get along with one, for I want to help do the work. I must learn to be a housekeeper, you know," and she blushed a little. "We're not upset a bit, daddy. You see, I'll manage." It seemed as though something sad was worrying Mr. Hayward, but, he soon recovered his usual spirits, and got the boys to give him directions for shipping back their camp stuff. "Now, I'll look after it," he said, as he prepared to leave the house, having changed his wet garments for dry ones. "I have some other matters to attend to, and I may not be back until late. I guess you can get along here. You can pretend you're camping out, and, if you get tired of that, Ruth will show you where the motor boat is. Only, don't upset," and, with that caution, he left them. The three chums decided they would try the boat at once, and, Ruth, having ascertained that they knew how to run one, showed them where the launch was kept in a neat boat-house on the shore of Lake Superior. "Don't be gone too long," she said. "You can't tell what will happen to Fenn." "I guess he couldn't be in better hands," said Frank, with a bow. "Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Ruth, with a pretty blush. "That'll do you," observed Bart, nudging Frank with his elbow. "I'll tell Fenn when he gets well." Ruth returned to her patient, after urging the three chums to be back in time for dinner. She found Fenn awake, and with unnaturally bright eyes. "You must go to sleep," she told him. "I can't sleep." "Why not?" "I'm thinking of something." "What about?" she asked with a little laugh. "About all the wonderful adventures you had?" "Partly, and about that cave. It's the same one." "The same one? What do you mean?" "The same one you talked about when you were at our house. The mysterious cave, where the men were at work. I see it all now. It's the same cave! There is some secret about it! Tell me what it is. Don't you remember what you said? You wanted to find the cave, but couldn't. I have found it!" "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth. She drew back as if frightened. "Oh!" she cried again. "Can it be possible. It seems like a dream! Can it be my cave?" "Tell me about it," suggested Fenn, for even his illness could not deter him from trying to solve the mystery. "I am going to tell you a secret," answered Ruth. "It is something I have told no one. You know my father is--or, rather he was--quite wealthy. He owned considerable property, and was counted a millionaire. But lately, through some misfortune, he has lost nearly all his wealth. I suspect, though I do not know for sure, that some wicked men have cheated him out of it. But he does not know that I am aware of his loss. He has kept it a secret and he tries to keep up when he is with me, but I can see the strain he is under. He does not want me to suffer, dear daddy! But I don't mind. I don't care for money as long as I have him. "He thinks he can get his wealth back again, and so he has been making all sorts of sacrifices in order that I may continue to live here, in the same style we used to. But I found out about it. I discharged all the servants but one, to save money, and I am economizing in other ways." "But about the cave," insisted Fenn. "It sounds almost like a dream," went on Ruth. "One day, when I was walking through the woods around here, just before daddy and I took that automobile trip East, I was on a ledge of the cliff, about opposite where you were in the lake to-day. That particular ledge is not there now, as a landslide carried it away, but it was quite large, and easy to get to, when I was on it. I was after some peculiar flowers that grew there. "As I was gathering them I saw an opening in the cliff, and I could look right into a large cave. I was so surprised I did not know what to do, and, much more so, when I saw several men at work. They seemed to be taking stuff out--valuable stuff, for they were very careful with it. I must have made some noise, for one of the men came to where I was looking in. "He was very angry, and tried to grab me. I drew back, and nearly toppled off the ledge into the lake. Then the man threatened me. He said if I ever told what I saw something dreadful would happen to me. "I was much frightened, and hurried away. I was going to tell my father of what I had seen, but the memory of the man's threat prevented me. The thing got on my mind so I was taken ill. Then came the automobile trip and the accident. But I could not forget the cave. It seemed like a bad dream, and it followed me. I did not know I had mentioned it in my delirium at your house, until you told me. Then I was frightened lest something happen to you, as well as to myself, and I begged you never to refer to it. But I could not forget it. All the while I kept wondering who those men were, and what they were taking out. I thought perhaps they might have found gold. Of course it was foolish, and, sometimes I think it was all only a bad dream. Only it is not a dream about poor daddy losing all his money." "And it isn't any dream about that cave!" exclaimed Fenn, sitting up in bed. "It's real. There are men in it taking out something I think is valuable. They are doing it secretly, too. I don't know who it belongs to, but we'll soon find that out. By some curious chance I have discovered the same cave you looked into. I'll take you to it, and we'll see what those men are digging out. I'm going to get right up and go back there. I'm all right! We must go before the men take all the stuff! Where are the boys? Tell them to come here and help me dress." "No, no!" exclaimed Ruth. "The doctor said you must be kept quiet!" "I'm going to go back to that cave!" declared Fenn, and, getting out of bed, clad in a big bath robe, he began to hunt for his clothes, which, however were not in the room, having been taken to the laundry to be pressed. "Mary! Mary!" called Ruth to the servant. "Telephone for the doctor. Tell him Fenn is delirious!" CHAPTER XXIX A BAFFLING SEARCH Fenn sat down rather suddenly on hearing Ruth make that announcement. He grew calm. "All right," he said, good-naturedly, "there's no use alarming you. I'm not delirious. I never felt better in my life. That sleep I had was fine. My fever is all gone. But, go ahead, if you want to. Send for the doctor. I don't mind. I know what he'll say, and then I can go and hunt for that cave." "Oh, Fenn, are you sure you're all right?" asked Ruth, much reassured by the cool manner in which the boy spoke. "Sure. Here, feel of my pulse. It's as slow as yours." Ruth did so, and, having had some experience in cases of illness, she realized that Fenn's fever had gone down. "You do seem better," she acknowledged. "However, I think it would be a good thing for the doctor to see you. I don't want you to run any chances." "All right," agreed Fenn. The physician came again and said that, much to his surprise, Fenn's illness was not as alarming as had at first appeared. "Can't I go out?" asked the lad, not telling what for. "Hum--ah--er--um--well, it's a little risky, but then--well, I guess you can," and, after much humming and hawing the medical man gave his consent and left, shaking his head over the perverseness of those who were always in a hurry. "Now send up my clothes, please," begged Fenn, when the doctor was safely away. "We'll solve the mystery of that cave in jig style." "Hadn't we better wait for the other boys?" suggested Ruth. "Besides it's nearly dinner time, and you ought to eat something." "Good idea," declared Fenn, but, whether it was the one about eating, or waiting for the boys he did not say. Frank, Bart and Ned were rather late getting back from the motor boat ride, but they had such a good time that no one blamed them. Mr. Hayward also returned, and it was quite a merry party that gathered about the table. That is all except Mr. Hayward. He seemed to be rather worried over something, and, at times, was rather distracted, his thoughts evidently being elsewhere. "What's worrying you, daddy?" asked Ruth, after a while. "Nothing, my dear. Why?" "You're not eating at all." "I'm not very hungry. But come, we must go with Fenn and see if we can't help him locate that cave. I don't imagine we shall find anything of any account. Most likely the men were engaged in working an abandoned mine from which the prehistoric inhabitants took everything of value. Perhaps the men were those Chinese smugglers. I have telephoned word to the Government authorities about them, and some detectives may arrive any minute." "Those men were not smugglers," declared Fenn. "They were taking something valuable from that mine, and they were so secretive about it that I'm sure they had no right to the stuff." "Well, we'll soon see," declared Mr. Hayward. "Where are we going to begin?" asked Bart. "Let's go up to that hole, where we found Fenn's hat, and work down," suggested Ned. "That's no good," declared the lad who had made the queer passage. "That chute only comes out on the ledge, where the main shaft begins. If we could get to the ledge we'd be all right." "I think we can get there without crawling or sliding down that dark, roped passage," said Mr. Hayward. "But I was going to suggest that we take the motor boat and cruise along near where we picked Fenn up. If we found the opening in the cliff, from where he jumped, it would be easier. It is rather difficult to get to the ledge." "I think that's the best idea," remarked Frank. "May I go with you, daddy?" asked Ruth, a bright flush of excitement coming into her cheeks. "Maybe I can find the--" She stopped suddenly. "I'm afraid not. There might be danger," said her father, not noticing her last remark. "I'm not afraid." "I wouldn't," said Fenn quickly. "Those men that I saw, didn't have any weapons, but they might be ugly customers, just the same." "I think you had better remain at home, my dear," decided the girl's father, and, somewhat against her will, she consented, after a whispered conference with Fenn. The others were soon in the motor launch, and were cruising along the lake shore, as near as possible to where Fenn had leaped into the water. Narrowly they scanned the face of the cliff, for a sight of the opening from which Fenn had jumped. They went up and down for half a mile, in either direction, but there was no sign of it. "Are you sure you jumped out of a hole, Stumpy?" asked Bart. "Sure. I remember catching just a glimpse of that point of land before I went under water." "Then the opening into the cave ought to be somewhere near here," remarked Mr. Hayward, bringing the boat to a stop. Once more they scanned the cliff, going as close to shore as they could. There appeared to be no break in the surface of the palisade. "I guess we'll have to try the ledge," announced Mr. Hayward. "We can go down that tree-trunk ladder, but it's more risky than this way." He was about to head the craft for a landing place, in order to begin the tramp through the woods, to a point whence the ledge could be reached, when the attention of all in the motorboat was attracted by something happening on shore. From the bushes dashed a Chinaman, his pig-tail streaming in the wind. Behind him came a man, with a revolver in his hand. "Stop! You almond-eyed scare-crow!" he exclaimed. "I'm not going to hurt you!" But the Chinaman only ran the faster. Suddenly the man raised his revolver and fired in the air. The Celestial stopped as though he had been shot. "I thought that would fetch you!" shouted the man, and, a moment later, he had the handcuffs on the representative of the Flowery Kingdom. "That's one of the smugglers!" cried Fenn. "The police must be after them!" "What's the trouble?" asked Mr. Hayward, of the white man, as the boat neared shore. "Chinese smugglers," was the short answer. "We got the whole crowd a while ago, just as they were landing a boat load in a secluded cove. But are you Mr. Hayward?" "I am." "I was told to look out for you. I understand you gave the information that led to the capture." "I did, but these boys here told me of it. They're to get whatever reward is coming." "Oh, there's a reward all right. This fellow got away when we were bagging the rest. I had a hard chase after him, and I wanted to catch him, as he's one of the ring-leaders. But what are you doing here; on the lookout for some more of the Chinks?" "No, we're searching for a queer cave where Fenn, one of these boys here, was kept a prisoner. There have been some strange goings on in these parts, and I'd like to get at the bottom of them. I thought maybe the smugglers had a hand in it." At the mention of the cave, concerning which Mr. Hayward gave the government officer a few details, as Fenn had related them to him, the Chinese captive seemed suddenly interested. When Mr. Hayward told how they had so far, conducted a baffling search, for the entrance, the Celestial exclaimed: "Me show you." "What does he mean?" asked Mr. Hayward. "Blessed if I know," answered the officer. "What's that, John?" "Me show hole in glound. Me know. Clum that way," and he pointed a short distance up the lake. "Do you suppose he knows where the entrance is?" asked Mr. Hayward. "Shouldn't wonder," replied the detective. "Those Chinks know more than they'll tell. Probably he knows the game is up, and he may think, if he plays into our hands, he'll get off easier." "That's lite!" exclaimed the Chinese with a grin. "Me turn state's evidence. Me know. Me show you." "I guess he's an old hand at the game," commented the officer. "Probably it wouldn't be a bad plan to follow his advice. Wait, I'll summon a couple of my men, and we'll go along. No telling what we'll run up against." He blew a shrill signal on a whistle he carried and soon two men emerged from the woods on the run. They did not appear surprised to see their chief with the prisoner, and at a word from him they got into the motor boat, the handcuffed Celestial meekly following. "Now, John, which way," asked the detective, who introduced himself as Mr. Harkness. "Up by bluushes," replied the Chinese, pointing to a clump which grew on the cliff. "Hole behind bluushes, so no can see. Smart trick. Me know." "I believe he does," commented Mr. Harkness. "I'll unhandcuff him, and he can show us," and he removed the irons from the almond-eyed chap. The motor boat was put over to where the Chinaman indicated. It came to a stop at the foot of a sheer cliff, right under the clump of bushes, which grew about thirty feet up from the surface of the water. "How in the world are we going to get up there without a ladder?" asked Fenn. "We should have brought one along." "Here ladder!" suddenly exclaimed the Celestial, who, at a question from one of the officers gave his name as Lem Sing. "Me get ladder." Lem Sing took hold of a stone that jutted out from the face of the cliff. He pulled on it, and it came out in his hand. To it was attached a strong cord, extending up somewhere inside the cliff, Lem Sing gave a vigorous yank, and something surprising happened. The clump of bushes vanished, and, in their place, was a round hole. "That's where I jumped from!" exclaimed Fenn. But this was not all. Down the cliff, out of the hole in the face of it, came tumbling a strong rope ladder, being fastened somewhere inside the hole. "That how up get!" exclaimed Lem Sing, with a grin. "Now can up-go!" "Sure we can 'up-go'!" exclaimed Mr. Harkness. "Come on, boys," and he began to ascend the ladder, which swayed rather dangerously. CHAPTER XXX THE DISCOVERY--CONCLUSION The others followed, one at a time, leaving one of the detectives in charge of Lem Sing. "Now, Fenn, lead the way," called Mr. Hayward. "I guess they've all gone," said Fenn. "There don't seem to be any of the miners here, now." Hardly had he spoken when, turning a corner in the shaft, the party came upon a curious scene. In a big chamber, the same one which Fenn had viewed from the crack in the door of his small prison, there were half a score of men, working by the light of torches, digging stuff from the walls of the cave, and carrying it out in small boxes. "Here they are!" shouted Fenn. "This is the place, and they're at work!" "To the shaft!" shouted some one. "They're after us!" There was a hurrying and scurrying to escape, and, before the detectives or Mr. Hayward could make any move to capture the men, they had all disappeared. "Come on!" cried Mr. Harkness. "Show us the way to the shaft where the ladder is, Fenn! Maybe we can nab some of 'em." "It isn't worth while," declared Mr. Hayward. "These men were evidently afraid of being caught, but, from what I can see, they were not doing anything unlawful." "No," admitted Mr. Harkness. "We caught the last of them when we got Lem Sing. But what were these men digging?" "I'll take a look," answered Robert Hayward. Suddenly he gave a cry, as he took some of the soft earth in his fingers. "Say, this is almost as good as a silver mine!" exclaimed Mr. Hayward. "This stuff is in great demand! It's used by chemists, and they can't get enough of it." "Lucky for the man who owns this land," commented Mr. Harkness. "But I don't see that it concerns us. Guess I'd better be going." "Why, man, this is my land!" suddenly exclaimed Mr. Hayward. "I own a big tract in here, but I believed it was worthless, and I was about to sell it very cheap. Now--well, say, you couldn't buy it! My fortune is made again!" "Boys," he went on, a little more soberly, "you don't know it, but I've been in quite a hole lately. The house where I live was about to be sold for a mortgage. But my daughter never knew. She--" "Yes, she did," interrupted Fenn. "She knew all about it, and she was trying to help you!" "She did? You don't mean it!" Then Fenn explained; telling of Ruth's strange remarks while in a delirium at his house, her unexpected discovery of the cave, the man's threat, her long silence under fear of it, and her desire to aid her father to recover his wealth. "Well, this gets me!" exclaimed Mr. Hayward. "Ruth is a girl that's hard to beat." They went to the foot of the shaft, where Fenn had come down, but there were no men to be seen. "Let them go," suggested Mr. Hayward. "I've got all I want, and I must hurry and tell my daughter the news, bless her heart!" "It was all Fenn's good luck," declared Ruth, when the story had been told. "You ought to reward him, daddy." "Reward him! Well, I guess I will. And the other boys, too. Nothing is too good for them." The Chinese smugglers were punished for their attempt to break the United States immigration laws, and the Celestials they tried to land were sent back to Canada. Lem Sing had planned the trick so that by pulling on the rope the bushes dropped back out of sight, and the ladder came down. The miners used this device to send away the valuable clay, and it was by this queer hole that the men on the cliff so mysteriously appeared and disappeared when the boys were watching them from the deck of the _Modoc_. The two Chinamen and the white man, whom Fenn had followed, were the advance party, looking to see if the coast was clear for a landing which had once been unintentionally frustrated by the boys, and, the visit of the one Chinese to the camp was only to discover if the lads were detectives, which Lem at first feared. While Fenn was following the men, one had slipped behind him and gone to the camp, to see if it was deserted. It was this fellow who had dropped the button which gave Frank, Ned and Bart their clue. "But what I can't understand," said Fenn, "is why that man Dirkfell should chase us the night of the fire, and pursue us in the steam yacht. Do you know him, Mr. Hayward?" "Dirkfell!" exclaimed the gentleman. "I should say I did, to my sorrow. It was through business dealings with him that I lost all my wealth. He held the mortgage on this house, and was about to buy that land, under which the cave is located. He has long borne a grudge against me--a grudge for which there is no excuse, for I never injured him. When he heard of my loss in the elevator fire I presume he could not help saying how glad he was. Then, probably, when he saw you looking at him so sharply, Fenn, he imagined you must be some agent of mine. He was evidently in fear of being found out in his secret mining operations under my land, and that was why he made such an effort to catch you, even following the _Modoc_. I understand now, why he was so anxious to get possession of this land that I considered worthless. But I beat him at his own game, thanks to you and your chums." "And your daughter did her part," said Fenn, "for she saw the cave first." "Of course she did, God bless her." "I don't understand how the Chinese smugglers and the miners both used the cave and the secret entrances," said Frank. "I didn't until I had a talk with the detectives," said Mr. Hayward. "The Chinese used the cave a long time before Dirkfell was aware of what valuable stuff was in it. He and his gang worked in harmony with the Celestials." "Are they going to try to catch him?" asked Fenn. "No, it's not worth while, since they have broken up the smuggling gang. I guess Dirkfell will not show himself in these parts soon again." Nor did he, or any of his gang. The boys spent a week with Mr. Hayward. Then they started back to Duluth, to join Captain Wiggs. They found the _Modoc_ ready to sail, and they were warmly welcomed by the commander. "Well, we've certainly had some strenuous happenings this trip," observed Frank. "I don't think we'll have such lively times again." But he was mistaken, they did have plenty of adventures, and what some of them were I shall relate in another book, to be called "Bart Keene's Hunting Days." THE END Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. 
9854	----	FRANK ROSCOE'S SECRET Or, The Darewell Chums in the Woods BY ALLEN CHAPMAN AUTHOR OF "BART STIRLING'S ROAD TO SUCCESS," "WORKING HARD TO WIN," "BOUND TO SUCCEED," "THE YOUNG STOREKEEPER," "NAT BORDEN'S FIND," ETC. 1908 CONTENTS I. PLANNING A DINNER II. A CONSPIRACY REVEALED III. NED IS CAPTURED IV. NED HEARS STRANGE TALK V. SUSPICIONS AROUSED VI. FRANK GETS A LETTER VII. BREAKING UP A DANCE VIII. FRANK IS WARNED IX. A STRANGER IN TOWN X. MR. HARDMAN'S QUEER ACT XI. NEWS FOR FRANK XII. THE LAZY RACE XIII. VACATION AT HAND XIV. THE TELEPHONE WIRE XV. SEARCHING FOR FRANK XVI. WHERE FRANK WENT XVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING XVIII. A CANOE TRIP XIX. AT THE SANITARIUM XX. THE INTERVIEW XXI. FRANK LEAVES AGAIN XXII. FRANK IS EMPLOYED XXIII. PLANNING A RESCUE XXIV. FRANK LOSES HOPE XXV. FRANK'S SECRET DISCLOSED XXVI. ARRANGING AN ESCAPE XXVII. THE RUNAWAY DONKEY XXVIII. THE RESCUE XXIX. THE CURE--CONCLUSION FRANK ROSCOE'S SECRET CHAPTER I PLANNING A DINNER "That's the way to line 'em out, Ned!" "Go on now! Take another! You can get home!" "Wow! That wins the game! Hurrah for Ned Wilding!" Those were some of the shouts, amid a multitude of others, that came from scores of boyish throats as they watched the baseball game between the Darewell High School and the Lakeville Preparatory Academy. The occasion was the annual championship struggle, and the cries resulted from Ned's successful batting of the ball far over the center fielder's head. It was a critical moment for the score was tie, it was the ending of the ninth inning, and there were two men of the High School nine out. It all depended on Ned. But Ned was equal to the occasion. He had placed the ball well, and as soon as he heard the crack, when his bat struck it, he had darted for first. Then, running as he never had run before, he kept on to second. The encouraging shouts of his friends induced him to advance toward third, though by this time the center fielder had the ball and was throwing it to the baseman. "Come on, Ned! Come on! Take a chance!" yelled Bart Keene, captain of the High School team. Then Ned, from a baseball standpoint of safety, did what might be termed a foolish thing. He reached third base just an instant before the ball did. He heard it strike the baseman's glove with a loud "plunk!" A second later, stooping to avoid being touched, Ned sprang up and ran toward the home plate. It was a desperate chance in a desperate game, for the Lakeville players were cool and experienced hands, and Ned was almost certain to be put out. However, he had chanced it. It was too late to go back now. He was running straight for home, as though there was no such thing as a baseman with a ball close behind him, waiting for a good chance to throw to the catcher and put him out. Right at the catcher Ned ran. The third baseman drew back his arm to throw the ball. The catcher put out his hands to grasp it. Then Ned jumped up into the air, springing as high as he could. This disconcerted the aim of the third baseman and he had to throw higher than he intended, to get the ball over Ned's head. It was what Ned intended that happened. The catcher was obliged to jump to reach the whizzing ball. He just missed it, the leather sphere grazing the tips of his fingers. Then it flew over his head, while there sounded a groan from the Lakeville supporters. The game was a High School victory. An instant later Ned had passed the chagrined catcher and had touched the home plate, while the High School boys stood up on the bleachers and made themselves hoarse with cheers. Joining them came the shrill cries of the girls of Darewell, quite a throng of whom had come to see the game. "Good, Ned!" cried Bart, as he ran up to grasp his chum by the hand. "That's the stuff!" exclaimed Fenn Masterson. "I knew you could do it, Ned!" "That's more than I knew myself," Ned answered, panting from his home run. "Three cheers for the Darewells!" called the captain of the preparatory school nine. The tribute to victory was paid with a will. "Three cheers for the Lakevilles!" shouted Lem Gordon, pitcher on the High School team. The winners fairly outdid their rivals in cheering. Then the diamond was thronged with girls and boys, all talking at once, and discussing the various points of the game. "It was a close chance you took, Ned," remarked a tall, quiet youth, coming up to the winner of the game. "I had to, Frank. I didn't risk much in being put out, but it meant a lot if I could get home, and I took the chance." "Oh, Ned's always willing to take chances," said Bart Keene. "Yes, and sometimes it isn't a good thing," replied Frank. "Oh, you're too particular," came from Fenn Masterson. "What's the use of doing the safe thing all the while?" "That's right, Stumpy my boy," commented Ned, "Stumpy" being Fenn's nickname because of his short, stout figure. "Oh, I believe in taking chances once in a while," went on Frank, "but of course--" He did not finish his sentence, and his three chums looked at one another, for Frank seemed to be dreaming of something far removed from the ball game. "He's getting stranger than ever," remarked Bart to Ned in a low tone. "We'll have to get his mind off of whatever it is that's troubling him." "That's right," agreed Ned. "We ought to celebrate this victory in some way," suggested Fenn, as a crowd of boys, including several members of the ball team, joined the chums. "We ought to get up a dinner and have speeches and things like that." "Nothing to eat, of course," said Ned. "Oh, sure; lots to eat," Fenn hastened to add. "Where could we have it?" asked Lem. "In our barn," replied Fenn. "There's lots of room, and we don't keep horses any more. It's nice and clean. We could put some boards over saw-horses to make tables, and have a fine time. We can make all the noise we want, and no one would say a word." "That's the stuff!" cried Bart. "The very thing! Stumpy, you're a committee of one to see about it." "I'm not going to do all the work!" objected Stumpy. "I'll help," put in Ned. "Where'll we get the stuff?" "I guess there's enough in the club treasury for a little spread," said Bart. "This is the last game of the summer season, and we might as well spend some of our cash. We don't want to get too rich." By this time most of the High School pupils had left the ball grounds and were on their various ways home. It was a Saturday afternoon early in June, and the fine weather had brought a big crowd to see the game, which was played on the Lakeville grounds. The members of the High School nine, including a few substitutes, rode home in a big stage, but trolley cars took the other Darewell boys and girls back. On the way home the dinner was discussed in its various details, and it was voted to have it a week from that Saturday night. "Better not talk too much about it," suggested Bart "Why not?" asked Stumpy. "I've got an idea that if too much is known about it there may be trouble." "Trouble? What do you mean?" "Well, you know the first-year boys have formed a sort of secret society. They call themselves the Upside Down Club." "What has that got to do with our dinner?" "Nothing, maybe, and again it may have." "Have they any grudge against us?" asked Ned. "No, nothing special, but it's part of their game to play tricks on all the other school societies, from the athletic teams to the debating club. Archie Smith, a cousin of mine, belongs, and I got that much out of him before he knew what I was after. Then he wouldn't tell me any more. So that's why I think the Upside Down boys may make trouble for us." "Well, if they wish to make trouble we'll give them all they want," put in Fenn. "Yes, but we don't want the dinner spoiled," said Bart. "There's a big class of first-year boys this term, and they could make a 'rough-house' of our spread in short order. That's why I think it would be better to keep quiet about the affair, at least as to the place where we're going to hold it." After some discussion Bart's suggestion was agreed to. Further details of the dinner were arranged, and it was planned that Ned should be toastmaster, an honor which he would gladly have declined. "No, sir, you won the game for us, and you've got to preside at the dinner!" declared Bart, to which all the others on the nine gave their approval with a shout. "Mind now," Bart added, as the team was about to disperse, having reached Darewell, "no talking about the dinner. Everyone keep mum or there may be no spread at all. If any one hears of the Upside Down boys getting wind of the affair, tell me and we'll arrange to fool 'em." The club members left their uniforms and outfits in the basement of the High School, where they had improvised dressing rooms, and then the boys started for their homes. Frank, Bart, Ned and Stumpy, four chums who were seldom separated, went down the street together. As they were passing the drug store they saw two girls going in. "There's your sister Alice, Bart," called Ned. "Yes, and Jennie Smith is with her," added Bart. "Hi, Stumpy! There's a chance for you. Jennie looked back as if she wanted you." At this the other chums laughed, for Fenn was rather "sweet" on the girls, and Jennie was an especial favorite with him. But Fenn did not like to have his failing commented on. "You let up!" he called to Bart. "You're so afraid of the girls you don't dare speak to 'em!" "You do enough of that for the four of us put together," joked Ned. "But come on. Let's hurry, it's almost supper time." CHAPTER II A CONSPIRACY REVEALED By this time the four boys were in front of the drug store, from which Alice Keene and Jennie Smith came out. "What were you doing in there? Having a Dutch treat of soda?" asked Bart of his sister. "I was taking back some court-plaster I had," replied Alice. "Court-plaster? For what?" "I'll not tell you." "I know," answered Bart, for he had a habit of teasing his sister. "What for then?" "You heard Stumpy had broken his heart over the way Jennie treated him, and you were going to mend it." "Silly! I'll tell you what for, and you can see how far wrong you were. I bought a lot, thinking some one might get hurt at the ball game. When I found I didn't need it I took it back and got my money. I hadn't opened it." "Well, if that isn't the limit!" exclaimed Bart. "I s'pose you're sorry some of us didn't get all cut up and bruised, so you could patch us up." "Well, of course I don't want any of you to get hurt, but if you had been injured it would have been good practice for me," replied Alice. "Come on, Jennie." Alice, who had a desire to become a trained nurse, for which profession she believed she was fitting herself by reading a book on "First-Aid-To-The-Injured," walked off with her girl chum, leaving the boys to stare after the pair. "Alice would rather play nurse than eat her meals," commented Bart. "I wonder why Jennie didn't say something about poetry?" he added, for Jennie was of rather a romantic disposition, and was very much given to reciting verses. "Probably the presence of Stumpy made her bashful," suggested Ned. "But I'm going. See you Monday, fellows." The four boys resumed their walk toward their homes. With the exception of Frank Roscoe they all lived near one another. Frank resided about a mile out of the town, with his uncle, Abner Dent, a wealthy farmer. The four boys, because of their close association, were known as the "Darewell Chums." Darewell was located on the Still river, not far from Lake Erie. The lads had played together ever since they attended primary school, and their friendship was further cemented when they went to the High School. Attending which institution our story finds them. There was Ned Wilding, whose mother was dead, and their father was cashier of the Darewell Bank. Bart Keene was a stout-hearted youth, more fond of sports than he was of eating or sleeping, his father used to say. As for Stumpy, he was just the sort of a lad his name indicated. Happy, healthy, hearty and with a fund of good nature that nothing could daunt. Frank Roscoe was rather different from his chums, but they were very fond of him. Spite of his occasional fits of strangeness. Frank had lived with his uncle as long as he could remember. He had never known his father or mother, and his uncle never spoke of them. In case Frank asked any question concerning his parents, Mr. Dent would manage to turn the conversation into some other channel. There seemed to be some secret hanging over Frank. What it was he did not know himself. Nor did his chums. They only knew that, at times, it made him gloomy and morose, and they never referred to it in Frank's presence, because they did not want to hurt his feelings. Those of you who have read the previous books of this series do not need to be introduced to Ned and his chums, but for the benefit of the boys and girls who get this volume first it may be well to tell something of the two previous ones that they may better understand our story. In the first, called "The Heroes of the School," was told how the four lads succeeded in solving a rather queer mystery. They were going through the woods one day when they met a man behaving very oddly. From then on they were mixed up in a series of queer happenings, which only ended in some events that followed a trip in a captive balloon that broke away and took them above the clouds. In the second volume, "Ned Wilding's Disappearance," there was told of the things that followed Ned's visit to New York. Ned undertook to put through a small financial deal on his own account, and the consequences, which were not his own fault at all. Made him a fugitive from the police, as he thought. His chums, coming to the city to pay him a visit, could not find him. Ned was located under peculiar circumstances, through the aid of a waif whom the boys befriended and saved from freezing to death in the snow. After locating Ned the chums came home, to find they were much in the public eye. When they left they were under suspicion of having blown up the school tower with dynamite, but it was discovered that another youth had done this, and the chums were not only cleared, but the president of the Board of Education, who had cast suspicion on them, publicly apologized. The chums had resumed their studies at the High School after the tower had been repaired, and had made good progress through the spring term. It was now summer, and the long vacation was close at hand. Monday morning, following the sensational winning of the game by Ned Wilding, saw the four chums assembled on the school campus, waiting for the ringing of the gong that would call all the pupils to their classes. It was almost time to go in, when Sandy Merton, a former enemy of the chums, but who had become a friend because of a favor received, approached Bart. Sandy had left school because of a dispute he and Bart had had over a ball game, but had returned for the spring term. "I've got something to tell you," Sandy said. "I'm listening," Bart replied. "I can't tell you here," Sandy went on, with a look about him. "I don't want any of the Upside Down boys to hear." "Oh, ho!" said Bart softly. "Something in the wind, eh?" "I think there is," Sandy replied. "I'll meet you after school down by the boathouse." "I'll be there," Bart answered. "Don't say anything to any of the others." Sandy promised; and then the gong rang and the boys and girls hurried into the school. All that morning Bart was wondering what Sandy had to tell him. That it had to do with the dinner the nine intended to hold was his belief, but he did not see how the first-year lads had found out about it so soon. "If they're up to any tricks," said Bart softly, "I think we can play two to their one. Let 'em try; it's all in the game." "Let's go for a swim, Bart," proposed Ned, when school had been dismissed for the day. "Frank and Fenn are going." "Where you going?" asked Bart. "Up by the Riffles, of course," the "Riffles" being a place in the Still river where the boys frequently congregated. Near the Riffles, which were a series of shallow places in the stream, was the swimming hole and a little further up was a good place to fish. "I'll meet you later," Bart replied. "What's the matter?" asked Ned, for Bart was usually the first one to join in sport of this kind. "Got a little business to transact. You fellows go ahead, and I'll come pretty soon." Ned had to be content with this. A little later, with Frank and Fenn, he went to the swimming hole. Bart remained about the school until he saw Sandy start off, then he followed a short distance behind, heading for the dock, where the four chums kept a boat they owned. "Hello, Sandy!" exclaimed Bart, as he saw the boy on the dock when he arrived. Bart spoke as though Sandy's presence was accidental, and he did that for the benefit of any of the members of the Upside Down Club who might be in the vicinity. "Going out rowing?" asked Sandy, and he winked at Bart. "Yes," was the answer, as Bart comprehended what Sandy meant. "Want to go 'long?" Sandy nodded, and, with his help, Bart got the boat from the house and rowed it out into the middle of the river. "Now I guess we can talk without being overheard," said Bart, when they were well out from shore, and rowing up stream. "What's up, Sandy?" "The Upside Down boys have a plot on foot to spoil the dinner." "What dinner?" asked Bart, wishing to see just how much Sandy knew. "Oh, the dinner the baseball nine is going to have. It's all over. Some one must have talked. I heard of it late Saturday night, but it wasn't until last night that I heard of the conspiracy." "What are they going to do?" asked Bart. "That I can't tell," Sandy replied. "You know that, though I'm in the first-year class, I don't belong to the society. I didn't join. One of the members thought I was in and before he knew what he was doing he had blurted out something about their going to take the dinner stuff from Fenn's barn. Then he found out I wasn't a member, and a lot of 'em got around me and made all sorts of threats if I told. I wouldn't promise not to, but I can't find out any more, except that they're going to make a raid on the place just before it's time for the dinner." "How many?" asked Bart. "About fifty of 'em." "Whew!" exclaimed the captain of the nine. "That means trouble!" CHAPTER III NED IS CAPTURED For a few minutes after receiving this information Bart was busy thinking. Then, turning to Sandy he said "Will you help me row the boat up to the swimming hole?" "Sure. But let me out just before you get there. If any of the Upside Down boys see me with you they'll suspect I've given the thing away. Are you going to do anything?" "I rather think we will," replied Bart "But I don't know yet what it will be. Row fast now, Sandy." In a little while the boat was near enough to the Riffles so that Bart could manage it alone for the rest of the distance. Sandy went ashore and disappeared in the woods that lined the bank while Bart tied the craft to an overhanging limb and got out. He found his three chums were enjoying themselves in the water, splashing about and ducking one another. There were a number of High School boys with them, including several of the first-year class, from the ranks of which the secret society was made up. "There's Bart!" cried Fenn. "Come on in!" Anxious to tell his chums the news he had heard, but not wanting to awaken the suspicions of the Upside Down Club members, Bart prepared and went in swimming. He managed to get close to his three friends in turn, and quietly told them to go out, dress, and wait for him near the boat, which he told them was tied close at hand. "Go out one at a time," Bart cautioned, "or they may suspect something." In a little while the four boys were seated in their boat and were rowing down stream. "Now what's up?" demanded Ned. "I declare you're as mysterious as though something had happened." "Something's going to happen," said Bart. "What?" "The Upside Downs are going to spoil our dinner--if they can!" "How did you hear of it?" "Who told you?" "What are they going to do?" The three chums asked these questions of Bart all at once. "What do you think I am, a lightning calculator?" demanded Bart. "One at a time, please! The line forms on this side." Then he proceeded to tell them what Sandy had revealed. "Good for Sandy!" exclaimed Ned. "He treated us pretty mean once, but he's making up for it now." "Yes, it was a good stroke of business the day we helped him load the overturned sleigh," said Fenn, referring to an incident of the previous winter, as related in "The Darewell Chums in the City." "What are you going to do?" asked Frank quietly. "I haven't made up my mind," Bart answered. "I thought we'd better tell the rest of the nine, and then think up some plan to turn the joke on the Upside Downs." "Maybe it would be just as well not to tell the others on the nine," suggested Frank. "Why?" "If you do, it will surely come to the ears of the first-year boys that we are onto their game. Then they may change their idea and be up to some dodge that we can't fathom. I guess we four can spoil their plans." "Well, maybe that would be the best way," admitted Bart. "What do you propose?" "Are there plenty of boards, planks and boxes around your barn, Fenn?" asked Frank. "Lots of 'em." "Then we'll set traps for our friends the enemy," said Frank. "They'll walk right into them." Frank explained his plan more in detail as the boys rowed down stream. His idea was to build a series of traps all about the barn, covering every approach. The traps would be made of boxes and boards, so arranged that when a boy walked on them he would tumble off or slip into a box, and the racket made would apprise those on watch, in the barn, of the approach of the enemy. Then they could sally out, and, while the Upside Down boys were in confusion, could easily disperse them. "That's fine!" exclaimed Bart. "The very thing! We must get right to work on it tonight." That evening the four chums spent in the barn back of Fenn's house. There was considerable hammering and pounding and fitting together of planks, boards and boxes. The next afternoon the four boys worked hard perfecting their arrangements. There were four entrances to the barn, consisting of large sliding doors in front and rear, and a small door that gave entrance to the stable proper. The way to each of these was so arranged that any persons passing along them would have considerable trouble in reaching the structure. It was impossible to walk along them and not step on a board, so fixed that it would tumble a box on the head of the enemy, precipitate the boys into a packing case, or upset a big pile of planks. The fourth entrance to the barn was in the basement through an old cow stable, long unused. The door had not been opened in a number of years, and the hinges were rusty. However, the four chums oiled the door so it would work easily, cleared away a lot of rubbish and then had a means at hand of getting into the barn of which they felt sure none of the conspirators knew. That the Upside Down boys were aware of the other entrances Fenn was sure, as several of the first-year pupils had been seen about the barn Monday. They did not, however, the chums thought, know of the traps. Meanwhile preparations for the dinner went on. The food was purchased from a caterer in town, and was to be delivered at the barn Saturday evening. The chums arranged to have it taken in through the large front doors, the traps leading to them having been temporarily removed. After the victuals were safely stowed away it was planned to have a guard of boys constantly on hand inside the barn to protect them. The rumor of the threatened attack on the spread was known to all the nine now. "I rather guess they'll have all the trouble they want before they play any tricks on us," said Bart, as he surveyed the defenses. "Can they break in the doors, in case any of them get past the traps?" asked Ned. "I don't believe so," replied Fenn. "I've put extra hooks and bolts on, and there are heavy bars to the big front and rear doors." Saturday evening the materials for the spread were duly delivered at the barn. Half a dozen boys volunteered as guards. It was arranged that the members of the nine and their friends, numbering in all about twenty-five, should come in through the cow stable door. The guards were soon busy arranging the improvised tables, storing the food away in places where, in case the conspirators did manage to get in, they would have hard work to find it. Several were engaged in getting lanterns ready to illuminate the banquet table. In fact they were all so much occupied that they did not notice three boys who had made a long circuit and brought up in the fields back of the Masterson barn. These three boys approached warily in the dusk of the evening. "Is that the way they're going in?" asked one of the trio, as he saw the cow stable door. "That's the way all but one of 'em is going in," was the answer. "There's going to be one vacant place at the dinner." "Whose?" asked another of the trio, of the one who seemed to be the leader. "Ned Wilding's." "Are you sure he will come along alone so we can grab him?" "Alone or not we'll get him. In fact we did think one time of making a rush through the cow stable door, after we found out about their traps at the other entrances. But that door is so narrow we couldn't get in quick enough but what they could stand us off. So we decided on this plan. We'll capture their presiding officer. It'll be like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out." "What you going to do with him?" "Denny Thorp has that in charge. I think he's going to carry him to some vacant house." "What are we to do?" asked the member of the trio who had first spoken. "We're to stay here until the rest of the crowd arrives, and watch what happens. But the main thing is to capture Ned." All unconscious of the change in the conspirators' plans, and congratulating themselves on the success of their method in guarding against surprise, the members of the nine and their friends began assembling one by one in the barn, as it grew dusk. Most of them were on hand, and the tables, which were boards placed across saw-horses, had been spread with the good things to eat. "Where's Ned?" asked Bart, as he noticed that the toastmaster was not yet present. "He and Frank are coming together," replied Fenn. "Better take a look out, fellows, and see if you can spot any of the enemy." Several boys mounted to the hay loft and looked out of the small door formerly used to take fodder into the barn. The watchers reported the coast clear. They came down, and were standing about the table, waiting for Ned and Frank, who were the only absentees, when a loud cry came from the direction of the cow stable door. "Rescue! Rescue! Darewells to the rescue! They're kidnapping Ned!" "That's Frank's voice!" cried Bart. "Come on, fellows! They've played a trick on us and they've got Ned!" CHAPTER IV NED HEARS STRANGE TALK There was a rush for the stairs leading from the barn down into the cow stable. The nine and their friends fairly jammed the narrow passageway, so eager were they to get outside. "Easy!" shouted Bart. "We'll never get down this way! One at a time!" The boys could hear the sounds of a struggle. There were confused cries, and the shuffling of many feet. "Hurry! Hurry!" cried Frank. At last Bart, Fenn and a few others managed to reach the outside small door, and rushed into the disused cowyard. There they saw a confusion of black forms. There were two knots of struggling boys. One knot was grouped about Frank, and the other around Ned. From both groups came shouts and cries and the sounds of conflict, though it was all in fun, and there was no evidence of anger. "To the rescue!" yelled Bart, making for one crowd. He was followed by several of his companions and then, others of the nine, and their friends, sailed in to help Frank, since Bart had tackled Ned's assailants. But with the advent of the boys from the barn there appeared reinforcements of the enemy. The rescuers were fairly surrounded by a throng of the Upside Downs, who were shouting and laughing, and fairly overwhelming the ball players and their companions. Suddenly the group surrounding Frank seemed to break apart. The members of the first year class, who had been pulling and hauling him this way and that, drew off. At the same time a cry sounded. "This way, First Years!" Off through the darkness, out of the cow-yard, moved a mass of boys. "We've beaten them off!" cried Bart exultantly. "Yes but they're taking Ned with them!" shouted Frank. Only a few of the members of the nine heard what he said, so great was the shouting and confusion. Frank tried to make himself understood. He ran toward Bart, but several of the Upside Down boys got in his way and prevented him. When at last he was able to make Bart understand what had happened the group surrounding Ned was out of the yard. "We must get them!" yelled Bart as he caught Frank's meaning. "Come on, fellows!" There was a rush for the gate, but when Bart and his friends reached it they found it was fastened. All the Upside Down boys had disappeared. A dark mass of them could be seen hurrying across the fields, seeming to bear some burden in their midst. "They've got Ned!" cried Bart. "After them!" "Wait!" shouted Fenn. "Maybe it's only a trick to get us away from the barn, so they can steal the dinner!" "That's so!" agreed Bart, much excited. "Are you sure they have Ned, Frank?" "Sure! We both came in together, and they grabbed us. But it was Ned they wanted, because he was to be toastmaster. They must have gagged him, as I didn't hear him yell." "What had we better do?" asked Bart. "Some of us stay here to look after things and the rest try to get Ned," suggested Fenn. "They're five to our one," objected Frank. "That's nothing! We've got to get Ned! They'll have the laugh on us if we don't," said Bart. There was a hasty consultation and the dinner party was divided into two forces. Some were left on guard, while the others set off on a run after the Upside Down boys. But the delay had given the assailants the very chance they needed to get a good start. When the pursuers set off across the fields the captors of Ned were out of sight. There was a hasty search for them, but the first year boys had apparently hidden in some place that defied the efforts of the ball crowd to locate it. "This is a pretty pickle!" exclaimed Bart, as he came to a halt in the middle of the big field that stretched out behind the Masterson barn. "They've beaten us all right enough. I wonder where they could have taken Ned?" "I guess it's up to us to find out," replied Fenn. "Come on. We haven't half looked yet." "Maybe that's just what they want us to do," put in Lem Gordon. "They think we'll let the dinner slide." "That's so," agreed Bart. "It's bad enough to have 'em take Ned, but that shouldn't spoil the dinner completely. Let's go back, eat the grub, and then continue the hunt for Ned. Besides maybe he'll get away from them. He will if he has half a chance." This plan of proceeding was talked over, and, though they all disliked the idea of leaving Ned in the hands of the enemy, they felt it would be the wisest move. "Ned would want us to do it, if he were here," said Bart. "Let's go back." So the searching party went back, rather crestfallen, it is true, to report failure to those left on guard. However, there was no help for it, and the dinner had to be eaten without the presence of Ned, the toastmaster. "It's a hard pill to swallow, boys," Bart announced, as he was voted into the position of presiding officer, "but we'll pay 'em back some day. It has taught us a lesson. I didn't believe that crowd had such a strong organization. We'll have to form a society ourselves and get even with 'em." "That's what we will!" declared Fenn. In the meanwhile Ned was being borne away by his captors. At the first sign of the attack he had guessed the object of it. He had fought valiantly against being taken, but was overpowered by the weight of numbers. He had given an involuntary call for help when first seized, but, after that, he resolved to fight alone as best he could. That was why he did not cry out when he felt the boys lift him to their shoulders, after binding his arms and legs, and carry him away. Ned hoped his friends would rescue him, not so much that he minded being captured, as it was all in fun, but that he did not like the first year boys to play such a trick on the older pupils. He had an expectation, when Bart sang out for aid to effect his recapture, that he would be taken from the hands of the enemy, but when he felt himself being carried further and further away, he knew the Upside Down boys had triumphed. "At any rate," thought Ned, "they didn't get the dinner away from us, even if they did get me." Hurrying onward, his captors carried him for nearly a mile. They then came to a halt in a dark thoroughfare. As he was being borne onward face upward, Ned could not tell where he was, nor to what part of the town his enemies had brought him. "What are you fellows going to do?" he asked at length, when they had remained for several minutes, as if waiting. "That's for us to know and you to find out," replied a voice Ned did not recognize. "Here comes--" began another of the first-year lads, when a companion cautioned him with: "No names!" "This way!" someone called, and in obedience to the summons, those carrying Ned turned to the right. They went down a short lane, and, a moment later, Ned saw a doorway over his head. He was carried into a building and laid down on a pile of bags in one corner of a room. It was quite dark. The captive heard his enemies running away, and then he knew their trick was complete. They had carried him away--had kidnapped him in fact--and taken him to some building where they left him bound and helpless. For a few moments Ned did not stir. He was not uncomfortable, as it was a warm evening, and the pile of bags was soft. The cords hurt his hands somewhat, and his legs were cramped. By the smell of lime and mortar Ned could tell he was in some new building, one probably near completion. He went over in his mind the location of all the new structures going up in Darewell. There were several, in different parts of the town, and so he could not decide where he was. Then, as he listened, he could hear the sound of running water, and he knew he must be near the river. All at once the locality became plain to him. He was in a new house, one of several in a row, on a street leading down to the stream. "Now to get loose," said Ned, as he tugged and strained at his bonds. He felt the cords about his wrists giving somewhat and he redoubled his efforts. In their haste the boys had not used much skill tying the knots, and, in about five minutes, Ned was free. He rubbed his arms and legs to restore the circulation, and started to leave the building. As he did so he heard someone coming in, and noted the sound of voices. "They're coming back!" thought Ned. "I'd better hide until they go. Then I'll hurry back to the dinner!" The footsteps and voices sounded nearer. Some persons came into the house. They stumbled about in the darkness. Then a voice asked: "Are you sure it's safe to talk here?" "Those are not high school pupils!" Ned said softly to himself. "They're men!" "It's the safest place in the world," someone replied, in answer to the first question. "No one here but ourselves. Now then, how far have you got with the plans?" "I had a letter from the lawyers in New York. It seems they have heard from Wright & Johnson and they're going to fight us. Wright & Johnson have written to Frank, so I've heard, but he's puzzled over the whole affair and don't know what to do. Oh, it's safe enough. We've only got the boy to look after and he will never know how to proceed. Besides, old Dent, his uncle, has the wool pulled over his own eyes so thick he'll never make any trouble. I tell you it's safe, and in a few months the property will be ours." "Where is his--" but Ned could not catch the end of the sentence before the other man replied: "Good quiet place. In a sanitarium on--" Just then a door shut, and Ned was unable to hear any further talk of the men, who had so strangely come to the vacant house. He could distinguish the hum of their voices, but that was all. "I wonder what that means?" he asked himself, as he stood there in the darkness. "It sounds as if there was going to be trouble for Frank." CHAPTER V SUSPICIONS AROUSED The voices of the men had sounded from a front room downstairs. Ned was in an apartment across the hall from them. They had shut the door leading from the hall to the room where they were. This gave Ned a chance to come out of the apartment into which he had been taken and he tiptoed to the closed door to see if he could hear any more. But either the men were conversing in whispers or they had moved back to some remote corner where their voices could not be heard. "I guess I'd better get out of here while I have the chance," Ned thought, and moving softly he left the building. As he hurried along the street toward Fenn's house, determined to join his friends at the dinner, he could not help thinking of what he had overheard. It drove all thoughts of his capture from his mind. "Wright & Johnson," Ned murmured to himself. "I've heard that name before, or else I've seen it somewhere. I wonder where. Wright & Johnson? Did I see their sign when I was in New York, I wonder. No! I have it! It was the name on the envelope of that letter Frank got the day we were in swimming. That's it!" Ned had struck the right clue. He referred to an occasion, told of in the first volume of this series, when, as the four chums were in swimming one day, a special delivery messenger from the post-office had brought Frank a letter. On reading the epistle Frank had seemed much excited. He had immediately left his companions and, when they followed him from the water a little later, they found he had dropped the envelope, Bart had picked it up, and shown it to his companions. In one corner was the name of Wright & Johnson, lawyers, of 11 Pine Street, New York. The boys had followed Frank back to town, and had seen him come from the office of Judge Benton, a lawyer, and mail a letter in the post-office. Bart gave Frank back the envelope, but the latter had told his chums nothing of his queer letter. Nor did he afterward refer to it, though the four friends had few secrets from each other. From that time on Frank's queerness had increased, until, on the return of the chums from New York, where Ned's disappearance was cleared up, his conduct caused his friends some anxiety. "There must be some secret in Frank's life," thought Ned. "The letter from Wright & Johnson, his growing queerness, and now the strange talk of these men, all point to that. I wish I had found out who they were. Maybe they are going to do Frank some harm!" He paused, with half a mind to go back and see if he could learn the identity of the men. Then he reflected it would not be wise to be caught by them playing the spy. "I'll tell the fellows about it," Ned thought. "Maybe we can find out what it means. I wonder if I had better tell Frank? I guess I'll not until I consult Bart and Fenn. Frank didn't tell us about the letter, and perhaps he would not like it if he found out I had discovered something, though, to be sure, it's not much." Thus pondering over what he had heard, Ned hurried on, and, in a little while was at the barn, where the feasting was still in progress. The crowd was making merry in spite of the damper which Ned's capture had cast on the dinner. At his entrance, however, there burst out a cheer and cries of welcome. "I've been keeping your chair warm for you!" shouted Bart. "Come on in! Tell us all about it!" sung out Fenn. "Did you fight 'em off?" inquired Lem. "Oh, I managed to get away," replied Ned, and he told of being taken to the vacant house, and of his escape. He said not a word of the two men. With their toastmaster thus restored to them, the baseball boys and their friends went merrily on with the dinner. There was much laughter and every one seemed talking at once of the fight with the Upside Down boys. "We've got to play a trick on them that will make this one fade out of sight," commented Bart. "We'll fix 'em!" "That's what we will!" exclaimed Fenn. "I wish they had tried to take the dinner and had fallen into our traps." "We didn't have much use for 'em, for a fact," put in Lem. "Never mind, we had some fun out of it, anyhow." Ned joined with the others in talking over the episode but he noticed that Frank was unusually quiet. When he got a chance he slipped around to where his chum was sitting and asked: "Anything the matter, Frank?" "No. What makes you ask me that?" "Why I thought you looked worried over something." "No, I'm all right," replied Frank, with forced heartiness. After that he tried to join in the talk and fun, but it was too obviously an effort to deceive Ned. "Something's wrong with Frank," Ned decided in his own mind. "We've got to find out what it is in spite of him, and help him. I must speak to Bart and Fenn as soon as I have the chance." It was not until all the other boys, including Frank, had left the barn and gone home, late that night, that Ned found the opportunity he wanted. Then he told his two chums of what he had heard at the new house. "What do you make of it?" asked Bart. "I'll admit I'm suspicious," said Ned. "It looks as though Frank was mixed up in something." "Do you mean something bad?" asked Bart. "No, I don't know's I'd call it that. But something suspicious, anyhow. You remember that letter from Wright & Johnson?" "The one of which we found the envelope?" Bart inquired. "That's the one. Well, these men evidently are mixed up in the case. It seems to concern property. Maybe Frank has some property and will not give it up." "If Frank has any property he has a right to it!" said Fenn with emphasis. "Frank's done nothing wrong, but he certainly is acting queer." "Then I don't know what to make of that reference to a sanitarium. They shut the door at that point and I couldn't hear any more." The three boys discussed the subject from all sides, but could come to no solution of the mystery. That the men had referred to Frank, Ned was sure, and his chums partly agreed with him. "Of course there are a number of boys named Frank," said Bart. "But when they spoke of Frank's uncle, Mr. Dent, it must be they meant our Frank." "There's another thing," spoke Ned. "They mentioned pulling the wool over Mr. Dent's eyes. I wonder if we had better warn him." "What could we tell him?" asked Fenn. "I could tell what I heard," replied Ned. "Which wouldn't be enough to do any good, and it might cause a lot of trouble," said Bart. "I think we'd better let this thing alone. Frank may tell us something that will give us an opening to talk to him about this matter, and you can then tell him what you heard the men say." "I guess that's the best plan," admitted Ned. "Perhaps we could learn something more of the men who were in the house," suggested Fenn. "How?" "By going down there and making inquiries. I know those buildings. There's a watchman hired to stay on guard all night. Perhaps he saw the men and could tell us who they were." "It's a good idea," said Ned. "We'll go down and see him to-morrow night. That will be Sunday, and there's not likely to be any one around to hear us question him." "We must not take Frank along," remarked Bart. "We'll have to keep this thing quiet from him, at least until we know more about it." "It's the first time we haven't all been in a thing together," commented Ned. "It seems queer to have something on Frank doesn't know about." "We're doing the best we know how," said Bart. "It's for Frank's interest we're working. I hope it will all come out right." Sunday evening the three chums went to the building where Ned had been taken by the Upside Down boys. Frank had not called on any of his chums since the dinner the night before. The boys found the night watchman, who had just come on duty. Ned knew him, for the man, James Rafferty, had once been employed as a porter in the bank of which Ned's father was cashier. "Good evening, Mr. Rafferty," said Ned. "It's a fine night." "It is that, me lad. An' what brings ye down here?" "To see you." "Sure, thin, an' ye must have some object. Few indade want's to see ould Rafferty now. He's gittin' too old fer much use." "We wanted to ask if you saw anything of two strange men around these buildings last night?" "Nary a wan did I see, Masther Ned. Sure there was a slatherin' lot of lads bint on some joke, an' I didn't interfere wid 'em, knowin' they was up t' no harm. But I saw no men." "That blocks this end of the game," said Bart in a low tone, as he and his chums came away. CHAPTER VI FRANK GETS A LETTER Somewhat disappointed at their failure to get any information from Rafferty, the three boys returned to Ned's house, where they had met that Sunday evening. "Better let the thing drop until something turns up," suggested Bart. "We can't do anything, as I see." "Only be on the lookout for strangers in town," said Ned. "I want to find out who those men were." "And you'll have quite a job," spoke Bart. "I'm going home. See you at school to-morrow." "There's one point we forgot to look up," Ned remarked. "What is it?" inquired Fenn, as he prepared to accompany Bart. "Those men spoke about someone being in a sanitarium. Do you know of any such place around here?" "Never has been a sanitarium in this neighborhood," replied Bart. "There's the hospital, but I don't believe they meant that." "I either," responded Ned. "There's some mystery in it all. Perhaps we can solve it and help Frank." Little was talked of at school next morning but the contest between the ball team members and the Upside Down Club. The story was told over again, with all sorts of embellishments, and there were any number of versions; from one that Ned had escaped by leaping from the roof, to another that his friends had descended on the building and torn it apart to get him out. As a matter of fact the victory of the Upside Down society was only a partial one, as Ned had been able to go to the dinner before it was more than half over. The first-year lads had hoped to keep Ned a prisoner until the affair was at an end, but, it developed, there was a misunderstanding in the plans of the conspirators, and those boys who were supposed to be left to guard the prisoner, went away, giving Ned a chance to escape. But the contest with the older students gave the first-years chance enough to crow, and they lost no opportunity to do so. "What'll we do to pay 'em back?" asked Ned of Bart at the noon recess. "They're making all sorts of fun of us." "Let 'em laugh. Our turn will come sooner or later." Frank joined his chums that afternoon, when school had closed for the day, and all went swimming. There was quite a crowd of pupils at the river, including a number of the Upside Down boys, and there were several rather warm discussions among the members of the rival factions. Once or twice it looked as if there might be fights. Lem Gordon, in particular, was much incensed at the action of the first-years, and when Richard Kirk, a member of the Upside Down Club, taunted Lem with belonging to the side that lost in the Saturday night struggle, Lem advanced toward Richard and acted as though he was going to strike him. "Don't," advised Bart. "That will only make them keep the thing up longer. We'll fix 'em." "We ought to do it pretty soon," growled Lem. "I'm getting tired of being laughed at. We ought to pay back the ringleaders anyhow. Who were the fellows that held you, Frank?" "It was so dark I couldn't see well." "You ought to have recognized some of 'em." "I didn't," Frank answered, somewhat shortly, as he began to dress. "What makes Frank act so queerly?" inquired Lem of Bart. "Has anything happened?" "Not that I know of," Bart replied carelessly. He did not want other pupils to think Frank strange, even if the three chums did. When Frank had finished dressing he started away. "Where you going?" Fenn called after him. "I've got a little errand to do uptown," was Frank's reply. "I'll see you later." Ned, Bart and Fenn looked at one another, but they said nothing. It was not like Frank to go off by himself, but they did not comment on it at the time, as they did not want their companions to take notice. A little later the crowd at the swimming place began to disperse. The three chums walked away together, conversing in low tones of Frank's action. As they were going through the woods, along a path that led over the fields to the outskirts of the town, they saw a boy stretched out on a log. His eyes were closed and he seemed asleep. "It's Jim Morton," said Bart. "What's he doing here? I thought he was too lazy to walk this far," for Jim had the reputation of disliking exertion of any kind. "Hello, Jim!" called Ned. "What you doing here?" "Waiting for you," replied Jim. "For me?" "All three of you. Got a message." "What is it? Speak up! Don't be all day about it," exclaimed Bart. "Judge Benton gave me a quarter to come out here and see if I could find any of you chums." "What does he want? Whom does he want?" "He wants Frank Roscoe," went on Jim, in drawling tones. "Wants to see him right away. Important business he said. That's all I know. I was to tell Frank if I saw him, or if not, any of you boys. I've done my part, and earned the quarter, I guess. Now don't bother me, I'm going to sleep," and Jim turned over on the log as if that was all there was to it. "But what's it about? Why can't you tell us more?" asked Bart. Jim did not answer, and a snore seemed to indicate that he was slumbering. "If he isn't the limit!" ejaculated Ned. "Come on, fellows. We'll see if we can find Frank and give him the message." "Perhaps he was going to the judge's office," suggested Fenn. "Well, we'll tell him what Jim said, anyhow," suggested Bart. "Frank can do as he likes then." They hurried back to town, thinking they might overtake Frank before he reached Darewell, but he had evidently walked fast for they did not see him. As they were passing the post-office, Ned looked in, and caught sight of their chum. "There's Frank," he said. Frank had just taken a letter from his uncle's box. He was reading it when the three chums entered, and he seemed surprised as they came up to him. "Judge Benton wants to see you," spoke Ned. "Jim Morton went out to the swimming hole with a message, but you'd gone, so we came after you." "Thanks," replied Frank, glancing up from his letter. "I was just going over there." He folded the letter to put it back in the envelope, and Ned caught a glimpse of the name Wright & Johnson, New York, before Frank put the epistle into his pocket. "See you later," called Frank to his chums, as he hurried from the post-office. The three boys stood staring at one another as Frank walked out. It seemed so strange they could not understand it. Ned spoke of having noticed the name of the lawyers on the envelope; the same firm that had written to Frank before. "I can't understand it," declared Bart, as he and his chums went out, in time to see Frank mounting the steps of a building opposite the post-office, where Judge Benton had his office. "I don't know's it's any of our affair," put in Fenn. "Only I'd like to help Frank if he's in trouble." "So would I," spoke Ned. "Shall we wait for him?" asked Bart. "It's hard to know what to do," declared Ned. "If we go away he may think we're mad. If we stay he might imagine we're trying to find out what Judge Benton wanted him for. However, I guess we'd better wait for him a little while." They did not have to wait long. Frank came out, and he seemed more cheerful than he had been in some time. It appeared as though something, that had been troubling him, had been settled to his satisfaction. "Glad you waited," were Frank's first words as he joined his chums. "I've got an idea." "What is it?" asked Bart. "We ought to get right to work and play a trick on the Upside Down boys. We haven't much time left this term." "Good!" exclaimed Fenn. "That's what I say. But what shall we do?" "I think I have a plan," said Frank. "You know Judge Benton's son belongs to that crowd." "Does he?" asked Ned, for this was news to himself and his two chums. "Yes. I didn't know it until a little while ago. I was talking to the judge about--er--about some private matters--and he asked me if I was going to the dance. I asked him what dance, and he said the one the High School boys were getting up. That was the first I'd heard about it, but I pretended to know a little bit, and I learned that the Upside Down boys, of which his son is a member, are planning one for Saturday night in the hall over the drug store. Young Benton had to ask his father for some money to help pay expenses, so that's how the judge knew. Now what's the matter with us getting even with them for what they did to us, by playing some trick at the dance." "Are there going to be girls there?" asked Ned. "Of course." "Then I think I know something that will break up the dance and not harm any one either," Ned replied. CHAPTER VII BREAKING UP THE DANCE "What is it?" asked Bart. "Let's get away from here, to some place where we can talk it over quietly," suggested Fenn. "We don't want them to know we're onto their plans." The four chums moved off down the street. Frank seemed to have recovered his good spirits, and joined in the talk readily enough. They listened to Ned's suggestion, and the more they talked of it the more enthusiastic they grew over it. "This'll beat their breaking-up of our dinner all to pieces," said Fenn. "It's all to the merry. They'll wish they'd let us alone." "There's one point we almost overlooked," said Frank, just as the chums were about to disperse. "What is it?" asked Fenn. "To make the plan work right we've got to get on the floor where the dance is going on, and I don't believe we can. Those fellows will have every entrance guarded." "Leave that to me," spoke Ned. "I know that old dance hall like a book. There's an entrance they'll never guard and we can use that." For the next few days the four chums were busy at home every spare moment. Their folks wondered what was in the wind, but the boys kept their own counsel. "Have you got any cheese?" asked Bart of his mother one evening. "What for? Are you hungry?" asked Alice, looking up from the first-aid-to-the-injured book that she was studying. "No, but I'm going to feed it to those who are hungry," her brother replied. "Do you want it for some poor persons?" asked Mrs. Keene. "I think, Bart, I can give them something better than cheese." "No; cheese is just what's wanted," Bart answered. "You see it's a secret." "Oh, I guess he's going to have some sort of an initiation in a secret society!" exclaimed Alice. "Tell me about it, Bart, I'll never breathe a word of it, really I won't." "I'd like to, Sis, but I can't," Bart replied. "It's very secret." Bart got the cheese and took it to his room. Alice tried to tease him into telling her what he wanted of it, but Bart maintained a provoking silence. "All right!" declared Alice. "I'll never tie your hand up again, if you hurt it with your shotgun," referring to an incident when Bart had slightly injured several of his fingers by the premature discharge of his gun. "I don't intend to get shot again," Bart made answer. "Really, Alice, I'd like to tell you about this, but you'll hear about it soon enough." "When?" "Saturday night, maybe." "But I'm going away Saturday night." "Where?" "To a dance." "A dance, eh?" and Bart looked interested. "What dance?" "Why one the first-year boys are getting up. I've got an invitation." "You don't mean to say you're going to the racket the Upside Down Club is going to give?" "Yes; why not?" "Oh, nothing." "Yes, there is something. I can tell by the way you act." "Well, I didn't think a sister of mine would go to an affair given by the enemies of the Darewell baseball team." "Oh, you're mad just because they played a trick on you about your dinner. That's nothing. I'm going to the dance just the same. So you'd better tell me now what you want the cheese for." "Oh, if you go to the dance you may hear of it there." "Now, Bart, I think you're real mean! Please tell me! How can I hear of it at the dance?" "Run along now, Sis, I'm busy," and Bart, with a provoking smile, shut the door of his room. Alice waited a minute, and then, hearing her brother moving about among his possessions, and realizing that it was useless to tease him further, went downstairs. "I don't care," she said to herself. "I'll have a good time at the dance, anyhow." Preparations went on for the little informal affair the boys of the Upside Down Club were to give. They tried to keep it a secret, but it was impossible. However, they took precautions to prevent any unbidden ones gaining access to the hall. The place was kept locked all day, and in the evenings, while the work of decorating it was under way, there were enough of the first-year boys on hand to prevent any untoward acts on the part of their enemies. The four chums had taken a few of their closest friends of the nine into their confidence, but they kept matters so quiet that none of the Upside Downs suspected that a plot of vengeance was afoot. While the first-year boys did not ask any of the other male pupils of the school to the dance, they were not so strict with the girls, and a number from all the classes of the institution were bidden to the affair. "The more the merrier," said Ned, when he heard of this. "It will be the talk of the town Monday morning." "If it works out right," put in Fenn. "Oh, it will work out right," Ned said confidently. The night of the dance came at last. Alice put on her prettiest dress, and, as she was leaving she saw her brother, attired in an old suit of clothes, lounging in his room. "I thought you were going to tell me about that secret to-night," she said. "The night isn't over yet," Bart replied. "There's time enough." So Alice went to the dance. She found many other girl acquaintances there, and scores of boy friends among the members of the Upside Down Club. Bart, who had remained in his room all the evening, was started from a revery about nine o'clock by a whistle out in the street. "There are the fellows!" he exclaimed, and, catching up his cap, and taking a package, from which sounded a mysterious scurrying and squealing, he went out. In front of his house he met Ned, Fenn and Frank. Each one had a bundle similar to the one Bart carried. "Got plenty of 'em?" asked Ned. "About two dozen," was the answer. "You had better luck than I. I got fifteen." "I have twenty and Fenn has ten," put in Frank. "That's enough to break up a dozen dances," spoke Ned. "Come on now, we've got to do a bit of climbing." The hall, where the dance was being held, was over the drug store. This was in the center of a business block, the drug structure being higher than any of the buildings amid which it stood. The ballroom was on the top floor. "Have you arranged about getting in?" asked Fenn. "We can't get in," Ned replied. "They've got every door doubly guarded, for they suspect we're up to something. In fact we don't want to get in. I have a better way. Come along." Ned led the way, through back streets until he came to a certain high fence. "One of us has got to climb over and open the gate," he said. "After that the rest is easy." Bart, being a good climber, was soon over the obstruction, and admitted his companions to a yard in the rear of a group of buildings. "Where are we?" asked Fenn. "We're in back of Williamson's hardware place," replied Ned. "That's right next to the drug store. We're going to the roof of that, and when we get there we can go up a short ladder until we get to the roof of the drug store." "How did the ladder get there?" asked Frank. "I bribed a telephone lineman, who was stringing some wires on the buildings yesterday, to leave it there." "But what are we going to do when we get on the roof of the drug store?" asked Fenn. "You watch and you'll see," Ned answered. By means of an outside stairway, and by climbing up on a rear porch, the boys reached the roof of the hardware building. Thence it was an easy task to get on top of the structure in which the dance was being held. They could hear the music below them, and the sound of merry feet tripping to the melody of a two-step. "There's a scuttle near the center," Ned spoke. "Walk quietly now. It's a tin roof, and they may hear us, in spite of the music. Go easy!" They found the scuttle, and it was unlocked. Ned had seen to that, by giving a judicious hint to the janitor of the place the day before. The boys cautiously removed the covering to a hole that led into a sort of attic or ventilating space. A few minutes later the four chums were in a dark loft, looking through the grating of a ventilator in the wall right down on the dancing floor. "My, but they're having a good time!" exclaimed Ned in a whisper. "It seems a pity to spoil it." "Pity nothing!" exclaimed Bart. "What did they do to us? Besides, there's no harm in this. There'll be a little screaming from the girls, but that's all." "Have you got 'em in paper bags?" asked Ned, as he began to open the box he carried. "Sure," replied Bart, and the others answered in the affirmative. "When I open the grating just toss the bags out, right in the middle of the floor," Ned went on. "Do it quick, as I want to close the ventilator before they see where the things come from." An instant later Ned had opened the ventilator grating, which he had previously loosened. Then, through the air, went sailing four paper bags. They struck almost in the middle of the ballroom floor and burst. Then from the bags there scampered over three score mice, rushing, running, leaping and darting amid the dancers, with frightened squeaks and squeals. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the noise of the rodents. Then every girl in the room, and there were forty of them, uttered a frightened scream and rushed for a place of safety. "A mouse! A mouse! Oh, save me!" was the universal cry, and the music came to a stop in a crash of discord as the dance was most effectually broken up. CHAPTER VIII FRANK IS WARNED All over the room ran the mice, and all about darted the frightened girls. The boys were, at first, too surprised to know what to do, but, at a rallying cry from someone, they started after the mice. However, they had no weapons to kill the rodents with, and had to be content with taking kicks at them as they darted past, seeking means of escape. "Couldn't have worked better!" exclaimed Bart, as he and his chums watched the scene from where they were hidden. "I hope none of the girls faint," said Fenn. "Oh, Stumpy's getting worried about Jennie, I s'pose," remarked Ned. "No danger of any of 'em fainting," said Bart. "They're too much afraid a mouse would bite 'em." So it seemed, for the girls contented themselves with screaming and getting up on whatever offered in the way of chairs or benches. Meanwhile the mice, bewildered by the lights, the noise and the strange place, were running about, squealing as loudly as they could. Every time one of the frightened creatures came near a girl, or a group of them, the cries of the damsels drowned the squeaks of the rodents. The boys of the Upside Down Club were at their wits' ends, for they could wage no effectual warfare against the mice. One or two of the committee of arrangements scurried around until they secured brooms, but by this time the mice had hidden in corners, whence they scurried out occasionally, to the great fright of the girls. The dance had come to a sudden end, for the girls, even after comparative quiet was restored, refused to venture on the floor. Even Alice, who was braver than most girls, stayed in a corner. "Who did it?" "Where did they come from?" "How did it happen?" These and many more questions were heard on every side. The paper bags from which the mice had burst were still in the center of the floor. Some of the first-year boys picked them up. From them dropped slips of paper on which were printed: _COMPLIMENTS OF THE DAREWELL BASEBALL NINE_. "I thought so!" exclaimed Walter Powell, the chairman of the arrangement committee of the dance. "The Darewell Chums had a hand in this. We must find 'em, fellows!" "Come on!" exclaimed Ned to his companions in the ventilator space. "We'd better skip. They may find us." They went out as they had come in, and soon were on their way home. "Talk about getting even," remarked Fenn. "I guess we did it all right!" "I caught all the mice in our house," said Ned. "Dad says he wishes I'd take the job steady, though he didn't know why I was doing it." "Alice tried to find out one night what I was going to do with the cheese I got to bait the trap with," Bart remarked. "I guess she knows now." Meanwhile the boys of the Upside Down Club, much chagrined at the unexpected ending of their entertainment, were trying to induce the girls to go on dancing. They said all the mice had gone, which was probably true, but they couldn't get the young ladies to believe it. "I'm going home!" declared Jennie Smith, and several other girls decided to go with her. The boys made an ineffectual search for those who had played the trick. They soon discovered that the bags had been thrown through the ventilator, but, by the time a committee of investigation had gone to the loft, the four chums were far away. "We'll not say anything about this at school, Monday," Ned remarked as the chums prepared to separate that night. "Let it come from the other fellows." "Oh, it will be town talk by to-morrow," declared Frank, as he started off down the road toward his uncle's house. Mr. Dent's residence was about a mile outside of Darewell. The road leading to it was well lighted up to within half a mile of the Dent place, and then the lamps were few and far apart. Frank hurried on, thinking of many things besides the trick of the mice, for he had a real trouble, and one he had not yet shared with his chums. It was bothering him, and had been for some time. He wished he had someone he could take into his confidence. As he neared his uncle's house he noticed there was a light in the sitting room. This was unusual, as his uncle and aunt were in the habit of going to bed early. They left no light for Frank, who had a key to the front door, and who carried matches to light the lamp always left on a table for him. "I wonder if any one is sick?" the boy thought, as he approached the house. He turned up a side path, as he wanted to get a drink at the well before going to bed, and the water in the house was not likely to be fresh. As he advanced cautiously through the darkness he heard voices, coming, evidently, from the direction of the front porch. Frank halted, and, as he did so, he heard his uncle's tones. Mr. Dent was saying: "Of course it's too bad, but if he's violent, there's only one thing to do." "That's all," the voice of a man replied. "We will have to keep him in the sanitarium for a while yet. I am just as sorry about it as you are. But we must not let the boy know. It might have a bad effect on him." Frank started. All his troubles seemed to come freshly to his mind. He knew the man talking to his uncle had something to do with them, and he resolved to find out more about the matter. He remained silent, hoping to hear additional talk, but the two had concluded their conversation, and the stranger could be heard walking down the gravel path toward the front gate. That was what the light had meant. Mr. Dent had received a visitor, and Frank determined to find out who it was. "Well, I'll see you again when necessary," the stranger called to Mr. Dent. "Good-night." "Good-night," replied Frank's uncle, as he went into the house and shut the door. Frank waited until the stranger was out on the path in front of the house. Then, keeping as much as possible in the shadows, the boy followed. He stole along, walking on the sod to deaden his footsteps, and soon found himself on the main highway. Just ahead of him he could see the figure of the man. He tried to see if he knew the stranger, but it was too dark. "But I'll find out where you go," Frank declared to himself, "I'll get on the track of this mystery sooner or later, and I guess I've got a good start now." All unconscious of being followed, the man hurried on. He seemed to know his way, for, though it was dark, and the path was uneven, he kept on at a good pace. Frank was drawing closer, in the eagerness of his pursuit. He was not as careful as he had been to walk on the sod, and, after he had gone about half a mile, the boy suddenly stepped on a loose stone which made him slip. The sound was heard by the stranger, who was about one hundred feet in advance, and he turned quickly. "Who's there?" he asked sharply. Frank did not answer. "Who's there?" the man inquired again, and there was menace in his tones. Frank crouched down to get in the shadow of a big tree. "I know someone is following me," the man went on, in a sharp voice. "Whoever it is I warn him he had better come no further. If it's money you're after I'll tell you I am armed, and I'll not hesitate to shoot. If it's a beggar I have nothing for you. If it is anyone else I warn him I will stand no trifling. I will say nothing to you, and if you follow me you do so at your peril. Be warned in time and go back. You must not meddle in this affair, whoever you are. I shall protect myself if I am attacked!" The voice ceased, and there sounded a click in the darkness, that might indicate the man had cocked his revolver. Frank did not move. He hardly breathed. He did not know what to do, for he had not counted on being discovered. "Remember! Follow me at your peril!" the man exclaimed again. Then, turning quickly he ran ahead in the darkness, and was soon lost to sight. CHAPTER IX A STRANGER IN TOWN Dazed by the sudden ending to his chase, Frank remained a while standing by the tree. He had half a mind to ignore the warning and keep on after the man, but on second thought felt it would be an unwise thing to do. "I must try another plan," the youth said to himself. "I will get at the bottom of this mystery concerning me. I did not know Uncle Abner was mixed up in it. I wonder if I had better ask him about it?" Frank debated this question in his mind as he went back home. Then he decided he would say nothing about what he had overheard until there was a chance of learning more about it. "Is that you, Frank?" his uncle asked him, as the boy went into the house a few minutes later. "Yes, uncle." "Well, be sure you lock up well. There have been thieves about, I hear, and we don't want 'em to get in here." Frank wondered at his uncle's caution, for Mr. Dent was not usually nervous. It was also news to Frank to learn that there were thieves about. "Have you seen any?" he asked his uncle. "No, but Jim Peterson's hired man was over a while ago, and told me his dogs had barked at some tramps passing in the road. There are strangers in the vicinity, I guess." Frank wondered if the dogs had barked at the stranger who had been at the Dent house a little while before, but he said nothing about it, and, soon went to bed. As the chums had anticipated, the breaking-up of the Upside Down Club dance created more talk among the High School pupils than had anything else in the line of sports and fun since the institution was built. The members of the ball team, and their friends, who had been let into the secret, preserved a discreet silence about the affair, and would answer no questions. Although it was generally believed that the four chums had been the prime instigators of the affair, they would admit nothing, and many were the conjectures about the mice. As for the girls, after their first fright, they laughed as heartily as did the boys over the sudden ending of the dance. The only pupils who seemed angry over the matter were the boys on the dance committee, who were incensed at the breaking up of the affair. "I know those Darewell Chums had the most to do with it," said Denny Thorp, who was the leader of the crowd that had captured Ned. "I'll get even with them." "It looks to me as though they had gotten even with us," remarked Peter Enderby, Denny's chum. "They paid us back, good and proper." "That's all right. What we did wasn't half as mean as letting those mice loose and spoiling the dance." "Oh, get out!" exclaimed Peter. "It's all in sport. What's the use of getting mad?" But Denny declared he was going to watch his chance to pay the Darewell Chums back with interest. But, though the four friends heard of Denny's threat, they were not alarmed over it. They felt they could hold their own. From then on, however, there was open warfare between the Upside Down Club members and the baseball nine and their friends, and many were the tricks each side played on the other. One afternoon, about a week later, Jim Morton, who was watching a crowd of boys playing on the school campus, hailed Bart, as the latter, in chase of the ball, ran toward where Jim was lying stretched under a shady elm tree. "What is it?" asked Bart "I've been waiting until someone would knock a fly over in this direction, so's you come close," Jim went on. "I wanted to speak to you." "Speak ahead," Bart went on, as he threw the ball back. "Do you want a job as guide?" "Guide? What do you mean?" "I met a man the other day, stranger in town, I guess, and he asked me if I'd show him the corduroy road through the woods. I told him I had to go to school, and he said Saturday would do. But I don't just feel like taking the job. I've got spring fever I guess. To-morrow's Saturday, and he expects me to go to the hotel after him, and show him the road. But I know I'll be tired tomorrow and I thought maybe you'd like the job. He says he'll give five dollars." "Oh, I don't know," Bart replied, somewhat surprised at what Jim told him. "What sort of a man is he?" "He has red hair, that's all I remember. I was sort of sleepy the day he met me, and I didn't take much notice." "How'd he come to ask you?" inquired Bart, wondering why lazy Jim had ever been requested to do anything. "Sandy Merton told the man about me. The man went to Sandy first, said he heard Sandy knew the woods pretty well. But Sandy works for a farmer every Saturday, and he couldn't go, so he recommended me. Said it would be easy work, but I don't fancy tramping through the woods. Do you want the job?" "Sure, I'll take it," Bart replied. "It'll be fun. I wonder if he only wants one boy?" "I guess he doesn't mind. Said I could bring a friend along if I wanted to. Here, I'll give you his card, and you can inquire for him at the hotel," and Jim extended a bit of pasteboard on which was printed the name: JACOB HARDMAN. "I'll go see him," Bart remarked. "Sure you don't want the job, Jim? Five dollars is a nice bit of money to pick up for just going to the corduroy road." "I--got--spring--fever," murmured Jim, and Bart saw that the boy's eyes were closed as though he had gone to sleep. "Queer he had energy enough to tell me that much," remarked Bart, as he moved off. "Just like him, to lie here and wait for a chance ball to bring me in his direction. Jim certainly is the limit when it comes to laziness." That evening Bart went to see Mr. Hardman at the hotel. He found the stranger pleasant enough, and, as Jim had said, with a wealth of thick red hair. "You're the third boy that has been engaged for this work," said Mr. Hardman with a smile, when Bart had explained his errand. "I hope you will not fail me. You see I am a stranger in this locality, and I'm thinking of buying land for a house, if I like the place. But I'm fond of solitude, and I have heard that the woods, through which the corduroy road runs, are just about what I want. I don't wish to get lost, so I thought I would hire one of the town boys to show me around. Do you know your way through the forest?" "Quite well," Bart replied. "I have camped there. The road is easy to find, but it winds in and out, and you might get lost, as there are several branches to it. What time do you want to start to-morrow?" "About nine o'clock. You might bring a couple of friends, if you like. I'm fond of company. Is it worth while to take lunch?" "Well, we could hardly go there and back before dinner." "Then we'll take something to eat," Mr. Hardman went on. "Here are two dollars. Get some sandwiches and things, and we'll have a little picnic in the woods." In spite of the man's apparently hearty manner Bart felt an indescribable aversion to him. Mr. Hardman was pleasant enough, but he had a habit of shifting his gaze around as he talked and he did not look one squarely in the eyes. But Bart gave only a momentary thought to that. He was wondering whether he had better bring his three chums on the trip. He was about to ask the man if he would object to a party of four boys, but Mr. Hardman evidently considered the incident closed, for he bowed to Bart and opened the door of his room, where the interview had taken place. "I'll bring 'em anyhow," Bart decided, as he went downstairs. "He didn't mention any special number. Besides, I don't know the road any too well, and the others can help me out." Bart told his three chums of the matter that night. Fenn and Ned said they would go, but Frank declared he had to do some errands for his uncle and would not be through in time. "I may walk out that way and meet you," Frank said. "I expect to be finished shortly after dinner. Are you just going to the road and back?" "I don't know how far he may want to go," Bart answered. "We'll probably be gone all day." "Wish I could go," Frank said, but, as he spoke, his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. "Frank's getting stranger than ever," remarked Ned, as the former left Ned's house where the four chums were talking that evening. "I wonder if he doesn't want to go?" "I guess he'd like to, if he could," Bart replied. "Do you know anything about this Mr. Hardman?" asked Fenn. "Only what I've heard," Bart answered. "He came to the hotel about a week ago. Seems to have plenty of money. Treated me very nicely, but, somehow I don't like him, and I can't give any reason for it." "Did you get the grub with the money he gave you?" asked Ned. "Yes." The next morning the three chums went to the hotel. They found Mr. Hardman waiting for them. "On time I see," he remarked, as Bart introduced Ned and Fenn. "It's just the morning for a nice long tramp. I hope you boys are good walkers." "I guess we can keep up with you," Bart replied, and they started off. CHAPTER X MR. HARDMAN'S QUEER ACT It was about five miles from the hotel to where the corduroy road began to wend a tortuous way through the big woods back of the town of Darewell. It was the same road over which the chums had traveled the time they went camping just before the previous Thanksgiving, during which excursion they had shot considerable game. They walked out through the suburbs of the town, and soon were in the open country. Then came a stretch of woodland, and, after a mile of this, the chums turned aside into a denser forest. "Here's the corduroy road," said Bart, pointing to where the log highway began. "Ah, indeed," remarked Mr. Hardman. "Quite interesting. Made of little logs laid side by side. To prevent wagons from sinking down into the mud, I suppose?" "It isn't used much nowadays," volunteered Fenn. "It was built by the loggers when they were cutting some timber, but that was several years ago." "Where does it lead to?" "Right into the middle of the woods, and then it stops," replied Bart, thinking of the winter day they had last traveled over the road, and recalling what events had followed the discovery of the Perry family, suffering in the forest hut. "We'll take a walk along it," Mr. Hardman went on. "It seems to be just the sort of locality I'm looking for. Quite lonesome enough to suit me." It was pleasant in the forest that June day. On either side of the road grew tall ferns and there were many wild flowers. The birds were flitting through the branches, and, in spite of the rather queer expedition they were on, the boys enjoyed themselves. As for the man they were guiding, he was content to walk along, stopping, here and there, to look through the forest, or gather some flowers. "Is there any particular place you want to go to?" asked Bart, when they had been walking on the road for perhaps half an hour. "I thought you said the road did not lead anywhere." "Neither it does, but there are paths through the woods branching off the road, and if you wanted to get to a certain spot I think we could take you there." "No, I only want to see how the road runs. I am not looking for any particular place. But these paths you speak of, are they easy to find?" "Not unless you know the woods pretty well," put in Ned. "Ah! Then I suppose a person coming--say from the other side of the forest--would have difficulty in reaching the road and getting into Darewell?" "It would be quite hard, I imagine," said Bart, "We have never been to the other edge of the forest. It is about ten miles in extent, and we have only been about half way through. It is pretty wild, the farther in you go." "So much the better," Mr. Hardman murmured. "Now boys, are you ready for lunch? I confess the walk has given me an appetite." "The same here," admitted Fenn with a laugh. They sat down on a grassy bank, and ate the food Bart had purchased. Mr. Hardman seemed to be thinking of many things, for he hardly spoke during the impromptu meal, and, when he had eaten a couple of sandwiches he arose from the bank and wandered off a little way into the woods. When he came back he addressed Bart: "Are you sure no one--er--say a sick person--could get from the other side of the forest to this road?" "Well of course it's possible," admitted Bart, "but I don't believe a sick person, or a well one, either, could get here without a lot of trouble. There are no paths to speak of, so I've heard old hunters say." "That's good," Mr. Hardman remarked, half to himself. "That's just what I want. Is this the only road leading into the woods from Darewell?" "The only one," replied Bart. "Then I guess I've seen enough." "Do you think you'll build a house here?" asked Ned. "Build a house here? What do you--Of course. Well, I like the place first rate. I must come again some day. I think we'll go back now. By the way, I must pay you," and he handed Bart the five-dollar bill. "I'm much obliged," Bart said. "I'm afraid it was hardly worth so much. It was a regular picnic for us." "So much the better," replied Mr. Hardman with a smile. "Now we'll go back." They started to retrace their steps along the corduroy road, the boys wondering somewhat over the whim of Mr. Hardman. He had not acted like a man who had come to look for a place to erect a dwelling, and, though they expected some oddity in a man who preferred to live in the solitude of the forest, they could not account for his questions about whether or not a person could get from the farther side of the woods to the road. For about an hour they tramped back over the way they had come. Mr. Hardman said little, and walked just ahead of the boys, who conversed among themselves. Just as they were nearing the end of the road he turned and asked: "You are sure now there is no other way of going through the forest but this road?" "Positive," replied Bart. "You couldn't be mistaken?" "Well, if there is a road no one in Darewell knows of it," put in Ned. "We've lived here a good many years, and have often been in these woods, and we never heard of any other road." "That's good," Mr. Hardman responded, and he seemed well satisfied. "I wonder if Frank will come to meet us?" asked Bart as Mr. Hardman resumed his position slightly in advance of the boys. "You can't tell much about Frank lately," replied Ned. "I don't know what to make of him. I wish he'd tell us if he is in trouble, for we might help him. I know what it is to be worried about something and not have any one you can talk to. I found that out when I had to disappear in New York," and he laughed at the recollection, though at the time of his trouble he felt in a very different frame of mind. "Well, we'll just have to let him alone until he's ready to tell us," said Fenn. "Hello!" he added, a moment later, "someone is coming along the road." The chums stopped, as did Mr. Hardman. The sound of footsteps could be heard. "Who is coming?" asked Mr. Hardman, and the boys thought he seemed alarmed. "I don't know," Bart replied. A moment later a figure appeared around a turn in the road. "It's Frank!" exclaimed Ned. "Who?" asked Mr. Hardman. "Frank Roscoe; our chum," Bart said. "He has come to meet us." "Frank Roscoe!" exclaimed Mr. Hardman, and the boys could see he was much excited. "Frank Roscoe here! If I had known that!" He turned suddenly and hurried past the boys, retracing his way along the corduroy road into the depths of the forest. "I have forgotten some papers!" he exclaimed, not turning his head. "I must have left them on the bank where we ate lunch. I'll get them. Don't wait for me. I can find my way back." Then he was gone, a curve in the road hiding him from sight. But by this time Frank had come up to his chums. He saw Mr. Hardman's sudden retreat, and had caught the words the man called back to the boys. At the sound of them Frank broke into a run. "What's the matter?" cried Bart, surprised at his friend's action. "I must catch that man!" exclaimed Frank, as he raced past his chums. For a moment the three boys were so surprised they did not know what to make of it. The queer action of Mr. Hardman, in suddenly fleeing, was only equaled by Frank's pursuit. "Let's go and see what it means," suggested Ned, as he turned to go back over the road. The sun had gone under a cloud and the woods were quite dark, as the forest was dense at this point. The three chums hurried on in the semi-twilight. They had not gone far before they met Frank coming back. "Did you catch him?" asked Ned. "No. He must have turned off into the woods. What is his name? How did you fellows come to be out with him? What made him run back as soon as he saw me?" "One at a time," suggested Ned. "We can't answer all those questions at once. What made you run after him?" "Because I believe him to be a man who knows something I should know," Frank replied, for, though he did not tell his chums, he recognized in Mr. Hardman's voice the tones of the stranger who had been at his uncle's house one night and who had warned the boy back when Frank had attempted to follow. CHAPTER XI NEWS FOR FRANK "Do you suppose he turned back because he saw you?" asked Ned. "He said he had forgotten some papers," observed Fenn. "Yes, and he said he must have left them on the bank where we ate lunch," responded Bart. "But did either of you observe him have any papers in his hands? I guess not. He didn't look at a single paper from the time we started. That was only an excuse." "It's a queer mystery," remarked Bart, looking at Frank. "Can we help solve it?" "I'm afraid not," Frank replied with a smile. "But come on, it's getting late." "Perhaps we ought to stay and see if Mr. Hardman will come back," suggested Fenn. "He may get lost in the woods." "I guess not," was Bart's opinion. "I think he knows these woods as well as we do." "Then what was his object in having us show him the road?" "Part of the general mystery," said Bart. "It's too deep for me. If Frank knows it, why perhaps he'll tell." "I wish I could," their chum answered, and the boys noticed that he was quite solemn. "It's something that concerns me personally, and I am not in a position, yet, to tell any one. I have only suspicions to go on, and it would not be fair to tell them to any one, until I see how near the truth I am. I admit I must seem to be acting strangely, but I can't help it. I wish I had caught that man. I believe he holds the secret I wish to solve. Where did you meet him?" Bart told the circumstances connected with taking Mr. Hardman to the woods, and of his curious questions. "Tell me over again that one he asked about sick persons finding their way through the woods," Frank asked, and Bart repeated it. Frank seemed to ponder over it. "I think I'll try to see him at the hotel," Frank remarked a little later. "He may come back tonight. If he does, and I can get any clues to what I want, I may have something to tell you." "I think we can give you a piece of news now," Ned put in. "We have been keeping it a secret, thinking the time would come when you could make use of it. Well that time seems to have come now." Then he related what had taken place the night he was kidnapped by the Upside Down Club, and detailed the conversation of the two men in the vacant house. "Are you sure about this?" asked Frank. "Are you sure they spoke about my uncle, and property and a sanitarium?" "Positive," replied Ned. "Why?" "It all fits in!" exclaimed Frank. "It bears out my theory. Now, if I could only find the place, I would have something to work on. Perhaps you fellows could help me!" "We sure will, and you can depend on us!" cried Ned heartily. "Thanks," replied Frank simply, but there was much meaning in the little word. "I may call on you sooner than I thought I could." "Can't do it too soon for us," Bart made answer. "We want to get this thing cleared up. It's worrying you, Frank; isn't it fellows?" "Yes, it is," admitted their chum. "It is worrying me and I want the secret cleared up, but I have to go slow. There are a number of persons involved, and I have to feel my way. The time may come when you will think I have done wrong, but when it is all explained you will say I'm right." Frank's talk, his refusal to explain what he meant, and the strange scene, in which he and Mr. Hardman figured, was a great mystery to the three chums, but they felt they had no right to press Frank for an explanation. They could only wait until he told them what it all meant. It was now getting dusk, and, deciding it was no use to wait for Mr. Hardman, the boys hurried back to Darewell. The first thing Frank did was to call at the hotel to make some inquiries regarding Mr. Hardman. But, beyond the fact that he was registered there as coming from New York, and that he seemed to have plenty of money, nothing could be learned. The man was not in, the clerk said, and was in the habit of going off and staying a day or two at a time. He had been at the hotel a little over a week, but seemed to have no acquaintances except Sandy, Jim and the three chums, if they could be so classed. "Any luck?" asked Ned, as Frank stopped at his house that night, on his way back from the hotel. "No, none," was the reply in hopeless tones. "But I'm going there again to-morrow. He may stay in, because it's Sunday, and I can get a chance to talk to him." "Better not let him know you want to speak to him," suggested Ned. "If you do he'll make some excuse and slip out." "I'll not send up my name when I inquire at the desk," Frank answered. But his precautions were useless, for, when he called at the hotel the next morning, he learned that Mr. Hardman had come in at midnight, had paid his bill, and departed on the one o'clock train. "Did he say where he was going?" asked Frank of the clerk. "I don't know. The night man was on, but we don't generally ask our guests where they are going." "I thought he might have left word where he wanted his mail forwarded." "That's so, I believe he did," the clerk answered, for he knew Frank quite well. He looked in the letter rack, and found a slip the night clerk had left, directing that all mail for Mr. Hardman was to be sent to the general delivery, Lockport. "Lockport," murmured Frank, as he left the hotel. "That is a town close to the other edge of the woods. I wonder what he can be doing there? Very well, if he's in Lockport I'll go there, but I'm afraid I'll have trouble finding him. However, I must try. He's likely to stop at a hotel, and there can't be more than two or three in Lockport." Somewhat discouraged over his failure to find Mr. Hardman, Frank went back to his uncle's house. All that Sunday he remained indoors, though his chums called in the afternoon, and wanted him to go for a walk. "Don't have any hard feelings," Frank said, when he declined the invitation. "I'm in no mood for walking or talking. I'll feel better tomorrow." Then he went back to his room, to brood over his secret. He debated with himself whether or not he ought to tell his uncle what he had seen and heard, and ask for an explanation of the matter. But Mr. Dent was rather a stern man, and, though he was very kind to Frank, he did not encourage confidences. So, after thinking it all over, Frank decided he would try, a little longer, to solve the mystery by his own efforts. He did not want to appeal to his uncle and be met with a refusal. "I tell you what it is," Ned remarked, as the three chums walked away from Frank's house. "We've got to do something to cheer Frank up." "What would you suggest?" asked Fenn. "Let's have some sort of fun," replied Ned. "I've got an idea!" he exclaimed suddenly. "It will be a great joke! We'll play it on Jim Morton." "Jim's too lazy to play jokes on," said Fenn. "This is going to be a lazy joke," explained Ned. CHAPTER XII THE LAZY RACE As they walked along, the three chums perfected their plans for some fun they hoped would take Frank's mind off his trouble for a while, and, at the same time, afford amusement for themselves. "Besides it will be a sort of lesson for Jim," said Ned. "He's getting worse and worse. After a bit he'll be too lazy to draw his breath, and then he'll die and it will be our fault." "I don't see how you make that out," declared Bart. "Why, it's our duty to prevent him from dying by providing such contests as this I am about to arrange." "Go ahead," put in Fenn. "We're with you." The next Monday morning there appeared on the bulletin board in the boys' court of the high school this notice: ATTENTION! "Arrangements have been perfected for a grand free-for-all race, for the championship of the school. The affair will be in the nature of a handicap, and there will be three prizes, for the first, second and third winners. Any boy in the school may enter, and there will be no fee collected. The race will take place Saturday afternoon on the school campus. The distance and conditions will be made known at the time of the start. It is hoped that there will be a large number of entries. The more the merrier." * * * * * The notice was signed by the school athletic committee, of which Bart was chairman. At the noon recess Bart was besieged by a crowd of boys asking all sorts of questions about the contest, from the kind of prizes to be offered, to the distance to be run. "I can't tell you any more than is in the notice," Bart answered. "All you have to do is to train for the race, and the committee will attend to the rest." With this they had to be content. As Ned had suggested, this did serve to take Frank's mind off his troubles to a certain extent. He inquired about the contest, and, when he was sufficiently interested, his three chums took him to one side and explained that it was gotten up for the benefit of Jim Morton. "Do you think you can get him to enter?" asked Frank. "I guess so, if I talk to him right," Ned replied. Then he set to work to get Jim to become one of the contestants. "Why, you know I can't run," Jim complained, when Ned broached the matter to him. "Besides, I don't believe in races. It takes too much time and strength. I'll live longer if I don't hurry so much," and Jim, slowed up in his walk, which was slow enough at best. "But this is different," Ned went on. "You know you're giving the school a bad name by being so lazy." "How?" asked Jim, in some surprise. "Why, you've been made an honorary member of the athletic committee," Ned went on. It was a fact, but he had engineered the matter through. "Now how does it look to see one of our honorary members so lazy he won't even enter a contest? Besides, I think you could win this race, Jim." "Me win? Why, you know I haven't ever run a race." "But I think you can win this one," Ned went on, rather mysteriously. "If you'd only train a little bit I know you could beat lots of the fellows. Let me enter you as one of the contestants, and some of us fellows will practice with you nights." "All right," Jim assented, rather flattered that the chums would go to so much trouble on his account. "I'll try, but I know I can't come in even third." "You wait," counseled Ned. The news soon spread that Jim had entered as a contestant in the race. And, what was more surprising, he had begun to train. Few of the High School boys believed it until they saw Jim speeding around the campus one evening, with Ned and his chums. Frank entered into the spirit of the joke, which only the four knew of, and there were impromptu brushes, in which Jim frequently came in ahead. This, of course, was all arranged to give the new athlete confidence in himself. As for Jim, he really seemed to be interested in running. At first he was so stiff, from lack of practice, that he ran like a lame cow. But in a few days he could pick up his heels to better advantage. "We'll cure him when it comes to the final show-down," declared Ned. "We'll cure Jim of laziness, and it will be a fine piece of work." "Best of all, though," said Bart, "Frank seems to have forgotten his troubles, and that's why we undertook this." "If only he doesn't begin to worry, after the fun, we expect to have Saturday, is over," put in Ned, a little doubtful of his own experiment. There were scores entered in the race, and that insured a good attendance at the event. In spite of many questions the chums refused to tell any details of the contest, and it was much of a mystery as ever Saturday afternoon, when all the boys, and quite a crowd of girls, were gathered on the campus. Ned got up on a box to make an announcement, and to tell the conditions of the race. "Entries are not limited," he said. "We'll admit boys, girls, dogs, puppies or any animal that walks, flies or crawls." There was laughter at what they all took to be a joke. "I mean it," Ned went on. "If any of you have a dog or a goat you want to see race, put him in. We'll make the conditions and the prizes fit any person or animal," and there was more laughter. "What's the distance?" inquired several of the boys who had donned racing trunks and spiked shoes. "Five times around the campus," Ned answered. "That's about a mile." "Where are the prizes?" "They will be shown and awarded after the race. Now are you all ready?" "Aren't you going to run this off in heats?" asked Lem Gordon. "There are too many to start at once." "No, it's a free-for-all race, but those who have been in previous contests will have to start off first." "Last, you mean, I guess," said Lem. "That's the proper way to handicap." "Not for this race," Ned replied. "Why not?" "Because this is going to be a lazy race." "A lazy race!" cried half a score of voices. "Yes, a lazy race. The person or animal who comes in last, after making five circuits, wins." "Are there going to be animals in this?" demanded Lem. "Of course there are. This is free-for-all. Here is my entry," and Ned, turning over the box he had been standing on, disclosed a big mud turtle, that started to crawl away as soon as it got into the light. "A mud turtle race!" cried Lem. "Certainly! Why not?" demanded Ned, "This turtle has been trained against Jim Morton, champion lazy racer of the Darewell High School!" he went on in a loud voice, to make himself heard above the shouts of laughter. "Now, all ready. Come on, Jim, I believe you can beat the turtle if you half try!" Such a yell as there was at this! The boys and girls realized the joke that had been played, and even Jim did not hesitate to join in the merriment, for he appreciated the trick which had been worked on him. "One! Two! Three! Go!" cried Ned. "There goes the turtle!" and he pointed to where the animal was crawling along at a rapid rate. "Hurry up, Jim, or he'll beat you!" "I guess not," Jim replied. "I'm going to take a rest. This training has tired me out," and he sat down on the grass. "Any one want to compete against the turtle?" asked Ned. "Come on now. Remember, it's free-for-all." But no one seemed to care to contest, and, amid yells and laughter at the manner in which they had been fooled, the boys began arranging impromptu races among themselves. "You worked that pretty slick," Jim said, as the chums approached him. "You jollied me along in great shape. But I'll have to take lots of rest now, to make up for it." CHAPTER XIII VACATION AT HAND "Well, you found out you could run if you tried," Frank remarked, as he looked at where Jim was sprawled on the grass. "Oh, I knew it all along," Jim replied, "only I didn't want it to get out, for fear I'd have to enter all the contests. Maybe I'll go in the next real race," he added. "I've trained enough for three or four seasons I guess." "I'm afraid you're not cured yet," commented Ned with a laugh. "It was all for your good, Jim." "That's all right. I appreciate that, and I'm much obliged to you. Can I have that turtle?" "What for?" "Why, I thought maybe I could educate it," and Jim smiled. "Go ahead; take it if you want to," Ned replied. "I had trouble enough catching it in the river." Jim carried off the turtle, and the crowd of boys and girls, laughing and joking about the lazy race, gradually dispersed. "Wonder what Jim wanted of the turtle?" asked Fenn, as the four chums walked along. "Give it up," said Ned. "Going to train it to waltz maybe." "More like he's going to play some joke on you for what you did," suggested Frank, who was in better spirits than his friends had observed him to be for some time. And that was exactly what happened. When the chums got to school the next Monday morning, they were met with queer glances on every side. At last Ned demanded: "What are you fellows grinning at? What's the joke? Tell us and we'll laugh too." "Better go downtown and look in the drug store window," advised Lem Gordon. The chums took the advice that afternoon. They found quite a crowd in front of the "Emporium," as the drug store was called. Working their way up to the window the four boys saw a queer sight. A big box had been arranged to represent a pond, with rushes and grass growing around the edges. In the center was a little mound of stones, that were raised above the surface of the water with which the box was filled. But what attracted more attention, than the accurate representation of a pond, was a big mud turtle resting on the stones lazily blinking at the crowds that stared at it, as though pleased with the homage paid. And, on a card hanging over the turtle, was this inscription: "Winner of the Darewell High School annual lazy-race. Trained for the event by Ned Wilding, Fenn Masterson, Bart Keene and Frank Roscoe." "I guess that's one on you," remarked Lem Gordon, as he joined the chums while they were looking in the window. "Jim got back at you all right." "Yes, I guess he did," admitted Ned. Nearly everyone in the crowd knew the four chums, and the boys were subjected to considerable chaffing over the notice about training the turtle. They took it good-naturedly, and when Jim Morton came strolling along, a little doubtful as to how the four lads would treat him, because of the joke he had played, Ned called out: "That's a good one, Jim." "Much obliged for that turtle," Jim responded. Then, as he walked a little way down the street with the chums he told them he had sold the animal to the drug store proprietor for a dollar and had suggested putting it in the window, to attract attention, and serve as an advertisement. It now lacked but a few weeks to vacation time, and every boy in the school, including the four chums, was counting the hours until the classes would close for the summer. "We haven't made our vacation plans yet," said Fenn one afternoon, when the boys were out on the river in their boat. "What are we going to do?" "Let's take another boating trip, away up the river," suggested Ned. "I was going to propose a walking trip, taking in the whole county and lasting three weeks," Bart put in. "That's too much work," commented Fenn. "You're getting so fat you're lazy," remarked Ned. "But I think myself walking is a little too tiresome." "Oh, I only just mentioned it," Bart hurried to add. "I don't insist on it. Let's hear what Frank has to say." "I'm in favor of going camping," was Frank's answer. "I think it would be fun to go to the farther end of the big woods." "Away off there?" asked Ned in some surprise. "That's a good distance," commented Bart. "And lonesome," added Fenn. "But it's just right for camping," Frank went on. "We don't want to put up our tent in the middle of a village. The wilder place we can find the better." "There's something in that," Bart admitted. "I'd like to camp where we couldn't hear a railroad whistle or a factory bell. But what's your idea going so far into the woods, Frank?" "Nothing in particular, I only happened to think of it," but Frank's manner showed that he had some reason for the suggestion, and did not want to tell his chums. Ned was the only one of the three who noticed it, however, and he concluded to say nothing, but to keep close watch over Frank. "The far end of the big woods," mused Bart aloud. "That is the place Mr. Hardman was inquiring about. By the way, Frank, did you ever catch him?" "No, he went to Lockport. I wrote to a friend there, as I didn't have time to go myself, and I got an answer that no one of that name was at any of the hotels. So I concluded there wasn't much use bothering any more. But I'll find him some day, and when I do--" Frank paused. His chums looked at him, wondering at the emphasis he put in his words. "But let's talk about camping," the boy went on. "What do you say? Shall we go to the woods?" "Suits me," remarked Ned, and the others agreed that it would be as much fun, for the vacation season, as anything they could propose. They were soon busy talking over the details, arranging about the tent and the cooking utensils, and discussing the best way of transporting their camp stuff. They made some inquiries the next day and learned that by going to Lockport they could enter the woods by an old trail, seldom used, and could travel much more easily than if they worked their way in by the corduroy road. "That's what we'll do," decided Ned. "Then, Frank, maybe you can have a chance to find your friend, Mr. Hardman." "I don't believe I'll look for him," Frank replied. "We'll not have much time in Lockport anyhow. I have another plan now," but he did not tell his chums what it was. Two weeks later school closed, and the boys completed their preparations for going camping. They packed up their tent and other stuff and shipped it to Lockport. They followed it two days later, and one bright morning, having seen their things loaded upon a wagon, they started off for the depths of the big woods. CHAPTER XIV THE TELEPHONE WIRE "Well, this is something like camping," observed Bart that evening, when, having pitched their tent in midst of a particularly lonely bit of the big woods, they sat down to rest. The selection of the spot had been Frank's, and, though his chums had wondered somewhat at it, they agreed with him that it was a good place. There was a little stream running through the forest, not far from where they pitched their tent, and their first attempt was rewarded by a catch of several fine fish. Fenn, who had been elected cook, soon had them frying with some bits of bacon, and Bart, leaning back comfortably against a big tree, made the remark quoted above. "Say, are you a visitor, or only a day boarder?" asked Fenn, as he looked up from his cooking and observed Bart. "There's lots to be done yet. Lanterns to fill, the cots to get ready, and a trench to dig around the tent to keep the water away when it rains. You'd better get busy." "Just as you say," answered Bart good-naturedly. "I'm willing to do my share." He got a shovel and began digging the trench. Ned was busy with the lanterns, and seeing that the guy ropes were tight, while Frank looked after putting the folding cots up, and getting out the blankets. In a short time the camp was in fair shape, and Fenn announced that supper was ready. In the cool of the evening, after the meal, they sat about the tent, before the campfire, and felt very well satisfied with the place. "To-morrow we'll take our guns and take a tramp through the woods," said Bart. "I don't s'pose there's anything much to shoot, but we may get a chance at a hawk or something." "Hawks aren't good to eat," remarked Fenn. "Who said they were? Just because you're cook you needn't think every time we take our guns we're going out to stock up the pantry. We'll kill the hawks and save the farmers' chickens. They'll appreciate that." "I don't believe there's a farmer within two miles of here," commented Ned. "We're quite a way from civilization. It's five miles to Lockport, the nearest town." Tramping through the woods the next day the chums found the forest even wilder than they had anticipated. There were no trails or paths to be seen, and it looked as though few, if any persons, ever visited the vicinity. But the boys liked it all the better on this account. As Bart had said, there were no sounds of civilization to be heard; no locomotive whistles or factory bells. "I had no idea there was such a wilderness in this part of the country," remarked Ned, as they walked along, looking in vain for something to shoot at. "I wonder if we'll come across a lonely cabin, where a hermit or a wild man lives?" "It's lonesome enough for any sort of a hermit," said Fenn, as he paused and looked about him. The silence of the deep woods was broken only by the wind moving the branches of the trees, and by the songs of birds. "It looks like the jumping-off place. I guess--Hello! What's that?" and he pointed to something up in a tree. "A hawk?" questioned Bart, raising his gun. "No, it looks like a telephone wire." "A telephone wire in these woods?" inquired Ned. "That's what it is," Fenn went on, as he stepped back to get a better view, and caught sight of the two twisted strands of insulated copper. "There's no mistaking a telephone wire." "That's queer," murmured Frank. "I wonder if--" then he paused. "Let's follow it and see where it leads to," he added, after a moment. "What for?" asked Bart. "Why, just to find out," Frank answered. "If there's a telephone wire there may be people near at hand!" "I don't know's it makes much difference if there are," was Ned's comment. "These woods are open to any one who wants to come in, just as they are to us. Why should we bother to follow a telephone wire?" "Oh, I just mentioned it," Frank hastened to add. "I'm not particular." The wire was fastened to trees, about twenty feet above the ground, and ran in a zig-zag direction through the woods. It had evidently been put up by men not familiar with the telephone business, for no attempt had been made to go in a straight line, and, in some places the porcelain insulators were carelessly fastened to the trees. The wire was run through the branches with little regard for the safety of the conductor, and the boys noticed several places where better support might have been had for it, than was taken advantage of by those who put it up. The chums tramped for an hour or more, coming across the wire several times in the course of their wanderings. Frank was generally the first one to see it, and finally Ned remarked: "You must be very much interested in that, Frank."' "No, not specially. I'd like to know where it runs to, that's all." "You can trace it this afternoon." "Maybe I will." Ned and Bart decided on a fishing trip that afternoon, and Fenn elected to stay in camp and fix his gun, which had gotten slightly out of order. "What you going to do, Frank?" asked Bart. "I think I'll take a nap in the tent." Bart and Ned, taking their poles and lines, went up along the stream, to a deeper part which they had observed in their morning journey. Fenn brought his gun out in front of the tent and proceeded to take it apart. As for Frank, he stood about for a while, watching Fenn, and then, remarking that he thought he would stretch out on one of the cots, went inside the tent. It was nearly two hours before Fenn had his gun fixed to suit him. Then, oiling and cleaning it, he took some cartridges and set up a mark to shoot at. "Come on out and try your luck!" he called to Frank. There was no answer from the tent. "Come on out! It's too nice to sleep!" Fenn shouted again. He fired at the target, and made a bull's-eye, much to his surprise and delight. "I say, Frank!" he shouted. "Come on, I can beat you all to pieces!" He ran to the tent and lifted up the flap. He expected to see Frank stretched out on one of the cots, but what was his astonishment to learn that the canvas house was empty. There was no sign of Frank, and none of the cots showed any signs of having been used since they were made up that morning. "That's queer, I didn't see him come out, and I was in front of the tent all the while," said Fenn. "He must have slipped past when I was hunting for that little screw I dropped." He felt a vague sense of uneasiness, for, though he tried to make himself believe that Frank had come out unnoticed by him, he was not as sure of it as he desired to be. He moved toward the back part of the tent, and saw something that caused him to utter an exclamation. For there, plainly to be seen in the dirt floor of the tent, were marks, showing where someone had crawled out under the rear wall of canvas. The sod, which was not yet tramped down, was torn, and one of the tent pegs had been pulled up by the strain. There was a rear entrance to the tent, but it was tightly laced shut, and would have taken some time to open. "Frank didn't want me to know he was going," said Fenn to himself. "He wanted to slip away for some reason. Now I wonder what it could have been? He's been acting very queer lately. I hope--" Just then Ned and Bart came through the woods, carrying strings of fish. "What's the matter?" asked Bart, as Fenn came to the flap of the tent, his face plainly showing something had happened. "Frank's gone!" "What do you mean? Off for a stroll in the woods? Well, that's nothing." "No, he crawled out of the back of the tent while I was fixing my gun! He didn't want me to see him go! Boys, I'm afraid there's something wrong with Frank!" CHAPTER XV SEARCHING FOR FRANK For a few moments the three chums remained staring at each other. The news of Frank's disappearance came as a shock to Bart and Ned, just as it had to Fenn. And Fenn's last words set the others to thinking. "What do you mean?" asked Ned. "I mean that Frank's not himself lately," Fenn went on. "You must have noticed it as well as I." "You're right," came from Bart. "There is something very strange about Frank, and I can't understand it. The more we talk about it the worse it seems." "Unless--" began Fenn. "Unless what?" "Boys, I hate to mention it," said Fenn, with a strange air, and he looked all around as though he feared someone would hear him, "but I'm afraid Frank's mind is affected!" "Do you mean he's crazy?" asked Bart, suddenly. "No; not exactly that. But I think he has some secret trouble, and that he has worried over it so much he isn't quite himself. Don't you remember how interested he was in the King of Paprica," went on Fenn, referring to the incidents told of in the first volume of this series. "He thought the man was crazy, and he said he had been reading up a lot about insanity. I thought then maybe he had had some trouble in his family, and that might account for his not wanting us to seek to solve the mystery of the curious men." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Ned. "Frank crazy? Why, he's no more crazy than I am!" "I don't say he's crazy," Fenn went on, "but you must admit it looks queer the way he's been acting lately, and think of his escape through the rear of the tent. What did he want to run away for?" "It certainly is odd," Bart admitted, "but I don't believe Frank's mind is affected. I think he has some secret which is worrying him, and, in time, he'll tell us all about it. Until then we can only wait." "What had we better do now?" asked Fenn. "Do? Why, nothing," answered Bart. "When Frank gets ready he'll come back. Until then there's nothing to do." The three chums talked over the matter from various sides. They agreed it would be better not to say anything to their comrade when he got back, as it might embarrass him to be questioned. As the afternoon waned away Fenn prepared to get supper, cooking some of the fish Bart and Ned had caught. "Shall we eat, or wait until Frank gets back?" asked Fenn, as he noticed it was six o'clock. "Let's eat," suggested Ned. "He wouldn't want us to wait." The meal was not a very pleasant one, for, in spite of the assurances of Ned and Bart, to the effect that Frank was all right, and would soon rejoin them, all three felt a vague uneasiness they could not explain. "Maybe he has lost his way," remarked Fenn, when it began to get dusk, and there was no sign of the missing boy. "That's so," admitted Bart, more quickly than Fenn had supposed he would. "We'll take our guns and fire a few shots to give him the right direction toward camp. Come on." Ned and Fenn got their weapons in a hurry. To do something was much better than to sit still and wait for something to happen. They put some logs on the campfire, more for cheerfulness than because it was cool, though it was a bit chilly in the woods after dark. Then they moved off from the tent, each one in a different direction, and began firing their guns. They stood, as it were, on the three points of a triangle, so that if Frank heard the shooting and came toward either angle he would strike camp. But after half an hour of firing, at five-minute intervals, Bart suggested they wait a bit before shooting any more. It was now quite dark. "If he's within a mile or two he's heard the guns," Bart said, "and he can find his way here easily enough. If he was so far off he couldn't hear them, we'd better wait until he wanders nearer before we fire any more." "Do you think he's lost in the woods?" asked Fenn. "I don't know what to think, Stumpy," replied Bart, who seemed to have taken charge of things. "It's rather funny, I must admit." They waited about an hour and then began firing again. Between the shots they listened for a hail, but none came. "If he heard us he'd fire an answering shot," remarked Ned, when, for a time, they had again desisted from their signaling. "He couldn't," Fenn answered. "He left his gun in the tent." "That's queer," Bart spoke. "If he knew he would be away after dark I'm sure he'd have taken his gun, though there's nothing worse than skunks in these woods." "We'll fire some more, in about an hour," said Ned. "Then, if he doesn't come, we'll have to wait until morning and make a search. It's mighty strange, that's what it is." "Probably he'll laugh at us for being worried," suggested Bart, with an attempt at a laugh that was rather mirthless. "Maybe he's night-fishing, or something like that." "He didn't take any tackle with him," said Fenn. "All his things are in the tent. He just slipped out without a thing with him except his pocket knife." Bart himself had not believed the suggestion about night-fishing, but he did not know what other explanation to make of Frank's absence. Once more, toward midnight, the boys fired other signaling shots, but without avail. Then, with hopelessness, and something very much like fear in their hearts, they went back to the tent. "We'll go to sleep, and make a good search in the morning," said Bart. "Why this is nothing after all. We've been in worse situations than this, a good deal worse. Look at the time we were hunting for Ned." "But I was in a big city and Frank is in the big woods," put in Ned. "I don't know but what the woods are safer than the city," observed Fenn. The boys did not sleep much. They tried to, but every now and then one of them would awaken and, sitting up on his cot, would listen intently. He thought he had heard someone approaching through the bushes, but each time it was a false alarm. The fire was kept going brightly, in the hope Frank might happen to see it from a distance. Morning came at last, and, with the first pale streaks of dawn filtering through the trees, the boys were up. They made a hasty breakfast, and then, taking their guns, and putting up a light lunch, they started off to search for Frank. "Which way had we better go?" asked Fenn. "Shall we try separate ways, or all keep together?" "Better keep together," replied Bart. "We have a compass, and can find our way back, but if we straggle off alone some of us may get lost, and none of us knows these woods well enough to chance that." "But which way are we to go?" asked Ned. "There's no such thing as finding Frank's trail in these woods." "I have it!" cried Fenn. "What do you mean?" "The telephone line! You remember how interested Frank was in that! Well, maybe he's following it up. Let's find that and maybe we'll find Frank!" "Go ahead! It's a good suggestion!" exclaimed Bart. CHAPTER XVI WHERE FRANK WENT No sooner had Frank entered the tent that afternoon when Fenn started to fix his gun, than he had slipped out under the rear canvas wall. He waited a moment after emerging, brushed the dirt from his clothes, and then started off through the woods. "I guess I can get back before they miss me," he said to himself. "I must see where that line runs. It may be nothing, but I suspect it is one of the clues I am searching for." He went forward at a rapid pace, and, in a little while, came to where the telephone wire was strung through the woods. Then he came to a halt and considered. "Which way had I better go?" he thought. "Let me see, if I am right in my theory this line runs to Darewell and from there--That's what I have to find out. With the Darewell end I'm not concerned at present, but I must find where the other end is. Darewell is off to the left. To the right lies the unknown. I must go to the right." With that he set off through the woods, following the telephone line. It was hard work, for the wire led through the thickest part of the forest, as though those who had strung it wanted to discourage curiosity seekers. Now it would cross some bog or swamp, and Frank had to make a wide circuit in order to avoid getting over his knees in water. Again it would wind in and out among the trees, as if the persons who put it up wanted to confuse any one who sought to trace where the wire ended. But Frank was determined to solve the mystery, and he kept doggedly on. Several times he slipped and fell, and once he struck a stone that inflicted quite a cut on his forehead. "If Alice Keene was here now," he murmured as he wiped the blood off, "she would get some of the practice she is so fond of. As it is I've got to doctor myself." He washed the cut in a stream of water, and after resting himself kept on. Farther and farther he penetrated into the woods. He had a general idea of the direction in which he was going, and knew he could easily find his way back again, as he had but to follow the wire until he got to the point where he could strike back to camp. "Maybe, after all my work, I'll find it leads to no place but a house in the woods where some rich man has come to spend the summer," Frank thought, but, even while he said this to himself, he did not believe it. He hoped the wire would lead him to something that would help him solve the secret that was so puzzling. On and on he kept. It began to grow dusk, as the sun sank lower behind the trees, and the forest was quite dark. He could hardly see the wire now, and he was a bit worried. If he did not come to the end of it soon it meant he would have to stay in the forest all night, as he could not possibly find his way back after dark, for the wire would be invisible. It was, therefore, with a somewhat anxious heart that Frank watched the shadows lengthening and saw the wire becoming more and more faint to his view. Then, when he was about to give up, and look for a place where he might spend the night, though he doubted if there was one in the woods, he saw, through the trees, a large building. His heart gave a great thump, for, as he went on a little further he saw that the telephone wire ran to this building almost obscured from view. "I have found it!" Frank exclaimed, half aloud. "Now to see what it is!" He came to the edge of a clearing in which the building stood. He was about to press on, when he caught sight of a notice painted on a board and set up just at the beginning of the grounds. It read: _CLIFFSIDE SANITARIUM. PRIVATE GROUNDS_. "Sanitarium!" exclaimed Frank, as the memory of the conversation of the two men, of which Ned had told him, came to his mind. "I wonder if this can be the place. Sanitarium! Probably a place for mildly insane persons. That would be it. It says 'private grounds' and that likely means no trespassing; but what am I to do? I've got to stay somewhere to-night, and I can't possibly get back to camp. I'll make a circuit around the place and see how it looks." Keeping in the shadow of the woods, Frank made a wide circle around the sanitarium. Then he came to a stop, when he was near the front, for he had come to the edge of a high cliff, on which the building stood. "That's where the name comes in," thought the boy. "It's on the cliff. Well, I think I'll ask if I can stay all night. I hope they don't take me for a lunatic, and perhaps some of the doctors or nurses can tell me what I want to know." Frank was about to advance toward the front of the institution, up a path that led from the edge of the woods where he stood, when he saw a line of men leave the sanitarium, and start to walk around the paths about the building. At the first glance Frank knew what they were. "They are the patients out for exercise," he decided. "I must get closer. They're coming this way. I'll hide in the woods," and, getting behind a big oak, the boy awaited the oncoming of the line of sad-faced men. Slowly the patients filed past. They all seemed to be suffering from some ailment, mental or physical, and all had an unhealthful pallor. Walking ahead, in the rear, and on both sides, were men dressed in dark blue uniforms. "Attendants," mused Frank, "though none of the patients look as though they were violent." By this time the head of the line had turned and the sad little procession was moving away from Frank, as he stood behind the tree. The men in the rear were now passing close to him, and the boy, seeing that the end of the line was near, prepared to go forward when they all should have passed. As he was about to step from his place he caught sight of the face of one of the patients, and, as he did so, he uttered an involuntary cry. Before he was aware what he was doing, Frank had stepped from behind the tree. Several of the patients saw him, and gazed curiously at the boy. One--the one at the sight of whom Frank had uttered the exclamation--did not look up. With his eyes bent on the ground he hurried on, following the man ahead of him. There was a little confusion, caused by some of the patients stopping to stare at Frank, and two attendants came up on the run. One of them saw the boy standing beside the big tree. "Go away from here at once!" he commanded. "This is private property, and you are liable to arrest for trespassing. Don't let me catch you here again. Go, I say!" The man's tone was so menacing, and he spoke with such authority that, for a moment, Frank was frightened. Then he began to realize that he had no right where he was. With another glance at the patient, whose face had so startled him, Frank turned and went back into the woods. The march of the unfortunate one was resumed, and the keepers, seeing there was no further trouble, resumed their places. The one who had warned Frank remained for a few minutes, gazing at the spot in the woods where the boy had disappeared. "Guess I can't stay there to-night," Frank murmured as he made off through the fast-darkening forest. "I wonder what I had better do?" He paused and, through the trees caught sight of something that gave him hope. It was a big haystack in a little clearing, some distance from the sanitarium. "There's my hotel for the night," Frank remarked, as he made his way toward it. In a little while he had burrowed down under the dried grass, and, trying to forget that he was hungry, he prepared to pass the night. CHAPTER XVII AN UNEXPECTED MEETING The three chums, starting on their search for Frank, soon found the telephone line. "Now we're here, the next question is: Which way are we to go?" asked Bart. "It's all guess work." "Not exactly," spoke Ned, and he used the same reasoning that Frank had, in deciding to follow the line as it led in the opposite direction from that of Darewell. "That's probably the way Frank would go," concluded Ned, pointing to the right, "and that's the way we want to go." His companions agreed with him, and off they started. As they advanced they found the woods growing more dense, and, as had Frank, they had to make long circuits at times, to avoid bog-holes. They kept on for some time, but saw no signs of their chum. "I wonder where he stayed all night?" asked Fenn. "Trust Frank to look out for himself," remarked Bart. "He found a good warm place, I guess. But I don't see why he is staying away. If he was caught out after dark, and couldn't find his way back, he could see the trail by this time. I wonder why we don't meet him?" "Maybe he's hurt," suggested Fenn. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Ned. "There's nothing in these woods to hurt a fly. I don't believe there's even a fox." "I didn't mean animals," Fenn went on. "What then?" "Why he might have fallen, or, he might have met some bad men." "Of course he might have taken a tumble and sprained his ankle, or something like that," Bart said. "But as for men, if there are any in these woods, which I very much doubt, what reason would they have for harming Frank?" "It might be in connection with that mysterious secret he seems bothered about." "Oh, you're worse than a half-dime novel," cried Ned with a laugh. "Come on, and stop that dismal croaking." Still following the telephone line, the boys went on. Now and then they stopped to listen for any sounds which might indicate that Frank, or any other person, was coming through the woods. But the forest was silent, save for the noise made by the wind and the birds. Meanwhile Frank had awakened after a night of fitful slumber under the hay. His first act was to go to a place where he could observe the sanitarium. There was no sign of life about it, and the boy, after watching a few minutes, began to feel faint for lack of food. "I'd better go back to camp," he said to himself. "I need some breakfast, and a good rest. Then I can start out again. But I can't tell the boys what I have seen. It is not yet time." Waiting awhile, to see if he could detect any movement around the institution, but finding all was silence, Frank started back toward camp, following the telephone line. He walked on for some time, pondering over what he had seen, and vainly speculating whether or not he was on the right track. "I believe I'm on the trail," he said. "I thought he might know me, but, of course if it's true as it says in the letters, he could not. It might not have been the right time. I must try again." Frank's meditations were interrupted by a noise in the woods just ahead of him. It sounded like someone coming through the bushes. Then he could distinguish voices. "I wonder if I'd better hide?" he thought. Before he could put that plan into execution there came around a turn in the trail he had made, in following the line, three boys. The next instant, with glad cries of welcome, the three chums hurried forward to greet their companion. "Where in the world have you been?" "What made you give us the slip that way?" "Tell us all about it?" Fenn, Bart and Ned, in turn, asked those questions. Frank looked from one to the other. "I'm sorry, boys, but I can't tell you," he said. "I wish I could, and I hope you'll not think it mean of me not to. I may be able to very soon, and clear up all this mysteriousness, that is worrying me so. Until then--" "Until then I think you'd better have something to eat," suggested Bart, noting how pale and tired Frank looked. "We brought along something, but we didn't expect to have the fun of sharing it with you. Sit down here and fill up. Fenn made the sandwiches so I guess they ought to be good." "Yes, and if you'll wait a minute I'll give you a hot drink," Fenn cried. From his pocket he produced a tin flask of cold coffee. He gathered up some dried sticks, and built a little fire. Then he placed the tin flask on it, and, in a little while there was a warm beverage ready. Frank sipped it from the collapsable cup Ned carried, and, after eating some sandwiches, felt better. "Now for camp!" cried Bart, "unless," looking at Frank, "you have some other plan." "No, I'm anxious to get back." "Didn't sleep very good in the haystack I guess," commented Ned. "Haystack! How did you know?" asked Frank, in excited tones. "One look at your clothes, with hay sticking all over them, tells me that, as a detective would say. Also, your garments are as wrinkled as though you'd been put through a wringer. Am I right?" "Yes, it was a haystack for mine last night," Frank admitted with a smile. "It was fairly comfortable, though it tickled my ears a bit." The boys started back for camp. Though the three were, naturally enough, very curious as to where Frank had been, and his object in slipping away, they did not question him. On his part Frank did not again refer to his night's absence, but, when he reached the tent, he crawled into his bed and stayed there until late in the afternoon, for he was very tired. "I wish we had our boat here," remarked Ned, as later on the four chums strolled off in the direction of the little stream. "It would be too big for this creek," observed Ned. "If we had a smaller boat, or a canoe, it would do very well." "Let's make one," suggested Fenn. "There's lots of birch bark here and we can do it in a few days." "All right," agreed Bart. "We'll start it in the morning. I never made a canoe, but we can't do any worse than try, at any rate." The boys found it harder work than they had expected, but they had plenty of time and knew something of boat building, for they had constructed several small craft. They had their knives, and two small hatchets. They used young saplings for keel and the ribs, and, with patience, they managed to strip off enough of the birch bark to cover the canoe. It took them two days to get all the materials together and then, when the canoe was roughly shaped, they had to spend much more time on it, rendering it water-proof by smearing the seams with pitch and gum which exuded from several trees near at hand. They had used withes of willow to bind the boat together, and, though it was a very crude looking affair, the boys thought it would serve for what they wanted. They chopped out some rough paddles, and on the fifth day the boat was ready to try. They put it into the water in the evening, and, to their delight, it floated on an even keel, and would hold two of them at a time. "We'll take turns making a trip to-morrow," said Bart. "It doesn't leak hardly any. It wouldn't take a prize, and it's not much on looks, but it's something to have made a canoe off in the midst of the woods, and with scarcely any tools." His chums agreed with him, and that night they went to bed thinking of the fun they would have the next day. Ned was the first to awake. He got up, in accordance with the rule that the earliest riser must build the fire. He looked over toward the cots where his companions slept. As he did so he gave a start. "Frank is gone!" he called, and Bart and Fenn awakened. CHAPTER XVIII A CANOE TRIP When the completed canoe had been set into the water that evening, a daring plan had entered Frank's mind. On his visit to the sanitarium he had noticed that, at the foot of the cliff, there flowed a stream of water. He thought it might be the same one that ran past the camp, and he determined to learn if this was so. "If it is, I can make the trip much more quickly than I did before," he said to himself. "I'll try it when the others are asleep." Frank noted that the boat floated well on the water. It was light, and with one passenger could easily be propelled, so as to make swift time. "I'll have the current with me going," the boy thought, as he noted that the stream ran in a general direction toward the sanitarium. "I'll have to paddle back against it. Of course maybe this is not the same creek or river that flows past the cliff, and there may be falls or rapids in it that I can't take the boat through. But it will do no harm to try." He was all impatience for his companions to go to bed. Fortunately for him they were tired out with the day's labor on the canoe. They prepared an early supper, and, after talking a while around the campfire, discussing what they would do, now that they had a boat, the boys went to their cots. Frank's bed was nearest the back wall of the tent, and he was glad of this, as it would make his exit easier. He thought his chums would never go to sleep, but at length their heavy and regular breathing told him they were slumbering. Cautiously he gathered his clothes in a bundle and shoved them out under the tent. He had, unknown to his companions, made up a package of food, as he did not want to get caught again with nothing to eat. Making no noise, he crawled under the tent, as he had done before. He looked at his watch. It was a little after ten o'clock. He hurriedly dressed outside the tent, and then, securing the paddle, he made his way to where the canoe floated in the creek. It was a bright moonlight night, warm, calm and still. Frank felt just a little uneasiness as he stepped into the boat and shoved off. It was rather a queer thing to do, he thought, and he wondered what his chums would say if they saw him. But, he reflected, it was important to him to solve the secret which bothered him so greatly. Paddling cautiously, Frank sent the frail craft out into the middle of the stream. There was not much current, but what there was helped him along. He urged the boat forward more rapidly as he left the camp behind, and soon he was half a mile on his strange night journey. Only for the light draught of the boat Frank would never have been able to get along. Even drawing but a few inches, the canoe several times touched sand bars over which it glided. Frank did not know the channel, and he had to trust to luck. But, as he went on he noticed that the stream was becoming wider and deeper, and he had no fear but that he might continue on for many miles. "If only it goes in the right direction," he murmured. "It may be an altogether different creek than this which flows past the cliff. If it is I've had all my trouble for nothing. I want to get back before the boys wake up, if I can." On and on he went. The moon threw fantastic shadows through the trees to the surface of the stream. Now the boat would glide along in the darkness, caused by the overhanging branches, and again it would forge ahead into a bright patch of silvery light. "I wonder if the telephone line is anywhere in this locality," Frank mused, after he had paddled for an hour or more. "If I could get a glimpse of that I would be reasonably certain I was going in the right direction." He glanced overhead several times, but could catch no sight of the wire. Now the boat was going at a more rapid rate as the current was swifter. The stream twisted and turned, until Frank did not know in which direction he was going. Suddenly, as he was paddling, he heard a sound that made him draw the blade from the water, and listen intently. It was the noise made by water dashing on rocks, and it seemed but a short distance ahead. "Falls!" exclaimed the boy. "I've got to get out and carry the boat." He kept on until, in the moonlight, he could see where there came a break in the stream as it tumbled over a little cliff. Swinging the nose of the canoe ashore, Frank grounded the craft and got out. He walked to the edge of the falls and looked at them. They made a beautiful picture in the moonlight, but it was a scene the boy found little pleasure in gazing at. It meant that he would have to carry the boat around them. "Well, there's no help for it," he said, with a sigh. "Luckily the canoe is light." Frank picked it up, and put it over his head and shoulders, as the Maine guides carry their frail craft. The way was rough, and before he was half way past the falls, Frank began to fear he could not make it. But he kept on, and half an hour later he floated the canoe into the quiet waters at the foot of the waterfall. Then he began paddling again. It was past midnight when the stream, which had now become a little river, took a sudden turn. As he rounded it Frank uttered a half-suppressed exclamation. There ahead of him, perched on the cliff, at the foot of which the river flowed, was the sanitarium. "That's what I wanted to know," he said, as he steered the canoe over toward the cliff. "I can't do anything to-night, but I might as well go up and take a look around. It may come in useful later." Frank tied the boat in a sheltered spot at the foot of the cliff. Then he began to look for a path to ascend. Luckily the moon shone brightly on the face of the rocky incline, and Frank observed a path that seemed to afford a way up. Cautiously he began ascending. Up and up he went, until he stood on the top. Before him was a fence, with high iron pickets, put there evidently for the double purpose of keeping certain persons out, and certain other persons from falling over the cliff. "Too risky to scale that," Frank mused, as he noted the sharp-pointed palings. "I'll walk along it a bit." He started to make a circuit, going along the edge of the cliff, for he thought there might be a gateway in the fence. As he was moving cautiously along, looking for an opening, he was startled by a sudden challenge: "Who are you, and what do you want?" Frank glanced up, to see a man looking at him. The fellow was attired in the uniform of an attendant at the sanitarium. "What do you want?" the man repeated sharply. Several plans flashed through Frank's mind. Should he make inquiries of the attendant concerning that which he so desired to know? He half resolved to, and then he realized that the man was but a keeper, and, probably, could not enlighten him. "I'm looking for a friend," Frank said. "No one allowed around here," the man went on. "This is private property. Be off, now, before I set the dogs on you." Frank knew he could gain nothing by staying. He had found out what he wanted to know, namely, that the stream near the camp ran to the sanitarium. He turned quickly, and made his way to where he had ascended the cliff. The man was watching him, but, when he saw the boy disappear he was, apparently, satisfied, and went on walking around his post on the grounds of the institution. Frank reached the canoe, shoved off, and began rapidly paddling back. With long strokes he sent the frail craft against the current, and, in about an hour he came to the falls. He carried the craft around them, and then set out on the last stage of his journey back to where his chums still slumbered. CHAPTER XIX AT THE SANITARIUM Ned's cry of alarm, which had aroused Bart and Fenn, brought his two companions out of their beds with a rush. They looked over at the cot in which Frank slept, and saw that it was empty. "Frank's gone," Ned repeated. "What makes you think so?" asked Bart. For answer Ned pointed to the empty bed, and to the stool, on which Frank usually placed his clothes. The garments were missing. "Maybe he got up early for a walk," suggested Fenn. "Sure; that's it," chimed in Bart, glad to have an excuse for explaining Frank's seeming disappearance. "He's not in the habit of doing that," Ned remarked. "He's usually the last one up. I'm going to dress and take a look outside." Ned lost little time in putting on his clothes. The other boys followed his example, and soon the three were outside the tent, standing in the bright morning sunshine. "I wonder how our canoe stood the soaking it got last night?" observed Fenn, "Let's go to the creek and take a look. Frank may be back by then." They went to the shore of the stream, where they had left their boat, but, to their great astonishment, it was gone. "Worse and more of it!" exclaimed Ned. "I guess Frank has gone off in the boat." "No guessing about it," replied Bart. "Why not?" In answer Bart pointed down the stream. There, paddling along, was Frank in the canoe. He waved his hands to his chums and they shouted a greeting to him. "There I told you he'd just gone out to get up an appetite for breakfast," declared Fenn, as the canoe drew nearer. Frank was a little uneasy as to how to greet his chums. He did not know whether or not they were aware that he had been away all night. But, as he beached the boat, one glance at their tousled hair, and their eyes, still heavy from sleep, told him he had only recently been missed. He knew how to act now, and, to further his plans, determined to let his chums believe he had been gone a short time only. "Did you get the worm?" inquired Fenn. "What worm?" Frank retorted. "The one the early bird always gets." "No, someone else was ahead of me," answered Frank, as Fenn's question confirmed his belief that his companions did not know of his night trip. "I was just out for a little paddle on the creek." "How does she ride?" asked Bart, looking the canoe over. "Fine; like a cork." "You look as though you were pretty tired," commented Ned, with a curious look at his chum. "I didn't sleep much last night." "And I suppose you thought getting up early and paddling would rest you," Ned went on, but Frank did not answer. "Come on, Fenn, hurry up with breakfast!" cried Bart, and soon the aroma of coffee filled the air. Frank went to the tent to make a hasty toilet, while Bart, who was going fishing that day, followed him. Ned remained near the canoe. A little bundle in it attracted his attention. He picked it up, and opened it. Inside were several sandwiches, and Ned knew they had come from the camp supply. "Frank took them with him in the canoe," he half whispered. "He has been away all night, and he had them in case he couldn't get back. I wonder where he was? I'll say nothing about this now," and, as he heard Bart approaching, he tossed the little package of food into the bushes. Puzzling over what Frank's object could have been, Ned went up to the tent. Breakfast over, the boys took turns trying the canoe. It was a stauncher craft than the three churns had anticipated, though Frank had good reason to know the value of the rude canoe. "I'm going fishing," declared Bart, as he dug some worms and put them in a can. "Any one else coming?" "I'd like to take a trip in the canoe," said Fenn. "That would suit me," put in Ned. "It will only carry two, though. What are you going to do, Frank?" "I think I'll just lie around to-day. I'm a bit tired, and I need a rest. I didn't get much last night." "I'm right," thought Ned. "He was away all night. I wonder when this mystery will end?" Bart started off up stream, while Fenn and Ned, in the canoe, began to paddle down the creek. As for Frank, he stretched out on his cot, and, almost before the boys were out of sight, he was asleep. He did not awaken until dinner time, and then he got the meal. His chums were not yet back, but they came in a little while, with appetites that made Frank glad he had provided a bountiful repast. Bart had caught a number of fine fish, and Ned and Fenn were so enthusiastic over their canoe trip that they wanted to take another in the afternoon. "Give me a show at it," said Bart. "I haven't been in it except the night we put it into the water. I want some fun. Frank and I will take it this afternoon." "I don't believe I care to," Frank replied. "The truth is," he went on, "I was going to ask you fellows to loan the boat to me all day to-morrow. I want to go off by myself. Not that I don't desire your company," he hastened to add, as he saw his chums looked a little surprised, "but I have something to do and I've got to do it alone. Please don't ask me what it is. It's that same thing I'm mixed up in, and I think, if things turn out right to-morrow, I may be able to tell you something. Besides, I may need you to help me." "We'll be only too glad to!" exclaimed Ned. "For we don't like to see you so worried, Frank." "It's very good of you, I'm sure, to bother with me," Frank went on. "I hope you can help me, for I'll need it." "Well, who's going with me in the canoe?" asked Bart, and, as Fenn did not care much about making another trip, Ned went, and Frank and Stumpy remained in camp, the latter busying himself over a wonderful pudding he set out to make with a combination of eggs, corn starch, sugar and raisins. Frank set off in the canoe early the next morning. He took a lunch with him, and told his companions he might be away all night. He was going to try, however, to return by dark. Where he was going he did not say, nor did his chums ask him. "Good luck!" exclaimed Fenn, as Frank began paddling. "Thanks," he called back, and his companions waved their hands to him. "It's very queer," murmured Ned, as he turned back toward the tent. Frank reached the turn of the river, near the cliff, just before noon. Instead of taking the canoe to the foot of the rock, he hid it in the bushes near the bend of the stream, and then began tramping through the woods toward the sanitarium. He ate his lunch in the woods, and then took up his position near the big tree, whence, on his first visit, he had watched the sad-faced men. He had to wait several hours. At length the little procession appeared, and Frank's heart beat so loudly he could almost hear it. He stood up and watched the men. Yes, the one he wanted to see was there. How was he to communicate with the man? Chance, seemingly, gave him the opportunity he desired. There was a little disturbance at the head of the line. One of the patients insisted on taking a different path than the one the attendant designated, and there was a dispute. The guards at the end of the line ran toward the head, leaving the rear men unattended. Frank ran from behind the tree, toward the procession which had halted. He approached the man, the sight of whom, on the previous occasion, had caused him such wonder. This man did not look up. "I must have a talk with you in private!" Frank said, in a low but tense whisper. The man looked quickly at him. His eyes seemed to see nothing. "Who are you? What do you want of me?" he asked in dull tones. "I don't know you. I know no one in this world." "I must speak to you!" cried Frank, as he saw the attendants returning. CHAPTER XX THE INTERVIEW For a moment the man whom Frank addressed remained staring dully at the boy. Nearer and nearer came the attendants, for the little excitement at the head of the line had been quelled. "Your voice reminds me of someone," the man went on, "but I don't know you." "I will tell you who I am, if you will tell me where I can see you alone to-night," Frank whispered, for the other patients were gazing curiously at him. "I can go to the little summer house in the garden at the back," the man went on, as though it was of no interest to him. "This is my well night. I will be there at ten o'clock." "I will meet you," Frank whispered, and then, seeing an attendant coming on a run toward him, the boy made a dash for the woods and disappeared. "Who was that?" asked the guard, coming up to where Frank had stood conversing. "It was the king of the cannibal islands!" exclaimed one of the other patients with a silly laugh. "He came to get me to enter into an alliance with him. I'm Lord Nelson, you know, and he wanted my fleet of ships to make war on the Queen of Fairy Land. But I refused. I am going to capture the Pyramids!" and the man began capering about like a child, singing nursery rhymes. "Come, 'Lord Nelson,' you must get in line. This is dress parade," the attendant said. But "Lord Nelson," as the insane man imagined himself to be, was not going to be coerced so easily. He started to run, and the keeper took after him. It was several minutes before "Lord Nelson" was caught, and, by that time, the guard had forgotten about Frank, and made no further inquiries. The patients resumed their march. Frank, hurrying through the woods, felt himself in a tumult of doubts and fears. He wondered if he had done right, and what would be the outcome of the interview in the summer house. So much might depend on it, yet so little might come of it. "I am sure I'm right," the boy murmured, as he went to where he had left his canoe. "If he only will recognize me! Oh! if he only will! But it is so many years!" He reached his boat, and paddled up stream, thinking it best to hide, in case there might be a search made for him. Frank remained in the seclusion of the woods, near the stream until dark. He still had some lunch left, and he ate that, meanwhile planning what he would say at the interview with the patient from the sanitarium. "I must get him away from here," Frank thought. "Perhaps there may be a means of curing him, and then he can tell me everything connected with the secret. Oh! if he only could!" How long the hours seemed while he waited! He thought ten o'clock would never come, but at last, looking at his watch by the light of a match, he saw it lacked but thirty minutes of that time. "I'll start," he said to himself. "He may be there a little ahead of me." Frank reached the edge of the woods, where they marked the beginning of the sanitarium grounds. From there he took a cautious look. There seemed to be no one in sight, and he quickly ran across the open space to the summer house. This was a vine-covered arbor, situated at the back of the institution. Inside was a circular bench running all around, and it was a favorite place of such patients as were well enough to be allowed to roam about at will. Frank looked inside the little house before he entered. There was no one there, and he sat down on the bench. Then, with eyes and ears on the alert for the first suspicious sight or sound, he waited. He could hear the distant tramping of the guards as they paced about the institution. "It's just like a prison," the boy thought. "What a horrible place to stay in!" A clock, somewhere in the institution, struck the hour of ten, the sound being plainly audible through the opened windows. Frank started to his feet. As he did so he heard someone approaching along the gravel path. His heart was beating with quick, hard throbs. "Is the young man, who wanted to see me, here?" asked a voice. "Yes, I am here," replied Frank. "What do you want? You are a stranger to me. I do not know what whim made me agree to meet you here. I am not usually well enough to see visitors. Indeed I never have any. What do you wish?" "I have come to take you away from here!" "Take me away from here?" and the patient spoke the words as though they frightened him. "I can't go. I must stay. Sometimes, when I am feeling well, as I do now, I might wish that; but those times are rare. Mostly I am very ill. My head hurts me, and I cannot think. My mind becomes a blank. Then I am glad I am here, and do not wish to go away. But why should a stranger take so much interest in me? Why do you want to help me to escape? I do not know you." "I want to help you, because--" began Frank. "Hush! Someone is coming!" interrupted the man. "It is against the rules for the patients to talk to visitors. If you are found here they may arrest you. One of the guards is coming!" "I don't care. I must tell you who I am." "Hurry! Hurry away!" exclaimed the man. "Not until I tell you what I came here for. I believe you are--" "Who's there?" called the angry voice of one of the attendants, as he caught the sound of the voices in the summer house. "You must go," the man pleaded with Frank. "You will only make trouble for yourself and me." He spoke in a whisper, and the guard who was running on the gravel path could not hear above the sound of his own footsteps. "Can I see you again?" asked Frank. "Yes. Sometime. But go now." Frank saw it would be best to leave before the attendant arrived. He slipped out of the little house on the side that was in the deepest shadow, and hurried away. A few seconds later the guard entered the place, and Frank could hear him questioning the patient. "Who was here?" "The king of fairyland," was the response. "He came to bring me my golden chariot." "Looney again," was the guard's comment which Frank heard. "Come on back to your room." "I must try again," Frank said softly to himself as he hurried across the open space and into the woods once more. "I am on the right track!" The boy made his way to where he had left the canoe. His mind was in a whirl at the scene he had just taken part in, and his heart, that had been filled with hope, was a little sad now at his failure. Still he had not given up. "I'll go back to camp," he thought. "Then I can try again. I must have more time to talk to him, and we must get a chance when there will be no danger of interruptions. I will come again, but I must think up a new plan." Then, setting the canoe into the water, he began to paddle back. Though it was approaching midnight he decided he would keep on, and get back to camp by morning. CHAPTER XXI FRANK LEAVES AGAIN Frank reached camp in time for breakfast. He was weary with his long night journey, and his chums saw evidences of the strain it had been on him in his eyes, heavy from need of sleep, and his arms, which trembled from the long paddling. But they did not question him. "Here's some hot coffee!" called Fenn, as his chum drew the boat up on the bank. "Thanks," replied Frank. "I think I'll go to bed if you fellows don't mind. I'm dead tired." "We're going off fishing," said Bart. "You can do as you please, and lie around all day." "We'll have to have some supplies this afternoon," put in Ned. "Camp stuff is running low. Someone has to go to some farmer's and buy some butter, eggs and bread." "I'll go," volunteered Frank. "I'll take the trip this afternoon." "All right," said Ned. "We may not be back until after dinner. We're going to take some grub with us. Go any time you want to. I guess the camp will look after itself for a while. We haven't been bothered with visitors since we came." The three chums, having arranged their fishing tackle, started off, while Frank stretched out on his cot and was soon asleep. It was noon when he awakened, and, after getting himself something to eat, he prepared to go for the supplies. The boys had arranged with a farmer, who lived about two miles from camp, to provide them with things to eat. Taking a big basket Frank was soon on the way. "Wa'al, ain't you boys give up livin' in th' woods?" greeted Mr. Armstrong, when Frank had given his order for the camp supplies. "No, we're still there. Bears haven't eaten us yet." "That's strange, 'cause I seen a big flock of 'em headin' that way only th' other day. I says to my wife, says I, 'them b'ars is goin' to eat them boys, sure!'" and he laughed at his joke. "Guess they got frightened," suggested Frank. "Wa'al, now, mebby they did. How long you goin't' stay?" "We haven't set any special time. All summer maybe. Until we get tired, anyhow." "One night would tire me," commented Mr. Armstrong. "I like a roof over my head, I do. Now you wait a minute an' I'll git th' eggs an' other things. I keep 'em down cellar where it's cool. There's a paper ye might like t' look at. It's printed in the village, an' it gives all th' news from tellin' of how Deacon Jones's cow ate green apples an' died, t' relatin' th' momentous fact that Silas Landseer has painted his barn red. Make yourself right t' home an' read all th' news." Frank took the paper and sat down in a big rocking chair on the side porch, while Mr. Armstrong, with the basket, went down in the cellar. The boy looked over the sheet, which contained news of the doings in the village and near-by. There were a few advertisements, of horses and cows for sale, of auctions about to take place, and one or two legal notices. As Frank's eyes roved over the columns he caught sight of something that caused him to utter an exclamation. He eagerly scanned a notice, and had only read half through it when Mr. Armstrong came up from the cellar. "There!" exclaimed the farmer. "I reckon you boys ain't goin' t' starve this week," and he set down the basket, which was quite heavy. "Can you carry that out t' camp?" "I guess so," replied Frank, holding the journal in his hand. "By the way, do you want this paper? I'd like to take it back with me." "Take it an' welcome. Must be kind of lonesome out there in the woods. I've got a lot of old papers if you want 'em." "No, thanks, this one will do," the boy said, folding the sheet and putting it into his pocket. Paying the farmer, Frank took up the basket and started back toward camp. The victuals were heavy but he did not mind that. He was thinking of the notice he had seen in the paper. As soon as he was out of sight of the farmhouse, he sat down beside the trail that led to the tent, and took the sheet from his pocket. Turning to the page that had so interested him he read: "WANTED: at the Cliffside Sanitarium, a strong, capable young man, to assist in the general work. One of quiet habits preferred. Apply to Dr. Jacob Hardman." "I wonder if I dare do it," Frank said softly to himself. "It would give me just the chance I need. I have a good notion to try, at any rate. They can't any more than say they don't want me. And, if they do take me--" He paused to think over the possibilities should he get the position. A light came into his eyes. He seemed to have forgotten the troubles of the past few weeks. "The worst of it is, though, that I can't tell the boys. They wouldn't understand. I've got to work alone for a while yet, until I get things where I want them. I think the best plan will be to slip off, and say nothing to them at all. Explanations, especially when I can't give all the facts, will only tangle the thing up worse than it is. No, I've got to disappear again, and they must think what they will. It's the only way." He picked up the heavy basket and started on again, folding the paper so that the advertisement was outside. Then he put the journal into his pocket. "I hope I get back before the boys arrive," was his thought as he trudged on. "I must get away this afternoon, and make application this evening. The place may already be filled." Frank was glad to note, when he got back to camp, that his three chums were still absent. He placed the basket of food where they could see it, and then, putting on his best clothes, and making a bundle of some underwear and other of his possessions he started off through the woods, following the telephone line. "I wish I could take the canoe," he thought, as he saw it drawn up on the bank. "I would get there more quickly, but I have no way of sending it back, in case I stay. It wouldn't be fair. No, I'll have to tramp it. Guess I'll put on a pair of smoked glasses for a disguise. Some of those attendants may recognize me," and he tried on a pair he had in his pocket. He decided to use them when he asked for the place. He had gone on about a mile when he felt for the paper. It was gone. "It doesn't matter though," he told himself. "I know what it says. All I've got to do is to ask for Dr. Hardman, and tell him I think I'll fill the bill." So he kept on through the woods, his mind filled with thoughts of many things, chief of which was the hope that he would get the situation, and be able to put his plan into operation. It was well on toward evening when the three chums got back from their fishing trip, for they had tramped several miles. They had good luck, and brought back several beauties. "Hello, Frank!" called Bart, when they were within hearing distance of the camp. There was no answer. "Maybe he's asleep yet," suggested Fenn. "Hardly," commented Ned. The boys reached the tent. The first thing they saw was the basket of provender Frank had left. "Well, he's been to Armstrong's," remarked Bart. "Hello, Frank! Where are you?" An echo was the only answer. Ned entered the tent. He came out in a hurry. "Frank's run away!" he exclaimed. "What makes you think so?" asked Bart, much surprised, while Fenn looked startled at the news. "Because most of his clothes are gone." "Are you sure?" "Of course. Look!" and he pointed to where they were missing from the small trunk in which Frank kept them. "This is getting serious," declared Bart. "Something is wrong with Frank. I wonder where he could have gone?" "What's that over there?" asked Fenn, pointing to a white object at the foot of a tree. "It's a newspaper," said Ned, picking it up. "And it is turned to display an advertisement. I wonder if Frank could have gone to answer this?" and he read the item concerning the sanitarium. CHAPTER XXII FRANK IS EMPLOYED It was about seven o'clock that evening when Frank, wearing the smoked glasses, rang the bell at the front door of the Cliffside Sanitarium. He had hurried through the woods as fast as he could, munching on the way a sandwich he had made before leaving camp. His ring was answered by a woman with iron-gray hair who inquired what he wanted. When he said he had come in answer to the advertisement, he was shown into a little room opening from the main hall, and told to wait until Dr. Hardman came. "Guess the place is still open, or they wouldn't ask me in," thought Frank. He had not been in the little room three minutes before he heard voices out in the hall. One was that of the woman who had admitted him. At the sound of the other he started. "You'll find him in the small reception room, Dr. Hardman," the woman had said. "Ah, yes, thank you Mrs. Robotham. I'll see him directly. I wish you'd look after ward six to-night. The regular nurse is away." "That's the man who was at my uncle's house!" Frank thought, as he heard the doctor's voice. "That's the man who threatened me in the dark. I didn't recognize that name Hardman when I saw the advertisement, but he's the man the boys took to the woods. What shall I do? I must not tell my name, that's certain, and yet he may recognize me, from seeing me in the woods that day. But the glasses might puzzle him. It's a good thing I thought of them," and he felt to see if they were properly adjusted. He had no time to speculate further, for Dr. Hardman entered at that moment. "So you've come to answer the advertisement," the man spoke in brisk tones. "Well, you're the first one. Help isn't as plentiful in this locality as I thought. Now we want a young man to make himself generally useful, to do as he's told, not to ask too many questions, and above all, not to talk, outside, of what he sees going on in here. For I may as well tell you, what you already know, I suppose, as everyone in this neighborhood does. This is a private lunatic asylum, and a sanitarium for the treatment of persons suffering from nervous ailments. We have only one or two violent patients, and they are looked after by special guards. Most of the men here are only mildly affected. Still, we do not like those employed here to form outside acquaintances, and if we engaged you you will have to submit to our rules." "I will be willing to do that," Frank said, and he had great hopes of getting the place. "I don't suppose you've had much experience in a place like this," Dr. Hardman went on. "We don't expect that. All you will have to do is to obey orders. The pay is ten dollars a week and board. Do you think you'd like it? You seem like a strong, smart young chap. Are your eyes weak? I presume they must be or you wouldn't wear smoked glasses. Never mind, that doesn't make any difference here." "I think I would like it very much." Frank was wondering what to say when the doctor would ask his name. He was glad the physician had not recognized him. But he was somewhat in the shadow, and Dr. Hardman appeared to be thinking of almost anything or any one than the boy before him. Besides, Frank's hair had been cut short recently and that altered his looks somewhat. "Very well, I think I'll give you a trial. We need someone right away. Can you begin work at once?" Dr. Hardman asked. "Yes," replied Frank, much delighted that his plan was working so well. "Very good. You can tell me something about yourself to-morrow, and furnish references I suppose. I see you have brought your valise with you. Your supply of clothing, I suppose?" "Yes, I can stay here to-night." "That's good. I'll not need to see much of you, as I am very busy. You'll be under the direction of Mrs. Robotham, my assistant. By the way, I presume you have no objection to being designated by a number?" "By a number?" inquired Frank, somewhat puzzled. "Yes. You see many of our patients have queer notions. Names are strange things to them. They often bring back painful memories. To avoid that we are all known by numbers here." "I don't mind in the least." In fact Frank was glad. This might be the means of enabling him to keep his name hidden, and not necessitate him giving a false one, which he did not like to do, even to gain his ends. "Very good, I'm number one, Mrs. Robotham is number two, and so on. You'll be number thirty-one." "All right," Frank answered, and he was relieved when Dr. Hardman turned away, without seeking to question him further. Clearly the red-haired physician had not recognized the boy as the one who had followed him that night in the darkness from Mr. Dent's house, nor the one he had run from in the woods. Mrs. Robotham came in at that juncture and, as he passed her in the doorway, Dr. Hardman announced that he had engaged the boy. He told his assistant to instruct Frank where to go and what to do. "Come with me and I'll show you your room," said the woman, and Frank followed, wondering what he was going to do, now that he had the place at the sanitarium. "Have you had supper?" asked Mrs. Robotham. "Not very much," was the answer, as Frank thought of the sandwich in the woods. "After you put your things away you can come down to the dining-room. Most of the nurses and attendants have finished, but there is plenty left." "What are my duties?" asked Frank. "I shall put you on corridor work. That is, you will walk up and down the corridors, and, if you hear any of the patients calling, or note any unusual noise, you are to ring the bell. I will show you about it." After supper, which he ate alone in the big dining-room, Frank was taken upstairs by Mrs. Robotham, and instructed in his work. The sanitarium was a large one, and there were a number of corridors, from which opened the rooms of the patients. "We have night and day shifts for this duty," Dr. Hardman's assistant explained, "but we are a little short-handed now, so you will have to work harder than usual. I am glad the doctor took you, as I have had to do some of this corridor work myself, and, with my other duties, it has made me quite played out. All you have to do is to walk around. I will give you a pair of felt slippers which you are to wear nights, as they make no noise. When you hear any unusual commotion in any of the rooms, go to the end of the corridor and press the push button the number of times to correspond with the number on the door of the room. Attendants will answer the bell, and do whatever is necessary. Do you think you understand it?" Frank said he did, and, a little later, with his feet in a pair of soft slippers, which were rather large for him, he was patroling up and down the corridors. "Well, this is getting into a lunatic asylum in a hurry," he thought as he walked along. "How strange it turned out! The mere chance of Mr. Armstrong giving me that paper this afternoon brings me here to-night. I wonder if I can do what I set out to do? First I must find out which is his room. That I can't do until I see him again, for if I make inquiries of any of the attendants they will get suspicious and tell Dr. Hardman, and then I'll have to leave." For an hour or more Frank walked up and down the corridors. He had three for which he was responsible. It was rather monotonous work, even though now and then nurses and attendants passed through. He was beginning to feel sleepy, and decided that a drink of ice water would rouse him. He walked to the end of the long hall to where the cooler stood. As he was passing room twenty-seven he heard a great racket within. It sounded as though the inmate had knocked over the table and chairs. At the same time, from the apartment, came the sound of a voice, pitched high in anger. "There, knave! I have slain you at last!" was shouted in a man's voice. "Now, villains, do your worst! Ah! There is yet another scoundrel to slay!" The noise of breaking wood increased, and Frank, in great alarm, ran to the push button and rang the signal, two strokes followed after a pause by seven others. The noise of attendants, approaching on the run, could be heard. Frank hurried back to the room whence the noise was still coming. As he passed the apartment next to it, number twenty-eight, a man's head was thrust from the opened door. At the sight of it Frank could not repress an exclamation of astonishment. It was the man he wanted to find; the man with whom he had talked in the summer house. At the same instant the man recognized the boy, but, with a motion of his fingers to his lips, to enjoin silence, he shut the door of his room, and Frank heard the key turn in the lock. CHAPTER XXIII PLANNING A RESCUE By this time the attendants were at room twenty-seven. Several of them entered, and the commotion that had gone on without ceasing since Frank first heard it, quieted down. As the boy passed the apartment he saw a little man, standing in a fighting attitude, grasping the leg of a chair for a weapon, and seemingly bidding defiance to a horde of imaginary enemies. "What is the trouble, your majesty?" he heard one of the attendants ask the patient. "Why, the rebels have risen against their liege lord." "We will attend to them," the attendant replied. "Sir Knight," turning to one of his companions, "order out the guard and take all the rebels to prison." "That's the way to talk," interrupted his majesty with a laugh, not much in keeping with his assumed dignity. "Put the varlets in prison and I will have them beheaded to-morrow." He was quieter now, and the attendants, pretending to drive before them a crowd of men who had defied the king, left the room. The head nurse, a strong man, who seemed to know just how to treat the patient, helped to set the room in order. "Here, your majesty," he said, holding out a glass of liquid, "here is your favorite beverage; fresh buttermilk." "It is very welcome," said the patient readily swallowing the liquid which looked like anything but the product from the churn. "He'll be quiet for the rest of the night," the attendant observed to Frank, as he left the room, having seen the pretended king get into bed. "We call his sleeping medicine buttermilk, and he takes it like a baby. You're a new one, aren't you?" "I came this evening." "Well, you've seen one of our worst ones. Most of 'em are as quiet as the man in twenty-eight. He only gets real bad once in a while." "Who is he?" asked Frank, impulsively. The attendant looked curiously at the boy. "Don't you know the rules?" he asked. "That's so, you're a new boy. Well, it's not allowed to talk about the patients, even among ourselves. No names are mentioned. In fact, I don't believe any of 'em would know their names if they heard 'em. This is a queer place. It hasn't been here very long. It was only built last year, but some of the patients have been with the doctor a long time. He transferred them from an asylum that he kept in New York." By this time the patient, who imagined himself a king, was sleeping soundly, if his snores were any evidence. The guard went away with the other attendants, and Frank was left to patrol the corridors alone. There was one predominant thought in his mind. He must speak to the man in room twenty-eight. He walked about through the long halls, listening for any further sounds of disturbance, but the sanitarium was very quiet. Every one but himself seemed slumbering, though he knew the attendants were ready to rush up at the sound of the bell. "I wonder if he is asleep?" thought Frank, as he passed room twenty-eight. "I'm going to knock on his door. He recognized me once and he may again. Then maybe we can have a talk." Cautiously he tapped on the portal. There was no answer. He waited, and knocked again. Then, through the keyhole, a cautious voice asked: "Who is there?" "It is the boy who spoke to you in the summer house," was Frank's reply. "Let me in." The door was slowly opened and Frank entered the dark apartment. It was not without a little feeling of apprehension that he went in. He was alone in the room with a lunatic; a patient who became violent at times, the attendant had said. Suppose one of those fits should come on when Frank was with him? The boy did not like to think of this. "What do you want?" the man in room twenty-eight asked, before he closed the door. "I want to help you to escape." "Hush! Don't let any of them hear you!" And the man, putting his hand over Frank's mouth, pulled him further inside and closed the door. Then they talked in whispers. It was an hour later when Frank came out. There was a look of hope on his face as the gleam from an incandescent lamp, far down the corridor, illuminated his countenance. "I'm sure I can manage it," he whispered to the man. "I'll have you out of here inside of a week, and then we can go away together." "You may need help," the sanitarium patient said. "This place is closely guarded." "I can get help," Frank replied, as he thought of his three chums. Then, with a hearty hand clasp, the man in room twenty-eight bade the boy go. Frank resumed his walk up and down the corridors. But now he was wide awake, for he was planning to escape. Up and down he walked, arranging the details in his mind. At first it had seemed simple, but now, as he thought it over, unexpected difficulties arose. "But I must do it!" he exclaimed to himself. "To think I have really found him, and that he is not insane at all. It's all part of a terrible plot. But I will solve the secret, and then--" His thoughts were interrupted by a commotion in room twenty-eight; the apartment he had just left. "They're killing me! They're killing me!" cried a voice in agony. "Don't let them! Take the cannibals away! I have come here to trade with the natives peaceably! Don't let them kill me!" Sick at heart, and with nameless dread in his bosom, Frank ran to the bell and gave the signal for help. CHAPTER XXIV FRANK LOSES HOPE Once more came the attendants, running up the stairs. Frank pointed to the room he had just left. His face was pale and drawn. "You're not used to it yet," said the big guard, who had spoken to him before, as he passed the boy. "You'll not mind it in a week." Then he, and the others, entered the apartment whence the frightened cries were still coming. Frank could not bear to stay where he could hear them. He went to the corridor below. In a little while the attendants came down. "He didn't have it bad this time," the big guard said to Frank. "It was a mild attack. He always imagines he's an explorer in a savage country, and that the cannibals are going to kill him. Not very pleasant, but it's nothing to what some of 'em think. You're having quite a night of it. But never mind, I guess they'll quiet down now." Frank was beginning to lose hope. All his plans seemed likely to come to naught. He was so sure the man in room twenty-eight was sane, yet, soon after conversing with him, during which time the man had talked as rationally as could be desired, he had suddenly turned into a raving maniac. "I can't understand it," said Frank. "What shall I do? Oh, if I only had someone to help and advise me. I can't go to a soul. If the boys--" he stopped suddenly. "Yes, why not? Why not tell them the whole story? They could help me! That's what I'll do. I'll make one more attempt by myself, and then, if it fails, I'll ask them to aid me. I must see him again. Perhaps this fit was only temporary, and will not come again for a long time. I must have another talk with him." The long night came to an end at last. Frank was relieved by a young man who told him to go and get breakfast, and then to go to bed. "You'll have day work after to-night," he said, and Frank was glad to hear it. The darkness was made worse by the sudden alarms from the patients' rooms. Frank slept late that day, and went on duty about four o'clock in the afternoon. That night passed quietly, but he did not dare knock on the door of room twenty-eight. He was afraid the man might be suffering from one of his insane attacks. The boy had almost lost heart but he had not altogether given up. Not until the next day did he get a chance to talk with the patient on whom, for him, so much depended. He found the man anxious and waiting to see him. "Come in, where we can talk quietly," the patient said, and Frank entered, looking to see that no one observed him, for he was breaking the rules. He removed the dark glasses when he was in the room, for they hurt his nose and ears. The two had a long talk and planned many things. The boy's courage and hope came back to him, and he grew so enthusiastic in arranging to help the patient leave the institution, in order that the mystery might be cleared up, that he spoke louder than he intended. "Quiet!" the man cautioned. "The attendants will hear you, and you will be dismissed." Frank lowered his voice. "I will come and see you to-morrow," he said, as he prepared to go. At that moment there was the sound of several persons walking in the corridor. Then could be heard the voice of Dr. Hardman. He was showing a party of medical men through the place. "You will find this up-to-date in every respect," he was saying. "I will just show you one of the patient's rooms," and he opened the door of the apartment where Frank was. At the sight of the boy the head of the sanitarium looked much surprised. He knew there had been no excitement, and, in consequence, no excuse for Frank entering the room. Dr. Hardman glanced sharply at the boy, as Frank, putting on his glasses, hurried off down the corridor. But the physician said nothing, because visitors were present. Dr. Hardman went on explaining the system used at the sanitarium, but Frank, as he disappeared around a corner, felt that he would be dismissed as soon as the doctor was at liberty. "Well, it's all over now," Frank thought "He recognized me and I've got to take the bull by the horns. However, I think I have things so arranged that I can carry out my plans without any trouble. I must get the boys to help me." Fortunately for Frank, the visitors remained a long time. They stayed to dinner, and Dr. Hardman had to be with them. He had no chance to speak to Frank, though he sent a message by one of the attendants that the new boy was to go to the office, and wait there for the physician. "If I go it means he'll dismiss me," thought Frank. "I'll keep out of his sight as long as I can. I must get a chance to enter room twenty-eight once more, to say that I am going away, but that I will carry out the plan of rescue. After that I will leave before Dr. Hardman gets a chance to discharge me, or ask questions." But Frank's plans did not work out as he expected they would. He did manage to get to room twenty-eight again, at a time when that part of the building was deserted. Most of the patients had gone out for the usual afternoon exercise, but the one Frank wanted to see, had remained in. He knocked at the door. It was opened on a crack, and a man peered out. "Go away!" he exclaimed. "I don't know you!" "Why! Why!" cried Frank, in great surprise. "Don't you remember. I am--" "I know, you are the king of the cannibal islands, and you are trying to capture me. Go away, I say! I am only a poor explorer, but I will fight for my liberty!" Then the door was slammed shut, and the man in the room began screaming and calling for help. Frank gave way to despair. It was all over now. He had hoped the man would remain in a sane state long enough to be able to understand that a change of plan was necessary. Now he could comprehend nothing. "I can never rescue him!" Frank exclaimed, as he ran to give the signal that one of the patients was violent. With the attendants came Dr. Hardman. As he caught sight of Frank he cried excitedly: "Where have you been? I have been waiting for you. Come to my office at once! You have broken the rules! I want an explanation!" He turned, evidently expecting Frank to follow, but the boy was going to do nothing of the sort. He went down the corridor, until he came to where a flight of stairs led to the exercise yard. Then, running swiftly on his tip-toes so as to make no noise, he went down them. "I'm going to leave," he said to himself. "It's time for action now. I'm going back to camp!" In the meanwhile attendants had gone to the patient in room twenty-eight and had quieted him. Dr. Hardman reached his office, and waited for Frank to appear. He thought the boy was following him. When several minutes had passed and Frank did not come the doctor sent for one of the attendants. "Where is that new boy?" he asked. "The last I saw of him was when he was going down the side stairs." "The side stairs! I told him to come with me. He must have run away. Quick! Have a search made, and report to me!" As the attendant hurried away Dr. Hardman exclaimed: "I see it all now. Why was I so foolish as to engage him without making some inquiries or asking his name. I wonder why I didn't recognize him that night I hired him. As soon as I saw him in the room without the glasses I knew I had seen his face before. It was in the woods that day. That boy was Frank Roscoe. I hope they catch him!" In a little while the attendant came back to report there was no trace of Frank. "We must give number twenty-eight a new room," said Dr. Hardman. "Change him to the north wing, and put him on the top floor." The attendant left to carry out the instructions, and Dr. Hardman sat down in his office chair, obviously ill at ease. "I should have been more careful," he murmured. "Well, it may not be too late yet. I will take all precautions." Meanwhile Frank was hurrying away from the sanitarium. Having to leave so suddenly he had no time to go to his room for his belongings, and the clothes he wore were the only things he brought away with him. However, he did not mind that, as he was busy planning many things. "I can't understand it," he said to himself. "At one time he is as sane as I am, and again, he is violent. I know they are detaining him here for a purpose. Perhaps they do something to him to make him insane at times." The thought was a new one, and it came to Frank in a flash that perhaps that was the real explanation. "If it is there is hope for him," he said. "Oh, I only wish I had him away from the horrible place!" Then, late that afternoon, he made his way to the town of Lockport, where, with money he had brought with him from camp, he engaged a room at a hotel. The next morning he started back to join his friends. CHAPTER XXV FRANK'S SECRET DISCLOSED When Ned had finished reading the advertisement in the newspaper which Frank dropped that afternoon as he was leaving camp, the three chums looked at one another, vaguely wondering what it meant. "Do you suppose he's gone to get that place?" asked Fenn. "I think so," Ned replied. "But why would he want to do that?" asked Bart. "I have a theory that Frank is much interested in the subject of insanity," Ned went on. "You told us that before," interrupted Fenn. "What about it?" "Well, I did think, at one time since all this queer business came up, that Frank's mind might be affected. Now I think he may be interested in someone who has gone insane. He certainly has some queer secret, and it's getting more and more of a trouble to him. Why, this is the third time he has run away from us!" "It's only the second," interposed Bart. "It's the third," insisted Ned, and he told of the time he suspected Frank had taken the canoe and remained away all night. "Do you suppose he went to the sanitarium each time?" asked Fenn. "I believe so," Ned replied. "That's what makes me think that someone is there in whom Frank is much interested. Now comes this advertisement. The paper is only a few days old, as you can see by the date. I believe Frank has gone to see if he can't get this position. Perhaps he wants to help someone, and this is the only way he can do it." "It looks reasonable," admitted Bart. "What can we do?" "I don't see that we can do anything," spoke Ned, "If Frank is there he certainly will not want us coming around, and, perhaps, give his plans away. On the other hand we are not sure he is there. We don't even know where the sanitarium is, but I suppose we could easily find out from Mr. Armstrong. Frank got the paper there, I guess." "Maybe the telephone line runs to the sanitarium," suggested Fenn. "That's it! I believe you're right!" exclaimed Ned. "I never thought of that. Why, it was by following the line that we met Frank before. Let's follow it again, and perhaps we shall come to the insane asylum." "And suppose we do?" asked Bart. "Well, we'll know where it is," Ned went on. "That's something. We may not see Frank, but perhaps we can find out if he is there. It's worth trying. I can't sit still and do nothing." They started to follow the telephone line the next day. They found it did lead to the sanitarium but not wishing to show themselves near the building, they did not approach closely. They remained hiding in the woods, hoping they might catch a glimpse of their chum, but he did not show himself. "I guess the only thing for us to do is to return to camp," suggested Bart. "We'll have to wait until Frank comes away and tells us what he has been doing." Rather sorrowfully, they went back to camp. The two days that followed were lonesome ones. None of the three felt like doing anything. They did not fish, and even the canoe had lost its charm. They sat around under the trees, and, for the twentieth time, talked over the situation in regard to their missing comrade. "It looks as if the Darewell Chums would number three instead of four, after this," said Fenn rather mournfully, on the morning of the third day of Frank's absence. "Don't be a calamity howler!" exclaimed Ned. "Frank will come back to us. The chums can't be separated." "I hope that's true," put in Bart, from where he was sitting under a tree, smoothing one of the canoe paddles. "All our fun will be spoiled if we have to break up the quartette. "Hark! What's that?" asked Fenn, sitting up suddenly. They all listened. There was the sound of someone approaching through the bushes. "Cow, I guess," said Bart. "It's Frank!" cried Ned, jumping to his feet, and, the next instant Frank was in the midst of his chums. He looked worn and tired, and his clothes were covered with mud and water. "Where in the world have you been? What has happened to you?" cried Bart. "I got in the swamp trying to take a short cut," Frank explained. "I'm clean beat out. Have you got any coffee?" "Make you some in a jiffy," said Fenn, throwing some light wood on the smouldering fire. "I suppose you're surprised to see me?" asked Frank to his companions. "There's no use saying we aren't," spoke Ned. "And I guess you were surprised to find me gone?" "Right again. But we guessed where you were." "How?" Ned showed the paper with the advertisement in it. "I wondered where I had lost that," Frank said. "Well, boys, I'm going to tell you my secret." "Have some coffee before you begin," suggested Fenn, as he handed Frank a steaming cupful. "It's only warmed up, but it's good." The exhausted boy drank it, and ate some bread. Then having changed some of his muddy clothes for garments loaned him by his chums, Frank began: "You guessed rightly, I did go to the sanitarium, and I got the position. But I don't believe any of you can guess why." "Was it to get experience about crazy persons?" asked Ned. "I went there to plan to rescue my father," said Frank, quietly. The announcement was so startling that the three chums could only look at one another. Then they glanced back at Frank to see if he was in earnest. Ned, for a moment, had an idea that his original theory was right, and that Frank's mind was affected. But one look at the boy showed that, though he labored under the stress of excitement, he knew what he was talking about. "Your father!" exclaimed Bart. "I thought he was--" "You thought he was dead; so did I," Frank broke in. "That is, until recently. It's a long story, and I haven't got it all straight in my mind yet. One thing I am sure of is that my father is detained in that asylum against his will, and I am going to rescue him!" "And we'll help you!" exclaimed Ned. "That's what we will," chimed in Bart and Fenn. "I may need your aid," Frank went on. "Now let me tell you what I know, and how I found it out. Do you remember that special delivery letter I got when we were in swimming that day? The one John Newton brought me?" The chums had no difficulty in recollecting the scene. They recalled it perfectly. It was from then that Frank's manner began to change. "Well," Frank went on, "that letter gave me the first clue. It was from a firm of lawyers, Wright & Johnson, of New York. They said they were trustees for some property that was owned by a man named Roscoe and that they could not find him or his heirs. They wrote to me, asking if, by any chance, I might be interested in it. I did not want to say anything to you boys, for I could not tell how it would turn out. I went to Judge Benton with the letter, and he wrote me one to send to the lawyers. But I did not hear from them again for a long time, and I felt that there had been a mistake made. "Later on I got another letter from them. They said they had been investigating and had learned that James Roscoe, the name of the man who owned the property, had been heard from, but that he was insane, and was in the custody of some unscrupulous men, who were not treating him properly. The law firm said they understood that Mr. Roscoe was not altogether insane, but that his mind was affected by the treatment he received at the hands of the men. With proper care he might recover, they said. "At that time I did not know he was my father, or that he was any near relative of mine. I had always lived with my uncle and I never knew my father or my mother." For a little while Frank's emotion overcame him. Then he resumed: "I had some correspondence with Wright & Johnson and they tried to locate Mr. Roscoe. They found out where he was, but just as they were about to aid him the asylum was moved away. "They tried to get on the track of the man who was in charge of it. Then they sent me a lot of papers and photographs connected with the case and I learned that James Roscoe was my father. He was an explorer, and soon after I was born he went on an expedition. He was captured and held prisoner by some savage natives for a number of years. Word came that he had been murdered and the shock of it killed my mother. I was taken to the home of my uncle, Mr. Dent, where I have lived ever since." "But why didn't you go to your uncle and get him to help you?" asked Ned. "I didn't think of it until too late," Frank replied. "The day I found out that James Roscoe was my father I went home to tell my uncle all about it and to ask his help. When I got there I heard someone talking to him. I listened and I found out they were conversing about my father. From what they said I knew he was still in a sanitarium, and when I heard my uncle agree with the man that he had better stay there I knew my uncle was in league with the plotters." "Are you sure of that?" asked Bart. "Mr. Dent doesn't seem like that kind of a man." "I am sure enough," replied Frank bitterly. "Well, I followed the man until he heard me after him, and told me to go back. Then I went to my uncle's house. I said nothing of my suspicions, but I resolved to find out all I could. Finally I found the man who had been talking to my uncle." "Who was it?" asked Fenn. "Hardman, the man you took to the woods. He is Dr. Hardman, in charge of the sanitarium where my father is held a prisoner." "Are you sure of this?" asked Ned. "Positive. I have not finished yet. When I saw Dr. Hardman in the woods that day you were with him, and noted that he ran away from me, I thought I was on the right track. He recognized me, it seems, and that's why he ran. Then I made inquiries and I learned there was an asylum, a new one, somewhere in this direction. Few persons have heard anything about it, as, though it is a legal institution, the proprietor does not want too much known about it. "When we came camping here I decided to keep on trying to solve the mystery. I wanted to see my father and have a talk with him. I ran away from you, as you know, and I saw the patients at the sanitarium taking exercise. I recognized my father as one, for, though I had never seen him since I had grown up, I knew it was him from the picture the lawyers sent. He had not changed much, except that he was older. It appears he escaped from the cannibals and came to this country. But a fever had slightly affected his head, and he went to a sanitarium for treatment. There he got under the control of some evil men, who used him for their own ends. I do not yet understand it all, save there is some property involved. But I am going to solve the secret. I know where my father is, and the rest is comparatively easy." Frank told how he had had several interviews with his father, who, after some difficulty, recognized his son. The two had planned the escape from the asylum. "One thing I can't understand though," Frank went on, "is how he appears sane at times, and again is like a violent maniac and does not know me. I am afraid of this. I am sure my father's mind is sound and good, and the only way I can account for it is that they must do something to him at times, to make him violent. It is to their interest to make him altogether insane, so they can control the property." "How do you account for those men I heard talking in the building the time I was captured by the Upside Down Club?" asked Ned. "I don't know who they were," Frank admitted, "but I am sure they were in the plot. They were probably planning some details or they may have been in Darewell to see my uncle. I believe he's in the plot." "There's where I don't agree with you," said Bart. "Mr. Dent may seem to be playing into the hands of the men, but I think you will find he has been fooled by them. In fact, they admitted as much, according to what Ned overheard." "I hope so, but I will not trust him until I have my father safe," Frank went on. He then related how Mr. Roscoe had told of his detention in the asylum, his despair at never seeing his son again, of how he had heard of his wife's death, and of his desire to escape. "And what are you going to do now?" asked Bart, when Frank had finished. "I am going to rescue my father!" "Then count us in!" exclaimed Ned. CHAPTER XXVI ARRANGING AN ESCAPE Frank's story was such an interesting one that the three chums felt as though they never could stop asking questions. They particularly wanted to know about Mr. Roscoe's detention among the cannibals, but of that Frank could tell little. "We were too busy talking of the present to dip much into the past," he said. "Besides, I had only a very little time. I was interrupted so often. I don't know all of the story yet, but I will in time. This Dr. Hardman is one of the chief conspirators. It's lucky I wore the glasses so he didn't recognize me at first or I'd never have gotten as far along as I did. I guess he didn't have a good look at me that day in the woods." "I wonder what his game was, having us take him to the forest?" asked Bart. "Probably he wanted to be sure that none of his patients could escape from the sanitarium and get to Darewell that way," suggested Frank. "I believe Dr. Hardman had an idea my father might try to find me, and wanted to be assured that if he tried it he would get lost in the forest." "I believe you're right," said Bart. "Well, you certainly worked this up in great shape," commented Ned. "We couldn't understand what ailed you. I began to think you were a bit crazy yourself." "I don't blame you," Frank replied with a smile. "I certainly did have a lot on my mind, and the way I acted must have seemed strange to you boys. But I'm glad part of it is over. When I have my father with me again I will be perfectly happy. Just think of it, boys, living all these years, and never knowing I had a father, and then suddenly to find I've got one! It's just like a story in a book, isn't it." "It beats lot of books!" declared Fenn. "I wonder if those cannibals tried to eat him?" "He doesn't look as though he had been boiled or roasted," Frank answered, "though he is not a well man, from all the trouble he has had. But wait until we rescue him!" "That's what I was going to ask you. How are you going to do it?" inquired Ned. "I have a plan partly worked out," replied Frank. "He and I talked it over. I am to get a long ladder and place it at his window the first dark and rainy night we have. We agreed it would be better to try it when there was a storm, as, if we make any noise, it will not attract so much attention." "That's a good idea," commented Bart. "Where are you going to get the ladder?" "I guess Mr. Armstrong has one he would let us take." "How are you going to get it to the sanitarium? It's a good way off." "I thought maybe you'd assist me about that part," spoke Frank. "I've got to have help." "Of course you have," declared Ned. "Now I have an idea. We can take that ladder to the woods near the sanitarium on the back of a donkey. Mr. Armstrong has one. It's about the only way we could transport it, as the trails are too narrow for a wagon. We can fix it on the donkey's back lengthwise, and he can go through narrow places that way." "Then what?" asked Fenn. "We'll hide the ladder in the woods, close to the edge of the asylum grounds, and, the first stormy night that comes we'll go there and rescue Mr. Roscoe." "Do you know where his room is?" asked Bart. "Yes, it's number twenty-eight; one of the outside apartments and easy to reach with a ladder. We agreed on a signal. When I throw three pebbles at his window, wait a bit and throw two more, he is to raise the sash. Fortunately there are no bars to his window, as he is not regarded as a violent patient. The only thing I am afraid of is that he may have one of his insane spells just as we are about to rescue him. That would raise an alarm, and the plan might fail." "We'll hope for the best," said Bart, cheerfully, "Now let's go all over the details and arrange our campaign. This is the first time I ever helped in a raid on a sanitarium." "I hope it will be the last," spoke Frank. "It's a sad-enough thing, and I only wish it was over." "Cheer up," counseled Fenn. "You've had it pretty hard, carrying that secret all alone. Now we're going to help you; aren't we, fellows?" "That's what we are!" chorused Bart and Ned, and at that Frank smiled. He seemed to have lost much of the gloom that had enveloped him for the past few weeks. "Well, let's get to work," suggested Ned. "The sooner this thing is done the better. The weather has been fine for the past week, and it's liable now to rain soon. In fact, I think a storm is brewing," and he looked up through the trees to the sky. It was becoming overcast, and the direction of the wind had changed. Ned's chums agreed with him it would be best to lose no time. "Fenn and I will go over to Mr. Armstrong's house this afternoon," said Bart. "We'll find out about the ladder and the donkey." "There's another thing to be thought of," said Ned. "What are you going to do with your father when you get him, Frank?" "I did have an idea I would take him to the hotel in Lockport." "I wouldn't do that," said Ned. "That will be the first place they will look for him. Why not bring him here?" "It would be too long a journey through the woods," objected Fenn. "Especially if he isn't well, and it's raining." "I have it!" cried Frank. "The canoe!" "The canoe isn't built for land travel," remarked Bart. "No, but it can go on the creek and river all the way to the sanitarium," said Frank. "I know, for I tried it." Then he told his chums of the night journey he had made. "I was right then," commented Ned, and he related how he suspected Frank had made a journey in the craft. "One of us might paddle the canoe to the foot of the cliff," went on Frank. "I can take my father to it, and put him into the boat." "That's a good idea," agreed Bart. "I never thought our canoe would be of such service." "It's a fine craft," Frank said. "It only leaks a little bit." "Then you and I will patch it up this afternoon when Bart and Fenn go after the ladder," said Ned. "We can finish by night, and then, the first thing in the morning, we'll get the donkey and start through the woods. We'll have to do that part of it by daylight, as we can't see at night. But I guess it's safe, as there is no one in the woods." Things were very different in the camp than they had been a few hours previously. Now there was hope and activity, while, before, there had been gloom and apprehension. After dinner Bart and Fenn went to Mr. Armstrong's house, while Ned and Frank busied themselves over the canoe. They patched it up, strengthened it in weak places, and made it ready for the journey. It was decided that Frank had better make the trip in the boat to the foot of the cliff, as he knew the stream better than the other three. "There, I guess that will do," observed Ned, as he daubed a bit of pine gum on a small crack. "I'll wager it doesn't leak a drop. The paddle is better than when you first made the trip, Frank." "I'm glad of it. It was so rough before it blistered my hands." In the meanwhile Bart and Fenn had reached Mr. Armstrong's house. They found the farmer had a long, light ladder, and was willing to let them take it. "Hope you aren't going t' rob an apple orchard or raid a hen roost," he said with a laugh. "Nothing like that," Bart assured their friend. "Now if you'll lend us your donkey we'll be much obliged." "My donkey! Good land! Are you going t' start a circus and have the donkey do tricks?" "Not exactly," Bart replied, and then, thinking it was only fair to explain why they wanted the ladder and the animal, the boys told Mr. Armstrong something of Frank's story. The farmer was in sympathy with them at once. "I wish I could help you," he said eagerly. "Can't I go 'long?" "We're much obliged," replied Bart, "but I guess we can do better alone. We're thankful for the ladder and the donkey." "Maybe you'll be sorry you took the beast," Mr. Armstrong added. "He's tricky, but he can't do much with the ladder on his back. It's a great idea. Now if you want any more help let me know." The boys promised that they would, and, bidding the farmer good-day they started off. The ladder was fastened to the donkey's back lengthwise, and rested on a pile of bagging so that it would not injure the animal. The front end stuck well up into the air, while the rear nearly dragged on the ground. The path from the farmhouse to the camp was a fairly good one, and the boys had no difficulty in leading the donkey along. The beast went quietly enough, and Fenn remarked: "I guess Mr. Armstrong didn't know how to treat this donkey. He's as gentle as a lamb." "You're not out of the woods yet," observed Bart, which was true in a double sense. However, they reached the camp without a mishap, and found Ned and Frank waiting for them. CHAPTER XXVII THE RUNAWAY DONKEY That night the boys talked over all their plans. They agreed that if the next night was a stormy one they would try to rescue Mr. Roscoe. The donkey was tethered outside the tent, and seemed satisfied with his surroundings. The boys patted him and fed him on all sorts of dainties, from sugar to pancakes made from quick-raising flour. "Might as well keep on the good side of him," observed Fenn. "He's got quite a trip ahead of him." They decided to start off early in the morning and take the ladder to the edge of the sanitarium grounds, hiding it in the woods. It began to rain that night. There was a regual downpour, so hard that it awakened the boys by pelting on the canvas roof over their heads. "This is a storm, and no mistake!" exclaimed Fenn, sitting up in his cot. "If it keeps up tomorrow night we could rescue every inmate in the sanitarium." Suddenly, above the sound of the rain, there came a startling noise. It was like the mingled roar of a lion and the snarl of a tiger. "What's that?" cried Ned. "It's the donkey braying!" replied Fenn, and, a moment later, when the sound was repeated, his companions knew Fenn was right. "He doesn't like being out in the rain," Fenn went on. "I'm going to put him under the wood-tent." This was a piece of canvas stretched between two trees and served to keep the camp wood, and some other effects, dry. Fenn put on his raincoat, slipped a pair of rubber boots on and went outside. He carried a lantern, and as soon as he emerged from the tent the donkey set up a bray that was twice as loud as the others had been. "He's glad to see me," called Fenn, and he led the beast under the shelter. It seemed that this was what the donkey wanted, for he became quiet after that, and the boys went to sleep in spite of the noise the rain made. It had not cleared when morning came, but they did not mind that. They all had raincoats, for Frank had not taken his to the sanitarium, and, with rubber boots, were ready to brave the elements. Once more the ladder was fastened to the donkey's back and the boys started off. They closed the tent to keep the rain out, and put the canoe where it would be safe. They took a lunch along, for they felt they might have to undertake a longer journey than the boys had made in going to the asylum, as the animal could not follow over some of the places where the lads had tramped. They followed, in a general direction, the telephone line. Frank told them he had learned this connected with the central exchange in Darewell, and had only been in use a short time. It had been strung by some of the asylum attendants and was a private wire. For a while the boys trudged on through the rain, picking out the easiest paths for the donkey, which Bart was leading. Fenn walked ahead to see that there were no vines or trees that might catch the ladder, while Frank and Ned brought up in back to see that the rear end was kept clear. Occasionally they assisted in swinging the ladder around a short turn. "This is easier than I thought it was going to be," remarked Bart. "We haven't had a bit of trouble yet." "You're not out of the woods," called Fenn, repeating Bart's words of the day before. They had reached a little clearing in the forest, and, as there was a good trail, the donkey increased his speed. Suddenly there came a smart shower, and the little deluge must have frightened the beast. For, as soon as the drops began to patter down on his back harder than usual, the donkey lifted up its heels, kicked the rear end of the ladder to one side, and began to run, braying loudly. "After him!" cried Bart. "He'll smash the ladder!" The boys started off after the animal but they were at considerable disadvantage. Bart had let go of the strap by which he was leading the donkey, and Fenn, who was also in front, had jumped to one side as he heard the beast break into a run. So the steed passed both of them. As for Frank and Ned, in the rear, they could not get ahead of the donkey because of the long ladder sticking out behind and swaying to and fro. By this time the animal was some distance in advance, running along one of the wider trails that led through the wood. "We must catch him!" cried Frank. "He'll smash the ladder and we'll be in a fix then!" The donkey seemed to be enjoying the sport. Faster and faster he ran, braying at the top of his voice. The ladder knocked against the tree trunks, sometimes throwing the animal to one side but this did not stop him. "Cut ahead through the woods and try to catch him!" cried Ned to Bart, who was a little in advance. Bart did so. He saw, through the trees, where the trail turned, and gliding between the bushes, he reached the path ahead of the donkey that was coming down it full speed. Bart braced his feet apart and stood ready to grab the beast. But he reckoned without the ladder, which had become loose from the fastenings and was now resting evenly on the donkey's back, sticking straight out ahead like a long spear. It was this double-pointed lance that was aimed at Bart, and the donkey's head was fifteen feet back of it. Bart saw that he could not grasp the bridle. Right at him came the donkey, braying as though in glee at the trick he had played. To avoid being impaled on the ladder ends Bart had to jump to one side. Standing in the bushes that were along the trail, he reached forward and tried to grasp the swaying halter rope that was fastened to the donkey's head. But the beast avoided him and ran on. "Grab the end of the ladder and hold him!" shouted Bart to Ned, who was still in the rear. Ned and Frank both tried. They managed to catch hold of the swaying end nearest them, but the donkey had more strength than they supposed. They were dragged along through the mud, and water, and then, as the animal turned suddenly, they were flung to one side. "There he goes," exclaimed Ned ruefully as the animal disappeared around the bend. Bart and Fenn took after him. "Come on; we've got to catch him!" cried Frank, and he and Ned set off after their companions. All at once there arose a shouting from the boys in the lead. Then sounded a crash in the bushes. It was followed by a series of discordant brays from the donkey. "Something has happened!" cried Frank. "Hurry up!" Something had happened, sure enough. The donkey had caught himself. For, in trying to pass between two saplings, the ladder had slewed cross-ways and had brought the beast up with a round turn. Surprised and, perhaps somewhat indignant at the sudden stopping of his run, the donkey struggled on. The ladder slipped up the small trunks of the saplings and they began to bend. "He'll break 'em off and escape again!" cried Ned. "Grab him Bart!" Further and further over bent the two saplings. The ladder was sliding up them. Then the donkey slipped. He lost his foot-hold in the mud and the next instant a curious thing happened. The saplings, being no longer strained forward by the animal, sprang upward. The ladder began to slip back. It went until it caught on some branches of either small tree and there it stayed. But the donkey was fairly lifted from his feet, for the ladder was still fastened to his back, and there he hung, his hoofs threshing about and his brays coming quickly in indignant protest at the treatment accorded him. "That settles Mr. Donkey!" cried Bart, as, laughing loudly, he grabbed the halter rope. The other boys came up, filled with merriment over the plight of the beast that had thus trapped himself. They cut the branches that held the ladder and the donkey came back to earth. He did not try to run away, and seemed so much ashamed of what had happened that he stopped braying. Then, the ladder having been fastened in the proper position, the boys took up their journey. The rain was falling steadily. CHAPTER XXVIII THE RESCUE Without further mishap they went on through the woods and reached the edge of the asylum grounds. There seemed to be no one moving about the place, not even a uniformed attendant. Frank looked at the institution where his father was a prisoner and thought of how much he must have suffered there. "Here's a good place for the ladder," said Bart, pointing to a little ditch through which ran a small stream of water. "No one would ever think of looking there for it." "If only the donkey doesn't bray now, and give the alarm," said Fenn. "I know how to prevent him," remarked Ned. "How?" "Fasten his tail down." The other boys laughed at Ned, but he got a piece of rope used to tie the ladder on the donkey's back, and attached it to the beast's tail. Then he put a stone on the rope. Whether this caused it or not the boys could not tell, but the donkey did not bray after that. "I think we'd better make a little change in our plans," suggested Frank. "We were going to stay here until night, at least you three were. Now I think we had all better go back to camp and take the donkey with us. We have time enough, and it will be tiresome waiting here until dark. I've got to go back to get the canoe. You had better come along. We'll have something to eat and we can leave the donkey at the tent. "When we have rescued my father you boys can wait until it's light enough to follow the telephone line back to camp. In the meanwhile I'll go on with him in the canoe." "What about the ladder?" asked Ned. "We'll hide it in the woods," said Frank. "We'll not try to take it back to Mr. Armstrong, but I'll pay him for it. I think it would be too risky to come back for it. If we get my father away from there they'll be sure to be on the lookout for hours afterward, and we can't always depend on the donkey not braying. Besides, it's a lot of work and risk, and it's better to pay for the ladder and leave it here. It's worth it to me." The other boys thought this plan a good one. Accordingly, after the ladder had been put in the ditch, the boys started back for camp, taking the donkey with them. The animal seemed to have lost all desire to play any tricks. The rain had stopped when the chums got back to their tent, and they made a fire to dry themselves out a bit. The donkey was tethered so he could go under the shelter canvas in case of more showers, that still threatened, and the boys, after getting themselves something to eat, and feeding the animal, prepared to start again for the sanitarium. Frank got into the canoe, and, with a wave of his hand paddled off, calling to his chums that he would meet them about dusk at the ditch where the ladder was hidden. It was now well on into the afternoon. The three chums, discussing the probable outcome of the affair, walked on through the woods. They carried light lunches with them, and some flasks of cold coffee, for they would not be back at camp again until time for a late breakfast. Frank also took some food with him in the boat. The three boys found Frank waiting for them at the ditch, at which they arrived at dark. It was raining again, harder than before, but they managed to find a clump of trees with thick leaves that served as a partial shelter. "Did you have any trouble getting here with the boat?" asked Ned of Frank. "None at all. I came faster than I ever had before, as the water was high from the rain. The current is swift, and that will make it hard going back." "Maybe one of us could go with you," suggested Bart. "The canoe will hold three on a pinch." "I think it would be a good plan," Frank replied. "Then I'll go," Bart went on. The other boys did not dispute his right, as he was the best paddler. It seemed that the time would never come for the attempt to be made. In the darkness and rain the boys waited, for Frank had said it would not be safe to try until ten o'clock. At that hour the night watch went on, and the sanitarium was more quiet. "Let's get the ladder out and lay it along the edge of the grass plot," suggested Ned. "No one can see us, and it will be something to do." They followed this advice, and the ladder was placed in readiness at the edge of the asylum grounds. Once more they resumed their waiting. How the rain pelted down! The wind too, had increased, and it blew through the trees with a mournful sound. It was dark and chilly in the woods, and, in spite of their raincoats, the boys were anything but comfortable. It seemed as though ten o'clock would never come. Frank had a small pocket electric light with him, run by a dry battery, and, by pressing a button, a faint glow could be had. By means of this the boys frequently glanced at their watches. "I'm not going to look again until I think it's ten o'clock," declared Frank. But he could not resist, and, after waiting what seemed like an hour he glanced at the time-piece again. It was half-past nine. "Half an hour more," he announced. "That will be the longest of all." It was, but ten o'clock came at last. Cautiously the boys stole from their hiding places. They picked up the ladder and looked toward the asylum building. It was dark, save where a faint light showed through one window, and Frank knew this was in a corridor. "Do you know which is the window of his room?" asked Ned. "Yes," replied Frank. "It's the third one from the right hand end of the building, in the second story. The ladder will more than reach, as the windows are low ones." Foot by foot they advanced, listening every little while, to find out if their approach was noticed. But there was only the wind and rain to be heard. "Here we are," whispered Frank, as they came to a halt beneath the window of room twenty-eight. "Now help me raise the ladder." Four pair of sturdy young arms soon accomplished this, though it was hard work. While the three boys steadied the ladder at the bottom, Frank went up it. He held some pebbles in his hand and, when he could safely throw them at the glass he did so, making the signal agreed upon with his father. The little stones made more noise than he supposed they would, but he hoped no one but Mr. Roscoe would hear them. Frank, standing on the ladder under the window waited anxiously. Suddenly the window sash, to the left of the one where he thought his father was, went up softly. A head was thrust out. "I wonder if I have made a mistake," Frank thought. The next instant he heard a voice calling to him. "They have taken the king of the cannibal islands away!" Frank recognized the voice as that of the insane man who had caused a disturbance the first night he was on duty. "Where have they taken him?" asked Frank, and he hoped the man could answer rationally. "They have taken him away," the man went on. "I know! I'm crazy but I know. The cannibals have taken the king away. Ha! Ha! A good joke!" He was speaking and laughing in low tones. "I have come to rescue him. He is my father! Can't you tell me where he is?" pleaded Frank. "Good boy! Rescue father," whispered the lunatic. "I know. My head is a barrel, and if I came down the ladder I would fall. I don't want to be rescued. I own this place. But number twenty-eight. Yes, he ought to go. He's all right. They give him bad stuff to eat. I'm a barrel, but I own this place. It's barreled up inside of me. This side up with care! C. O. D. you know. Pay all charges. Ha! Ha! Good joke! They took the king away." "But where?" persisted Frank. Was his plan to fail? Had the asylum authorities found out about it and removed his father? "What's the matter?" called Bart from below. "Think!" whispered Frank to the lunatic. "Tell me where he is! I want to take him away!" "That's right! Take him away. This is no place for him. This is a place for barrels. Listen," and the man leaned far out of the window. "He's on the north side, in a room just like the one he was in, only on the top floor. I know! They tried to fool me but I hid in a barrel and I found out. It was a barrel with the hoops off, and I saw them take the king of the cannibal islands away. It's a great joke! I'm a barrel!" "Is it on the other side?" asked Frank, wanting to be sure. But the lunatic had shut his window. It was all black and dark again, and the rain and the wind seemed a fitting accompaniment for the sorrow that was in Frank's heart. He came down the ladder. "What's the matter?" asked his chums, and he told them. "Let's try the other side. Try the third window from the end, on the top floor," suggested Ned. "It can't do any harm. Maybe the crazy man spoke the truth. Sometimes they do." "It's worth trying, anyhow," said Bart, and, though Frank did not have much hope, he agreed with his chums. The ladder was carried around the building. As the boys looked up they saw all the windows were in darkness save one. That one was in the top row, and was the third from the end. "It's against the rules for any of the patients to have a light in their rooms after nine o'clock," remarked Frank. "I wonder what that means?" "Perhaps your father placed it there for a signal," suggested Fenn. "I'm going to see!" exclaimed Frank. Silently the boys raised the ladder to the casement. It was a little too short, but a person stepping from the window and hanging on the sill with both hands could just reach the topmost rung. Frank went up. He threw the signal stones at the glass. They rattled like hail. The next instant the sash went up. A head was stuck out. "Is that you, Frank?" a voice whispered. "Yes, father! Can you come down?" "Right away. Is everything safe?" "Everything. Be careful, you will have to make a long step." "I can do it. I have done more difficult things than this on my travels." Frank's heart beat high with hope, for he knew from the sound of his father's voice that the prisoner was sane. Cautiously Mr. Roscoe crawled from the window. He hung by his hands until his feet touched the top rung of the ladder. Then, with Frank preceding him, he went down and was soon on the ground. "These are my chums, father," said Frank. "I can't tell how I thank you for getting me from that terrible place," said Mr. Roscoe. "But we must hurry away. The guard will make his rounds soon, and if he sees my room empty the alarm will be given." "Come, boys," exclaimed Bart. "Hide the ladder." They carried it through the rain back to the ditch and placed it away. Then Frank and Bart led Mr. Roscoe through the woods to the foot of the cliff where the boat was fastened. Ned and Fenn took their positions under the tree-shelter to wait for morning, when they could start back for camp. "All aboard!" called Frank, as he helped Mr. Roscoe into the canoe. At that instant the bell of the institution began to ring. "What's that?" cried Frank. "The alarm!" exclaimed Mr. Roscoe. "They have discovered my escape." "Paddle! Paddle!" cried Frank, dipping his blade into the water. CHAPTER XXIX THE CURE--CONCLUSION The canoe, loaded down as it was, answered to the strokes of the sturdy arms of the boys. It shot forward, breasting the current, and was soon well away from the cliff. "They'll never catch us now," Frank said. "They'll not think of looking toward the river. We're safe." And so it would seem, for they heard no sound of pursuit. Afterwards Ned and Frank told their chums that the guards scoured the woods, but did not come upon those in hiding, nor did they find the ladder. It was well that the donkey had been taken back to camp. Through the storm and the darkness the two boys paddled. It was hard work, but they gritted their teeth and would not give up. The rain had made the river, below the falls, higher, and the current was swift. They carried the boat around the cataract and led Mr. Roscoe through the woods. Frank offered his father food, but the rescued man said he had eaten at the sanitarium a little while before. "I was afraid you would never find me after they changed my room," he said. Frank told his father about the man in twenty-seven. "He was a good friend of mine," Mr. Roscoe said. "A harmless man, though his mind was gone." They reached the camp about two o'clock in the morning. In a little while Frank had several lanterns lighted and was starting a fire in the portable stove. The donkey was still under the canvas shelter, and Frank, going for some wood, saw the stone still tied to the tail of the beast. "I guess you'll not bray now," he remarked as he cut the rope. The next instant the animal lifted up its tail and sent forth a loud note. It seemed as though he had been saving it up for many hours. The woods rang with it. Immediately after it, and before the echoes had ceased reverberating, there came a cry of terror from the tent where Mr. Roscoe was with Bart. Frank recognized his father's voice. "Save me! Save me!" cried the unfortunate man. "The cannibals are coming! They will kill me! Take me away! Hide me!" Frank sprang toward the tent. Looking in he saw his father crouched under one of the cots, with Bart standing, badly frightened in a far corner. In the eyes of Mr. Roscoe was the gleam of insanity. "Father! Father!" cried Frank in great anguish. "Don't you know me? I'm your son! I rescued you from the sanitarium!" "I have no son! I am all alone in the world! I don't know you!" and the poor man tried to crawl further under the cot. "Oh, what shall I do?" cried Frank. Outside the rain came down harder than ever and the wind swayed the frail tent. Once more the donkey brayed. "There they are! There they are!" cried Mr. Roscoe. "They are going to kill me!" It was the cry of the beast that had sent his frail mind once more into the channel of insanity. "Oh, what are we to do?" cried Frank again. "Perhaps he is really insane and I have made a mistake in taking him out of that institution." "It wasn't your fault," declared Bart "Any one would have done the same. Perhaps it will pass over. He isn't violent." Though they were much frightened, the two boys tried to coax Mr. Roscoe out from under the cot, but he would not come. At Frank's suggestion, Bart again tied the stone to the donkey's tail, to prevent the braying. Then they sat and waited for daylight and the arrival of their chums. The hours were long and full of terror. They did not know what to do. They could only wait for morning, and when that came they did not know that they would be any better off. The rain stopped. Then a pale light began to diffuse among the trees. It grew stronger. Mr. Roscoe was quieter now, and came from under the cot. Frank persuaded him to lie down, and in a little while his father was asleep. An hour later Fenn and Ned came in. "Did you get here all right?" asked Ned, eagerly, but a sight of Frank's sad face sobered him. The two boys were told what had happened. "I don't know what to do," Bart admitted as he and his two chums went outside, leaving Frank with his father. "I've got an idea!" exclaimed Fenn eagerly. "I saw by that paper which Frank dropped, that Dr. Robertson was spending a few days at Forest Villa. That's the next place to Mr. Armstrong's house." "Who is Dr. Robertson?" asked Ned. "Why he's a great specialist on diseases of the brain. Why not go to him, and ask him to come and see Frank's father? I'm sure he would if we told him all the facts." "Say!" cried Bart. "That's a fine idea! Hurry off and see if the doctor will come. If he wants pay we can give it to him." But Dr. Robertson did not want any fee, when Fenn had breathlessly explained the circumstances to him. He questioned the boy closely, and then, taking his medicine case with him, set out through the woods. He was on his vacation, he explained, but he never missed a chance to study or treat a brain disease, and he was very much interested in Mr. Roscoe's case. Dr. Robertson sent all the boys out of the tent, and told them to stay away while he examined the patient. How anxiously they waited for the verdict, Frank most of all! Was the case a hopeless one? At last the doctor came out. He was smiling, and the boys took that as a good sign. "You can come in, boys," he said. "Is he--can you--will he--" stammered Frank. "He will get well, if that's what you mean," said Dr. Robertson. "He is much better now. The fact is," he went on, "his fits of insanity were only temporary, and they were caused by a drug, which was administered to him in his food. He ate something at the sanitarium just before you rescued him, and this last time the drug began to work as soon as he heard that donkey bray. The fit has passed now, and if he doesn't get any more of the drugged food he will probably have no more insane spells." "Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Frank, sinking on his knees at the side of the cot on which his father lay. Mr. Roscoe opened his eyes. "Frank! My boy!" he murmured. Then he dozed off again. The doctor stayed at the tent until noon, and left some medicine, saying he would call again in the evening. Soon after the medical man had left Mr. Roscoe awakened. He declared he was much better, and in talking of his case he said he noticed that the strange spells came over him soon after he had eaten something. At other times he was as clear-headed as he had ever been. In a few days, under the treatment of Dr. Robertson, Mr. Roscoe had fully recovered. It was thought best to keep him at the camp for a few days, as the rest would do him good. "Then you'll come away with me and we'll make a home for ourselves," said Frank. "Why not stay with your Uncle Abner?" asked Mr. Roscoe. Frank told of his suspicions, that his uncle was in the plot with the men who held Mr. Roscoe a prisoner. "No, you're wrong," said Frank's father. "Your uncle was deceived by the men. I understand it all now. He thought I really was insane, and he was doing what he imagined was right to keep me in the sanitarium. He was trying to hold the property for you. Those men fooled him, but now we will get the best of them." Mr. Roscoe's theory proved correct, when a little later the boys broke camp and went home. Mr. Dent was much surprised when told the facts in the case, and confirmed what Frank's father had said. The property was gotten away from the men, and the plotters had to flee to escape arrest. Dr. Hardman was among them, and his sanitarium was taken in charge by the authorities, for he had many persons there who were really insane. "And so that was Frank's secret," remarked Bart, one afternoon as the four chums were talking together over the strange case. "I would never have suspected it." "I hardly believed it myself, at times," said Frank. "Well, we had some fun with the donkey, anyhow," put in Ned. "That was about the only comic happening during our camping." "I guess we've had enough of adventures to last for several vacations," spoke Frank. "I'm willing to settle down to a quiet life." But a quiet life was not in store for the four boys, and why will be related in another volume, to be called "Fenn Masterson's Discovery." In that tale we shall learn the particulars of an interesting voyage on the Great Lakes, and the particulars of a revelation which came to Stumpy when he least expected it. "Frank, I suppose you are happy now you have your father with you," said Bart one day. "Happy?" repeated Frank, with a little lump in his throat. "I am more than happy. Why, I feel as if the whole world was nothing but pure sunshine!" "Well, we all rejoice with you," came from Ned. "Indeed we do!" added Fenn. 
8137	----	The Girls of Central High Aiding the Red Cross OR AMATEUR THEATRICALS FOR A WORTHY CAUSE BY GERTRUDE W. MORRISON CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE ODDEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED II THE RED CROSS GIRL III ODD! IV THE MYSTERY MAN V SAND IN THE GEARS VI THE BANK-NOTE VII SOMETHING EXCITING VIII THE FOREFRONT OF TROUBLE IX THE ICE CARNIVAL X BUT WHO IS HE? XI A REHEARSAL XII BUBBLE, BUBBLE XIII MOTHER WIT HAS AN IDEA XIV CHAINS ON HIS WHEELS XV PIE AND POETRY XVI EMBER NIGHT XVII A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT XVIII WHERE WAS PURT? XIX LAURA LISTENS XX TWO THINGS ABOUT HESTER XXI AND A THIRD THING XXII THE CASE FOR AND AGAINST PURT XXIII THE LAST REHEARSAL XXIV MR. NEMO, OF NOWHERE XXV IT IS ALL ROUNDED UP CHAPTER I THE ODDEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED "Well, if that isn't the oddest thing that ever happened!" murmured Laura Belding, sitting straight up on the stool before the high desk in her father's glass-enclosed office, from which elevation she could look down the long aisles of his jewelry store and out into Market Street, Centerport's main business thoroughfare. But Laura was not looking down the vista of the electrically lighted shop and into the icy street. Instead, she gave her attention to that which lay right under her eyes upon the desk top. She looked first at the neat figures she had written upon the page of the day ledger, after carefully proving them, and thence at the packet of bills and piles of coin on the desk at her right hand. "It is the oddest thing that ever happened," she affirmed, as though in answer to her own first declaration. It was Saturday evening, and it was always Laura's duty to straighten out her father's books for him on that day, for although she was a high school girl, she was usually so well prepared in her studies that she could give the books proper attention weekly. Laura had taken a course in bookkeeping and she was quite familiar with the business of keeping a simple set of books like these. She never let the day ledger and the cash get far apart. It was her custom to strike a balance weekly, and this she was doing at this time. Or she was trying to! But there seemed to be something entirely wrong with the cash itself. She knew that the figures on the ledger were correct. She had asked her father, and even Chet, her brother, who was helping in the store this evening, if either of them had taken out any cash without setting the sum down in the proper record. "It is an even fifty dollars--neither more nor less," she had told them, with a puzzled little frown corrugating her pretty forehead. They had both denied any such act--Chet, of course, vigorously. "What kind of hardware are you trying to hang on me, Mother Wit?" he demanded of his sister. "I know Christmas will soon be on top of us, and a fellow needs all the money there is in the world to buy even one girl a decent present. But I assure you I haven't taken to nicking papa's cash drawer." "I don't know but mother is right," Laura sighed. "Your language is becoming something to listen to with fear and trembling. And I am not accusing you, Chetwood. I'm only asking you!" "And I'm only answering you--emphatically," chuckled her brother. "It is no laughing matter when you cannot find fifty dollars," she told him. "You'd better stir your wits a little, then, Sis," he advised. "You know Jess and Lance will be along soon and we were all going shopping together, and skating afterward. Lance and I want to practice our grapevine whirl." But being advised to hurry did not help. For half an hour since Chet had last spoken the girl had sat in a web of mystery that fairly made her head spin! Her ledger figures were proved over and over again. But the cash! Then once more she bent to her task. The piles of coin were all right she finally decided. She counted them over and over again, and they came to the same penny exactly. So she pushed the coin aside. Then she slowly and carefully counted again the bank-notes, turning them one by one face down from left to right. The amount, added to the sum of the coins, was equal to the figures on the ledger. Then she did what she had already done ten or a dozen times. She recounted the bills, turning them from right to left. She was fifty dollars short! Christmas was approaching, and the Belding jewelry store was, of course, rather busier than at other seasons. That was why Chet Belding was helping out behind the counters. Out there, he kept a closer watch on the front door than Laura, with her financial trouble, could. Suddenly he darted down the long room to welcome a group of young people who pushed open the jewelry-store door. They burst in with a hail of merry voices and a clatter of tongues that drowned every other sound in the store for a minute, although there were but four of them. "Easy! Easy!" begged Mr. Belding, who was giving his attention to a customer near the front of the store. "Take your friends back to Laura's coop, Chetwood." Hushed for the moment, the party drifted back toward Laura's desk. The young girl was still too deeply engaged with the ledger and cash to look up at first. "What is the matter, Mother Wit?" demanded the taller of the two girls who had just come in--a most attractive-looking maiden, whom Chet had at once taken on his arm. "Engine trouble," chuckled Laura's brother. "The old thing just won't budge! Isn't that it, Laura?" The tall youth--dark and delightfully romantic-looking, any girl would have told you--went around into the little office and looked over Laura's shoulder. "What's gone wrong, Laura?" he asked, with sympathy in his voice and manner. "You want to get a move on, Mother Wit!" cried the youngest girl of the troop, saucy looking, and with ruddy cheeks and flyaway curls. This was Clara Hargrew, whom her friends called Bobby, and whose father kept the big grocery store just a block away from the Belding jewelry store. "Everybody will have picked over the presents in all the stores and got the best of everything before we get there." "That's right," said the last member of the group; and this was a short and sturdy boy who had the same mischievous twinkle in his eye that Bobby Hargrew displayed. His name was Long, and because he was short, everybody at Central High (save the teachers, of course) called him "Short and Long." He and Bobby Hargrew were what hopeless grown folk called "a team!" When they were not hatching up some ridiculous trick together, they were separately in mischief. "But you say Short and Long has done some of his Christmas shopping already," Jess Morse, the tall visitor, said. "Just think, Laura! He has sent Purt Sweet his annual present." "So soon?" said Laura Belding, but with her mind scarcely on what her friends were saying. "And Thanksgiving is only just passed!" "I thought I'd better be early," said Short and Long, with solemn countenance. "I wrote 'Not to be opened till Christmas' upon the package." Bobby and Jess and Lance burst into giggles. "Let's have the joke!" demanded Chet. "What did you send the poor fish, Short?" "You guessed it! You guessed it, Chet Belding!" cried Bobby. "Aren't you a clever lad?" "What do you mean?" asked Laura, now becoming more seriously interested. "Why," Jess Morse said, "he got a codfish down at the market and wrapped it up in a lot of paper and put it in a long, beautifully decorated Christmas box. If Purt Sweet keeps that box without opening it until Christmas, I am afraid the Board of Health will be making inquiries about the Sweet premises." "You scamp!" exclaimed Laura sternly, to Short and Long. "He's all right!" declared Bobby warmly. "You know just how mean and stingy Purt Sweet is--and his mother has more money than anybody else in Centerport. Last Christmas, d'you know what Purt did?" "Something silly, of course," Laura said. "I don't know what you call silly. I call it mean," declared the smaller girl. "Purt got it noised abroad that he was going to give a present to every fellow in his class--didn't he, Short?" "That's what he did," said Billy Long, taking up the story. "And the day before Christmas he got us all over to his house and offered each of us a drink of ice-water! And some of the kids had been foolish enough to buy him things--and give 'em to him ahead of time, too!" "Serves you right for being so piggish," commented Chet. "It was a mean trick," agreed Laura, "for some of the boys in Purt's grade are much younger than he is. But this idea of giving Christmas presents because you expect something in return----" "Is pretty small potatoes," finished Lance Darby, the dark youth. "But what's the matter here, Laura?" he added. "I've counted these bills and they are just exactly right by those figures you have set down there." "You turned them from left to right as you counted, Lance," cried Laura. "Sure! I counted the face of each bill," was the answer. "Now count them the other way!" exclaimed Laura in despair. Her friends gathered around while Laura did this. Even Chet gave some attention to his sister's trouble now. From right to left the packet of bank-notes came to fifty dollars less than the sum accredited to them on the ledger. "Well, what do you know about that?" breathed Lance. "That's the strangest thing!" declared Jess Morse. "Why," said Bobby of the quick mind, "must be some of the bills are not printed right." "Nonsense!" ejaculated Chet. "Who ever heard of such a thing as a banknote being printed wrong unless it was a counterfeit?" demanded Laura. Mr. Belding, having finished with his customer, came back to the little office and heard this. "I am quite sure we have taken in no counterfeits--eh, Chet?" he said, smiling. "And there's only one big bill--this hundred," said Chet, who had taken the package of bills and was flirting them through his fingers. "I took that in myself when I sold that lavallière to the man I told you about, Father. You remember? He was a stranger, and he said he wanted to give it to a young girl. I------" "Let's see that bill, Chet!" exclaimed Bobby Hargrew suddenly. Chet slipped the hundred-dollar note out of the packet and handed it to the grocer's daughter. But she immediately cried: "I want to see the hundred-dollar bill, Chet. Not this one." "Why, that's the hundred------" "This is a fifty," interrupted Bobby. "Can't you see?" She displayed the face of a fifty-dollar bank-note to their wondering eyes. Their exclamations drowned Mr. Belding's voice, and he had to speak twice before Bobby heard him. "Turn it over!" The grocer's daughter did so. The other side of the bill was the face of a hundred-dollar bank-note! At this there certainly was a hullabaloo in and around the office. Mr. Belding could scarcely make himself heard again. He was annoyed. "What is the matter with that bank-note? Whether it is counterfeit or not, you took it in over the counter, Chetwood," he said coldly. "This very day," admitted his oldest son. "Then, my boy, it is up to you," said the jeweler grimly. "What----Just what do you mean?" asked Chet, somewhat troubled by his father's sternness. "In a jewelry store," said Mr. Belding seriously, "as I have often told you, a clerk must keep his eyes open. You admit taking in this bill. If the Treasury Department says it is worth only fifty dollars, I shall expect you to make good the other fifty." The young people stared at each other in awed silence as the jeweler turned away. They could feel how annoyed he was. "Gee!" gasped Chet, "if I'm nicked fifty dollars, how shall I ever be able to buy Christmas presents, or even give anything for the Red Cross drive?" "Oh, I'm sorry, Chet!" Jess Morse murmured. "Looks as if hard times had camped on your trail, old boy," declared Lance. "But maybe it is a hundred-dollar bill," Laura said. "It's tough," Short and Long muttered. "Try to pass it on somebody else," chuckled Bobby, who was not very sympathetic at that moment. "Got it all locked up, Laura?" Jess asked. "Well, let us go then. You can't make that bill right by looking at it, Chet." "I--I wish I could get hold of the man who passed it on me," murmured the big fellow. "Would you know him again?" Lance asked. "Sure," returned his chum, getting his own coat and hat while his sister put on her outdoor clothing. "All ready? We're going, Pa." "Remember what I said about that bill, Chetwood," Mr. Belding admonished him. "You will learn after this, I guess, to look at both sides of a hundred-dollar bill--or any other--when it is offered to you." "Aw, it's a good hundred, I bet," grumbled Chet. "If it is, I'll add an extra fifty to my Red Cross subscription," rejoined his father with some tartness. "Well, that's something!" Bobby Hargrew said quickly. "We want to boost the fund all we can. And what do you think?" "My brain has stopped functioning entirely since I got so bothered by that bank-note," declared Laura Belding, shaking her head. "I can't think." "Mr. Sharp and the rest of the faculty have agreed that we shall give a show for the Red Cross," declared Bobby, with enthusiasm. "Just what we wanted them to do!" "Oh, joy!" cried Jess, clasping her hands in delight. "Miss Josephine Morse, leading lady, impressarioess, and so forth," laughed Lance Darby, "will surely be in on the theatricals." "Maybe they will let you write the play, Jess," said Chet admiringly. They reached the door and stepped into the street. There had been rain and a freeze. The sidewalks, as well as the highway itself, were slippery. Bobby suddenly screamed: "See there! Oh! He'll be killed!" A rapidly-driven automobile turned the corner by the Belding store. A man was crossing Market Street, coming toward the group of young people. The careless driver had not put on his chains. The car skidded. The next instant the pedestrian was knocked down, and at least one wheel ran over his prostrate body. Instead of stopping, the car went into high speed and dashed up the street and was quickly out of sight. The young people ran to the prostrate man. Nobody for the moment thought of the automobile driver who was responsible for the affair. The victim had blood on his face from a cut high up on his crown. He was unconscious. It was Chet Belding who stood up and spoke, first of all. "I thought so! I thought so!" he gasped. "Do you know who this is?" "Who?" asked Jess, clinging to his arm as the crowd gathered. "This is the man who passed that phony hundred-dollar bill on me. The very one!" "Is he dead?" whispered Bobby Hargrew, looking under Chefs elbow down at the crimson-streaked face of the unfortunate man. CHAPTER II THE RED CROSS GIRL Market street was well lighted, but it was not well policed. That last fact could not be denied, or the recklessly driven automobile that had knocked down the stranger would never have got away so easily. People from both sides of the street and from the stores near by ran to the spot; but no policeman appeared until long after the automobile was out of sight. The exciting statement that Chet Belding had made so interested and surprised his friends that for a few moments they gave the victim of the injury little of their attention. Meanwhile a figure glided into the group and knelt beside the injured man who lay upon the ice-covered street. It was a girl, not older than Laura and Jess, but one who was dressed in the veil and cloak of the Red Cross. She was not the only Red Cross worker on Market Street that Saturday evening, for the drive for the big Red Cross fund had begun, and many workers were collecting. This girl, however seemed to have a practical knowledge of first-aid work. She drew forth a small case, wiped the blood away from the man's face with cotton, and then began to bandage the wound as his head rested against her knee. "Somebody send for the ambulance," she commanded, in a clear and pleasant voice. "I think he has a fractured leg, and he may be hurt otherwise." Her request brought the three girls of Central High to their senses. Bobby darted away to telephone to the hospital from her father's store. The older girls offered the Red Cross worker their aid. For a year and a half the girls of Central High had been interested in the Girls' Branch League athletics; and with their training under Mrs. Case, the athletic instructor, they had all learned something about first-aid work. The girls of Centerport had changed in character without a doubt since the three high schools of the city had become interested so deeply in girls' athletics. With the high schools of Keyport and Lumberport, an association of league units had been formed, and the girls of the five educational institutions were rivals to a proper degree in many games and sports. How all this had begun and how Laura Belding by her individual efforts had made possible the Central High's beautiful gymnasium and athletic field, is told in the first volume of this series, entitled: "The Girls of Central High; Or, Rivals for All Honors." This story served to introduce this party of young people who have met in the jewelry store, as well as a number of other characters, to the reader. In "The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna; Or, The Crew That Won," the enthusiasm in sports among the girls of the five high schools reaches a high point. As the three cities in the league are all situated upon the beautiful lake named above, aquatic games hold a high place in the estimation of the rival associations in the league. Fun and sports fill this second volume. "The Girls of Central High at Basket Ball; Or, The Great Gymnasium Mystery," the third book, tells of several very exciting games in which the basket-ball team of Central High takes part, and the reader learns, as well, a good deal more about the individual characters of the girls themselves and of some very exciting adventures they have. "The Girls of Central High on the Stage; Or, The Play That Took the Prize," the fourth volume in the series, is really Jess Morse's story, although Laura and their other close friends have much to do in the book and take part in the play which Jess wrote, and which was acted in the school auditorium. It was proved that Jess Morse had considerable talent for play writing, and the professional production of her school play aided the girl and her mother over a most trying financial experience. The fifth volume, "The Girls of Central High on Track and Field; Or, The Champions of the School League," is an all around athletic story in which rivalries for place in school athletics, excitement and interest of plot, and stories of character building are woven into a tale calculated to hold the attention of any reader interested in high school doings. During the summer previous to the opening of the present story in the series, these friends spent a most enjoyable time camping on Acorn Island, and the sixth tale, "The Girls of Central High in Camp; Or, The Old Professor's Secret," is as full of mystery, adventure, and fun as it can be. Since the end of the long vacation the Girls of Central High, as well as the boys who are their friends, had settled down to hard work both in studies and athletics. Ice had come early this year and already Lake Luna was frozen near the shore and most of the steamboat traffic between the lake cities had ceased. The great pre-holiday Red Cross drive had now enthralled the girls of Central High, as well as the bulk of Centerport's population. Everybody wanted to put the city "over the top" with more than its quota subscribed to the fund. In the first place, the boys' and girls' athletic associations of Central High were planning an Ice Carnival to raise funds for the cause, and it was because of that exhibition that Chet Belding and Lance Darby wished to get down to the ice that evening and try their own particular turn, after the shopping expedition that also had been planned. As it happened, however, neither the shopping nor the skating was done on this particular Saturday night. As Bobby Hargrew ran to telephone to the hospital, Short and Long had grabbed the wrists of his two older and taller boy friends and led them out of the crowd in a very mysterious way. "Did you get a good look at that car?" he whispered to Chet and Lance. "Of course I didn't," said the latter. "It went up the street like the wind. Didn't it, Chet?" "That rascal was going some when he turned the corner of Rapidan Street. I wonder he did not skid again and smash his car to pieces against the hydrant. Served him right if he had," Chet said. "There were no chains on his wheels," said Short and Long, in the same mysterious way. "You said it," agreed Lance. "What then?" "There are not many cars in Centerport right now without chains on. The streets have been icy for more than twenty-four hours." "Your statement is irrefutable," said Chet, grinning. "Get it off your chest, Short and Long," begged Lance. "What do you mean?" "I mean," said the earnest lad, "that I know a car that was out this afternoon without chains, and it was a seven-seater Perriton car--just as this one that knocked down Chet's friend was." "It was a Perriton, I believe," murmured Lance. But Chetwood Belding said: "I don't know whether that poor fellow is a friend of mine or not. If I have to give Pa fifty dollars--Whew!" "But the car?" urged Lance Darby. "Who has a Perriton car, Short and Long?" "And without chains?" added Chet, waking up to the main topic. "Come along, fellows," said the younger lad. "I won't tell you. But I'll take you to where you can see the car I mean. If it still is without chains on the wheels, and has just been used--Well, we can talk about it then!" "All right," said Chet. "We can't do any good here. Here comes the ambulance. That poor fellow is going to be in the hospital for some time, I bet." There was such a crowd around the spot where the victim of the accident lay that the boys could not see the Central High girls, save Bobby Hargrew, who came running back from her father's store just as the clanging of the ambulance gong warned the crowd that the hospital had responded in its usual prompt fashion. The boys hailed the smaller girl and told her they were off to hunt for the car that had knocked down the victim. Then the three hurried away. Meanwhile, in the center of the crowd Laura Belding and Jess Morse had been aiding the girl in the Red Cross uniform as best they could to care for the man who was hurt. The latter had not opened his eyes when the ambulance worked its way into the crowd and halted beside the three girls on their knees in the street. "What have you there?" asked the young doctor, who swung himself off the rear of the truck. Laura and Jess told him. The third girl, the one who had done the most for the unfortunate man, did not at first say a word. The driver brought the rolled stretcher and blanket. He laid it down beside the victim. When the doctor had finished his brief notes he helped his aid lift the man to the stretcher. They picked it up and shoved it carefully into the ambulance. "I know you, Miss Belding," said the doctor. "And this is Miss Morse, isn't it? Do you mind giving me your name and address?" he asked the third girl. Was there a moment's hesitation on the part of the Red Cross girl? Laura thought there was; yet almost instantly the stranger replied: "My name is Janet Steele." "Ah! Your address?" repeated the doctor. This time there was no doubt that the girl flushed, and more than a few seconds passed before she made answer: "Thirty-seven Whiffle Street." At the same moment somebody exclaimed: "Here comes Fatty Morehead, the cop. Better late than never," and a general laugh went up from the crowd. Jess seized Laura's wrist, exclaiming: "Oh, Laura! he will want to take down our names and addresses, too. Let's get away." The Red Cross girl uttered an ejaculation of chagrin. She began pushing her way out of the press, and in an opposite direction from that in which the portly policeman was coming. Jess whispered swiftly in Laura's ear: "Come on! Let's follow her! I'm awfully interested in that Red Cross girl, Laura!" "Why should you be?" asked her chum. "Although she looks like a nice girl, I never saw her before." "Neither did I," said Jess. "But did you hear the address she gave? That is the poor end of Whiffle Street, as you very well know, and mother and I used to live right across the street from that house. I did not know anybody lived in the old Eaton place. It has been empty for a long, long time." CHAPTER III ODD! Bobby Hargrew met Laura and Jess on the edge of the crowd, for she had been unable to worm herself into the middle of it again, and told them swiftly of the boys' departure to hunt for the car that had done the damage. "And that's just like the boys!" exclaimed Jess Morse, with some exasperation. "To run away and desert us!" "I don't know but I'm glad," said Laura. "I don't feel much like shopping after seeing that poor man hurt." "Or skating, either," complained Jess. Presently the three overtook the strange girl. Bobby, whom Chet had said was "just as friendly with strangers as a pup with a waggy tail," immediately got into conversation with her. "Say! was he hurt badly?" she asked. "I think his right leg was broken," the Red Cross girl replied. "And his head was badly hurt. Your friends, here, could see that." "He bled dreadfully," sighed Laura. "But you had the bandage on so nicely that the doctor did not even disturb it, my dear." "Thank you," said the Red Cross girl. She hesitated on the corner of the side street. "I fear I must leave you here. I am going home." "Oh," cried Jess, who was enormously curious, "we can go your way just as well as not, Miss Steele! We live at the other end of Whiffle Street--up on the hill, you know." "All but me," put in Bobby. "But I can run right through Laura's yard to my house." She indicated Laura as she spoke. The Red Cross girl looked at Mother Wit with some expectancy. Jess came to the rescue. "Let's get acquainted," she said. "Why not? We'll never meet again under more thrilling circumstances," and she laughed. "This is Miss Laura Belding, Miss Steele. On your other hand is Miss Hargrew--Miss Clara Hargrew. I am Josephine Morse. I used to live across the street from the old Eaton place where you live now." "You are a stranger in town, are you not?" Laura asked, taking the new girl's hand. "Yes, Miss Belding. We have only been here four weeks. But I have worked in the Red Cross before--and one must do something, you know." "Do something!" burst forth Bobby. "If you went to Central High and had Gee Gee for one of your teachers, you'd have plenty to do." "We are all three Central High girls," said Laura gently. "Have you finished school, Miss Steele?" "I have not been able to attend school regularly for two years," admitted the new girl. "I am afraid," and she smiled apologetically, "that you are all much further advanced in your education than I am. You see, my mother is an invalid and I must give her a great deal of my time. It does not interfere, however, with my doing a little for the Red Cross." "I am sorry your mother is ill," said Laura. "We were advised to come up here for her sake," said Janet Steele hastily. "We have been living in a coast town. The doctors thought an inland climate--a drier climate--would be beneficial." "I hope it will prove so," said Laura. "It seems a shame you can't get out with the other girls," Jess added. "And come to school and let Gee Gee get after you," joined in Bobby grimly. "Is she such a very strict disciplinarian?" asked Miss Steele, smiling down at the irrepressible one as they walked through the side street toward Whiffle. "She's the limit," declared Bobby. "Oh," said Laura mildly, "I think Miss Carrington is nowhere near so strict as she used to be. Margit Salgo really has made her quite human, you know." "Say!" grumbled Bobby, "she can hand out demerits just as easy as ever. And she had her sense of humor extracted years ago." "Has that fault cropped up lately, my dear?" asked Laura, laughing. "It must be so. What happened, Bobby?" The younger girl, who was a sophomore, whereas Laura and Jess were juniors, came directly under Miss Carrington's attention in several classes. Bobby was forever getting into trouble with the strict teacher. "Why, look, now," said Bobby, warmly, "just what happened yesterday! English class. You know, that's nuts for Gee Gee. I was bothered enough, I can tell you, trying to correct a paper she had handed back to me, and she kept right on talking and asking questions, and the recitation period was almost ended. I didn't want to hang around there to correct that paper--" "You know very well you should have taken it home to correct," Laura put in. "Oh, don't tell me that! I take so much extra work home as it is, that Father Tom Hargrew asks me if I don't do anything at all in school. And, anyway, I didn't think Gee Gee saw me. But, of course, she did." "And then what?" Jess asked. "Why, she shot a question at me, and I didn't get it at first. 'Miss Hargrew! Pay attention!' she went on. Of course, that brought me up standing. 'What is a pseudonym?' she wanted to know. How silly! You know the trouble we've been having with that car Father Tom bought. 'I don't know what it is, Miss Carrington,' I told her. 'But if it is something that belongs to an automobile, father will have to buy a new one pretty soon, I'm sure.'" "And she docked you for that!" exclaimed Jess, as though wildly amazed. "How cruel!" "Really, I am afraid we are sometimes cruel to our dear teachers," laughed Laura. "But if they are too serious they are such a temptation to us witty ones." "Now, don't be sarcastic, Mother Wit," said Jess, shaking her chum a little by the elbow. "You know very well you enjoy nagging the teachers a bit yourself, now and then. And Professor Dimp!" "Oh! Oh! Oh!" gasped Bobby suddenly. "Did you hear the latest about Old Dimple?" "Now, girls," said Laura, quite sternly, "I refuse to hear of Professor Dimp being made a goose of." "Gander, dear! Gander!" exclaimed Jess, _sotto voce_. "He's an old dear," declared Laura, quite as earnestly. "We found that out, I am sure, when we went camping on Acorn Island last summer." "True! True!" admitted her chum. "Oh, nobody wants to hurt the old fellow," chuckled Bobby. "But one day this week there was a bunch of the boys down at the post-office, and Professor Dimp came in to mail a letter. You know he is always reading on the street when he walks; never sees anybody, and goes stumbling about blindly with a book under his nose. He got into the revolving door and Short and Long declares Old Dimple went around ten times before he knew enough to come out--and then he was on the street again and had failed to mail the letter." "Oh, Bobby!" cried Jess, while Miss Steele was quite convulsed by the statement. "He's so absent-minded," said Laura sympathetically. "Why didn't Short and Long tell him he was in the revolving door?" "Humph!" chuckled Bobby, "I guess Short thought the old fellow needed the exercise." Just then the girls came to the corner of Whiffle Street The street was narrow and crooked in an elbow here. The houses were mostly small, and were out of repair. It was, indeed, the poor end of Whiffle Street. On the hill end were some of the best residences in Centerport. "There's the Eaton place across the street," said Jess briskly. "I see there is a light, Miss Steele." "That is mother's room on the first floor--right off the piazza. You know, we could not begin to use all the house," the girl added frankly. "There are only mother and I and Aunt Jinny." "Oh! Your aunt?" asked Jess. "She is mother's old nurse. She has come with us--to help do the housework, you know," Miss Steele said frankly, yet again flushing a little. "I--I guess I have never lived just as you girls do. We have moved around a great deal. I have got such education as I have by fits and starts, you see. I suppose you three girls have a perfectly delightful time at your Central High?" "Especially when Gee Gee gets after us with a sharp stick," grumbled Bobby. "Don't mind Bobby," said Laura, laughing. "She is dreadfully slangy, and sometimes quite impossible. We do have fine times at Central High. Especially in our games and athletic work." "Miss Steele must be sure and come to our Ice Carnival next week," said Jess. "'Ice Carnival'?" cried the Red Cross girl. "And I just love to skate!" There came a sudden tapping on the window of the lighted room in the old Eaton house. The girls had crossed the street and were standing at the gate. Janet Steele wheeled quickly and waved her hand. A sitting figure was dimly outlined at the long, French window. "Oh!" Janet said. "Mother wants us to come in. She doesn't see many people--and she enjoys young folk. Won't you come in? It will be a pleasure for us both." Jess and Bobby looked at Laura. They allowed Mother Wit to decide the question, and she was but a few seconds in doing so. "Why, of course! It's not late," she said. "We shall stay but a minute this time, Miss Steele." "Call me Janet," whispered the Red Cross girl, squeezing Laura's arm as they went through the sagging gate. The quartette climbed the steep steps to the piazza. That the Eaton house was in bad repair was proved by the broken boards in steps and piazza floor and the dilapidated condition of the railing. Even the lock of the front door was broken. Janet turned the knob and ushered them into the dimly-lit hall. This was neatly if sparsely furnished. And everything seemed scrupulously clean. Their young hostess opened the door into her mother's room, which was that originally intended for the parlor. The eager and curious girls of Central High saw first of all the figure of the woman in the wheel chair by the window. She had pulled down the shade now and dropped the curtains into place. The whole room was warm and well lighted. There was a gas chandelier lighted to the full and an open grate heaped with red coals. There was a good rug, comfortable chairs, and a canopied bed set in a corner. A tea-table with furnishings was drawn up near the fireplace. If one was obliged to spend one's time in a single room, this apartment seemed amply furnished for such a condition. Mrs. Steele herself was no wan and hopeless-looking invalid. She was as buxom as Janet, and Janet was as well built a girl, even, as Laura Belding. The invalid had shrunken none in body or limbs. She owned, too, a very attractive smile, and she held out both hands to greet her young visitors. "I am delighted!" she said in a strong, quick voice, which matched her smile and bright glance perfectly. "Why, Janey, you may go out every evening, if you will only bring back with you such a bevy of fresh, sweet faces. Introduce me--do!" The introductions were made amid considerable gaiety. Mother Wit took the lead in telling Mrs. Steele who they were. Later Janet related the accident on Market Street, which had led to her acquaintance with the three girls of Central High. Laura's keen eyes were not alone fixed upon Mrs. Steele while they talked. She took into consideration everything in the house. There was no mark of poverty; yet the Steeles lived in a house in a poor neighborhood and one that was positively out of repair, and they occupied only a small part of it. When the three girls came out again and Janet had gone in and closed the door, Laura was in a brown study. "Wake up, Mother Wit!" commanded Jess. "What do you think of the Steeles--and all?" All Laura Belding could say in comment, was: "Odd!" CHAPTER IV THE MYSTERY MAN The three boys who had set off to find the car that had knocked down the stranger on the icy street were as mysterious the next day as they could be. At least, so their girl friends declared. Being Sunday, there was no general gathering of the Central High girls and boys, but Laura, naturally, saw her brother early. He was coming from his shower in bathrobe and slippers when Laura looked out of her own door. "What sort of fox-and-goose chase did Short and Long take you and Lance away on?" she demanded. "Oh, I don't know that he was altogether foolish," said Chet doubtfully. "Then did you really find some trace of the car?" cried Laura, eagerly. "Well, we found a car. Yes." "'Goodness to gracious!' as poor Lizzie Bean says. You are noncommunicative, Chetwood Belding. What do you mean--you found a car?" "Laura," said her brother, "I don't know--nor does Lance, or Short and Long--whether the fellow we suspect had anything to do with that accident or not." "Oh!" "And we don't want to get him in wrong." "Who is it?" demanded his sister, bluntly. "No. We won't tell anybody who it is we suspect until we make further investigations." "I declare, you are as mysterious as a regular detective! And suppose the police do make inquiries?" "They will, of course," "And what will you boys tell them?" "Pooh!" returned Chet, going on to his room to dress, "they won't ask us because they don't know we know anything about it." "I guess you don't know much!" shouted Laura after him before he closed his door. It was the same when Jess Morse met Lance Darby on the way to Sunday School. "Ho, Launcelot!" she cried. "Tell us all the news--that is a good child. Who was that awful person who ran down the man last night? I hear from Dr. Agnew that they had to patch the poor victim up a good deal at the hospital. Did you boys find the guilty party?" "I don't know that we did," said Darby. "You see, nobody seemed to see the license number of the automobile." "But didn't Short and Long have suspicions?" "Well, what are suspicions?" demanded the boy. "We all agreed to say nothing about it unless we have proof. And we haven't any proof--as yet." "Why, I believe you are 'holding out' on your friends, Lance," declared Jess, in surprise. "For shame!" "Aw, ask Chet--if you must know!" exclaimed Lance, hurrying away. As it chanced it was Bobby Hargrew who attempted to play inquisitor with Short and Long, meeting the boy with the youngest Long, Tommy, on the slippery hill of Nugent Street Tommy was so bundled up in a "Teddy Bear" costume that he could scarcely trudge along, and he held tightly to his brother's hand. "For goodness' sake!" exclaimed Bobby, when she saw Tommy slipping all over the icy sidewalk, "what is the matter with that boy?" "He hasn't got his sea-legs on," grinned Short and Long. "You mean to tell me he is nearly five years old and can walk no better than _that?_" exclaimed Bobby teasingly. "Why, we have a little dog at home that isn't even a year old yet, and he can ran right over this ice. He can walk twice as good as Tommy does." "Hoh!" exclaimed that youngster defensively. "That dog's got twice as many legs as I have." "Right you are, Kid!" chuckled his brother. "He got you there, Clara." "And did you boys get that man who ran the poor fellow down on Market Street last night?" demanded Bobby, with interest. "Did you have him arrested?" "No. What do you suppose? We're not going around snitching to the police," growled Short and Long. "But if that man at the hospital is seriously hurt----" "Oh, we're not sure it's the right car," said the boy, and evidently did not wish to talk about it. "Billy Long!" exclaimed the girl. "Are you boys trying to defend the guilty person?" "Aw----" "Suppose that man at the hospital dies?" "Pshaw! He wasn't hurt as bad as all that." "How do you know?" "Because I've been to the hospital to find out He's got a broken leg and a broken head----" "Is he conscious yet?" demanded Bobby Hargrew quickly. "No-o. They say he doesn't know anybody--and nobody knows who he is." "Now you see!" cried the girl "Maybe he will die! And you boys will let the man who did it get away." "Oh, he won't get away," grumbled Short and Long. "We know where to find him when we want to." "You'd better let the police know where to find him," said Bobby tartly. "You're not the police, Bobby Hargrew!" returned Short and Long, grinning and going on with Tommy. The girls, of course, got together and compared notes and decided that the boys were "real mean, so now!" To pay Chet and Lance and Billy Long for being so secretive about the person they suspected of having caused the injury to the stranger Saturday evening, the three girls went alone that Sunday afternoon to the hospital to inquire after the injured man. And there they met Janet Steele again. The Red Cross girl had been making inquiries, too, about the same case. "It really is a very serious matter," Janet said to her new friends. "The man who knocked him down should be found. Although the doctors think he has no internal injuries after all, there is a compound fracture which will keep him in bed for a long time, and in addition he seems unable to give any satisfactory explanation of who he is or where he comes from." "Goodness!" exclaimed Jess Morse. "Do you mean he has lost his mind?" "Merely mislaid it," said Janet with a smile. "Or, at least, he cannot remember his name and address." "Didn't he have any papers about him that explain those points?" asked Laura. "That seems to be odd, too," said Janet "No. Not a mark on his clothing, either. But he was plentifully supplied with money, and all the bills were brand new." "Oh!" exclaimed Laura. "That reminds me. That funny bill he passed on Chet was brand new, too. I wonder if all his money is queer?" "What do you mean?" asked Janet, wonderingly. "Is the man a criminal, do you think?" Laura and Jess explained about the peculiarly printed bill, which had given the first named so much trouble in making up her father's accounts the evening before. "But that may be all explained in time," said Janet. "All right," grumbled Bobby Hargrew. "But suppose poor Chet has to lose fifty dollars?" "Father is going to take the bill to the bank to-morrow to see if they can explain the mystery," Laura said. "But that will not explain the mystery of the stranger." said Jess. "Why, he is a regular 'man of mystery,' isn't he?" "Humph!" said Bobby. "And so is the fellow the boys think ran him down. He is a man of mystery as well." CHAPTER V SAND IN THE GEARS Since the whole school had taken such a tremendous interest in "the profession" at the time Central High blossomed forth in Jess Morse's play, the M.O.R.s had given several playlets, and Mrs. Case, the physical instructor, had staged folk dances and tableaux in the big hall. For the Red Cross the association of girls connected with the Girls Branch Athletic League that had carried forward these smaller affairs, had determined to stage "a real play." Nellie Agnew, the doctor's daughter, and secretary of the club, had sent to a publisher for copies of plays that could be put on by amateurs, and interest in the affair waxed high already. The principal point of decision was the identity of the play they were to produce. Mr. Sharp and the other members of the school faculty had agreed to let the girls act, and the big hall, or auditorium, could be used for the production. At noon on Monday the girls interested in the performance met in the principals office to decide upon the play. "And of course," grumbled Bobby Hargrew to the Lockwood twins, Dora and Dorothy, "all the teachers have got to come and interfere. We can't do a sol-i-ta-ry thing without Gee Gee, or Miss Black, or some of them, poking their noses into it." "You can't say that Professor Dimp pokes his nose into our affairs," laughed Dora. "No, indeed," said her twin. "Outside of his Latin and physics he doesn't seem to have a single idea." "Doesn't he?" scoffed Bobby. "The boys say he's gone into the dressmaking business, or something." "What is that?" asked Dora, smiling. "What do they mean?" "Why, the professor's niece is living with him now. He is not much used to having a woman in his sitting-room, I guess. She sits and sews with him in the evening while he reads or corrects our futile work," said Bobby, grinning. "The other night Ellie Lingard--that's his niece--lost her scissors and she said they hunted all over the room for them. The next morning in one of the physics classes the professor opened his book, and there were the lost scissors, which he had tucked into it for a bookmark while he helped Ellie Lingard hunt for her lost property." "Oh, oh!" laughed the twins. "The worst of it was," continued Bobby, with an elfish grin, "Old Dimple grabbed them up and said right out loud: 'Oh, here they are, Ellie!' The boys just hooted, and poor Old Dimp was as mad as a hatter." "The poor old man," said Dorothy commiseratingly. It was a fact that, although Professor Dimp did not interfere in this play business, most of the other teachers desired to have their opinions considered. The girls would not have minded Mr. Sharp. Indeed, they courted his advice. But when Miss Grace Gee Carrington stood up to speak, some of them audibly groaned. Miss Carrington was Mr. Sharp's assistant and almost in complete control of the girls of the school. At least, the girls came in contact with her much more than they did with Mr. Sharp himself. She was a very stiff and precise woman, with an acrid temper and a sharp tongue. She had been teaching unruly girls for so many years that she was to a degree quite soured upon the world--especially that world of school which she had so much to do with. Of late, however, Miss Carrington had become interested "quite in a human way," her girls said, in a person who had first appeared to the ken of the girls of Central High as a Gypsy girl. Margit Salgo's father, a Hungarian Gypsy musician, had married Miss Carrington's sister, much against the desire of Miss Grace Gee Carrington herself. When the orphaned Margit found her way to Centerport she made such an impression upon her aunt's heart that the latter finally took the girl into her own home and adopted her as "Margaret Carrington." That, however, could not change Miss Carrington's nature. She was severe and (in the opinion of fly-away Bobby Hargrew) she was much inclined to interfere in the girls' affairs. On this occasion the girls were not disappointed when Miss Carrington "said her little say." "I approve of any acceptable attempt to raise funds for such a worthy object as this we have in mind," said Miss Carrington. "An exhibition which will interest the school in general and our parents and friends likewise, meets, I am sure, with the approval of us all. Some of our young ladies, I feel quite sure, show some talent for playing, and much interest therein. Without meaning to pun, I would add that I wish they showed as great talent for work as for play." "She could not help giving us that dig, if she were to be martyred for it," Nellie Agnew whispered to Laura. "Sh! She'll see your lips move," warned Dora Lockwood, on the other side of the doctor's daughter. "I believe she has learned lip reading." Miss Carrington went on quite calmly: "The first consideration, however, it seems to me, is the selection of the play. I should not wish to see the standard of Central High lowered by the acting of a play that would cater only to the amusement-loving crowd. It should be educational. We should achieve in a small way what the Greek players tried to teach--a love of beauty, of form, of some great truth that can be inculcated in this way on the public mind." "But, Miss Carrington!" cried Bess Yeager, one of the seniors, almost interrupting the staid teacher, "we want to make money for the Red Cross. We could not get a room full with a Greek play." "I beg Miss Yeager's pardon," said Miss Carrington stiffly. "We have our standard of education to uphold first of all." "I hope you will excuse me, Miss Carrington," said Laura, likewise rising to object. "Our first object is to give the people something that will amuse them so that they will crowd the auditorium. Otherwise our object will not have been achieved. This is a purely money-making scheme," added the jeweler's daughter with her low, sweet laugh. "I am amazed to hear you say so!" exclaimed the instructor, quick for argument at any time. "Have you young ladies no higher desire than to make the rabble laugh?" "I want you to know," muttered Jess Morse, "that my mother is coming, and she isn't 'rabble.'" Perhaps it was fortunate that Miss Carrington did not hear this comment. But she could not fail to hear some of the others made by the girls. There was earnest protest in all parts of the room. Mr. Sharp brought them to order. "Miss Carrington has, under ordinary circumstances, made an excellent point, and I want you all to notice it," said the principal. "We are an educational institution here on the hill. If we were giving a class play, or anything like that, I should vote for Miss Carrington's idea. At such a time something primarily educational should be in order. "But as I understand it, you young ladies are going to act for the benefit of the Red Cross fund, and what will benefit that fund the most is the drawing together of a well-paying crowd to see you act. "I am afraid we shall have to set aside our own desires, Miss Carrington," he continued, smiling at his assistant. "We must let the actors choose their own play--as long as it is a proper one--and abide for once by the decision of those of our friends who wish to be amused rather than educated." "He's half backing her up!" complained Dora. "Well, he has to pour oil on the troubled waters," whispered Laura. "Huh!" grumbled Bobby Hargrew. "But Gee Gee is determined to throw sand in the gears, not oil on the waters. She always does." Really, Miss Carrington seemed in an interfering mood that day. Nellie had a collection of plays from which they were supposed to choose that very session the one to be acted. There was but brief time to learn the parts and the acting directions. But Mr. Mann, who had directed them in other plays, said he thought he would be able to whip the girls into shape for a performance in two weeks. Although they were amateurs, they had all had some experience. When the girls themselves got a chance to talk it was shown that their desires were all for a parlor comedy with bright lines, some farcical turns to the plot, but a play of sufficient weight to gain the approval of sober-minded people. It was, however, far from being classic. "Such a play is preposterous!" ejaculated Miss Carrington, breaking out again. "Don't you think so yourself, Mr. Sharp?" The principal had the book in his hand and was skimming through some of the dialogue. If the truth was told he was on a broad grin. "I don't know about that, Miss Carrington. It--it is really very funny." "'Funny!'" gasped his assistant, with all the emphasis she dared show in the presence of the principal. "As though to make fun should be our target!" "What would you like to have us play?" asked Bobby, daringly. "Julius Caesar? If we do, I want to play old Julius. He dies in the first act. The rest of us would be killed lingeringly by the audience, I know, before the last." "Miss Hargrew!" snapped the teacher. Then she remembered that this was not a recitation and she could not easily punish the girl. She shook her head and looked offended during the remainder of the discussion. "But you know very well," snapped Lily Pendleton, a rather overdressed girl, as they all crowded out of the schoolhouse after the meeting, "that Gee Gee will do her wickedest to spoil it all." "Oh, no!" cried Laura. "Not when it is for the Red Cross!" "It wouldn't matter what the object was," said Jess morosely. "She always does try to crab the game." "Goodness, Josephine!" gasped her chum, "you are positively as slangy as Chet." "I guess I catch it from him," admitted Jess Morse. "And she is a crab!" "Now girls!" called Nellie, a regular Martha for trouble at the present moment. "Now girls, remember the 'sides' will be here day after tomorrow, and Mr. Mann will look us over and give out the parts that afternoon in the small hall. Nobody must be absent. We want this show to be the biggest success that ever was." "It won't be if Gee Gee can help it," growled Bobby Hargrew, shaking her curls. CHAPTER VI THE BANK-NOTE "There's one sure thing about it," Lance Darby said to Laura when she told him of the way in which Miss Carrington had tried to interfere with the girls' choice of the play, "she cannot butt into the Ice Carnival arrangements. Nobody but your Mrs. Case and our Mr. Haskins has anything to say about the Carnival Committee's arrangements." "Oh! Indeed?" laughed Laura. "There you are mistaken about the far-reaching influence of our Miss Carrington." "What do you mean?" "You forget that our share of the Carnival is under the jurisdiction of the Girls Branch League, and in the constitution and by-laws of that association it is stated that none of us girls can take part in any exhibition without the consent of our teachers, and without, indeed, having a certain standing in all branches of study. Miss Carrington can get her word in right there." "Wow, wow! That's so, I presume," admitted Lance. "But we have gone so far now," said Laura complacently, "that I don't think even Bobby will be refused permission to join in the festivities--and Bobby is a splendid little skater, Lance." "Bobby is all right," agreed the youth. "But here comes old Chet--and his face is as long as the moral law. He is still worried about that fifty dollars he may have to dig down into his jeans for--if your father sticks to what he said he'd do." Chetwood had a cheerful word, however, despite his serious aspect. "Have you seen the ice, Lance?" he demanded, brightening up. "Not to-day, old boy." "It's scrumptious--just!" exclaimed the big fellow. "They have been shaving it, and have got it all roped off." "Better have somebody watch it, too, or the kids from downtown will get in there and cut it all up. Just like 'em," growled Lance. "Don't fret. Old Godey is on guard. Trust him to keep the kids off the track," said Chet. "Is father at home, Laura?" "He's just come in," said his sister. "Has he found out about that bank-note yet?" "That is what I wanted to know," said the worried Chet. "I've been over to the hospital this afternoon--before I went down to the lake shore. That, chap who was hurt is off his nanny----" "Chet! Don't let mother hear you," begged Laura, yet laughing. "I wouldn't want the mater to be shocked," admitted Chet. "But that is exactly what is the trouble with that man who gave me the phony bill. The doctor told me the crack he got on the head had injured his brain." "The poor man!" sighed his sister. "What about 'poor me'?" demanded Chet indignantly. "And they say he carried a roll of brand new bills big enough to choke a cow! The doctor says he thinks the money is good, too. But he passed that hundred-dollar note on me----" "If it is a hundred," interjected Lance. "Now you said a forkful," grumbled Chet, shaking his head. "Let's go in and see what father has to say about it. He was going to see Mr. Monroe at the First National. They say Mr. Monroe knows all about money--knew the fellow who invented it, personally, I guess." The young folks found Mr. Belding in the library, and he welcomed them with his customary smile when the three came in. "The bank-note?" he repeated. "I left it for Mr. Monroe to look at. He was out of town. But he will tell me when he returns--if he knows about it. It is a curious thing. And I hope it will teach you a lesson, Chetwood." "Sure!" grumbled Chet, "Of course, there is nothing so important in this world as learning lessons. Little thing about me being nicked fifty dollars isn't considered." His father laughed at his rueful countenance. "Well, Son, I can't offer you much sympathy. Perhaps the Treasury Department will make it right. And how about that man who gave it to you? He can't get far with a broken leg." "He's gone far enough already," declared Chet. "They say he has lost his memory." "What's that?" cried Mr. Belding. "Looks fishy, doesn't it?" said Lance. "Lots of folks who owe money lose their memories." "No," said Chet, shaking his head. "This chap really got a hard bang on the head, and the doctors say he may never remember who he is." "Lost his identity?" demanded Mr. Belding. "Completely. At least, he doesn't know his name or where he came from. He remembers a part of his life, they say, for he seems to think he has been in Alaska. Asked the nurse, in fact, how long Sitka had had such a hospital as this. Thought he was in Sitka, you see." "Why, isn't it strange?" Laura said. "The poor fellow!" "He's not poor, I tell you," said the literal Chet. "He's got a lot of money. But not a card, or a mark about him--not even on his clothes--to tell who he is." "How about his hat?" questioned Lance. "And his suit? The labels, I mean." "The hat was brand new," said Chet, "and was bought right here in Centerport. Oh, the hospital folks have been trying through the police to find out something about him. Nothing doing, they say." "Why," said Mr. Belding thoughtfully, "there must be some way of discovering who the unfortunate is, even if he cannot remember himself." "Who do you mean, Pa, by 'the unfortunate'?" demanded his son. "I should think I was the unfortunate. Especially if that bank-note is phony." "But you did not get a broken leg--and a broken head--out of it," his father said dryly. "That's all right," muttered Chet "But I am likely to have a broken pocketbook, all right all right!" CHAPTER VII SOMETHING EXCITING Mr. Belding was not unmindful of his son's anxiety regarding the odd bank-note that Chet had taken over the counter in the jewelry store. Besides, Laura sat herself upon the arm of his big Morris chair after dinner that Monday evening, and said: "You know, dear Pa, Chet is a pretty good boy. And fifty dollars is much more money than he can afford to lose--all in one bunch." "Indeed?" said her father indignantly. "And how about me? With my expensive family, do you think I can afford to lose fifty dollars? And the boy is careless." "I deny it," said Laura briskly. "Chet! not careless?" "Only thoughtless." "What is the difference?" "Academic, or moral?" demanded Mother Wit, looking at him slyly. "Oh, well, it doesn't pay to split hairs with you," declared her father, pinching a warm cheek until it was rosier than ever. "But what's the big idea, as Chet himself would say?" "Why, now, Pa Belding----" "Out with it! What do you want me to do?" "I--I thought if you'd make Chet pay only half of the fifty dollars, that perhaps you lost----" "Well?" he growled, in apparent indignation still. "Why, I would pay the other twenty-five!" burst out Laura hurriedly. "Only you must promise not to tell Chet." "What do you mean? To pay half his fine?" "Well, you don't need to halloo so about it, Pa dear," she pouted. "I wouldn't let you!" "Oh, yes you would. You know it is going to be awfully hard on Chet to take that money out of the bank to pay you." "There, there!" said Mr. Belding gruffly. "We won't talk about it--yet. Perhaps we'll find the bank-note is all right." But he said afterward to his wife that evening: "What are we going to do with such children, Mother? You can't punish one without hurting the other right to the quick." "We have been blessed in our children, Henry," said Mrs. Belding proudly. "And--really--Chet should not be too much blamed." "There, there!" exclaimed her husband in a disgusted tone of voice. "You're every whit as bad as Laura." Mr. Monroe did not return to the bank for several days; and meanwhile other important and interesting things were happening. The three boys who seemed to have secret knowledge about the accident on Market Street refused to answer the questions of their girl friends as to the identity of the car that had run the victim down. "You are just the meanest boys!" flared out Bobby Hargrew, as they all trooped down to Lake Luna to take almost the last look at the roped-off arena before the carnival would twinkle its lights that evening at six o'clock. "I don't know, Bobby," drawled Chet. "I believe we really could be meaner if we tried." "No you couldn't!" snapped Clara Hargrew with finality. "Oh, girls!" gasped Laura suddenly, "tell me what this is coming up the hill? Or am I seeing something that you folks don't?" "Gee!" exclaimed the slangy Bobby, forgetting her indignation with Chet and the other boys. "Is it? Can it be?" "Pretty Sweet!" ejaculated Jess, beginning to laugh. "And he is in his forest green hunting suit. _I_ call it his 'Robin Ridinghood' suit." "It just matches him, all right," said Lance. "He's verdant green and so is the suit. And look how he is carrying that gun, will you?" The gun was in its case, but the boy in question was carrying the shotgun in a most awkward manner. Without a doubt he was half afraid of it. "And I bet he hasn't had a charge in it all the time he's been out. Who did he go with?" asked Chet. "Some of the East Siders. They cater to him a lot, and you know," said Lance, with disgust, "tight as Purt is with money, if you flatter him you can pull his leg." "Dear me!" murmured Laura, "it is not in your province to use such slang, Lance. Leave that to Chet and Bobby." "Hey, Pretty!" Chet shouted to the very dandified lad, as he crossed the street toward them. "What luck, old top?" Although when they had first seen him, Prettyman Sweet was undoubtedly footsore, he began to strut now and pride "fairly exuded from his countenance," as Jess whispered to her chum. "Did you get any cottontails?" demanded Lance. "Oh, a few--a few, muh boy," declared Pretty Sweet airily. Then they saw that he had a game bag slung over his shoulder in true sportsman style. "I did not suppose you would go out to shoot the poor, innocent little rabbits, Mr. Sweet," said Laura, with sober face but dancing eyes. "They have never done you any harm." "I bet a real bad rabbit would make Purt run," muttered Bobby. "Oh, Miss Belding!" said the school dandy. "You know I'm awf'ly keen on sport--awf'ly keen, doncher know. I just _have_ to get a day now and then in the woods, when game is in season." "He's as keen on it as the two Irishmen were, who went hunting for the first time," broke in Bobby. "When they sighted a bird sitting on a bush Meehan took very careful aim and prepared to fire. Said his friend, grabbing him by the arm: "'Don't fire, Meehan! Shure an' yez haven't loaded yer gun.' "'That's as it may be, me lad,' retorted Meehan, 'but fire I must. The bur-rd won't wait!'" Prettyman Sweet was used to being laughed at, yet he flushed at the gibe. "Never mind," he said. "I bring home the game, just the same." "You 'bring home the bacon,' in other words," said Chet, approaching him. "Let's see the bunnies?" Nothing loath, the overdressed boy opened the bag and displayed his plunder. He brought two big hares out of the bag by their ears and held them up with pride. "Bet they were trapped," said Bobby in an undertone. "They were not trapped!" cried Purt Sweet sharply. "See! That is where one was shot! And there is the other--see?" "Jinks!" said Lance. "Both through the head. _You_ never did it, Purt?" "I did so!" cried the huntsman angrily. "I shot them both." Chet was looking them over closely. He shook his head. "They have been shot all right," he said. "And you shot them over there on Cavern Island?" "I can prove it," said Purt haughtily. "That's all right," said Chet thoughtfully. "You may have shot them--and on Cavern Island. But whose rabbits were they before you bought them?" "What? I--Oh!" Bobby and Jess began to giggle. Chet grinned as he added: "Those are Belgian hares, not rabbits, Pretty. Somebody has put something over on you. Belgian hares don't run wild in the woods of Cavern Island--that is sure." "Bet he shot them hanging up on a fence," snapped Short and Long, who thus far had said never a word to Prettyman Sweet. "And I know the market to-day is full of Belgian hares," chuckled Chet. "Oh, Purt! you never could pull off anything like that on us in a hundred years." "I don't care--I--I--" The angry Purt snatched up his game bag and marched away. "That he's been caught in the trick puts a crimp in him," chuckled Chet Belding. "And that isn't all that ought to happen to him," muttered Short and Long, who seemed to have become suddenly very bitter against the dandified Sweet. "Can it, Billy, can it," advised Lance. "Give a calf rope enough and he will hang himself." "And maybe that fellow ought to be hung," was Short and Long's further comment. "Why, Billy!" exclaimed Laura, "what ever do you mean?" "Yes, Short and Long," said Jess. "Why the 'orrid hobservation about poor Purt?" Perhaps Billy Long would have blurted out something, had not another incident taken place which so excited all the young people that they forgot Purt Sweet and his foibles. The group had reached Lakeside Avenue, which overlooked many shore estates and some private docks. This was the residential end of Centerport, and the vicinity in summer was lovely. Now the outlook on Lake Luna's sparkling surface--frozen in a sheen of ice to the shore of Cavern Island in the middle of the lake--was wonderfully attractive. At the foot of Nugent Street, which they now reached, the girls and boys from Central High heard suddenly a great shouting and peals of laughter from up the hill. Some snow still lay on the side of Nugent Street; and the hill was a glare of ice. Down the steep descent were coming three or four heavy sleds loaded with young folks. Many of them were girls and boys of Central High. "Some coasting!" exclaimed Chet. "I had no idea it was so good. We ought to get our bob out, Lance." "Oh, see, Laura!" murmured Jess. "There comes Janet Steele. She must have been canvassing for Red Cross members away over here. I wish we had time to do some of that work." The Red Cross girl appeared from around a turn in the avenue, and the instant she spied her new friends she waved her gloved hand. "Is that the girl who gave first-aid to the man on Market Street Saturday night?" asked Chet. "Some little queen, isn't she?" rejoined Lance, with twinkling eyes. "Oh," said Laura placidly, "you needn't think that you can get us girls jealous about Janet Steele. She is an awfully sweet girl." "And she isn't little at all," put in Jess, tossing her head. "She is as husky as Eve Sitz." Before they could say more, or further hail the Red Cross girl, there was a crash and terrific rattling around the turn of the avenue. The next instant a horse appeared, madly galloping along the roadway, and drawing the shattered remains of a grocery wagon after him. The maddened beast would, so it seemed, cross the foot of Nugent Street just as the bobsleds shot down to that point. Across the avenue was a steep bank against which the sleds were easily halted. But they could not be stopped before they crossed Lakeside Avenue! CHAPTER VIII THE FOREFRONT OF TROUBLE The three boys drew Laura and her girl friends into the gateway of a residence that faced the lake. The Red Cross girl was on the other side of Nugent Street, and the runaway horse was coming along the avenue behind her. Chet would have leaped away to her assistance had not Jess grabbed him by the arm and screamed. The sleds were almost at the crossing, and surely Chet Belding would have been knocked down. Janet Steele proved to be perfectly able to look out for herself. And on this occasion she could even do more than that. She whirled and saw the horse coming with the wrecked wagon. She could not see up the hill of Nugent Street, for the corner house barred her vision in that direction. But without doubt she had heard the eager shouts of the coasters and understood what was ahead of them. The runaway would cross the foot of the hill just in time, perhaps, to collide with one or more of the bobsleds. Almost opposite the foot of Nugent Street and right beside the steep bank against which the coasters had been wont to stop their sleds, was a narrow lane pitching toward the lakeshore. This lane was near Janet Steele. Chet saw it and realized how the horse might be turned. But the boy was too far away. Even as he shook off Jess Morse's frenzied hold on his arm, the runaway was upon Janet Steele. The latter had whipped off the Red Cross veil she wore. Seizing it by both extremes she allowed the veil to float out on the brisk winter breeze, darting with it into the street. The runaway's glaring eyes caught sight of the flapping folds of the veil, and he swerved, his hoofs sliding on the slippery drive. The eyes of a horse magnify objects tremendously, and the girl's figure and her flowing veil probably looked to the frightened animal like some awful and threatening bogey. Scrambling and snorting, he swerved to the side of the road, saw the open lane, and the next moment thundered into it, the broken wagon skidding across the lane and smashing into a gatepost. It was at the same instant that the head sled came sweeping down Nugent Street, crossed the avenue, and stood almost on end against the bank, stopping abruptly in the snow bank. The other sleds poured down and stopped; but none had been in so much danger as that first one. Laura and Chet and their friends started on the run for the spot--and for Janet Steele. "Oh! _Oh! OH!_" shrieked in crescendo one girl who had ridden on the first bobsled. "We might have been killed!" Some of the boys ran after the horse. The rest of the young people surrounded Janet Steele. "How brave you were," murmured Jess Morse admiringly. "You've got a head on you, sure enough!" exclaimed Bobby Hargrew, while the Red Cross girl, blushing and with downcast eyes, began hastily to adjust her veil again. "Oh, it was nothing," murmured Janet. "Tell it to Lily. Here comes Lily Pendleton," said Jess, smiling again. "She won't think it was nothing." The girl who had shrieked so loudly came up quickly to the group of Central High girls. "Did you turn that horse?" she demanded of Janet Steele. "You are a regular duck! We might have all been killed! I never will ride down a hill with Freddy Brubach again! There should have been somebody down here to signal that we were coming!" "Guess the horse would not have paid much attention to signals, Lil," laughed Laura. "Only the kind that Miss Steele waved," added Bobby. "Is that your name?" Lily Pendleton asked the Red Cross girl. "I'm awfully glad to know you." "And much gladder that she was right on the job here when the horse came along, aren't you, Lil?" chuckled Bobby. "She ought to have a medal," declared one of the other girls. "Let's write to Mr. Carnegie about her," proposed Jess, but good-naturedly, and hugged Janet now that she had rearranged her veil. "Oh, dear me!" gasped Janet Steele, "please don't make so much over so little. I shall almost be sorry that I turned the horse into the lane. And it was a little thing. I am not afraid of horses." "A mere medal is nothing to Miss Steele, I bet," said Bobby, the emphatic. "I expect she has a trunk full of 'em. Like the German army officer who had his chest covered with iron crosses and medals and the like. Somebody asked him how he came to get them all. "'Vell,' he said, pointing to the biggest and shiniest medal, 'I got dot py meestake; undt dey gif me de odders pecause I got dot one!'" "Oh, you and your jokes, Bobby!" said Lily Pendleton, with some scorn. "This was a serious business. And there is another very serious matter, girls, that I have to call to your attention," she added, turning to Laura and Jess. "What has gone wrong? Nothing about the play, I hope!" cried Jess. "It is worse, because it is right at hand," said Lily, shaking her head. "What do you suppose Miss Carrington has done?" "Oh, Gee Gee!" groaned Bobby, in despair. "I knew she would break out in a fresh spot." "Do tell us what it is," begged Jess Morse. "It is about Hessie," said Lily. "Hester Grimes?" demanded Laura, with a rather grim expression. "What has happened to her now?" "Why!" cried Lily, rather sharply, "you speak as though Hessie was always getting into trouble." "You cannot deny but that she has frequently made a _faux pas,_ as it were," said Jess, smiling. "And what she does wrong," added Laura, with some bitterness, "usually affects the rest of us." "She did not do a thing wrong!" cried Lily stormily. "You girls are just too mean!" "Oh, come on, Lil," said Bobby. "Tell us the worst. We're prepared for murder, even." "You are very rude, Clara Hargrew," declared Lily Pendleton. "Hessie is not to blame. She failed in rhetoric, and when Miss Carrington tried to put a lot of home work on her she refused to take it." "What?" gasped Jess. "Oh! She did refuse, did she?" snapped Bobby. "And a fat lot that would help her!" "Well, I don't care!" cried Lily. "Gee Gee is just as mean----" "Granted!" agreed Bobby, with emphasis. "But tell us how much Hessie has been set back?" "Of course Miss Carrington has punished her if she was impudent," said Laura decidedly. "She has punished us all!" cried Lily. "She refuses to allow Hessie to skate to-night. She's out of it." "Out of the carnival?" cried several of her listeners in chorus. "And Hester," cried Bobby, "is in the Dress Parade. What did I tell you? Gee Gee was just hoping to queer us." "It is Hester Grimes who has queered us," Laura said, much more sternly than she usually spoke. "And we were all warned to be so careful!" "Now, don't blame Hessie!" cried Hester's chum angrily. "I'd like to know who we are to blame, then?" demanded Jess Morse, with disgust, "Knowing that Gee Gee is what she is, why couldn't Hester keep her own temper?" "Well! I just guess--" But after all it was Mother Wit who, though greatly offended, became peacemaker. "There, there!" she said. "Enough is done already. We shall miss Hester. But we mustn't get angry with each other and therefore spoil the whole Dress Parade. That masquerade should be the most spectacular number on the program." "But who will take Grimes' place?" demanded Bobby. Laura stood beside Janet Steele, whose eyes were wide open, her cheeks glowing, and even her lips ajar with excitement. Laura had a very keen mind, and already she had apprehended that Janet was more deeply interested in this discussion, and the subject of it, than a stranger naturally would be. She turned now to stare into the Red Cross girl's face. "Oh, Miss Steele!" she said, "didn't you tell us that you loved to skate?" "Ye-es," admitted Janet. "And she's as big as Hessie Grimes!" exclaimed Jess on the other side, and catching her chum's idea. "Would you take Hester's part in the masquerade?" asked Laura pointblank. "But she doesn't belong to Central High!" wailed Lily Pendleton. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Jess. "What does it matter? This is all for a show. It is no competition with other members of the League." "Right-o, Jess!" crowed Bobby Hargrew. "We-ell!" murmured Lily doubtfully. "Come, Miss Steele--Janet," said Laura, pleadingly. "I know you can help us. Hester, being the biggest girl, was to lead in certain figures on the ice. You could easily learn them. And you can wear her costume, I know." "Why--I----" "You don't know anything of the kind, Laura Belding," snapped Lily, interrupting Janet. "I don't believe Hessie would let any other girl wear her masquerade suit." "Sure she wouldn't!" exclaimed Bobby, with disgust. "She'll crab the whole game if she can. Hester Grimes always was a nuisance." But Laura suddenly clapped her hands in real joy. "Oh, no!" she cried. "We won't ask Janet to wear any other girl's costume. I know what would be fine." "Let's hear it, Laura dear," said Jess, eagerly. "Of course, you would have a bright idea. You always do." "Why," said the pleased Laura, "if Janet will come and skate with us, she need only wear the very cloak and veil she has on now. What could be more fitting for a leader of our costume parade? The whole carnival is for the Red Cross, and with a Red Cross girl to lead the procession, and Chet in his Uncle Sam suit to lead the boys--Why! it will be the best ever." "Hooray!" shouted Bobby, wild with enthusiasm. "It is splendid!" agreed Jess. Everybody in hearing agreed, save, perhaps, Lily Pendleton. Laura turned to Janet again and clasped her gloved hands over the new girl's arm. "Will you, dear? Will you help us out?" she asked. CHAPTER IX THE ICE CARNIVAL "Oh, Miss Laura! Do you really mean it?" murmured Janet Steele, her full pink cheeks actually becoming white she was so much in earnest. "Of course we mean it," Jess Morse said practically. "And glad to have you." "I don't know--" Janet looked for a moment at the sulky-faced Lily Pendleton. Jess immediately pulled that young girl forward. "Why, Lil isn't half as bad as she sounds," declared Jess, laughing. "This is our very particular friend, Janet Steele, Lil. You've got to treat her nicely. If you don't," she added sharply, "you'll never get a chance to go camping with us girls again as you did last summer. You and your Hester Grimes can go off somewhere by yourselves." Really, Lily Pendleton had improved a good deal since the time Jess mentioned, and the latter's blunt speech brought her to a better mind at once. "Well, of course," she said, offering Janet her hand, "I did not mean it just that way. You know how cranky Hessie is when she does get mad. But Laura has suggested a perfectly splendid idea. Miss Steele as a Red Cross girl and Chet as Uncle Sam will be fine to lead the grand march on skates." So it was decided, and they hurried Janet down to the girls' boathouse, which had a warm, cozy clubroom at one end where Mr. Godey, the watchman, stayed, and where, at this time of year, he was often busy sharpening skates. Laura found a pair of skates for the Red Cross girl, and for an hour the latter practiced with the girls of Central High the steps and figures of the masquerade parade, which Laura and her friends already had worked out to perfection. "Don't worry a bit about to-night, Janet," Laura told her, when they all hurried away from the lakeshore about dusk. "We'll push you through the figures. Jess and I will be on either side of you, except when we pair off with the boys. And then you will be with my brother Chet. And if he isn't nice to you he'll hear from me!" she added with vigor. "Oh, but Laura!" whispered Jess Morse, as they separated from Janet, "Chet mustn't be too nice to her. For Janet Steele is an awfully pretty girl." "Now, dear!" exclaimed her laughing chum, "don't develop incipient jealousy." With only two hours before them in which to do a hundred things, the girls were as busy as bees for the remainder of the afternoon. That Hester Grimes had been forbidden to take part in the carnival by Gee Gee troubled the girls of Central High less than they might have been troubled had it been almost any other of their number that the strict teacher had demerited. For, to tell the truth, Hester Grimes was not well loved. The daughter and much-indulged only child of a wealthy butcher, Hester had in the beginning expected to be catered to by her schoolmates. With such rather shallow schoolmates as Lily Pendleton, Hester was successful. Lily toadied to her, to use Bobby Hargrew's expression; nor was Lily alone in this. Upon those whom Hester considered her friends she spent her pocket money lavishly. She was not a pretty girl, but was a tremendously healthy one--strong, well developed, and tomboyish in her activities. Yet she lacked magnetism and the popularity that little Bobby Hargrew, for instance, attained by the exercise of the very same traits Hester possessed. Hester antagonized almost everybody--teachers and students alike. Even placid, peace-loving Mother Wit, found Hester incompatible. And because Laura Belding was a natural leader and was very popular in the school, Hester disliked her and showed in every way possible that she would not follow in Laura's train. Yet there had been a time when Hester had felt under obligation to Laura. Laura was secretly glad to see Lily Pendleton weaned slowly away from the butcher's daughter. The last summer had started Lily in the right direction, and although the overdressed girl had still some weaknesses of character to overcome, she had greatly improved, as this incident of the afternoon revealed. Lily was not alone in complaining about Miss Carrington's harshness, however. It was the principal topic of conversation when the girls gathered in the boathouse rooms to prepare for the races and the features that were to precede the principal attraction of the carnival--the masquerade grand march. "Sh! She's right here now," whispered Bobby Hargrew sepulchrally, coming into the dressing-room. "She's on watch at the door." "Who?" asked Jess Morse. "Not Hester?" cried Lily. "She told me she wouldn't come down here!" "Gee Gee," shot back Bobby, with pursed lips. "She is going to be sure that Hester doesn't appear." "Mean thing!" Nellie Agnew said. And when the doctor's gentle daughter made such a statement she had to be fully aroused. "She thinks she has spoiled the whole act!" "I believe you," Bessie Yeager said. "I wonder if Miss Carrington really sleeps at night?" "Why not, Bess?" cried Dora Lockwood. "I think she lies awake thinking up mean things to do to us." "Oh, oh!" murmured Nellie. "I bet you!" exclaimed the slangy Bobby. "Careful, girls. If she hears you!" warned Laura. "Then you would be 'perspicuous au grautin,' as the fellow said," chuckled Bobby. "There! the whistle has sounded." "The fête has begun," sighed Jess. "I do hope everything will go off right." "The boys are taking in money all right," Laura said with satisfaction. "I believe we shall make a thousand dollars for the Red Cross." "I hope so," said her chum. "Come on, girls! It's first the fancy skating before the ice arena is all cut up." The effort to make the Ice Carnival of the Central High a success was aided by a perfect evening and perfect ice. The latter had been shaved and smoothed over every gnarly place. There was not a single crack in which a skate could be caught to throw the wearer. The arena roped off from the spectators was as smooth as a ballroom floor. It was about two acres in extent. Around three sides of the roped-off space there was a roped-off alley with boards laid upon the ice upon which the spectators could stand. Uprights held the strings of colored lights which were supplied with electricity from the city lighting company; for this was not the first exhibition of the kind that had been staged upon Lake Luna. Around the alley allotted to the audience, each member of which had to pay a half dollar for a ticket, was a guarded space so that those who did not pay entrance fee could not get near enough to enjoy the spectacle. The short-distance races, following the figure skating, were all within the oval of the principal arena. Then the ropes were taken down at one end and the long-distance races came off, a mile track having been marked with staffs upon the ice, staffs which now held the clusters of colored lanterns. For two hours the company was so well amused that few were driven away by the cold--and it was an intensely cold night The ringing of the skates on the almost adamantine ice revealed the fact that Jack Frost had a tight clutch on the waters of Lake Luna. "I wish my mother could have seen this," Janet Steele murmured to Laura Belding. "I think it is like fairyland." "Isn't it pretty? Now comes the torchlight procession. The boys arranged this their own selves. See if it isn't pretty!" The short end of the oval had been closed again after the long-distance races, and now there dashed into the arena from the boys' lane to the dressing-rooms a long line of figures in dominos, each bearing a colored light. They were the boys that could skate the best--the most sure-footed. Back and forth, around and around, in and out and across! The swift movement of the figures was well nigh bewildering; while the intermingling of colored lights, their weaving in and out, made a brilliant pattern that brought applause again and again from the spectators. Then the boys divided, taking stations some distance apart, and the torches were tossed from hand to hand, as Indian clubs are tossed in gymnasium exercises. The effect was spectacular and seemed a much more difficult exercise than it really was. Meanwhile the girls selected for the masquerade were dressing in the boathouse. Their masquerade costumes were as diverse and elaborate as though it were a ball they were attending. There was no dress as simple as Janet Steele's Red Cross uniform; yet with her glowing face and sparkling eyes and white teeth there were few more effective figures in the party. She had proved herself to be a fine and strong skater. Laura and Jess, who sponsored her, were delighted with the new girl's appearance on the ice. She had learned, too, her part quite perfectly. When the girls first came out and the boys darted back to get into their fancy costumes, the summary of the figures the girls wove on the ice were already known to Janet. She fulfilled her part. Then returned the boys, "all rigged out," Bobby said, and the masquerade parade began. The crowd standing about the arena cheered and shouted. It really was a most attractive grand march, and there chanced, better still, to be no accident. Smoothly the young people wended their way about the ice, their skates ringing, their supple bodies swaying in time to the music, led by those two masks of Uncle Sam and the Red Cross girl. "It is lovely," Mrs. Belding said to her husband. "What a fine skater our Chetwood is, Henry. And it is so near Christmas! I hope that bank-note will turn out to be a good one so that he will not lose the money," she finished wistfully. "There, there!" said the jeweler. "I'll go to see Monroe to-morrow. He's at home again." CHAPTER X BUT WHO IS HE? "Well, Mr. Monroe," the jeweler said, when he was ushered into the banker's office the following forenoon by the bank watchman, "I presume that bill is a counterfeit of some kind?" "My dear Belding," said the banker, who was a portly and jolly man, who shook a good deal when he chuckled, and who shook now, "I thought you were old enough, and experienced enough, to discover the counterfeit from the real." "My son took the bill in over the counter," said the jeweler, rather chagrined. "But haven't you examined it?" said Mr. Monroe, taking the strange bank-note from a drawer of his desk. "Well--yes," was the admission, made grudgingly. "And are you not yet assured?" "Neither one way nor the other," frankly confessed the jeweler. "It was taken by Chet for a hundred-dollar bill. And it is that on one side!" "It certainly looks to be," chuckled Mr. Monroe. "But who ever heard of such a thing?" demanded the exasperated customer of the bank. "A hundred printed on one side and a fifty on the other! The printers of bank-notes do not make such mistakes." "Hold on! Nobody is infallible in this world--not even a bank-note printer," said the banker, reaching into another drawer and bringing forth a large indexed scrapbook. "Here's a case that happened some years ago. I am a scrapbook fiend, Belding," chuckled Mr. Monroe. "There were once two bills issued for a Kansas bank just like this one you have brought to me. Only this note that we have here was printed for the Drovers' Levee Bank of Osage, Ohio, as you can easily see. This note went through that bank, was signed by Bedford Knox, cashier, and Peyton J. Weld, president, as you can see, and its peculiar printing was not discovered. "Ah, here we have it!" added Mr. Monroe, fluttering the stiff leaves of the scrapbook and finally coming to the article in question. "Listen here: 'It was found on communication with Washington that a record was held there of the bill, and the department was anxious to recall it. With another bill it had been printed for a bank in Kansas, and the mistake had been made by the printer who had turned the sheet upside down in printing the reverse side. The first plate bore the obverse of a fifty-dollar bill at the top and of a hundred-dollar bill at the bottom, while the other plate held the reverse of both sides. By turning the sheet around for the reverse printing, the fifty-dollar impression had been made on the back of the hundred-dollar bill.' "Do you see, now?" laughed the banker. "Quite an easy and simple mistake, and one that might often be made, only the printers are very careful men." Oddly enough, Mr. Belding, although relieved by the probability that the Department at Washington would make the strange bill right for him, was suddenly attracted by another fact. "I wonder," he said, "if that man came from Osage, Ohio?" "What man? The one who passed the bank-note on your son?" "Yes. You know, he was injured and is now in the hospital." "I don't know. Go on." Mr. Belding related the story of the accident and the unfortunate mental condition of the injured man. "They tell me all the money he had with him was new money--fresh from the Treasury." "He probably did not make it himself," chuckled the jolly banker. "Poor chap! Don't the doctors think he will recover his memory?" "That I cannot say," the jeweler said, rising. "Then you think I may relieve Chet's mind?" "Oh, yes. I will give you another hundred for this bill, if you want me to. I will send this to Washington, where they probably already have a record of it. Bills of this denomination are printed by twos, and the other has probably turned up--as in the case of the Kansas bank-note." Aside from the satisfaction this interview of his father's with Mr. Monroe accorded Chet Belding, further interest on the part of all the young people was aroused in the case of the injured stranger. Oddly enough, when Laura and Jess went to the hospital to inquire about the man, they found Janet Steele, the Red Cross girl, there on the same errand. Since the Ice Carnival, that had proved such a money-making affair for the Red Cross, the Central High girls had considered Janet almost one of themselves. Although nobody seemed to know who or what the Steeles were, and they certainly lived very oddly in the old house at the lower end of Whiffle Street, Janet was so likable, and her invalid mother was evidently so much of a gentlewoman, that Laura and her chum had vouched for Janet and declared her to be "all right." The matron of the hospital was the person whom the girls interviewed on this occasion. Mrs. Langworth had some interest in each patient besides the doctor's professional concern. She was sympathetic. "We do not know what to call him," she explained. "He laughs rather grimly about it and tells us to call him 'John.' But that, I am sure, is not his name. He merely wishes us to have a 'handle' for him. And you cannot tell me," added the matron, shaking her head, "that he is one of those rough miners right out of Alaska!" "Does he say he is?" asked Janet, with increased interest. "He remembers of being in Alaska, he says. He was coming out, he tells us, when something happened to him. And that is the last he can remember. He believes he 'made his pile,' as he expresses it. Oh, he uses mining expressions, and may have lived roughly and in the open, as miners do, at some time in his life. But not recently, I am sure." "And not a thing about him to identify him?" asked Laura. "Not a thing. Plenty of money. Not much jewelry----" "Oh! The lavallière my brother sold him!" cried Laura. "He said it was for 'a nice little girl he knew.' It was only a ten dollar one--one of those French novelties, you know, that we sell so many of at this time of year." "He had that in an envelope in his pocket," said Mrs. Langworth. "Then he had not made the presentation of it to 'the nice little girl,'" murmured Laura, thoughtfully. "It almost proves he is a stranger in town, does it not?" asked Jess. "He bought the chain in the morning, and he was not hurt until evening. Do you know if he had any lodging in Centerport?" "The police have searched the hotels, I believe," said the matron, "and described the poor fellow to the clerks and managers. Nobody seems to know him." "Do--do you suppose we might see him?" Laura asked hesitatingly. "Oh, Laura! Would you want to?" Jess murmured. "Why not?" said the matron, smiling. "Not just now, perhaps. But the next time you come--in the afternoon, of course. He will be glad to see young faces, I have no doubt I will speak to Dr. Agnew when he comes in," for Nellie's father was of importance at the Centerport Hospital. "But who is he, do you suppose?" Jess Morse demanded, when the three girls left the hospital and walked uptown again. "He can't be any person who has friends in Centerport, or they would look him up." "That seems to be sure enough," admitted her chum. Then: "Shall we walk along with Janet?" "Of course," said Jess. "Are you going home, Miss Steele?" "Yes," said the girl in the Red Cross uniform. "I have been on duty at the Central Chapter; but mother expects me now." "How is your mother, dear?" asked Laura, with sympathy. "She is as well as can be expected," said Janet gravely. "If she had nothing to worry her mind she would be better in health," and she sighed. Janet did not explain what this worry was, and even Jess, blunt-spoken as she often was, could not ask pointblank what serious trouble Mrs. Steele had on her mind. Again the Central High girls went in to see the invalid upon Janet's invitation. They found Bobby Hargrew there before them. Harum-scarum as Bobby was, nobody could accuse her of lack of sympathy; and she had already learned that her fun and frolic pleased the invalid. Bobby did not mind playing the jester for her friends. Of course, the strange man at the hospital was the pivot on which the conversation turned. "Were you there, too, to inquire about him?" asked Mrs. Steele of Janet. Laura noticed a certain wistfulness in the invalid's tone and look; but she did not understand it. Merely, Mother Wit noted and pigeonholed the remark. Janet said practically: "I can't help feeling an interest in him, as I helped him that evening he was hurt." "But have they learned nothing about him?" "Only that the hundred-dollar bill he gave Chet is probably all right," laughed Jess Morse. "They say he had a big money roll," said Bobby. "Not a poor man, of course," Laura agreed. "And Mrs. Langworth says she is sure he has been in Alaska," Jess added. Laura noted the swift glance that passed between the invalid and her daughter. "Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Steele, "you did not tell me that" "No," said Janet, shaking her head, "But lots of men go to Alaska, Mamma." "Ye-es," admitted Mrs. Steele. "And come back with plenty of money," put in Bobby, smiling. "This poor man's money doesn't help him much, does it? He doesn't seem to have any friends here in Centerport. He is just as much a stranger as the man they tell about who came back to his old home town after a great many years and found a lot of changes. As he rode uptown his taxicab stopped to let a funeral go by. "'Who's dead?' asked the returned wanderer of the taxicab driver. "'Dan Jones,' said the driver. "'Not Dan Jones that kept the hotel!' cried the man. 'Why, I knew him well. Can it be possible that Dan is dead?' "'I reckon he's dead, Mister,' said the chauffeur, as the hearse went by. 'What d'you think they're doin'--rehearsin' with him?'" "How very lonely the poor man must feel," said Mrs. Steele, after laughing at Bobby's story. "We're going in to see him the next time," Jess said. Mrs. Steele looked again swiftly at her daughter. "You will see him, too, won't you, Janet?" she murmured. Her daughter seemed not to like the idea; but Jess said quickly: "We will take Janet with us, Mrs. Steele. And Bobby, too. If Mrs. Langworth approves, I mean. 'The more the merrier.' Really, I'm awfully interested in him myself." Laura, said nothing; but she wondered why the invalid showed so much interest in the injured man. CHAPTER XI A REHEARSAL The copies of the play chosen for production by the girls of the Central High Players Club had arrived, and Mr. Mann, who was to direct the production, called the members of the club together in the small hall which was just off Mr. Sharp's office. "And thank goodness!" murmured Bobby Hargrew, "Gee Gee cannot break into this session. What do you suppose she has suggested?" "Mercy! how do you expect us to guess the vagaries of the Carrington mind?" returned Lily Pendleton. "Something foolish, I'll be bound." "Sh! Remember Mr. Mann is an instructor, too," said Nellie Agnew. "That is all right, Doctress," giggled Lily. "Mr. Mann is a good fellow and will not peach." "Tell us the awful truth, Bobby," drawled Jess. "What is Gee Gee's latest?" "I understand," said the younger girl, "that she has been to Mr. Sharp and begged him to exercise his authority and make us act 'Pyramus and Thisbe' instead of 'The Rose Garden.'" "Goodness! That old thing?" flung out Dora Lockwood. "There is a burlesque on 'Pyramus and Thisbe' that we might give," chuckled Jess. "And it's all in doggerel. Let's!" "Reckless ones! Would you spoil all our chances?" demanded Laura. "Aw--well----" "Remember, we are working for a worthy cause," Dorothy Lockwood mouthed, in imitation of the scorned Miss Carrington. "You are right, Dory," Laura said soberly. "The Red Cross is worth suffering for." "Right-o, my dear girl," declared Jess Morse with conviction. "Let us put aside Gee Gee and listen to what Mr. Mann has to say." They had already talked over the characters of the play. None of them was beyond the capabilities of the girls of Central High. But what delighted some of them was that there were boys' parts--and girls would fill them! Of course, Bobby Hargrew had been cast for one of the male parts. Bobby's father had always said she should have been a boy, and was wont to call her "my eldest son." She had assumed mannish ways--sometimes when the assumption was not particularly in good taste. "But Short and Long," she growled in her very "basest" voice, "says I can't walk like a boy. Says anybody will know I'm a girl. I have a mind to get my hair cut short." "Don't you dare, Clara Hargrew!" Laura commanded. "You'd be sorry afterward--and so would your father." Bobby would never do anything to hurt "Father Tom," as she always called Mr. Hargrew, so her enthusiasm for this suggested prank subsided. But she growled: "Anyway, it's a sailor suit I am going to wear, and I guess I can walk like a sailor, just as well as Short and Long." "Better," declared Nellie soothingly. "And then, those wide-legged trousers sailors wear are quite modest." At this all the girls laughed. Knickers in their gymnasium and field work had become second nature to them. "But think of me," cried Jess, "in what Chet calls 'the soup to nuts!' Really the dress-suit of mankind is awfully silly, after all." "And uncomfortable!" declared Dora. "Attention, young ladies!" exclaimed Mr. Mann at that moment. He was a rotund, beaming little man, with vast enthusiasm and the patience--so Nellie declared--of an angel. "Not a full-sized angel," Bobby had denied seriously. "He is more the size of a cherub--one of those you see pictured leaning their elbows on clouds." But, of course, neither of the girls made this comment within Mr. Mann's hearing. The final decisions regarding the choice of parts were now made. The copies of the play were distributed. Mr. Mann even read aloud the first two acts, instructing and advising as he went along, so that the girls could gain some general idea of what was expected of them. Before they were finished another point came up. There was a single character in the play that had not been accorded to any girl. It was not a speaking part; but it was an important part, for the other characters talked about it, and the silent character was supposed to appear on several occasions in "The Rose Garden." "We need a tall, dark girl," said Mr. Mann. "One who walks particularly well and who win not be overlooked by the audience even when she merely crosses the stage. Who----?" "Margit Salgo!" exclaimed Jess, who had every bit of the new play and its needs very close to her heart. "Of course!" cried Laura and the Lockwood twins. "Margit is just the one," Mother Wit added. "Oh!" said Mr. Mann at last. "You mean Margaret Carrington?" "And she walks like a queen," sighed Lily Pendleton. "I wish I could learn to walk as she does." "You know what Mrs. Case says," put in Bobby, in an undertone. "She says your feet, Lil, have been bound like a Chinese woman's of the old regime." "Oh, you!" "Margit went barefoot and lived in the open for years," said Laura. "She was 'near to Nature's heart,'" laughed Jess. "Of course, she never tried to squeeze a number six foot into narrow twos." "Never mind the size of her feet," said Mr. Mann good-naturedly. "If she can take the part, she will be just the one for it I remember that Miss Carrington's niece does have a queenly walk. And that is just what we need. But do you think we can get her?" "She has never joined our club," said Jess thoughtfully. "I am not sure that she has ever been invited," Laura said. "But she is always busy----" "Gee Gee pretty near works her to death," growled Bobby. "I shouldn't wonder if Margit flew the coop some day." "I am not sure, Miss Hargrew," said Mr. Mann, without a smile, "that I ought not to take you to task for your language. It really is inexcusable." "Oh, dear me, Mr. Mann, don't you begin!" begged the culprit "If I am academic in school in my speech, let me be relieved out of sessions, I pray." "But about Margit Salgo?" queried Laura. "Do you suppose she will be able to help us? I know she will be willing to, if we ask her." "Gee Gee will object, you bet," growled Bobby under her breath. That was not to be known, however, without asking. Laura said she would speak to Margaret about it, while Mr. Mann intimated that he would mention to Miss Carrington, the elder, that her niece was almost necessary to the success of the play. Margit Salgo was not so straightly kept by Miss Carrington as she was engaged from morning to night in her studies. Having been utterly neglected as far as mental development went for several years, the half-gypsy girl was much behind others of her age at Central High. Miss Grace Gee Carrington was pushing her protégé on as fast as possible. She was not yet in the classes of those, girls of her age whom she knew at Central High; but she was fast forging ahead and she took much pride in her own advancement. Therefore she did not see Miss Carrington's sternness as Bobby, for instance, saw it. She found her aunt kind and considerate, if very firm. And the girl who had been half wild when Laura Belding first found her, as has been related in "The Girls of Central High on Track and Field," was settling into a very sedate and industrious young woman. What girl, however, does not love to "dress up and act?" Margit Salgo was delighted when Laura explained their need to her. "Just as sure as auntie will let me, I'll act," declared the dark beauty, flushing brilliantly and her black eyes aflame with interest. "You are a dear, Laura Belding, to think of me," and she hugged Mother Wit heartily. Two days passed, and then came the first rehearsal. This, of course, could be little more than a reading of the parts before Mr. Mann, with the latter to advise them as to elocution and stage business. But Bobby declared she had been practicing walking like a boy and had succeeded in copying Short and Long almost exactly. "Why me?" demanded Billy sharply, whose usual sweet temper seemed to have become dreadfully soured of late. "Well, why not?" demanded Bobby. "Should I copy Pretty Sweet's strut?" "Aw--him!" snorted Billy Long, turning away in vexation. "Now, tell me," said the quick-minded Bobby Hargrew to Laura and Jess, with whom she chanced to be walking at the moment, "why it is that Billy has taken such a violent dislike to poor Purt of late? Why, he doesn't feel kindly enough toward him to send him another dead fish!" They were going to the rehearsal, which was in the small hall of the school. Of course, there was a sight of bustle and talking. Every girl was greatly excited over her part. Some were "sure they couldn't do it," while there were those who "could not possibly remember cues." "And I know I shall laugh just at the wrong place," said Lily Pendleton. "I always do." "If you do," growled Bobby, "I'll do something to you that will make you feel far from laughing, I assure you." "How savagely you talk!" sighed Nellie Agnew. "That boy's part you are to fill is already affecting you, Clara." "'Sailor Bob' is going to be terrifically rough, I suppose," Jess said, laughing. Mr. Mann called them to order, and the girls finally rustled into seats and prepared to go through "The Rose Garden" for the first time. Everybody knew her first speeches, and as Mr. Mann accentuated the cues and advised about the business the girls did very well during the first act. But with the opening of the second act there was a halt. Here was where "the dark lady" should come in. Her first appearance marked a flourishing period by Jess, who strode about the stage as the hero of the piece. "And Margit's not here!" cried Dora Lockwood. "Shouldn't she be, Mr. Mann? Really, her entrance gives me my cue, not Adrian's speech." Adrian was Jess Morse. She nodded her head vigorously. "Of course, Margit ought to be here to rehearse with us." "I am afraid," said Mr. Mann, with pursed lips, "that we shall have to give up the idea of having Miss Carrington--the younger--for the part." "Oh, oh, oh!" chorused some of the girls. "Can't Margit play?" "Isn't that just like Gee Gee?" demanded Bobby furiously. "She wanted to, I am sure," Laura said. "It is not Margit's fault." "Of course it isn't," snapped Jess. "That old--" Fortunately she got no farther. The door opened at that instant and Miss Grace Gee Carrington entered. She was a very tall woman with grayish hair, eyeglasses, and a sallow complexion. Her dignity of carriage and stern manner were quite overpowering. "Young ladies!" she said sharply, having come into the room and closed the door, "I have a word to say. I told Mr. Mann I would come here and explain why my niece cannot take part in any such foolish and inconsequential exhibition as this that you have determined on." She glared around, and the girls' faces assumed various expressions of disturbance. Some, even, were frightened, for Miss Carrington had always reigned by power of fear. "I would not allow Margaret to lower herself by appearing in such a play. I disapprove greatly of girls taking boys' parts. The object of the play itself is merely to amuse. There is nothing worth while or educational about it." Again silence, and the girls only glanced fearfully at each other. "I have a proposition to make to you," said the stern teacher. "It is not too late to change your plans. I have Mr. Sharp's permission to make the suggestion. He will agree to your changing the play and will be--er--satisfied, I am sure, if you accept my advice and put on the play which I first suggested. This is an old Greek play with real value to it We gave it once in my own college days, and it truly made a sensation. I should be quite willing for Margaret to appear in that play, and I should, in fact, be willing to give Mr. Mann the benefit of my own experience in rehearsing the piece." Mr. Mann actually looked frightened. The stern instructor overpowered him exactly as she did many of the girls. CHAPTER XII BUBBLE, BUBBLE "Toot! Toot! Toot-te-toot! Back water!" muttered Bobby Hargrew. "Wouldn't I cut a shine acting in a Greek play? Oh, my!" Her imprudence--and impudence--was fortunately drowned by the general murmur of objection that went up from the girls of the club. That Miss Carrington's suggestion met with general objection was so plain that even the stern woman herself must have realized it. "Of course," she said, really "cattish," "you girls would prefer something silly." "Perhaps, Miss Carrington," said Laura with more boldness than most of her mates possessed, "we prefer something more simple. 'The Rose Garden' does not call for more than we can give to it. I am afraid the play you suggest would take too much study." "Ha!" snapped the tall teacher. Then she went on: "I want you all to understand that your recitations must be up to the average while you put in your time on such a mediocre performance as this you are determined upon. Of course, if the play was of an educational nature we might relax our school rules a little--" "Oh! Oh! Bribery!" whispered Jess to Nellie. "It seems," Mr. Mann finally found voice to say, "that the desire of the young ladies is for the piece selected. It is too late, as Miss Belding says, to make a change now." "Then Margaret cannot act!" exclaimed Miss Carrington, and, turning angrily, she left the hall in a way that had she been one of the girls, it would have been said, "She flounced out." The rehearsal continued; but most of the girls were in a sober state of mind. There was a general desire among them to stand high in all their studies. They had learned when first they entered upon the athletic contests and exercises of the Girls Branch League that they must keep up in studies and in deportment or they could not get into the good times of the League. It was so with the secret society, the M. O. R.'s, and likewise in this acting club. "Fun" was merely a reward for good work in school. Not alone was Miss Carrington stiff on this point, the principal and the rest of the faculty were quite as determined that no outside adventures or activities should lower the standard of the girls of Central High. At the present time the members of the club had a serious fact to contemplate. A girl to fill the part of the "dark lady" in the garden must be found. As it was not a speaking part, the person filling the character must more particularly look as she was described in the play. "We want a type," said Mr. Mann. "Tall, graceful, brunette, and with queenly carriage. You must find her before the next rehearsal. I must have plenty of time to train her, for her appearance is of grave importance--as you young ladies can yourselves see." "Oh, dear me!" groaned Nellie Agnew, when the rehearsal was finished. "And Margit Salgo would have been just the one!" "And the poor girl certainly would have enjoyed being one of us," Laura said. "Take it from me," said Bobby gruffly, "she's just the meanest--" "Margit?" cried Jess. "Gee Gee! I'm good and disgusted with her." But Bobby, for once in her life, was very circumspect during recitations that week. She felt that Gee Gee was watching for a chance to demerit her, and the girl did not intend to give the teacher occasion for doing so. "For once I am going to be so good, and have my lessons so perfect, that she cannot find fault." "But trust Miss Carrington to find fault if she felt like it!" grumbled the girl a day or so later. "Miss Hargrew, do not stride so. And keep your elbows in. Why! you walk like a grenadier. And don't sprawl in your seat that way. Are you not a lady?" Ah, but it was hard for saucy Bobby to keep her tongue back of her teeth! "Have you lost your tongue?" nagged Miss Carrington. Bobby's eyes flashed a reply. But her lips "ran o'er with honey," as Jess Morse quoted, _sotto voce_. "No, Miss Carrington. I am merely holding it," said the girl softly. Miss Carrington flushed. She knew she was unfair; and Bobby's unexpected reply pilloried the teacher before the whole class. There was a bustle in the room and a not-entirely-smothered snicker. Had there been any way of punishing the girl Miss Carrington would certainly have done it. She was neither just nor merciful, but she was exact. She could see no crevice in Bobby's armor. The incident had to pass, and the girl remained unpunished. However, it did seem as though Miss Carrington were more watchful each day of the girls who belonged to the Players Club. She was evidently expecting those who had parts to learn to show some falling off in recitation, or the like. Her sharp tongue lashed those who faltered unmercifully. The girls began to show the strain. They became nervous. "I really feel as though I must scream sometimes!" said Nellie Agnew, almost in tears, one afternoon as the particular chums of Central High left the building for home. "I know my lessons just as well as ever, but Gee Gee has got me so worked up that I expect to fail every time I come up to recite to her." "She is too old to teach, anyway," snapped Jess. "My mother says so. She ought to have been put on the shelf by the Board of Education long ago." "Oh, oh!" gasped Dora Lockwood. "What bliss if she were!" "She is not so awfully old," said Laura thoughtfully. "But she is awful!" sniffed Jess. "She acts like a spoiled child," Nellie said. "If she cannot have her own way in everything she gets mad and becomes disagreeable." This was pretty strong language from the doctor's daughter. At the moment Bobby Hargrew appeared, whistling, and with her hands in her coat pockets. She was evidently practicing her manly stride. But she did not grin when she saw the juniors approaching. Instead, in a most dolorous voice she sang out, quoting the witches' chant: "'Double, double; toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.' "Everything's stewing, girls, and it is bound to be some brew. Do you know the latest?" "Couldn't guess," said Jess Morse. "But it is something bad, I warrant." "Everything's going wrong, girls!" wailed Nellie. "I just saw Mr. Mann and Lil. Couldn't help overhearing what she was giving him. What do you suppose she wants to do?" "Play the lead instead of Laura," snapped Jess. "That would not be so strange," Dora Lockwood observed. "Would it, Dorothy?" "Not at all. Lil Pendleton--" "Wait a minute," proposed Laura Belding. "Let us hear her crime before we sentence her to death." "That's right," agreed Bobby. "Oh, she surely has put her foot in it! She told Mr. Mann that Hessie is just the girl to act 'the dark lady' in our play. What do you know about that?" "Ow! Ow! That hurts!" squealed Dora. "She never _did_?" gasped her twin. "Hope to die!" exclaimed Bobby recklessly. "That is exactly the game she is trying to work." "Hester Grimes! Of all persons!" groaned Nellie. "Lil hasn't said a word about it to me," Jess Morse declared. "No, she is going to get Mr. Mann himself to propose Hester--" "But Hessie isn't a member of the club!" cried Nellie. "We have set a precedent there," said Laura thoughtfully. "We took Janet Steele into the ice carnival, and she was not a member of the school." "That was an entirely different thing!" snapped Jess. "Why, Hester Grimes is no more fit to play that part than I am fit for the professional stage!" Nellie Agnew said. "What can Lil mean?" "I bet a cooky," Bobby growled, "that Hester put Lil up to it. You know, Hess is crazy to get her finger into every pie; but she would never come straight out and ask to join our club." "She'd be blackballed," said Dora tartly. "I believe she would," agreed her twin. Bobby chuckled. "There would be two black beans against her, and no mistake." "What did you say to Lil, Clara?" demanded Laura thoughtfully. "Not a word." "How was that?" Jess asked. "You didn't have a sudden attack of lockjaw, did you?" "Don't fret, Jess," said Bobby sharply. "I know when to keep my mouth shut on occasion. I came right away from there to find you girls. Something must be done about it." "Oh, dear me!" groaned Nellie. "If Margit Salgo had only been allowed to take the part!" "What did I tell you?" almost snarled Bobby. "Gee Gee has managed to queer the whole business. This play is going to be a failure." CHAPTER XIII MOTHER WIT HAS AN IDEA The ice carnival had been such a success in a spectacular as well as a monetary way that many of the friends of the Central High girls and boys declared they would like to have it repeated. More than a thousand dollars--to be exact, one thousand and twenty dollars--had been made for the Red Cross. Centerport was doing its very best to gather its quota for the great institution that was doing so much good in the world. Janet Steele confessed to Laura that she had gained more than one hundred dollar memberships, and that nearly all of these had given something in addition to their membership fee. "I wish we girls could help," said Laura wistfully. "And you having done so much already!" cried Janet. "Why, you've already done more than your share! And doing a play, too!" "I am afraid the play will not be a great success," Mother Wit sighed, but more to herself than to the other girl. Those who wished to repeat the ice carnival success had to give the idea up, for before the end of the week there swept down over the North Woods and across frozen Lake Luna such a blizzard as the surrounding country had not seen for several years. The street cars stopped running, traffic of all sorts was tied up, and even the electricity for lighting purposes was put out of commission for twenty-four hours. Of course, it did not keep many of the girls and boys of Central High at home. Snow piled up in the streets did not daunt them at all. But when the amateur actors undertook to rehearse they had to do so by the light of candles and kerosene lamps. The rehearsal did not go very well, either. The girls were "snippy" to each other--at least, Jess said they were, and Bobby declared she was one of the very "snippiest--so there!" "Girls! Girls!" begged Laura, "when there are so many other people to fight, let us not fight each other. 'Little birds should in their nests agree,' and so forth." "Oh, poodle soup!" ejaculated Bobby, under her breath. "Don't anybody dare spring old saws and sayings on me in my present mood." "I believe you'd bite, Bobby," whispered Nellie Agnew. A cry went up for Lily Pendleton, and then it was found that she was not present. "The only girl who is made of either sugar or salt," declared Josephine Morse. "Of course, the snow would keep her away!" "But where is her friend, Miss Grimes?" asked Mr. Mann, rather tartly. "I shall have my work cut out for me in training her, I fear." "You will, indeed," moaned Laura. "Now, Mr. Mann!" cried Bobby boldly, "you are not really going to let that Hester Grimes act in this play, are you? She is perfectly horrid!" "Miss Hargrew," was the somewhat sharp answer, "I hope you will not let personal dislikes enter into this play. It does not matter who or what Miss Grimes may be, if she can take the part--" "But she'll never be able to do it in the world!" "That is to be seen," said Mr. Mann firmly. "Remember, we are working for the benefit of the Red Cross." "Hear! Hear!" murmured Laura. "Perhaps Hester will do very well." "And perhaps she won't!" snapped Bobby. "Why, she can't possibly _act!"_ Jess Morse said hopelessly. "You will let me be the judge of that, Miss Morse, if you please," said Mr. Mann, speaking rather tartly. "Mercy, everybody to-day is as crisp as pie-crust--no two ways about it!" whispered Bobby to Jess. The girls plowed home through the deep snow, most of them in no mood for amusement. Even Laura Belding had a long face when she entered the house. "How was the funeral?" asked Chet, who was buried in one of the deep library chairs with a book. "What?" she asked before she caught his meaning. "You must have buried somebody by the way you look," declared her brother. "Don't nag, Chettie," sighed his sister. "We are having terrible times." "I judged so," Chet said dryly. "Don't you always have sich when you girls go in for acting?" "Now--" "I am sympathetic, Laura--I swear I am!" her brother cried, putting up his hands for pardon. "Don't shoot. But of course things always will go wrong. Who is it--Bobby? Or Jess? Or Lil?" "It is Hester Grimes." "Wow!" exclaimed Chet. "I didn't know she was in it at all." Laura told him of the emergency that had arisen and how Hester Grimes seemed certain to be drawn into the affair. "Why, that big chunk can't act," said Chet quite impolitely. "She looks enough like her father to put on his apron and stand behind one of his butcher blocks." "Oh, that is awful!" Laura objected. "But I know she will spoil our play." "Humph! Why didn't you, Laura, suggest somebody else for the part, as long as Margit couldn't take it?" "I didn't know of anybody." "I thought they called you 'Mother Wit,'" scoffed Chet. "You're not even a little bit bright." "No, I guess you are right. I have lost all my brightness," sighed Laura. "It has been rubbed off." "Then you admit it was merely plate," laughed Chet. "But say! why didn't you think of the girl who helped you out before?" "Who? What girl?" "That Red Cross girl. What's her name?" "Janet Steele!" "That's the one. Some pippin," said Chet with enthusiasm. "I saw her this afternoon and helped her plow home--" "Chetwood Belding! Wait till Jess Morse hears about it." "Aw--" "Jess will spark, old boy; you see if she doesn't" "Jess is the best girl in the world; and she's got too much sense to object to my helping another girl home through the snow." "All right," chuckled Laura, in a much more cheerful mood. "But don't make the mistake of praising Janet to Jess. That is where the crime comes in." "Oh! Well, I won't," her brother declared thoughtfully. "And where did you beau Janet from?" Laura asked. "The hospital." "Were you there to see that poor man?" "Rich man, you mean," grinned her brother. "I took him some books and a lot of papers. He is able to sit up and read." "But he doesn't know who he is?" "He declares his name is John _Something_, and that he ought to be in Alaska right now. Says the last he knew he was in Sitka. Something happened to him there. Whatever it was, his brain must have been affected at that time. For he cannot remember anything about the first part of his life." "But, Chetwood!" exclaimed Laura earnestly, "that man is not a miner. He is not tanned. His hands are not rough. He was as well groomed, the matron says, as any gentleman who ever was brought to the Centerport Hospital." "But he was in Alaska. You should hear him tell about it." "He has lived two lives, then," said Laura thoughtfully. "And must be beginning his third now," put in Chet. "What do you know about that? And him with a roll of more than two thousand dollars--every bill brand-new." "Oh, Chet!" "Well, what is it?" her brother asked, looking curiously into Laura's suddenly glowing face. "Does he know he has so much money?" "Why, yes. I've been telling him to-day all about that funny bill he passed on me. He says he is glad he has so fat a purse, as he will be obliged to remain in bed long with that leg in a cast." "But, Chet! has he got the money himself?" "It is in the hospital safe." "I wonder! I wonder!" the girl murmured. "What is it now?" asked Chet "I wonder if any other bills in his roll are like that hundred-fifty note father swapped with Mr. Monroe for you." "Huh?" ejaculated her brother, quite puzzled. "It was on the Drovers' Levee Bank, of Osage, Ohio. I wrote it down, and the names of the cashier and president of the bank. Do find out, Chet, if there are any more of those new bills issued by that bank in his roll." "What for?" demanded Chet. That Laura would not tell him, only made him promise to do as she asked. Mother Wit had an idea; but she would not explain it to anybody yet. CHAPTER XIV CHAINS ON HIS WHEELS "How came you to meet Janet?" asked Laura Belding, remembering what her brother had first told her about the Red Cross girl. "She was coming my way, of course." "Coming your way?" Laura repeated, her eyebrows raised questioningly. "Oh! I see! You met her at the hospital." "You said a forkful," declared the slangy youth. "Dear me, Chet," Laura observed soberly. "I think your slang is becoming atrocious. So Janet was down there!" "She had been calling on our friend with the broken leg, too," said Chet. "She does seem interested in him, doesn't she?" Laura said thoughtfully. "I wonder why?" "Because her mother's half-brother went to Alaska years ago and they never heard of him again," said Chet. "She told me." "Oh!" "Nothing wonderful about that," the brother declared. "It is interesting." "To them, I suppose," said Chet "But why don't you ask Miss Steele to join you girls in the play you are getting up?" "I never thought of it," confessed Laura. "Your thought-works are out of kilter, Sis," declared Chet, laughing again. "I'd certainly play Miss Steele off against the menace of Hester Grimes." There was something besides mere sound in Chet Belding's advice, and his sister appreciated the fact. But she did not go bluntly to the other girls and suggest the Red Cross girl for the part of "the dark lady." She realized that, if the new girl could act, she would amply fill the part in the play. But Hester was supposed to have it now, and the very next day Mr. Mann gave that candidate an hour's training in the part Hester was supposed to fill. When they all came together for rehearsal again the second day, Hester Grimes was present and she showed the effect of Mr. Mann's personal help. Yet her work was so stiffly done, and she was so awkward, that it seemed to most of the girls that she was bound to hurt and hinder rather than help in the production. "She'd put a crimp in anything," declared Bobby Hargrew, as the Hill girls went home that afternoon. The streets in this residential section had been pretty well cleared of snow, and people had their automobiles out once more. "Say, Jess!" exclaimed Bobby. "Say it," urged Josephine Morse. "I promise not to bite you." "If Hester plays that part, what are they going to do with her hands and feet?" asked the unkind Bobby. "Oh, hush!" exclaimed Laura. "Well, when she's supposed to pick the rose and hold it up to the light, and kiss it, her hand is going to look like a full-grown lobster--and just as red." "Girls, we must not!" begged Laura. "Somebody will surely tell Hester what we say, and then--" "She'll refuse to play," said Jess. "Oh, fine, _fine_!" murmured one of the Lockwood twins. "If we get her mad it will do no good," Nellie Agnew said. "Maybe then she will insist on being 'the dark lady.'" The boys were on the corner of Nugent Street waiting for the girls to come along. "How goes the battle, Laura?" asked Lance Darby. "Have you learned your part yet?" "I thought I had," sighed Laura. "But when I come to take cues and try to remember the business of the piece, I forget my lines." "This being leading lady is pretty tough on Mother Wit," laughed Chet. "Oh, my!" exclaimed Bobby Hargrew suddenly. "Here comes Pretty Sweet in his car. Why! he's got Lil with him. I thought that was all over." They gaily hailed the driver of the automobile and his companion as the vehicle passed. Short and Long, with gloomy face, watched the car out of sight. "Well," he growled, "he's got nonskid-chains on his wheels to-day, all right." "Chains on his wheels, Billy?" asked Bobby. "What do you mean? Doesn't he always have them on in winter?" "Humph! He forgot 'em once, anyway." "Hey, Billy!" exclaimed Chet Belding, "you are skidding yourself, aren't you?" "Aw----" "Least said soonest mended," added Lance, likewise giving the smaller boy a quick, stern look. "Oh, I see!" muttered Bobby, searching the flushed face of Short and Long. "Say, Billy----" But Short and Long started on a quick trot for home, and left his friends to stare after him. It was Bobby who did most of the staring, however. She said to Jess and Laura, after they had parted from the other boys: "What do you know about that boy? I'm just wise to him. I believe I know what is the matter with Short and Long." "Do you mean," asked Laura, "what makes him act so to Purt?" "You have guessed my meaning, Mother Wit." "What is the trouble between them?" demanded Jess. "Although Billy never was much in love with Purt Sweet." "Don't you two girls remember the Saturday night that man was hurt on Market Street?" "I should say I do remember it!" Laura agreed. "He is in the hospital yet, and he doesn't know who he is or where he came from." "Oh, it's nothing to do with his identity," Bobby hastened to say. "It is about the car that ran him down. You know the police never have found the guilty driver." "Goodness!" gasped Jess. "You surely don't mean----" "I mean that the car had no chains on its rear wheels. That is all that was noticed about it Nobody got the number. But I heard Short and Long say he knew somebody who had been driving a car that day without chains. And the boys left us, didn't they, to look up the car?" "What has that to do with Purt Sweet?" demanded Laura. "Why, you heard what Billy just said about him and his chains!" cried Bobby. "'He's got nonskid-chains on his wheels to-day, all right.' Didn't you hear him? And he's had a grouch against Pretty Sweet ever since the time--about--that the man was hurt." "Oh, Purt wouldn't have done such a thing. He might have run the man down; but he would never have run off and left him in the street!" "I don't know," Jess said. "He'd be frightened half to death, of course, if he did knock the man down." "I do not believe Prettyman Sweet is heartless," declared Laura warmly. "The boys are making a mistake. I'm going to tell Chet so." But when she took her brother to task about this matter she could not get Chet to admit a thing. He refused to say anything illuminating about the car that had run down the stranger at the hospital, or if the boys suspected anybody in particular. "If we think we know anything, I can't tell you," Chet declared "Billy? Why, he's always sore at Purt Sweet. You can't tell anything by him!" Just the same it was evident that the boys were hiding much from their girl chums; and, of course, that being the case, the girls were made all the more curious. CHAPTER XV PIE AND POETRY Laura's sleeves were rolled up to her plump elbows and she had an enveloping apron on that covered her dress from neck to toe. There was flour on her arms, on one cheek, and even on the tip of her nose. Out-of-doors old Boreas, Jess said, held sway. Shutters flapped, the branches of the hard maple creaked against the clapboarded ell of the house, and there was an occasional throaty rattle in the chimney that made one think that the Spirit of the Wind was dying there. "You certainly are poetic," drawled Bobby, who had come into the Beldings' big kitchen, too, and was comfortably seated on the end of the table at which Laura had been rolling out piecrust. "Now, if that crust is only crisp!" murmured Mother Wit. "If it isn't," chuckled Chet, stamping the snow off his shoes, "we'll make you eat it all." "I'm willing to take the contract of eating it, sight unseen, if Laura made the pie," interjected Lance Darby, opening the door suddenly. "Come in! Come in!" cried Jess. "Want to freeze us all?" "You would better not be so reckless, Lance," Laura said, smiling. "These are mock cherry pies; and I never do know whether I get sugar enough in them until they are done. Some cranberries are sourer than others, you know." "M-m! Ah!" sighed Chet ecstatically. "If there is one thing I like----" Lance began to sing-song: "'There was a young woman named Hooker, Who wasn't so much of a looker; But she could build a pie That would knock out your eye! So along came a fellow and took 'er!'" "Oh! Oh! We're all running to poetry," groaned Chet. "This will never do." "'Poetry,' indeed!" scoffed Jess Morse. "I want to know how Lance dares trespass upon Bobby's domain of limericks?" "And I wish to know," Laura added haughtily, "how he dares intimate that I am not 'a good looker'?" "'_Peccavi!_"' groaned Lance. "I have sinned! But, anyway, Bobby is off the limerick business. Aren't you, Bobby?" "She hasn't sprung a good one for an age," declared Chet. "A shortage," sighed Laura. "Gee Gee says the lowest form of wit is the pun, and the most execrable form of rhyme is the limerick," declared Jess soberly. "Just for that," snapped Bobby, "I'll give you a bunch of them. Only these must be written down to be appreciated." She produced a long slip of paper from her pocket, uncrumpled it, and began to read: "'There was a fine lady named Cholmondely, In person and manner so colmondely That the people in town From noble to clown Did nothing but gaze at her, dolmondely.' Now, isn't that refined and beautiful?" "It is--not!" said Chet. "That is only a play upon pronunciation." "Carping critics!" exclaimed Lance. "Go ahead, Bobby. Let's hear the others." As Bobby had been saving them up for just such an opportunity as this, she proceeded to read: "'There lived in the City of Worcester A lively political borcester, Who would sit on his gate When his own candidate Was passing, and crow like a rorcester!" "Help! Help!" moaned Chet, falling into the cook's rocking chair and making it creak tremendously. "Don't break up the furniture," his sister advised him, as she took a peep at the pies in the oven. "'Pies and poetry'!" exclaimed Jess. "Go ahead, Bobby. Relieve your constitution of those sad, sad doggerels." Nothing loath, the younger girl, and with twinkling eyes, sing-songed the following: "'There was a young sailor of Gloucester, Who had a sweetheart, but he loucest'er. She bade him good-day, So some people say, Because he too frequently boucest'er.' Take notice all you 'bossy' youths." "Isn't English the funny language?" demanded Chet, sitting up again. "And spelling! My! Do you wonder foreigners find English so difficult? Here's one that I found in an almanac at the drug store," and he fished out a clipping and read it to them: "'A lady once purchased some myrrh Of a druggist who said unto hyrrh: "For a dose, my dear Miss, Put a few drops of this In a glass with some water, and styrrh."'" "Do, do stop!" begged Laura. "I promise not to offend again," said Lance. "Besides, I hope to taste some of the pie, and a pie-taster should not be a poetaster." "Oh! Oh! Awful!" Jess cried. "I've run out of limericks myself," confessed Chet. "But one more!" Bobby hastened to say. Then dramatically she mouthed, with her black eyes fastened on Chet: "'Said Chetwood to young Short and Long, "Just list to my warning in song: If you know of the crime, For both reason and rhyme Betray it--and so ring the gong!"'" The other girls burst out laughing at the expression on the boys' faces. Chet and Lance looked much disturbed, and Chet finally scowled upon the teasing Bobby and shook his head. "What do you know about that?" whispered Lance to his chum. "You are altogether too smart, Bobby," declared Chet. "What do you mean?" "We know you and Short and Long are trying to hide something from us," said Jess quickly. "You might as well tell us all about it," Laura put in quietly. "What has Billy really got against Purt Sweet?" "I don't admit he has anything against Purt," said Chet quickly. "Nothing but suspicion," muttered Lance, likewise shaking his head. "Then there is something in it?" Laura said quickly. "Can it be possible that Purt Sweet would do such an awful thing and not really betray himself before this?" "There you've said it, Laura!" cried Lance. "That is what I tell both Chet and Billy. If Pretty was guilty, he would be scared so that he would never dare go out again in his car." "Oh! Oh!" cried Bobby with dancing eyes. "Then my rhyme is a true bill?" "Aw, Lance would have to give it away!" growled Chet. "Boys are as clannish as they can be!" said Jess severely. "We are just as much interested as you are, Chet. What made Billy believe Pretty Sweet ran the man down?" "Oh, well," sighed Chet, "we might as well give in to you girls, I suppose." "Besides," laughed his sister, "the pies are almost done, and both you and Lance will want to sample them." "Go on. Tell 'em, Chet," said Lance. "Why, Billy had been riding that day in the Sweets' car. You know Purt is too lazy to breathe sometimes, and he wouldn't get out his chains and put 'em on. Billy knew that the chains were not on at dinner time that evening, for he passed the Sweet place and saw the car standing outside the garage with the radiator blanketed. "Well, the only thing we were sure of about the car that ran that man down--the Alaskan miner, you know--was that the rear wheels had no chains on them, and that it was a Perriton car like Purt's." "Yes, it was a Perriton," said his sister. "So we fellows hiked up there to Sweets'. Purt was out with the car. He came home in about an hour, and he was still skidding over the ice. We tried to get out of him where he had been, but he wouldn't tell. We had to almost muzzle Billy, or he would have accused him right there and then. And Billy has been savage over it ever since." "Really then," said Laura, "there is nothing sure about it." "Well, it is sure the car was a Perriton. And since then we have found out that Purt's is the only Perriton in town that isn't out of commission for the winter. You can talk as you please about it: If the police only knew what we know, sure thing Purt would be neck-deep in trouble right now!" CHAPTER XVI EMBER NIGHT The three girls of Central High and their boy friends had not come together on this stormy Saturday morning merely to feast on "pie and poetry." The ice carnival had made them so much money that Laura and her friends desired to try something else besides the play which was now in rehearsal. They wanted to "keep the ball rolling," increasing the collections for the Red Cross from day to day. Fairs and bazaars were being held; special collectors like Janet Steele were going about the city; noonday meetings were inaugurated in downtown churches and halls; a dozen new and old ways of raising money were being tried. And so Mother Wit had evolved what she called "Ember Night," and the young people who helped carry the thing through were delighted with the idea. To tell the truth, the idea had been suggested to Laura Belding during the big storm when the lighting plant of the city was put out of order for one night. She and her friends laid the plans for the novel fête on this Saturday after Laura's pie baking and after they had discussed the possibility of Prettyman Sweet being the guilty person whose car had run down the strange man now at the Centerport Hospital. They put pies and poetry, and even Purt Sweet, aside, to discuss Laura's idea. Each member of the informal committee meeting in the Beldings' kitchen was given his or her part to do. Laura herself was to see Colonel Swayne, who was the president of the Light and Power Company and who was likewise Mother Wit's very good friend. Jess agreed to interview the local chief of the Salvation Army. Chet would see the Chief of Police to get his permission. Each one had his or her work cut put. "Every cat must catch mice," said Mother Wit. Plans for Ember Night were swiftly made, and it was arranged to hold the fête the next Tuesday evening, providing the weather was clear. Jess, whose mother held a position on the Centerport _Clarion_, wrote a piece about this street carnival for the Sunday paper, and the idea was popular with nearly every one. Exchange Place was the heart of the city--a wide square on which fronted the city hall, the court house, the railroad station, and several other of the more important buildings of the place. In the center of the square a Red Cross booth was built and trimmed with Christmas greens, which had just come into market. Members of the several city chapters appeared in uniform to take part in the fête. There was a platform for speakers, and a bandstand, and before eight o'clock on Tuesday evening a great crowd had assembled to take part in the exercises. That one of the Central High school girls had suggested and really planned the affair, made it all the more popular. "What won't Laura Belding think of next?" asked those who knew her. But Laura did not put herself forward in the affair. She presided over one of the red pots borrowed from the Salvation Army that were slung from their tripods at each intersecting corner of the streets radiating from Exchange Place, and for a half mile on all sides of the square. Under each pot was a bundle of resinous and oil-soaked wood that would burn brightly for an hour. At the booth in Exchange Place fuel for a much larger bonfire was laid. The crowd gathered more densely as nine o'clock drew near. The mayor himself stepped upon the speaker's platform. The police had roped off lanes through the crowd from the Red Cross booth to the nearest corners. Janet Steele came late and she chanced to pass Laura's corner, which was in sight of the speaker's stand and the booth. She halted to speak with Laura a moment. "Isn't it just fine?" she said. "I wish mother could see this crowd." "I imagine you would like to have her see lots of things," returned Laura. "Our friend at the hospital, for instance." "Who--who do you mean?" gasped Janet, evidently disturbed. "The man who was hurt, I mean." "Oh! He is quite interesting," said the other girl and slipped away. Laura's suggestion had seemingly startled her. The band played, and then the mayor stepped forward to make his speech. At just this moment a motor car moved quietly in beside the curb near which Laura Belding stood guarding her red pot. Somebody called her name in a low tone, and Laura turned to greet Prettyman Sweet's mother with a smile. Mrs. Sweet was alone in the tonneau of her car, which Purt himself was driving. The school exquisite, who was so often the butt of the boys' jokes, but was just now an object of suspicion, admired Laura Belding immensely. He got out of the car to come and stand with her on the corner. "Got your nonskid-chains on, Purt?" asked Laura. "On the rear wheels? Surely," said Sweet, eyeing the girl in some surprise, because of her question. "My dear Laura!" cried Mrs. Sweet "Won't you come and talk to me while we are waiting?" "Can't now, Mrs. Sweet. I am on duty," laughed Laura. They could not hear what the mayor said, for they were two blocks away. But they had an excellent view of the stand and the Red Cross booth, and the crowd that pressed close to the police ropes. Suddenly the mayor threw up his hand in command, and almost instantly--as though he had himself switched off the light--all the street lamps in the business section of Centerport went out The arc light over the spot where Laura stood blinked, glowed for a moment, and then subsided. Mrs. Sweet cried out in alarm. "This is all right," Laura called to her. "Now watch." The mayor, in the half-darkness, stepped down from the platform and threw into the heart of the big bonfire the combustibles that set it off. The flames leaped up, spreading rapidly. The crowd cheered as eight boys, dressed in the knee-length dominos they had worn on the night of the ice carnival, dashed into the ring with resinous torches. They thrust the torches into the flames and the instant the torches were alight, they wheeled and dashed away through the lanes the police had kept open. The red flames dancing before the Red Cross booth, and the sparking, flaming torches which the boys swung above their heads as they ran through the crowd to the various corners where the red pots hung, made an inspiring picture in the unwonted gloom of the streets. "See how the Red Cross spreads!" cried Laura. "There's Nellie's fire going." They could see the spark of new fire under the pot a block away. A short figure with flaming torch was approaching Laura's corner at high speed. "Here comes Short and Long, I do believe," drawled Prettyman Sweet. "My pot will soon be boiling," laughed Laura. "What are you going to throw in, Purt? And you, Mrs. Sweet? Give all you can--and as often as you can." "Oh, I'll start you off, Laura," declared Purt, pulling out a handful of coins that rang the next moment in the bottom of the iron pot. "Here's my purse, Prettyman!" called his mother, leaning from the car. "You put in my offering." The few bystanders around Laura's corner began laughingly to contribute before the torch reached the spot. But Short and Long arrived the next moment. He stooped, thrust the blazing torch into the middle of the fuel under Laura's pot, and wheeled to run to his next comer. The flames crackled, springing up ravenously. The boy's cotton gown flapped across the fire and before he could leap away the flames had seized upon the domino! "Oh, Billy!" shrieked Laura Belding. "You are on fire!" The short boy leaped away; but he could not leave the flames behind him. He threw down the torch and tried to tear off the domino. In a moment he was a pillar of flame! "A blanket! A robe! Quick, Purt!" cried Laura, and started toward the victim of the accident, bare-handed. For once Purt Sweet did as he was told, and did it quickly. He ran with the robe from the front seat of the automobile. Laura grabbed one end and together they wrapped their schoolmate in the heavy folds. Short and Long was cast to the street and they rolled him in the blanket. The fire was smothered, but what injury had it done to the boy? He was unconscious; for in falling he had struck his head, and the wound was bleeding. Mrs. Sweet was crying and wringing her hands. "Oh, it's awful! Purt! Purt! Take me home!" she sobbed. "No, Purt!" exclaimed Laura. "Take him to the hospital" "Of course we will," gasped the youth. "Help me lift him, Laura. Oh, the poor kid!" Only the few people near by had seen the accident. Not even a policeman came. Laura and Purt staggered to the car with the wrapped-up body of the smaller lad. His face was horribly blackened, but that might be nothing but smoke. Just how badly Billy Long was injured they could not guess. Mrs. Sweet shrank back into the corner of the tonneau seat and begged Laura to get in with the injured boy. "I can't! I can't touch him!" wailed the woman. "It's awful! Suppose he should be dead?" "He's not dead," declared Purt. "We won't let him die--the poor kid! Here, mother, you hold his head and we'll lay him down on the seat. Let his head and shoulders lie right in your lap." "Oh, Laura! Do come!" cried the woman. "I can't, Mrs. Sweet!" returned Laura, sobbing. "I've got to stay and watch my pot boil. Do be quick, Purt!" She stepped out of the car. Purt slammed the tonneau door and leaped to the steering wheel. In a moment the self-starter sputtered, and then the car wheels began to roll. Mrs. Sweet was actually forced to do something that she had never done before--personally help somebody in trouble. Perhaps the experience would do her good, Laura thought. In tears the latter returned to the corner. The fire was brightly blazing underneath her swinging pot. There was already quite a collection of coins and a few bills in the bottom of the receptacle. But although Laura stuck to the post of duty, her heart was no longer in the ceremonies of Ember Night. She wished heartily that she had never suggested the entertainment, even if it did benefit the Red Cross. CHAPTER XVII A STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT It did really prove to be one of the most successful forms of money-raising for the Red Cross that had been attempted in Centerport. And later they tried Ember Night in Lumberport and Keyport. Laura Belding was not proud of her success, however, for poor Short and Long had been badly burned. Fortunately his face was only blackened, and the doctors decided that he had not inhaled any of the scorching flame. Laura and Purt had wrapped him in the blanket so quickly that the fire was smothered almost at once. Yet there were bad burns on his arms and body--burns that would leave ineffaceable scars. The girls of Central High had two interests now to take them to the hospital. The stranger who did not know his name and Short and Long both came in for a lot of attention. The latter had never known before how popular with his schoolmates he was. Fruit, flowers, candy and the nicest confections from the Hill kitchens found their way in profusion to Billy's bedside. After a day or two the doctors let him see whoever came, and he could talk all right. It made him forget the smart of his burns. Of course his sister Alice came frequently, and she had to bring Tommy, the irrepressible, along. Tommy was more interested in the good things to eat at his brother's bedside, however, than he was in Billy's bodily condition. There was so much jelly, and blanc-mange, and other goodies that the invalid could not possibly consume all. Tommy sat and ate, and ate, until the nurse said: "Tommy, don't you know that you are distending your stomach with all those sweets? It is not good for you." When Tommy learned that "distending" meant that his stomach was being stretched, he was delighted. "Gimme some more, Allie," he begged his sister. "Please do, Allie dear. I want to stwetch my 'tomach. It's never been big 'nough to hold all I want to eat." The interest of Laura and her close friends in the strange man with the broken leg did not lag. He talked freely with his visitors; but mostly about Alaska and his adventures in the gold mines. As near as he could guess, he must have come out of the mines with his "pile," as he expressed it, almost ten years before. "What under the canopy I have been doing since, I don't know. But if I've got down to two thousand dollars capital, I must have been having an awfully good time spending money; for I know I had a poke full of gold dust when I struck the coast and went over to Sitka." "More likely he was robbed," said Chet. "He looks about as much like a miner as Pa Belding," Laura declared. There was too much going on just then, however, for Mother Wit to try out the thought that had come to her mind regarding this man. All these interests had to be sidetracked for school and lessons. And just at this time recitations seemed to be particularly hard. With rehearsals for the play, and all, mere knowledge was very difficult to acquire. "I know I'm not half prepared in physics," wailed Nellie Agnew, as she and other juniors trooped into school one day, two weeks before Christmas. "And I," said Jess Morse, "know about as much regarding this political economy as I do about sweeping up the Milky Way with a star brush." "How poetic!" cried Laura, laughing. "I wonder if we all are as well prepared?" "They expect too much of us," declared Dora Lockwood. "Much too much!" echoed her sister. "I wonder," said Laura, "if we don't expect too much of the teachers?" In the physics recitation Nellie Agnew, as she prophesied, came to grief. Miss Carrington seemed to have an uncanny knowledge of whom to call on at such times. She seemed aware that Nellie had not prepared her lesson properly. It might be that the wary teacher read her pupils' faces. Nellie's was so woebegone that it was scarcely possible to overlook the fact that she probably felt her shortcomings in the task at hand. Miss Carrington called on the doctor's daughter almost the first one in physics. To say "unprepared!" to Miss Carrington was to bring upon one's head the shattered vials of her wrath. There was no excuse for not trying, that strict instructor considered. So Nellie tried. She stumbled along in her first answer "like a blind man in a blind alley," so Jess Morse declared. It was pitiful, and all the class sympathized. The gentle Nellie was led to make the most ridiculous statements by the silky-voiced teacher. "And you are a physician's daughter!" Miss Carrington burst out at last. "For shame!" "If I were Nell," said Dora Lockwood to her twin, "I'd cut pills altogether after this. I'd rather take math with Mr. Sharp himself." Miss Grace G. Carrington was never content to let a pupil fail and sit down. She nagged and browbeat poor Nellie until the girl lost her nerve and began to cry. By that time the other girls were all angry and upset, and that physics recitation was bound to go badly. When Jess was called on she rose with blazing cheeks and angry eyes to face their tormentor. Miss Carrington saw antagonism writ large upon Jess Morse's face. "I presume, Miss Morse, you think I cannot puzzle you?" said Miss Carrington in her very nastiest way. "You can doubtless puzzle me," said Jess sharply. "But you cannot make me cry, Miss Carrington." "Sit down!" ejaculated the angry teacher. "That goes for a demerit." "And it is about as fair as your demerits usually are," cried Jess. "Two, Miss Morse," said the teacher. "One more and you will not act in that play next week." "If I'd been born dumb," sighed Jess afterward, "it would have been money in my pocket. I almost had to bite the tip of my tongue off to keep from saying something more." "And so ruin the whole play?" said Laura softly. "Huh! I guess Hester Grimes will do that," declared Jess. "She moves about the stage like an automaton. She is going to get us a big laugh, but in the wrong place. Now, you see." The girls rehearsed every afternoon, and the athletic work was neglected. Mrs. Case excused those who were engaged in producing the play. "The Rose Garden" was not such an easily acted play as they had at first supposed. Mr. Mann was patient with them; but in Hester Grimes' case he could not help the feeling of annoyance that took possession of him. Hester Grimes took offence so easily. "Every rehearsal I look for her to cut up rusty," Jess cried. "And somebody has got to play the part of the dark lady! It is not a part that can be cut out of the cast, although it is not a speaking part." Hester had begun to complain, too, because she had no lines. She considered that she was being deprived of her rights, and was of less importance than the other girls, because she was dumb on the stage. "Why! even Bobby Hargrew," she complained, "with her silly sailor part, has lines to repeat, besides that sailor's hornpipe in the first act. Of course, you girls would wish the least important part onto me." "What nonsense, Hester!" cried Jess. "If you really understood the play and the significance of your part, you would not say such a thing. And do, do be less like a wooden image." "Humph! I guess I know my part, Jess Morse," snapped Hester. "It doesn't matter at all what I do on the stage." "What did I tell you?" groaned Bobby. "'Double! Double!' and-so-forth. There is trouble brewing. If we all had measles or chicken-pox, and so couldn't give the play, we'd be in luck, I verily believe." "Oh, don't, Bobby!" begged Dora Lockwood. "You are so reckless." "Just the same, I feel it in my bones that Hester is going to kick over the traces," said Bobby grimly. "If only Margit Salgo had been allowed to have the part," groaned Dorothy. "It's Gee Gee's fault if the play is a failure," snapped Bobby. Never had the disagreeable teacher at Central High been so little liked as at this time. They blamed Miss Carrington more than they did Hester. As the party of troubled girls left the school-house on this particular afternoon, Lily Pendleton ran after them. "What do you think has happened?" she cried. "It's something bad, of course," groaned Nellie Agnew. "Who is hurt?" asked Laura. "It isn't that," said Lily. "But poor Purt Sweet!" "Now what has he done?" asked Jess. "It is what they say he has done, not what he really has done," wailed Lily. "The police have been to his house. And what do you think?" "I bet his mother's had a fit!" exclaimed Bobby, in an undertone. "The police accuse Purt of running down that man on Market Street the other Saturday night," said Lily warmly. "And Purt doesn't know anything more about it than a baby! Isn't it awful, girls?" CHAPTER XVIII WHERE WAS PURT? The police examination of Purt Sweet was no light matter. Two of Centerport's detective force had been working on the case ever since the stranger had been knocked down on Market Street, and, like Chet Belding and his friends, the detectives finally had come to the conclusion that Prettyman Sweet's automobile was the only Perriton car in the city that had not been in storage on that night. The detectives' visit to the Sweet residence, and Purt's later call upon the Chief of Police at his command, were dreadfully shocking to the boy's mother. Purt had to reassure her and insist that he was not going to be arrested and sent to jail at once; so he had not much time to be frightened himself. Indeed, he came out in rather good colors on this particular occasion. The boy's father had long since died. Purt had been indulged by his mother to a ridiculous degree, and as a usual thing Purt's conversation and his activities were ridiculed by his schoolmates. "This disgrace will kill me, Prettyman!" wailed Mrs. Sweet. "Where does the disgrace come in," pleaded poor Purt, "when I haven't really done anything?" "But they say you have!" "I can't help what they say." "You were out that evening with the car. I remember it very well," his mother declared. "What of it? I wasn't on Market Street the whole evening," grumbled the boy. "Where were you then?" she demanded. It seemed as though everybody else asked Purt Sweet that question, from the Chief of Police down; and it was the one question the boy would not answer. He grew red, and sputtered, and begged the question, every time anybody sought to discover just where he was with the automobile on that Saturday evening after dinner. Even when Chief Donovan threatened him with arrest, Purt said: "If I should tell you it wouldn't do any good. It would not relieve me of suspicion and would maybe only make trouble for other people. I was out with our car, and that is all there is to it. But I did not run that man down. I was not on Market Street." He stuck to this. And his honest manner impressed the head of the police force. Besides, Mrs. Sweet was very wealthy, and if Purt was arrested she would immediately bail him and would engage the best counsel in the county to defend her son. It is one thing to accuse a person of a fault. As Chief Donovan very well knew, it is an entirely different matter to prove such accusation. The news of Purt's trouble was not long in getting to Short and Long in the hospital. Chet and Lance really thought the smaller boy would express some satisfaction over Purt's trouble. But to their surprise Billy took up cudgels for the dandy as soon as he was told that the police suspected him of the offense. "What's the matter with you, Short?" demanded the big fellow. "You've been sure Purt was guilty all the time." "I don't care!" declared Billy. "He's one of us fellows, isn't he?" "Admitted he goes to Central High," Chet said. "But he isn't one of our gang," Lance added. "I don't care! The police are always too fresh," said Billy, who had reason for believing that the Centerport police sometimes made serious mistakes. Billy had had his own experience, as related in "The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna." "Then you don't believe Purt did it?" demanded Lance. "No, I don't. I was mistaken," declared Short and Long. "Purt's all right" "Wow! Wow!" murmured Chet. "See how he brought me here in his car when I was hurt. And look at the stuff Purt's given me while I've been here," said Billy excitedly. "He'd never have hurt that man and run away without seeing what he'd done. No, sir!" "Crackey, Billy!" said Chet, "you've turned square around." "I know I have. And I ought to be ashamed of myself for ever distrusting Purt," said the invalid vigorously. "Then why won't Purt tell where he was?" demanded Lance doubtfully. "I don't care where he was," said Billy. "If he says he didn't hit the man, he didn't. That's all. And we've got to prove it, boys." "Some job you suggest," said Chet slowly. "It looks to me as though Pretty Sweet was in a bad hole, and no mistake." Even the most charitable of his schoolmates took this view of Purt Sweet's trouble. His denial of guilt did not establish the fact of his innocence. His inability, or refusal, to explain where he was at the time of the accident on Market Street in front of Mr. Belding's jewelry store made the situation very difficult indeed. "If he could only put forward an alibi," Lance Darby said, when the Hill crowd of Central High boys and girls discussed the matter. "But he won't say a word!" cried Nellie. "I believe he is innocent." "Then why doesn't he tell where he was at the time?" demanded Laura sternly. "Is he scared to tell the truth?" asked Jess. "I don't think he is," Chet observed thoughtfully. "Somehow he acts differently from usual." "You're right," Bobby declared, with frank approval of one of whom she had never approved before. "I believe there's a big change in old Purt." "Well, it's strange," Laura remarked. "He never showed such obstinacy before." "He's never shown any particular courage before, either," said her brother. "That's what gets me!" "Where does the courage come in?" demanded Lance. "I believe Chet is right," Jess said. "Purt is trying to shield somebody." "From what?" and "Who?" were the chorused demands. "I don't know," Jess told them. "There is somebody else mixed up in this trouble. It stands to reason Purt would not be so obstinate if he had nothing to hide. And we are pretty much of the opinion--all of us--that he really did not run that man down. Therefore, if he is not shielding some other person, what is he about?" "I've asked him frankly," Chet said, "and all I could get out of him was that he 'couldn't tell.' No sense to that," growled the big fellow. It seemed that Purt Sweet had pretty well succeeded in puzzling his friends as well as the police. The latter were evidently waiting to get something provable on poor Purt. Then a warrant would be issued for his arrest. By this time the stranger who had been the start of all the trouble and mystery--the man from Alaska, as the hospital force called him--was able to be up and wheeled in a chair, although his leg was not yet out of plaster. Billy Long heard of this, and he grew very anxious to see the man whose accident was the beginning of Purt's trouble. Billy had quickly become a favorite with both the nurses and doctors of the Centerport Hospital. He was brave in bearing pain, and he was as generous as he could be with the goodies and fruit and flowers that were brought to him. He divided these with the other patients in his ward, and cheered his mates with his lively chatter. At first, however, there had been an hour or so every other day when a screen was placed about Billy's bed and the doctor and nurse had a very bad time, indeed, dressing the dreadful burns the boy had sustained. Short and Long could not help screaming at times, and when he did not really scream the others in the ward could hear his half-stifled moans and sobs. These experiences were hard to bear. When the dressings were over and his courage was restored the screen was removed from about Billy's cot and he would grin ruefully enough at his nearer neighbors. "I'm an awful baby. Too tender-hearted--that's me all over," he said once. "I never could stand seeing anybody hurt--and I can see just what they are doing to me all the time!" Billy knew that the man from Alaska was being wheeled up and down the corridor, and he begged so hard to speak with him that the nurse went out and asked the orderly to wheel the chair in to Billy's cot. "So you are the brave boy I've heard about, are you?" said the stranger, smiling at the bandaged boy from Central High. "I know how brave you've heard me," said Billy soberly. "I do a lot of hollering when they are plastering me up." The man laughed and said: "Just the same I am glad to know you. My name seems to have got away from me for the time being. My mind's slipped a cog, as you might say. What do they call you, son?" Billy told him his name. "And," he added, "I was right there in front of Chet Belding's father's jewelry store when that automobile knocked you down." "You don't mean it?" "Yes, sir. I saw the machine. It was a Perriton car all right. It might even have been Pretty Sweet's car. But it wasn't Pretty Sweet driving it, I am sure." The boy's earnestness caught the man's full attention. "I guess this Sweet boy they tell about is a friend of yours, son?" he said. "He is a friend all right, all right," said Billy Long. "And I never knew it till right here when I got hurt. Purt--that's what we call him--is a good fellow. And I am sure he wouldn't do such a thing as to knock you down and then run away without finding out if he had hurt you." "I don't know how that may be," said the man seriously. "But whoever it was that ran me down did me a bad turn. I can't find my name--or who I am--or where I belong. I tell you what it is, Billy Long, that is a serious condition for anybody to be in." "I guess that's so," admitted the boy. "And you got your leg broken, too, in two places." "I don't mind much about the broken leg," said the man who had lost his name. "What I am sore about, Billy Long, is not having any name to use. It--it is awfully embarrassing." "Yes, sir, I guess it is." "So, you see, I don't feel very kindly toward this Sweet boy, if he was the one who knocked me down." "Oh, but I'm sure he isn't the one." "Why are you so sure?" "Because he wouldn't be so mean about it, and lie, and all, if he had done it. You see, a boy who has been so nice to me as he has, couldn't really be so mean as all that to anybody else." "Not conclusive," said the man. "You only make a statement. You don't offer proof." "But I--Well!" ejaculated Billy, "I'd do most anything to make you see that Purt _couldn't_ be guilty of knocking you down." "I'll tell you," said the man without a name, smiling again, "I haven't any particular hard feelings against your friend. Or I wouldn't have if I could get my name and memory back. So you find out some way of helping me recover my memory--you and your young friends, Billy Long--and I'll forgive the Sweet boy, whether he hurt me or not." "Suppose the cops arrest him?" asked Billy worriedly. "I'll do all I can to keep them from annoying Sweet if you boys and girls can find out who I am and where I belong," declared the man, laughing somewhat ruefully. And Billy shook hands on that To his mind the task was not impossible. CHAPTER XIX LAURA LISTENS Laura Belding had evolved an idea regarding "Mr. Nemo of Nowhere," as Bobby dubbed the stranger at the hospital. In fact, she had two ideas which were entwined in her thought. But up to this point she had found no time to work out either. She had taken nobody into her confidence; for Mother Wit was not one to "tell all she knew in a minute." On both points Laura desired to consider her way with caution. She went shopping with her mother to several stores on Market Street one afternoon, skipping the rehearsal of "The Rose Garden" for this purpose. The Christmas crowds were greater than she had ever seen them before. But the enthusiasm for the Red Cross drive had by no means faltered in spite of the season. Ember Night had gathered nearly five thousand dollars for the cause. Laura treasured a very nicely worded letter of appreciation from the mayor's secretary, thanking the Central High girl for her suggestion, which had proved so efficacious in money-raising. Laura was not exhibiting this letter to very many people, but she was secretly proud of it. In every store she entered Laura saw a Red Cross booth, while collectors with padlocked boxes were weaving in and out among the shoppers. "Give Again! Warranted Not to Hurt You!" was the slogan. Wearing a Red Cross button did not absolve one from being solicited. And she saw that the people were giving with a smile. Centerport was still enthusiastic over the drive. Laura seriously considered what she and her Central High girl friends were trying to do for the fund. Would the play be a success? If they only gave one performance and the audience was not enthusiastic enough to warrant a second, and then a third, she would consider that they had failed. All of a sudden, while she was thinking of this very serious fact, Laura came face to face with Janet Steele. "You are just the girl I wished most to see, Janet!" cried the Central High girl. "I always want to see you, Laura Belding," declared the Red Cross girl, who was evidently off duty and homeward bound. "Thank you, dear," Laura said. "You must prove that. I want you to do me a favor." "What can I possibly do for you?" laughed Janet. "Hurry and tell me." "You may not be so willing after you hear what it is." "You doubt my willingness to prove my friendship?" demanded Janet soberly. "Not a bit of it! But, listen here." She told Janet swiftly what she desired, and from the sparkle in her eyes and the rising flush in her face it was easily seen that Laura had not asked a favor that Janet would not willingly give. "Oh, but my dear!" she cried, "I shall have to ask mother." "I presume you will," said Laura, smiling. "Shall I go along with you and see what she says?" "Can you?" "I have done all my mother's errands--look at these bundles," said Laura. "We might as well have this matter settled at once. Your mother won't mind my coming in this way, will she?" "You may come in any way you wish, and any time you wish, my dear," said Janet warmly. "Mother very much approves of you." "It is sweet of you to say so," returned the girl of Central High. "I shall be quite sure she approves of me if she lets you do what I want in this case, Janet," and she laughed again as they turned off the busy main street into a quieter one. The invalid was at the long window, and beckoned to Laura to come in before she saw that that was the visitor's intention. "I cannot begin to tell you how delighted we are to have you girls call," Mrs. Steele said, when she had greeted both her daughter and Laura with a kiss. "It would be so nice if Janet could go to school; then she might bring home a crowd of young folks every afternoon," and the invalid laughed. "But, you see, Miss Belding, I am so trying in the morning. It does seem that it is all Aunt Jinny and Janet can do to get me out of my bed, and dressed, and fed, and seated here on my throne for the day." "It seems too bad that the weather is not so you can go out," Laura said. "Oh, I almost never go out," Mrs. Steele replied. "Though I tell Janet that when spring comes, if we can only get the agent to repair that porch, she can wheel me back and forth on it in my chair." "Better than that, dear Mrs. Steele," Laura promised, "we will come with our car and take you for a ride all over Centerport, and along the Lakeside Drive. It is beautiful in the spring." "How nice of you!" cried the invalid. "But that, of course, depends upon whether we are in Centerport when the pleasant weather comes," said Mrs. Steele sadly. "Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Laura, "do you mean that you think of going away?" "Now, Mother!" murmured Janet, as though the thought was repugnant to her, too. "How can we tell?" cried the invalid, just a little excitedly. "You know, Janet, if we should hear of your uncle----" "Oh, Mother!" sighed the girl, "I do wish you would give up hope of Uncle Jack's ever turning up again." "Don't talk that way," said her mother sharply. "You do not know Jack as I do. He was only my half brother, but the very nicest boy who ever lived. Why, he gave up all his share of the income from my father's estate to me, and went off to the wilds to seek his own fortune. "How was he to know that some of the investments poor father made would turn out badly, and that our income would be reduced to a mere pittance? For I tell you, Miss Belding," added the invalid less vehemently, "that we have almost nothing, divided by three, to live on. That is, an income for one must support us three. Aunt Jinny is one of us, you know." "Now, Mother!" begged Janet "Sha'n't I get tea for us?" "Of course! What am I thinking of?" returned her mother. "Tell Aunt Jinny to make it in the flowered teapot I fancy the flowered teapot to-day--and the blue-striped cups and saucers. "Do you know, Miss Belding, what the complete delight of wealth is? It is an ability to see variety about one in the home. You need not use the same old cups and saucers every day! If I were rich I would have the furniture changed in my room every few days. Sameness is my _bête noire_." "It must be very hard for you, shut in so much," said Laura quietly. "And poor Janet is shut in a good deal of the time with me, and suffers because of my crotchets. Ah, if we could only find Jack Weld--my half brother, you know, Miss Belding. He went away to make his fortune, and I believe he made it. He has probably settled down somewhere, in good health and with plenty, and without an idea as to our situation. He never was a letter writer. And he had every reason to suppose that we were well fixed for life. Then, we have moved about so much----" Janet came back with the tea things. Mrs. Steele left the subject of her brother, and Laura found opportunity of broaching the matter on which she had come. What she wished Janet to do pleased the latter's mother immensely. She was, in fact, delighted. "How nice of you to suggest it, Miss Belding," said Mrs. Steele. "I know Janet will be glad to do it. Will you not, Janet?" "I--I'll try," said her daughter, flushed and excited at the prospect Laura's suggestion opened before her. CHAPTER XX TWO THINGS ABOUT HESTER Scarcely was Bobby Hargrew of a happier disposition and of more volatile temperament than the Lockwood twins. Dora and Dorothy, while still chubby denizens of the nursery, saw that the world was bound to be full of fun for them if they attacked it in the right spirit. Dora and Dorothy's mother had died when they were very small, and the twins had been left to the mercy of relatives and servants, some of whom did not understand the needs of the growing girls as their mother would have done. Much of this is told in "The Girls of Central High on Lake Luna." Almost as soon as the twins could stagger about in infant explorations of the house and grounds, they were wont to exchange the red and blue ribbons tied on their dimpled wrists by their nurse to tell them apart. For never were two creatures so entirely alike as Dora and Dorothy Lockwood. And they had grown to maidenhood with, seemingly, the same features, the same voices, the same tastes, and with an unbounded love for and confidence in each other. As they always dressed alike nobody could be sure which was Dora and which Dorothy. Now that they were well along in high school, the twins had been put on their honor not to recite for each other or to help each other in any unfair way. There really was a very close tie between them--almost an uncanny chord of harmony. Indeed, if one was punished the other wept! The teachers of Central High were fond of the twins--all save Miss Carrington. Her attitude of considering the pupils her deadly enemies extended to the happy-go-lucky sisters. She did not believe there was such a thing as "school-girl honor." That is why she had such a hard time with her pupils. In the play the girls of Central High were rehearsing, Dora and Dorothy played two distinct characters. Makeup and costume made this possible. But at the first dress rehearsal the twins pretty nearly broke up the scene in which they both appeared on the stage, by reciting each other's parts. Dora was an old, old woman--a village witch with a cane--while Dorothy was a frisky young matron from the city. When they met by the rustic well in the rose garden, haunted by that "dark lady" who was giving Mr. Mann so much trouble, Dora uttered the sprightly lines of her blooming sister, while the latter mouthed the old hag's prophecies. It was ridiculous, of course, and the girls could not go on with the rehearsal for some minutes because of their laughter. But Mr. Mann was not so well pleased. Dora and Dorothy promised not to do it again. "If I'd done anything like that, you'd all have jumped on me," Hester Grimes declared with a sniff. "It wouldn't have been considered funny at all." "And it wouldn't have been," murmured Jess to Laura. "There is one thing about you, Hessie," said Bobby, in her most honeyed tone, "that 'precludes,' as Gee Gee would say, your doing such a thing." "What's that, Miss Smarty?" "You are not twins," declared Bobby, with gravity. "So you could not very well play that trick." "Oh, my!" murmured Nellie, "what would we do if Hester were twins?" "Don't mention it!" begged Jess. "The thought is terrifying." But there proved to be a second thing about Hester which came out prominently within the week. This was something that not many of the girls of Central High had suspected before the moment of revelation. The first performance of "The Rose Garden" was set for Friday night. There would follow a matinee and evening performance on Saturday--provided, of course, the first performance encouraged the managers to go on with the production. "It all depends," sighed Jess, bearing a deal of the responsibility for the success of the piece on her young shoulders. "If we are punk, then nobody will come back to see the show a second time, or advise other folks to see it. And if we don't make a heap of money for the Red Cross, after all the advertising we've had, what will folks think of us?" They were really all worried by the fear of failure. All but Hester. She did not appear to care. And it did seem as though every time she rehearsed she made the "dark lady" of the rose garden more wooden and impossible than before. At length Mr. Mann had given her up as hopeless. It seemed impossible to make Hester act like a human being even, let alone like a graceful lady. "So you see, now that he lets me alone, I do very well," asserted Hester, with vast assurance and a characteristic toss of her head. "I knew I was right all the time. Now, finally, Mr. Mann admits it." When she said this to Lily, even Lily had her doubts. When Bobby heard her say it, she fairly hooted her scorn. Of course, Hester instantly flew into a rage with Bobby. This was only two days before the fateful Friday and before recitations in the morning. The girls had gathered in the main lower corridor of Central High. The bell for classes had not yet rung. "I'll show you how smart you are, Clara Hargrew!" Hester almost screamed. "I've a good mind to slap you!" "That might make me smart, Hess," drawled the smaller girl coolly. "But it would not change the facts in the case at all. You are spoiling the whole play--the most effective scenes in it, too--by your obstinacy. Mr. Mann has given you up as a bad egg, that's all. If the play is a failure, it will be your fault." And for once Laura Belding did not interfere to stop Bobby's tart tongue. Perhaps the bell for assembly rang too quickly for Mother Wit to interfere. At any rate, before Hester could make any rejoinder, they were hurrying in to their seats. But the big girl was in a towering rage. She was fairly pale, she was so angry. Her teeth were clenched. Her eyes sparkled wrathfully. She was in no mood to face Miss Grace G. Harrington, who chanced to have the juniors before her for mediæval history during the first period on this Wednesday morning. Naturally, with the first performance of the play but two days away, those girls who were to act in it could not give their undivided attention to recitations. But Miss Carrington had determined to make no concessions. She was firmly convinced that Central High should support no such farcical production as "The Rose Garden." Anything classical--especially if it were beyond the acting ability of the girls--would have pleased the obstinate woman. "Something," as Nellie said, "in which we would all be draped in Greek style, in sheets, and wear sandals and flesh colored hose, covered from neck to instep, and with long speeches in blank verse to mouth. That is the sort of a performance to satisfy Miss Carrington." "Amen!" agreed Bobby. "Wait till she sees Bobby's knickers," chuckled Dora Lockwood. "You know Gee Gee always looks as though she wanted to put on blinders when she comes into the girls' gym." Of course, these remarks were not passed in history class. But Dora was somehow inattentive just the same on this morning. She sat on one side of Hester Grimes and Dorothy on the other. The angry girl between the twins looked like a vengeful high priestess of Trouble--and Trouble appeared. Miss Carrington asked Dora a direct question, speaking her name as she always did, and glaring at the twin in question near-sightedly, in an endeavor to see the girl's lips move when she answered. She was sure of Dora's seat; but, of course, she could not be sure whether Dora or Dorothy was sitting in it. Her refusal to accept the fact that the twins were on their honor kept Miss Carrington in doubt. "Relate some incident, with date, in the life of Saladin, Dora," the teacher commanded. Dora hesitated. This was a "jump question," as the pupils called it. Miss Carrington, as she frequently did, had gone back several lessons for this query, and Dora was hazy about Saladin. "Come, Dora!" ejaculated the teacher harshly. "Have you no answer?" Dorothy leaned forward to look across Hester's desk at her sister. She was anxious that Dora should not fail. She would have imparted, could she have done so, her knowledge of Saladin to her twin. But there was only nervous anxiety in her look and manner. The moment Dora's lips opened and she began her reply, Hester turned sharply and stared at Dorothy. It was a despicable trick--a mean and contemptible attempt to get the twins into trouble. And Hester did it deliberately. She knew that Miss Carrington was much more near-sighted than she was willing to acknowledge. Seeing Hester look at Dorothy caused the teacher to believe that Dorothy was answering for her sister. "Stop!" commanded Miss Carrington, rising quickly from her seat on the platform. Dora, who had begun very well at last, halted in her answer and looked surprised. Miss Carrington was glaring now at Dorothy. "How dare you, Dorothy Lockwood?" she demanded, her face quite red with anger. "There is no trusting any of you girls. Cheat!" There was a sudden intake of breath all over the room. Some of the girls looked positively horror-stricken. For the teacher to use such an expression shocked Laura, and Jess, and Nellie for an instant, as though the word had been addressed to them personally. "Oh!" gasped Jess. The teacher flashed her a glance. "Silence, Miss Morse!" Dorothy had risen slowly to her feet. "What--what do you mean, Miss Carrington?" she whispered. "Do you say I--I have _cheated?"_ "Cheat!" repeated the teacher, with an index finger pointing Dorothy down. "I saw you. I heard you. You started to answer for your sister." "I did not!" cried the accused girl. "She certainly did not, Miss Carrington!" repeated Dora, rising likewise. "Silence!" exclaimed Miss Carrington. "I would not believe either of you. You are both disgracing your classmates and Central High." A sibilant hiss rose in the back of the room. The girls were more angry at this outburst of the teacher than all of them dared show. Dorothy burst into a fit of weeping. She covered her face with her hands and ran out of the room. Dora, defying Miss Carrington, muttered: "Ugly, mean thing!" Then she ran after her sister. The room was in tense excitement. Miss Carrington saw suddenly that she positively had nobody on her side. She began to question the girls immediately surrounding the twins' seats. "You saw her answer for her sister, Miss Morse?" "I did not," declared Jess icily. "Were you not looking at Dorothy, Laura?" asked the teacher. "No, Miss Carrington. I was looking at Dora." "And Dora answered!" cried the usually gentle and retiring Nellie Agnew. "Why----Miss Grimes!" exclaimed the disturbed teacher. "You know that Dorothy was answering for her sister?" "Oh, no, Miss Carrington," denied Hester. "But you looked at her?" "Yes." "What for?" snapped the teacher. "Why," drawled Hester, "that pin Dorothy wears in her blouse was on crooked and it attracted my attention." That was the second thing about Hester Grimes. She was not alone a dunce when it came to acting, she was a prevaricator as well. CHAPTER XXI AND A THIRD THING What might have happened following this explosion of bad temper and ill-feeling, had Mr. Sharp himself not entered the room, nobody will ever know. Miss Carrington had been led into a most unjust and unkind criticism of the Lockwood twins. She had been deliberately led into it by Hester Grimes. She knew Hester had done this. The other girls knew it, too; and they all, the young folks, believed that the teacher had been most cruel and unfair. Mr. Sharp could not have failed to appreciate the fact that there was a tense feeling in the room that never arose from an ordinary recitation in mediæval history. But he smilingly overlooked anything of the kind. "Pardon me, Miss Carrington--and you, young ladies," he said, bowing and smiling. "I have been in the senior classes, and now I am here to make the same statement I made there, and that I shall make to the sophomores later. May I speak to your class, Miss Carrington?" Miss Carrington could not find her voice, but she bowed her permission for the principal to go on. "Several of you young ladies," said Mr. Sharp, "are to take part in the play on Friday evening. Your work, in school, I fear, is being scamped a bit. Do the best you can; give your interest and attention as well as you may to the recitations. "But I wish to announce that, until after this week, we teachers will excuse such failures as you may make in your work; only, of course, all faults will have to be made up after the holidays. We want you to give the play in a way to bring honor upon the school as a whole. "I have enjoyed your last two rehearsals, and feel confident that, with a few raw spots smoothed over, you will produce 'The Rose Garden' in a way to please your friends and satisfy your critics. The faculty as a whole feel as I do about it. Go in and win!" The little speech cleared the atmosphere of the class-room immediately. It did not please Miss Carrington, of course; but the girls felt that they could even forgive her after what Mr. Sharp had said. Dora and Dorothy Lockwood had been insulted and maligned. They did not appear again at that recitation. "But do you think old Gee Gee would say that she was wrong, and beg their pardon?" demanded Bobby, at recess. "Not on your life!" "I don't know that a teacher in her situation could publicly acknowledge she was utterly in the wrong," Laura observed thoughtfully. "I would like to know why not?" demanded Jess Morse. "Why, you see, the fault really lies upon the conscience of one of us girls," said Laura, looking significantly at Hester. The latter turned furiously, as though she had been waiting for and expecting just this criticism. But surely she had not expected it from this source. All the girls were amazed to hear Laura speak so harshly. "Oh, Laura!" murmured Jess. "Now you have done it! She's going to blow up!" "And she'll leave us flat on the play business," groaned Bobby. Hester came across the reception room to Laura with flashing eyes and her face mottled with rage. "What is that you say, Laura Belding?" she demanded. "I will repeat it," said Laura firmly. "The whole trouble is on your conscience. You deliberately led Miss Carrington astray." "Oh! I did, did I?" "You most certainly did. Miss Carrington was both cruel to Dora and Dorothy and unfair. But you knew her failing, and you led her to believe that Dorothy was answering the question she put to Dora. No wonder Miss Carrington was angered." "Is that so?" sneered Hester. "And who are you, to tell me when I'm wrong?" "Somebody has to tell you, Hester," said Jess sweetly, for she was bound to take up cudgels for her chum. "And you can mind your business, too, Jess Morse!" snarled Hester. "Dear, dear!" Nellie begged. "Let us not quarrel." Yet for once Mother Wit seemed determined upon making trouble. Usually acting as peacemaker, the girls around her were amazed to hear her say: "You are quite in the wrong, Hester. And you know it. You should beg Miss Carrington's pardon; and you should ask pardon of all of us, as well as of Dora and Dorothy, for disgracing the class." "What do you mean?" screamed Hester Grimes. "Do you suppose I would tell old Gee Gee that it was my fault?" "You deliberately prevaricated--to her and to us," said Laura calmly. "Call me a story-teller, do you?" cried the butcher's daughter. "How dare you! I'll get even with you, Laura Belding!" "It is the truth," Laura said, slowly and firmly. "I'll fix you for this, Laura Belding!" pursued Hester, trembling with rage. She turned to sweep them all with her angry glance. "I'll fix you all! I won't have anything to do with any of you out of school--so there! And I won't act in your hateful old play!" She ran out of the room as she said this and left the girls--at least, most of them--in a state of blank despair. The bell rang for the next session before anybody could speak. Laura seemed quite calm and unruffled. The others got through their recitations as best they could until lunch hour. Jess and Bobby caught up with Laura on the street when the latter went out for her customary walk. "Oh, Laura! What shall we do?" almost wept Jess. "Only two days! Nobody can learn that part--not even as good as Hester knew it--before Friday night." At that moment Chet Belding appeared from around the corner. He was red and almost breathless--in a high state of excitement, and no mistake. "What do you think, girls?" he cried, "We got a line on Purt Sweet's automobile and why he has been hiding about where it was that Saturday night the man from Alaska was hurt." "What is it? Tell us?" asked Laura. "I met Dan Smith. He goes to the East High, you know, and he lives across the street from the Grimes' place. You know?" "Hester Grimes?" cried Jess. "Yes. Your dear friend. Well, Dan was up all night that night with a raging toothache. He said the Grimes' had a party. Purt was there with his car. Dan knows the car was taken away from the house and was gone more than an hour that evening, and that Purt did not go with the car. "See? He's shielding somebody--the poor fish!" added Chet. "That is what Short and Long has been saying. Now, what do you know about that?" CHAPTER XXII THE CASE FOR AND AGAINST PURT The news Chet had divulged was so exciting that the girls quite forgot for the time being the wreck that Hester Grimes seemed to have made of the forthcoming performance of "The Rose Garden." Their chattering tongues mentioned Hester more than once, however, as they discussed Chet's news. Whether Purt Sweet's car had run down the man from Alaska or not, what did Hester know about it? "Can it be possible that Purt is shielding Hester in this matter?" Laura queried gravely. "Oh, it couldn't be! She wasn't in that car that knocked down Mr. Nemo of Nowhere," Bobby declared emphatically. "He has always favored Hester and Lil," Jess "Pooh!" again put in the irrepressible. "That's only because Pretty Sweet thinks there is nothing in this world so good or great as money; and both the Grimes and the Pendleton families have got oodles of it." "I don't know about that," Chet said quite as thoughtfully as his sister. "It may not be their folks' money that attracts Purt to those two girls." "What then?" demanded Bobby. "They flatter him. He can lap that up like our cat laps cream." "That is true," agreed Jess Morse. "Certainly we don't flatter, him," Bobby said bluntly. "It may be that we have never given Purt a fair deal," Laura observed. "Hester and Lil do not make fun of him." "And is he paying Hester back by shouldering something for her?" Jess asked. "Oh, she never was in that car when it was taken away from where Purt had it parked before the Grimes' house," Chet hastened to declare with assurance. "I got all the facts from Dan Smith. He'd swear to them." "Let us hear the particulars," begged Laura. "Why, Dan says he was up at his window on the third floor of their house watching the lights in the Grimes' house. It was a big party. Dancing on the lower floor, and a crowd of folks. He saw two men--or maybe boys--run out of the side door and down to the gate, as though they were sneaking away from some of the others, you know." "Well?" his sister responded. "Go on." "Dan didn't know the fellows. Fact was, he couldn't see their faces very well, and so he could not be sure of their identity in any case." "The street is pretty wide there, it's a fact," murmured Bobby. "Those two fellows looked back as though they expected to be spied upon. But they went to the car, found it was all right (Purt had the radiator blanketed) and got in. The starter worked, and she got into action as slick as a whistle, Dan said. He thought it was all right or he would have raised the window and halloaed at 'em. There were no girls with them. The two fellows went off alone in the car." "There were two men in the car that struck Mr. Nemo of Nowhere," murmured Bobby. "Purt appeared, Dan says, after a little while and looked for the car. He got quite excited. Asked everybody that came along if they had seen it. He was in a stew for fair. And while he was running up and down, popping off like an engine exhaust, back came the car with only one of the fellows in it." "Ha! The mystery deepens," said Jess, in mock tragic tones. "What became of the other villain?" "You answer that question," grinned Chet. "You asked it!" "But what happened then?" asked Laura interestedly. "There was a row between Purt and the fellow who brought back the car. Purt pointed to the mudguard on the off side, as though it had been bent, or scraped in some way----" "That's what struck the man as he fell on Market Street," interrupted Bobby with confidence. "I saw it hit him." "It was blood on the guard," said Laura. "Oh, my!" gasped Jess. "Do you suppose so?" "Like enough," Chet agreed. "But it was too far away for Dan to see. And finally Purt drove off without returning to the house with the other fellow." "But who was he?" Jess asked. "Who?" "The fellow Purt quarreled with for taking the car." "Give it up," said Chet, shaking his head. "And what became of the other man?" Laura queried. "There were two in the car when it hit the man from Alaska," Jess declared. "Gee!" ejaculated Bobby. "There's the nine-ten express west" "Who----What do you mean, young one?" demanded Chet. "'Young one' yourself!" snapped Clara Hargrew, immediately on her dignity. "There are no medals on you for age, Chet Belding." "Or whiskers, either," laughed Laura, slyly eyeing her brother, for she was aware that he had a safety razor hidden away in his bureau drawer. "Come, come!" said Jess, "What about this nine-ten express Bobby spoke of?" "Why," said the younger girl, "I noticed Mr. Belding's clock--the big chronometer in the show window--as we came out of the store that Saturday evening. It was just nine o'clock when we stood there and saw Mr. Nemo of Nowhere run down by the car. Anybody driving that car could have made the railroad station just about in time for the ten minutes' past nine express--the Cannon Ball, don't they call it?" "That is the train," admitted Laura. "But why----" "Just wait a minute. Give me time," advised Bobby. "That car that did the damage was headed for the station." "True," murmured Jess. "At least, it was going in that direction." "And when Purt's car came back to the Grimes' house after those two fellows Dan Smith saw run away with it, there was only one person in the car. The second individual had been dropped." "At the station!" exclaimed Chet, catching the idea. "That is why they stole Purt's car." "I declare," Laura said. "Your idea sounds very reasonable, Bobby." "Bobby is right there with the brainworks," said Chet, with admiration. "Oh," said Bobby, "I'm not altogether 'non compos mend-us,' as the fellow said." Chet was very serious, after all. "I tell you what," he blurted out, "if Purt won't help himself with the police, maybe we can get him out of the muss in spite of all." "Why does he want to act the donkey?" demanded Jess. "Are you sure he is?" asked Laura thoughtfully. "I tell you," said the excited Chet, "we can find out who had to leave Hester Grimes' party to catch that express. It ought to be a good lead. What do you think, Laura?" "I am wondering," said Mother Wit, "if we have always been fair to Prettyman Sweet? Of course, he is silly in some ways, and dresses ridiculously, and is not much of a sport. But if he is keeping still about this matter so as not to make trouble for Hester, or any of her folks, there is something fine in his action, don't you think?" "Well--yes," admitted Jess. "It would seem so." "I never thought of poor Purt as a chivalrous knight," said Bobby. "Maybe Laura is right," remarked Chet, rather grudgingly. "He is much more of a gentleman, perhaps, than we have given him credit for being," Laura concluded. "I hope it is proved so in the end." CHAPTER XXIII THE LAST REHEARSAL That afternoon, when the girls gathered for rehearsal, Hester, nor anybody else, appeared to play "the dark lady of the roses." Mr. Mann made no comment upon this fact, but he looked very serious, indeed. The play was acted from the first entrance to the final curtain. The other characters had to speak of, and even to, the important and missing character, and it was plain to all as the play progressed that the absence of "the dark lady" was going to be a fatal hindrance to the success of the piece. Even Lily Pendleton, Hester's last lingering friend, showed a good deal of spleen at Hester's action. "I never will forgive Hessie," Lily said, almost in tears. And the other girls had to urge her over and over again to be sure and come herself on Thursday for the last dress rehearsal. "If the piece is wrecked, let us be castaways together," begged Jess. "Don't anybody else fail. Promise, girls!" They promised sadly. Mr. Mann had hurried away as soon as the last words were said. "Too disgusted to even speak to us," Nellie said sadly. "I am real sorry for him, girls. He has tried so hard." "He deserves a leather medal," said Bobby emphatically. "And what do we deserve?" demanded one of the twins. "I know what Hester Grimes deserves," said Bobby darkly. It was not likely, however, that Hester Grimes would get her deserts. They were all agreed on that point, if on no other. That Wednesday afternoon when the girls separated it was with drooping spirits--all but Laura Belding, at least. Perhaps it was because she always had so many irons in the fire that trouble seemed to roll off her young shoulders like rainwater off a duck's feathers. At least, when she started for the street car that took her to the hospital before she went home, she was cheerful of countenance and smiling. She carried that same cheerfulness into the hospital itself and to Billy Long's ward. The active Billy was, as he himself expressed it, "fed up" on the hospital by now. He was grateful for what they had done for him there and the way in which they treated him in every way, but confinement was beginning to wear on his spirits. "Gee, Laura Belding!" ejaculated the young patient, seizing her hand with both his own when she appeared, "a sight of you is just a stop-station this side of eternity. Have they changed the hours? Aren't they twice as long as they used to be?" "No, indeed, my poor boy," Laura said. "There are only sixty minutes in each. I wish I could shorten the time for you." "Take it from me," growled Short and Long, having hard work to keep back the tears, "this being in bed is the bunk. Don't let anybody tell you different." But Laura caught his attention the next moment with Purt Sweet's trouble. What Chet had found out from Dan Smith, Hester Grimes' neighbor, interested the quick mind of Billy Long immensely. "Gee! I knew it must be something like that. Sure! Purt is shielding somebody for Hester. That's it!" "Have you no idea who it can be? The man who drove the car, I mean, or the one who possibly took the nine-ten express out of town that night? Hester has no brothers----" "Say!" exclaimed Billy, "there is somebody who will know. If Purt was there at the party, so was Lil Pendleton." "Lily!" exclaimed Laura. "I never thought of her." "And if she is likely to be sore on Hester now, as you say you all are," Billy continued, "she won't be for shielding Hester or any of her friends or relatives. Let me tell you that!" "I believe she must have been at the party. Hester invites her to everything of the kind she has; although she seldom invites any of the other girls of Central High." "Go to it!" urged the patient "Ask Lil Pendleton. I'd like to have Purt cleared of this. I told that man from Alaska so. But, gee, Laura! I wish we could find some way of giving him the right steer." "You mean you would like to help him find his name and identity?" "Yep. He says sometimes he feels that he is just going to remember--then it all dissipates in his mind like a cloud. He's bad off, he is!" "I am going to see him now. I have an idea, Billy." "You're always full of ideas, Laura," the boy said admiringly. "I've been raking my poor nut back and forth and crossways, without getting a glimmer of an idea how to help him. He says if we can show him how to find his memory, he'll do all he can for Purt," Billy added wistfully. "You are very anxious to help Prettyman Sweet, aren't you, Billy?" suggested the girl of Central High as she rose to go. "You bet I am." "Why? You boys never thought much of him before, you know." Billy flushed, but he stuck to his guns. "I tell you," he said, "we never gave Purt a fair deal, I guess. He's all right. He isn't like Chet, or Lance, or Reddy Butts, or the rest of the fellows, but there's good parts to Purt." "You think he has proved himself a better fellow than you thought before?" "You bet!" said Billy vigorously. "He's been mighty nice to me; and I always was playing jokes on him, and--Aw! when a fellow lies like I do in bed and has so much time to think, he gets on to himself," added the boy gruffly. "Sending dead fish to other fellows isn't such a smart joke after all." "I am going to see your friend, the Alaskan miner, now," the girl said, squeezing the boy's hand understandingly. "If you find out some way of jogging his memory, I'd like to be in on it," Billy cried. "You shall," promised Laura, as she tripped away. By this time Laura was so well known at the hospital that nobody stopped her from going to the unknown man's private room where he was now established with his particular nurse. He hailed the girl's appearance almost as gladly as Billy Long had done. "Your bright young faces make you high-school girls--and the boys, of course--as welcome as can be," he said. "I'd like to do something when I get out of this hospital in return for all your kindness to me. But if I can't get a grip on what and who I am----" "I have thought of a way by which we may help you to that," interjected Laura. "You know, you must have been doing something all these years since you won your fortune in Alaska." "Surely! But what became of my wealth? That is a hard question." "Perhaps we can help you find out what you have been doing. Then you will gradually remember it all. Have you those bank-notes they say you carried in your pocket when you were brought in?" "Why, they are in the hospital safe. I haven't had to use much of my money yet," he said, puzzled. "I want to look at that money--all of it," said Laura. "It is too late to-night, but to-morrow afternoon I will come with my brother, and I wish you would have those bank-notes here. I have an idea." "I'll do just as you say, Miss Laura," said the man. "But I don't understand----" "You will," she told him, laughing, as she hurried away. There was, therefore, much puzzlement of mind in several quarters that night--and Laura Belding was partly at fault. She retained all her usual placidity, and even on the morrow, when she went to school and found the other girls so very despondent about the play, she refused to join in their prophecies of ill. This was the day of the last rehearsal. Mr. Mann had told them that he wished the actors to rest between this dress rehearsal and the first public performance of "The Rose Garden" on the following evening. "I just know it will be a dreadful fizzle," wailed Jess, before Mr. Mann called the rise of the curtain. Everything was in readiness, however, for a perfect rehearsal. The curtain was properly manipulated and the scene shifters, the light man, and all the other helpers were at their stations, as well as the orchestra in the pit. The girls had been excused from studies at one o'clock--of course, greatly to Miss Carrington's disapproval. Since her "run-in" with the Lockwood twins, as Bobby inelegantly called it, the teacher had been less exacting, although quite as stern-looking as ever. Dora and Dorothy, being cheerful souls, had recovered from their excitement over the incident in history class, and were so much interested in their parts in the play now that they forgot all about Gee Gee's ill treatment. Indeed, when the curtain was rung up every girl in the piece was in a state of excitement. Although they felt that the failure of the part of "the dark lady of the roses" would utterly ruin some of the best lines and most telling points in the play, they were all ready to act their own parts with vigor and a real appreciation of what those parts meant. Bobby, as the sailor lad, came on with a rolling gait that would have done credit to any "garby" in the Navy. Jess, as the swashbuckling hero, swaggered about the stage in a delightful burlesque of such a character, as the author intended the part to be played. Then the lights were lowered for the evening glow and "Adrian" turned to point out the "dark lady"--that mysterious figure supposed to haunt the rose garden and for weal or woe influence the hero's house and his affairs. Jess recited her lines roundly, pointing the while to the garden along the shadowy paths of which the dark lady of the roses was supposed to wander. With incredible amazement--a shock that was more real than Jess could possibly have expressed in any feigned surprise--she beheld the dark lady as the book read, moving quietly across the garden, gracefully swaying as she lightly trod the fictitious sod, stooping to pluck and then kissing the rose, and finally disappearing into the wings with a flash of brilliant eyes and the revelation of a charming countenance for the audience. It was lucky that this signaled the curtain's fall on the first act, or Jess Morse would have spoiled her own good work by the expression of her amazement. CHAPTER XXIV MR. NEMO, OF NOWHERE "Who is it?" "Can it be Margit Salgo?" "How very, very wonderful!" These were some of the ejaculations of the girls behind the scenes. At just the right moment the figure of the dark lady had glided from the dressing-rooms to the wings and gone on at the cue. Her acting gave just the needed touch to the pretty scene. Her appearance had been most charming. And, above all, the surprise had been "such a relief!" "I'm so glad Hester got mad with us and refused to act," sighed Bessie Yeager. "Whoever this girl is, she is fine." "Is it a professional Mr. Mann has engaged?" somebody wanted to know. "Laura Belding! Laura Belding!" cried Dora. "What do you know about it?" "I warrant Laura knows all about it," said Jess, recovered from her amazement. "It is just like Mother Wit to have saved us. And I believe I recognize that very charming Lady Mystery--do I not?" "Isn't she splendid?" cried Laura, enthusiastically, "I knew she could do it. And Mr. Mann has been giving her an hour's training every day for a week." "Goodness!" drawled Lily Pendleton, "how did you know Hester would cut up so mean?" "Doesn't she always do something to queer us if she can?" snapped Bobby. "Laura, you are a wonder!" "It is Janet Steele," declared Jess. "Of course! I should have thought of her myself. She is all right--just the one we needed." And it took some courage on Jess' part for her to say this, for she knew that Chet Belding had expressed very warm admiration indeed of Janet Steele. The rehearsal went off splendidly after that. Everybody was encouraged. The rotund little Mr. Mann beamed--"more than ever like a cherub," Bobby declared. They came to the final curtain with tremendous applause from the back benches where some of the faculty sat in the dark. "And I do believe," said Nellie Agnew, in almost a scared voice, "that Gee Gee applauded! Can it be possible, girls? Do you suppose that for once she gives us credit for knowing a little something?" "If she applauded, her hands slipped by mistake!" grumbled Bobby. "You know very well that nothing would change Gee Gee's opinion. Not even an earthquake." It was late when the rehearsal was over, and Laura knew that Chet would be waiting outside with their car. She hurried Jess and Bobby, and even Janet, into their outer wraps as quickly as possible. "For you might as well go along with us, Janet," Laura said to the new girl "We're going to the hospital first, but we'll drop you at your home coming back." Just what they were to do at the hospital nobody knew save Laura and Chet, and they refused to explain. When they arrived at the institution they went directly to the private room now occupied by Mr. Nemo of Nowhere. Billy Long, up in a chair for the first time, was present to greet the girls of Central High. And the man from Alaska seemed particularly glad to see them. "Here is the money, Miss Laura," he said, producing a packet of crisp bank-notes. "I'd give it all to know just who I am. I seem to be right on the verge of discovering it to-day; yet something balks me." "Oh, look at all that money!" crowed Billy, as Laura accepted the bills, while Chet, with the help of the interested nurse, arranged the bed-table and gave the man a pad and a fountain pen. The head surgeon, who had taken a great interest in the case and with whom Laura had already conferred, tiptoed into the room and stood to look on. "You bankers," said Laura, laughing, and speaking to the patient, "are always so much better off than ordinary folks. You pass out any old kind of money to your customers; but you never see a banker with anything but new bank-notes in his pocket." The man listened to her sharply. A sudden quickened interest appeared in his countenance. The others heard Mother Wit's speech with growing excitement. "See," said the girl of Central High, extracting one of the bank-notes from the packet "Here is another bill on the Drovers' Levee Bank, of Osage, Ohio. Did you notice that? Doesn't it sound familiar to you?" She repeated the name of the bank and its locality slowly. "You have more bills of that same bank. But none like the one you gave Chet when you bought that lavallière for 'the nice little girl' you told him you expected to give it to." The man stared at her. He seemed enthralled by what she said. Laura proceeded in her quiet way: "Just write this name, please: 'Bedford Knox.' Thanks. Now write it again. He is cashier of your bank in Osage, Ohio." Jess barely stifled a cry with her handkerchief. But everybody else was silent, watching the man laboriously writing the name as requested by Laura. It was a disappointment. No doubt of that The man did not write the name as though he were familiar with it at all. But Laura was still smiling when he looked up at her, almost childishly, for further directions. "Now try this other, please," said the girl firmly. "Two men always sign bank-notes to make them legal tender. The cashier and the president The president of the Drovers' Levee Bank, of Osage, Ohio, is----" She hesitated. The man poised his pen over the paper expectantly. Said Laura, briskly: "Write 'Peyton J. Weld.'" At her words Janet Steele uttered a startled exclamation. The man did not notice this. He wrote the name as Laura requested. Chet, looking over his shoulder and with one of the Osage bank-notes in his hand for comparison, watched the signature dashed off in almost perfect imitation of that upon the bank-note. "You guessed it, Mother Wit!" the big boy cried. "Write it again, Mr. Weld. That is your name as sure as you live!" The surgeon stepped quickly to the bedside and his sharp eyes darted from the bank-note in the boy's hand to the signature his patient had written. The man looked wonderingly about the room, his puzzled gaze drifting from one to another of his visitors until it finally fastened upon the pale countenance of Janet Steele. Catching his eye, the girl stepped forward impulsively, her hands clasped. "Uncle Jack!" she breathed. "You--you look quite like your mother used to, my dear," the man in bed said in rather a strange voice. The surgeon eased him back upon the pillows, and at a nod the nurse sent the visitors out of the room. In the corridor they all stood amazed, staring at Janet. CHAPTER XXV IT IS ALL ROUNDED UP "Of course," Lily Pendleton confessed, "I was at Hester's party," "And Purt Sweet was there?" queried Laura earnestly. "Mr. Sweet certainly was present, too," said the other girl. "You girls need not be so jealous if we are the only two from Central High that got invited." "You can have my share and welcome," said Bobby. "And mine, too," confessed Jess. "These interrogations are not inspired by jealousy," laughed Mother Wit. It was on Friday as the girls gathered for recitations that this conversation occurred. Lily Pendleton was inclined to object to having her intimacy with Hester Grimes inquired into. "Do you remember what night that party was held, Lily?" asked Laura. "Why, no. On a Saturday night, I believe." "Quite so. And on a particular Saturday night," said Laura. "You said it!" murmured Bobby. "I don't know what you mean!" cried Lily Pendleton. "But you will before I get through with you," said Laura. "Now, listen! You know about that man who had his leg broken on Market Street?" "The one the police say Purt ran down with his car?" "The same." "Of course I do," Lily cried. "And Purt is as innocent as you are!" "Granted," said Laura. "Therefore you will help us explain the mystery, and so relieve Purt Sweet of suspicion. For he refuses to say anything himself to the police." "Why--why----What do I know about it?" demanded Lily. "Do you know that the party was held the very Saturday night the man was hurt?" "No! Was it?" "It was. And Purt had his car up there at the Grimes' house." "Did he? I didn't know. He went away early, I believe." "And earlier still a couple of boys, or men, borrowed Purt's car without his knowing it--until afterward," Laura declared earnestly. "One of those fellows had to catch a train." "Why, that was Hester's cousin, Jeff Rounds! He lives at Norridge. Don't you know?" "Who was the other fellow?" asked Laura sharply. "Why--I----Oh! it must have been Tom Langley. He lives next door to Hester. Do you know," said Lily, preening a little, "I think Tom is kind of sweet on Hessie." "Good night!" moaned Bobby. "What is the matter with him? Is he blind?" "He must have had very bad eyesight or he would not have run down that poor Mr. Weld on Market Street!" exclaimed Jess tartly. "What do you mean?" gasped Lily. "Tom Langley has gone away for the winter anyway. He went suddenly----" "Right after that party, I bet a cooky," cried Bobby. "Well--ye-es," admitted Lily. "Scared!" exclaimed Jess. "The coward!" cried Laura. "And left poor Purt to face the music," Bobby observed. "Well, old Purt is better than we ever gave him credit for. Now we'll make him square himself with the police." It was Mr. Nemo of Nowhere, now Mr. Peyton J. Weld, who had the most to do with settling the police end of Purt Sweet's trouble. It was some weeks before he could do this, for the shock of his mental recovery racked the man greatly. For some days the surgeon would not let the young folk see their friend whose mind had been so twisted. "I don't know but we did more harm than good, Laura," Chet Belding said anxiously, when they discussed Mr. Weld's condition. "I don't believe so," his sister said. "At any rate, we revealed him as Janet's Uncle Jack, and the discovery has done Mrs. Steele a world of good already." That the man who, for a time, had forgotten who he was and had forgotten a number of years of his life, finally recovered completely, can safely be stated. His very first outing from the hospital was in Purt Sweet's car, and the boy drove him first of all to the office of the Chief of Police. Purt had refused utterly to make trouble for either Hester Grimes' cousin Jeff or for Tom Langley. Mr. Weld assured the Chief of Police that, although it was Purt's car that had struck him down on the icy street, Purt had not been in the car at the time. Nor did the boy of Central High have anything to do with the accident. His car had been borrowed without permission by "parties unknown," as far as Mr. Weld was concerned, and to this day the police of Centerport are rather hazy as to just who it was that stole Purt Sweet's car and committed the assault. "And I feel sort of hazy myself," Jess Morse said, when they were all talking it over at one time. "Mostly hazy about this Man from Nowhere. How did he so suddenly become Janet Steele's Uncle Jack?" "And his name 'Peyton'?" added Nellie Agnew. "Why, his middle name was John--they always called him by it at home," explained Laura Belding. "And, of course, Janet and her mother knew nothing about the name written on those Osage bank bills. I didn't suspect the relationship myself. "But I began to be quite sure that he must have had something to do with the bank for which those bills were issued. And it seemed probable that, as he had so much money with him when he landed in Centerport, that he must be somebody in Osage of wealth and prominence. I wrote secretly to the postmaster at Osage and learned that the president of the Drovers' Levee Bank had gone East on a vacation--presumably to hunt up some relatives that he had not seen for some time." "Sly Mother Wit!" cried Jess. "Not such a wonderful thing to do," laughed Laura. "Not half so wonderful," put in the irrepressible Bobby Hargrew, "as it seemed to the countryman who came to town and stood gazing up at the tall steeple of the cathedral. As he gazed the bell began to toll The hick stopped a passer-by and said: "'Tell me, why does the bell ring at this time of day?' "The other man studied the hick for a moment and then said: 'That's easy. There's somebody pulling on the rope.'" "Well," said Nellie, when the laugh had subsided, "I guess Janet and her mother are glad our Laura had such a bright idea." "Of course! They are going back to Osage with Mr. Weld when he has fully recovered. And so we shall lose an awfully nice girl friend," Laura declared. "Gee!" sighed Chet. "And such a pretty girl!" Jess said not a word. * * * * * Of course, all twisted threads must be straightened out at the end of the story; but our tale really ends with the performance of "The Rose Garden." That on Friday night was most enthusiastically received by the friends and parents of the girls of Central High. It was a worthy production, and the girls deserved all the applause they received. It encouraged them to give two further performances, and altogether the three netted a large sum for the Red Cross. The play, in fact, was the means of raising more money for the fund than any other single method used for that object in Centerport. The city "went over the top" in its quota of both memberships and funds, and that before Christmas. The girls of Central High could rest on their laurels over the holidays, knowing that they had done well. "But wait till Gee Gee gets after us after New Year's," prophesied Bobby. "Don't be so pessimistic," said Jess. "Maybe she won't." "Why won't she?" demanded Dora Lockwood. "Nothing will change her," sighed Dora's twin. "Say!" gasped Bobby, stricken with a sudden thought, "maybe she'll get the pip, or something, and not be able to teach. That is our only hope!" "Suppose we turn over a new leaf, as Miss Carrington won't," suggested Laura in her placid way. "What's that?" demanded Bobby suspiciously. "Suppose we agree not to annoy her any more than we can help for the rest of the school year?" "There! Isn't that just like you, Laura Belding?" demanded Jess. "Suggesting the impossible." This was said in the wings of the school stage during the last performance of "The Rose Garden." The curtain went up on the last act and the girls became quiet They watched Janet Steele, as the dark lady of the roses, move again across the stage. She was very graceful and very pretty. The boys out front applauded her enthusiastically. Laura pinched Jess's arm. "Janet certainly has made a hit," she whispered. "Well," admitted Jess, "she deserves their applause. And she just about saved our play, Laura. There is no getting around that." THE END 
21048	----	[Illustration: "I want a new room-mate"] Just Patty By Jean Webster Author of When Patty Went to College Daddy Long Legs, Etc. Illustrated by C. M. Relyea [Illustration] THE CENTURY CO. NEW YORK Copyright, 1911, by THE CENTURY CO. Copyright, 1911, by THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY * * * * * _Published, October, 1911_ PRINTED IN U. S. A. MADE AT INNISFREE Contents CHAPTER PAGE I REFORM 3 II THE ROMANTIC HISTORY OF CUTHBERT ST. JOHN 33 III THE VIRGIL STRIKE 65 IV THE THIRD MAN FROM THE END 99 V THE FLANNIGAN HONEYMOON 119 VI THE SILVER BUCKLES 149 VII "UNCLE BOBBY" 181 VIII THE SOCIETY OF ASSOCIATED SIRENS 199 IX THE REFORMATION OF KID MCCOY 229 X ONIONS AND ORCHIDS 247 XI THE LEMON PIE AND THE MONKEY-WRENCH 273 XII THE GYPSY TRAIL 309 List of Illustrations "I want a new room-mate!" _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Patty just had time to snatch the box 88 Patty meanwhile addressed her attention to Harriet's hair 174 Evalina sat up and clutched the bedclothes about her neck 286 Just Patty I Reform "It's a shame!" said Priscilla. "It's an outrage!" said Conny. "It's an insult!" said Patty. "To separate us now after we've been together three years--" "And it isn't as though we were _awfully_ bad last year. Lots of girls had more demerits." "Only our badness was sort of conspicuous," Patty admitted. "But we were _very_ good the last three weeks," reminded Conny. "And you should see my new room-mate!" wailed Priscilla. "She can't be any worse than Irene McCullough." "She is!--Her father's a missionary, and she was brought up in China. Her name is Keren-happuch Hersey, after Job's youngest daughter. And she doesn't think it's funny!" "Irene," said Conny gloomily, "gained twenty pounds through the summer. She weighs--" "But you should see mine!" cried Patty, in exasperation. "Her name is Mae Mertelle Van Arsdale." "Keren studies every second; and expects me to walk on tiptoe so she can concentrate." "You should hear Mae Mertelle talk! She said her father was a financier, and wanted to know what mine was. I told her he was a reform judge, and that he spent his time putting financiers in prison. She says I'm an impertinent child," Patty grinned feebly. "How old is she?" "She's nineteen, and has been proposed to twice." "Mercy! Whatever made her choose St. Ursula's?" "Her father and mother ran away and got married when they were nineteen, and they're afraid she inherited the tendency. So they picked out a good, strict, church school. Mae doesn't know how she's ever going to fix her hair without a maid. She's awfully superstitious about moonstones. She never wears anything but silk stockings and she can't stand hash. I'll have to teach her how to make a bed. She always crosses on the White Star Line." Patty scattered these details at random. The others listened sympathetically, and added a few of their own troubles. "Irene weighs a hundred and fifty-nine pounds and six ounces, not counting her clothes," said Conny. "She brought two trunks _loaded_ with candy. She has it hidden all over the room. The last sound I hear at night, is Irene crunching chocolates--and the first sound in the morning. She never says anything; she simply chews. It's like rooming with a cow. And I have a sweet collection of neighbors! Kid McCoy's across the hall, and she makes more noise than half-a-dozen cowboys. There's a new French girl next door--you know, the pretty little one with the two black braids." "She looks rather desirable," said Patty. "She might be if she could talk, but she only knows about fifty words. Harriet Gladden's rooming with her, as limp and mournful as an oyster, and Evalina Smith's at the end of the corridor. You know what a _perfect_ idiot Evalina is." "Oh, it's beastly!" they agreed. "Lordy's to blame," said Conny. "The Dowager never would have separated us if she hadn't interfered." "And I've got her!" wailed Patty. "You two have Mam'selle and Waddams, and they're nice, sweet, unsuspicious lambs; but the girls in the East Wing simply can't sneeze but Lordy--" "Sh!" Conny warned. "Here she comes." The Latin teacher, in passing, paused on the threshold. Conny disentangled herself from the mixture of clothes and books and sofa cushions that littered the bed, and politely rose to her feet. Patty slid down from the white iron foot-rail, and Priscilla descended from the top of the trunk. "Ladies don't perch about on the furniture." "No, Miss Lord," they murmured in unison, gazing back from three pairs of wide, uplifted eyes. They knew, from gleeful past experience, that nothing so annoyed her as smiling acquiescence. Miss Lord's eyes critically studied the room. Patty was still in traveling dress. "Put on your uniform, Patty, and finish unpacking. The trunks go down to-morrow morning." "Yes, Miss Lord." "Priscilla and Constance, why aren't you out of doors with the other girls, enjoying this beautiful autumn weather?" "But we haven't seen Patty for such a long time, and now that we are separated--" commenced Conny, with a pathetic droop of her mouth. "I trust that your lessons will benefit by the change. You, Patty and Priscilla, are going to college, and should realize the necessity of being prepared. Upon the thorough foundation that you lay here depends your success for the next four years--for your whole lives, one might say. Patty is weak in mathematics and Priscilla in Latin. Constance _could_ improve her French. Let us see what you can do when you really try." She divided a curt nod between the three and withdrew. "We are happy in our work and we dearly love our teachers," chanted Patty, with ironical emphasis, as she rummaged out a blue skirt and middy blouse with "St. U." in gold upon the sleeve. While she was dressing, Priscilla and Conny set about transferring the contents of her trunk to her bureau, in whatever order the articles presented themselves--but with a carefully folded top layer. The overworked young teacher, who performed the ungrateful task of inspecting sixty-four bureaus and sixty-four closets every Saturday morning, was happily of an unsuspicious nature. She did not penetrate below the crust. "Lordy needn't make such a fuss over my standing," said Priscilla, frowning over an armful of clothes. "I passed everything except Latin." "Take care, Pris! You're walking on my new dancing dress," cried Patty, as her head emerged from the neck of the blouse. Priscilla automatically stepped off a mass of blue chiffon, and resumed her plaint. "If they think sticking me in with Job's youngest daughter is going to improve my prose composition--" "I simply _can't_ study till they take Irene McCullough out of my room," Conny echoed. "She's just like a lump of sticky dough." "Wait till you get acquainted with Mae Mertelle!" Patty sat on the floor in the midst of the chaos, and gazed up at the other two with wide, solemn eyes. "She brought five evening gowns cut low, and all her shoes have French heels. And she _laces_--my dears! She just holds in her breath and pulls. But that isn't the worst." She lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. "She's got some red stuff in a bottle. She says it's for her finger nails, but I _saw_ her putting it on her face." "Oh!--not really?" in a horrified whisper from Conny and Priscilla. Patty shut her lips and nodded. "Isn't it dreadful?" "Awful!" Conny shuddered. "I say, let's mutiny!" cried Priscilla. "Let's _make_ the Dowager give us back our old rooms in Paradise Alley." "But how?" inquired Patty, two parallel wrinkles appearing on her forehead. "Tell her that unless she does, we won't stay." "That would be sensible!" Patty jeered. "She'd ring the bell and order Martin to hitch up the hearse and drive us to the station for the six-thirty train. I should think you'd know by this time that you can't bluff the Dowager." "There's no use threatening," Conny agreed. "We must appeal to her feeling of--of--" "Affection," said Patty. Conny stretched out a hand and brought her up standing. "Come on, Patty, you're good at talking. We'll go down now while our courage is up.--Are your hands clean?" The three staunchly approached the door of Mrs. Trent's private study. "I'll use diplomacy," Patty whispered, as she turned the knob in response to the summons from within. "You people nod your heads at everything I say." Patty did use all the diplomacy at her command. Having dwelt touchingly upon their long friendship, and their sorrow at being separated, she passed lightly to the matter of their new room-mates. "They are doubtless very nice girls," she ended politely, "only, you see, Mrs. Trent, they don't match us; and it is extremely hard to concentrate one's mind upon lessons, unless one has a congenial room-mate." Patty's steady, serious gaze suggested that lessons were the end of her existence. A brief smile flitted over the Dowager's face, but the next instant she was grave again. "It is very necessary that we study this year," Patty added. "Priscilla and I are going to college, and we realize the necessity of being prepared. Upon the thorough foundation that we lay here, depends our success for the next four years--for our whole lives you might say." Conny jogged her elbow warningly. It was too patently a crib from Miss Lord. "And besides," Patty added hastily, "all my things are blue, and Mae has a purple screen and a yellow sofa cushion." "That is awkward," the Dowager admitted. "We are used to living in Paradise Al--I mean, the West Wing--and we shall--er--miss the sunsets." The Dowager allowed an anxious silence to follow, while she thoughtfully tapped the desk with her lorgnette. The three studied her face with speculative eyes. It was a mask they could not penetrate. "The present arrangement is more or less temporary," she commenced in equable tones. "I may find it expedient to make some changes, and I may not. We have an unusual number of new girls this year; and instead of putting them together, it has seemed wisest to mix them with the old girls. You three have been with us a long time. You know the traditions of the school. Therefore--" The Dowager smiled, a smile partially tinged with amusement--"I am sending you as missionaries among the newcomers. I wish you to make your influence felt." Patty straightened her back and stared. "Our influence?" "Your new room-mate," Mrs. Trent continued imperturbably, "is too grown-up for her years. She has lived in fashionable hotels, and under such conditions, it is inevitable that a girl should become somewhat affected. See if you cannot arouse in Mae an interest in girlish sports. "And you, Constance, are rooming with Irene McCullough. She is, as you know, an only child, and I fear has been a trifle spoiled. It would please me if you could waken her to a higher regard for the spiritual side of life, and less care for material things." "I--I'll try," Conny stammered, dazed at so suddenly finding herself cast in the unfamiliar rôle of moral reformer. "And you have next to you the little French girl, Aurelie Deraismes. I should be pleased, Constance, if you would assume an oversight of her school career. She can help you to a more idiomatic knowledge of French--and you can do the same for her in English. "You, Priscilla, are rooming with--" She adjusted her lorgnette and consulted a large chart.--"Ah, yes, Keren Hersey, a very unusual girl. You two will find many subjects of mutual interest. The daughter of a naval officer should have much in common with the daughter of a missionary. Keren bids fair to become an earnest student--almost, if such a thing were possible, too earnest. She has never had any girl companions, and knows nothing of the give and take of school life. She can teach you, Priscilla, to be more studious, and you can teach her to be more, shall I say, flexible?" "Yes, Mrs. Trent," Priscilla murmured. "And so," the Dowager finished, "I am sending you out in my place, as moral reformers. I want the older girls to set an example to the newcomers. I wish to have the real government of the school a strong, healthy Public Opinion. You three exert a great deal of influence. See what you can do in the directions I have indicated--and in others that may occur to you as you mix with your companions. I have watched you carefully for three years, and in your fundamental good sense, I have the greatest confidence." She nodded dismissal, and the three found themselves in the hall again. They looked at one another for a moment of blank silence. "Moral reformers!" Conny gasped. "I see through the Dowager," said Patty, "She thinks she's found a new method of managing us." "But I don't see that we're getting back to Paradise Alley," Priscilla complained. Patty's eyes suddenly brightened. She seized them each by an elbow and shoved them into the empty schoolroom. "We'll do it!" "Do what?" asked Conny. "Pitch right in and reform the school. If we just keep at it--steady--you'll see! We'll be back in Paradise Alley at the end of two weeks." "Um," said Priscilla, thoughtfully. "I believe we might." "We'll commence with Irene," said Conny, her mind eagerly jumping to details, "and make her lose that twenty pounds. That's what the Dowager meant when she said she wanted her less material." "We'll have her thin in no time," Patty nodded energetically. "And we'll give Mae Mertelle a dose of bubbling girlishness." "And Keren," interposed Priscilla, "we'll teach her to become frivolous and neglect her lessons." "But we won't just confine ourselves to those three," said Conny. "The Dowager said to make our influence felt over the whole school." "Oh, yes!" Patty agreed, rising to enthusiasm as she called the school roll. "Kid McCoy uses too much slang. We'll teach her manners. Rosalie doesn't like to study. We'll pour her _full_ of algebra and Latin. Harriet Gladden's a jelly fish, Mary Deskam's an awful little liar, Evalina Smith's a silly goose, Nancy Lee's a telltale--" "When you stop to think about it, there's something the matter with everybody," said Conny. "Except us," amended Priscilla. "Y--yes," Patty agreed in thoughtful retrospection, "I can't think of a thing the matter with us--I don't wonder they chose us to head the reform!" Conny slid to her feet, a bundle of energy. "Come on! We'll join our little playmates and begin the good work--Hooray for the great Reform Party!" They scrambled out of the open window, in a fashion foreign to the dictates of Thursday evening manner class. Crowds of girls in blue middy blouses were gathered in groups about the recreation ground. The three paused to reconnoiter. "There's Irene, still chewing." Conny nodded toward a comfortable bench set in the shade by the tennis courts. "Let's have a circus," Patty proposed. "We'll make Irene and Mae Mertelle roll hoops around the oval. That will kill 'em both with one stone--Irene will get thin, and Mae Mertelle girlish." Hoop-rolling was a speciality of St. Ursula's. The gymnasium instructor believed in teaching girls to run. Eleven times around the oval constituted a mile, and a mile of hoop-rolling freed one for the day from dumb-bells and Indian clubs. The three dived into the cellar, and returned with hoops as tall as themselves. Patty assumed command of the campaign and issued her orders. "Conny, you take a walk with Keren and shock her as much as possible; we must break her of being precise. And Pris, you take charge of Mae Mertelle. Don't let her put on any grown-up airs. If she tells you she's been proposed to twice, tell her you've been proposed to so many times that you've lost count. Keep her snubbed all the time. I'll be elephant trainer and start Irene running; she'll be a graceful gazelle by the time I finish." They parted on their several missions. St. Ursula's peace had ended. She was in the throes of reform. * * * * * On Friday evening two weeks later, an unofficial faculty meeting was convened in the Dowager's study. "Lights-out" had rung five minutes before, and three harried teachers, relieved of duty for nine blessed hours while their little charges slept, were discussing their troubles with their chief. "But just what have they done?" inquired Mrs. Trent, in tones of judicial calm, as she vainly tried to stop the flood of interjections. "It is difficult to put one's finger on the precise facts," Miss Wadsworth quavered. "They have not broken any rules so far as I can discover, but they have--er--created an atmosphere--" "Every girl in my corridor," said Miss Lord, with compressed lips, "has come to me separately, and begged to have Patty moved back to the West Wing with Constance and Priscilla." "Patty! _Mon Dieu!_" Mademoiselle rolled a pair of speaking eyes to heaven. "The things that child thinks of! She is one little imp." "You remember," the Dowager addressed Miss Lord, "I said when you suggested separating them, that it was a very doubtful experiment. Together, they exhaust their effervescence on each other; separated--" "They exhaust the whole school!" cried Miss Wadsworth, on the verge of tears. "Of course they don't mean it, but their unfortunate dispositions--" "Don't mean it!" Miss Lord's eyes snapped. "Their heads are together planning fresh escapades every moment they are not in class." "But what have they done?" persisted Mrs. Trent. Miss Wadsworth hesitated a moment in an endeavor to choose examples from the wealth of material that presented itself. "I found Priscilla deliberately stirring up the contents of Keren's bureau drawers with a shinny stick, and when I asked what she was doing, she replied without the least embarrassment, that she was trying to teach Keren to be less exact; that Mrs. Trent had asked her to do it." "Um," mused the Dowager, "that was not my precise request, but no matter." "But the thing that has really troubled me the most," Miss Wadsworth spoke diffidently, "is a matter almost a blasphemy. Keren has a very religious turn of mind, but an unfortunate habit of saying her prayers out loud. One night, after a peculiarly trying day, she prayed that Priscilla might be forgiven for being so aggravating. Whereupon Priscilla knelt before her bed, and prayed that Keren might become less self-righteous and stubborn, and more ready to join in the sports of her playmates with generosity and openness of spirit. They carried on--well, really, one might almost call it a praying match." "Shocking!" cried Miss Lord. "And little Aurelie Deraismes--they have been drilling the child in--er--idiomatic English. The phrase that I overheard her repeating, seemed scarcely the expression that a lady would use." "What was it?" inquired the Dowager, with a slightly expectant note. "I'll be _gum-swizzled_!" Miss Wadsworth colored a deep pink. It was foreign to her nature even to repeat so doubtful an expression. The Dowager's lips twitched. It was a fact, deplored by her assistants, that her sense of humor frequently ran away with her sense of justice. A very naughty little girl, if she managed to be funny, might hope to escape; whereas an equally naughty little girl, who was not funny, paid the full penalty of her crime. Fortunately, however, the school at large had not discovered this vulnerable spot in the Dowager's armor. "Their influence," it was Miss Lord who spoke, "is demoralizing the school. Mae Van Arsdale says that she will go home if she has to room any longer with Patty Wyatt. I do not know what the trouble is, but--" "I know it!" said Mademoiselle. "The whole school laughs. It is touching the question of a _sweetch_." "Of what?" The Dowager cocked her head. Mademoiselle's English was at times difficult. She mixed her languages impartially. "A sweetch--some hair--to make pompadour. Last week when they have tableaux, Patty has borrowed it and has dyed it with blueing to make a beard for Bluebeard. But being yellow to start, it has become green, and the color will not wash out. The sweetch is ruin--entirely ruin--and Patty is desolate. She has apologize. She thought it would wash, but since it will not wash, she has suggest to Mae that she color her own hair to match the sweetch, and Mae lose her temper and call names. Then Patty has pretend to cry, and she put the green hair on Mae's bed with a wreath of flowers around, and she hang a stocking on the door for crape, and invite the girls to come to the funeral, and everybody laugh at Mae." "It's just as well," said the Dowager, unmoved. "I do not wish to favor the wearing of false hair." "It's the principle of the thing," said Miss Lord. "And that poor Irene McCullough," Mademoiselle continued the tale, "she dissolves herself in tears. Those three insist that she make herself thin, and she has no wish to become thin." "They take away her butter-ball," corroborated Miss Wadsworth, "before she comes to the table; they make her go without dessert, and they do not allow her to eat sugar on her oatmeal. They keep her exercising every moment, and when she complains to me, they punish her." "I should think," the Dowager spoke with a touch of sarcasm, "that Irene were big enough to take care of herself." "She has three against her," reminded Miss Lord. "I called Patty to my room," said Miss Wadsworth, "and demanded an explanation. She told me that Mrs. Trent thought that Irene was too fat, and wished them to reduce her twenty pounds! Patty said that it was hard work, they were getting thin themselves, but they realized that they were seniors and must exert an influence over the school. I really think she was sincere. She talked very sweetly about moral responsibility, and the necessity of the older girls setting an example." "It is her impudence," said Miss Lord, "that is so exasperating." "That's--just Patty!" the Dowager laughed. "I must confess that I find all three of them amusing. It's good, healthy mischief and I wish there were more of it. They don't bribe the maids to mail letters, or smuggle in candy, or flirt with the soda-water clerk. They at least can be trusted." "Trusted!" gasped Miss Lord. "To break every minor rule with cheerful unconcern," nodded the Dowager, "but never to do the slightest thing dishonorable. They have kind hearts and the girls all love them--" A knock sounded on the door with startling suddenness, and before anyone could reply, the door burst open and Keren-happuch appeared on the threshold. She was clutching with one hand the folds of a brilliant Japanese kimono, the other she reserved for gestures. The kimono was sprinkled with fire-eating dragons as large as cats; and to the astonished spectators, Keren's flushed face and disheveled hair seemed to carry out the decorative scheme. The Dowager's private study was a sacred spot, reserved for interviews of formality; never had a pupil presented herself in such unceremonious garb. "Keren!" cried Miss Wadsworth. "What has happened?" "I want a new room-mate! I can't stand Priscilla any longer. She's been having a birthday party in my room--" "A birthday party?" Mrs. Trent turned questioningly to Miss Wadsworth. She nodded unhappily. "Yesterday was Priscilla's birthday, and she received a box from her aunt. This being Friday night, I gave her permission--" "Certainly." The Dowager turned to the tragic figure in the center of the floor. "It is Priscilla's room as much as yours and--" Keren plunged into a sea of words. The four leaned forward in a strained endeavor to pluck some sense from the torrent. "They used my bed for a table because it wasn't against the wall, and Patty tipped a pot of chocolate over in the middle of it. She said it was an accident--but she did it on purpose--I know she did! And because I objected, Priscilla said it wasn't polite to notice when a guest spilled anything, and she tipped a glass of current jelly on my pillow, to make Patty feel comfortable. That was the polite thing for a hostess to do, she said; they learned it last year in manner class. And the chocolate soaked right through, and Conny Wilder said it was fortunate I was thin, because I could sleep in a curve around it; if it had happened to Irene McCullough, she would have had to sleep in it, because she's so big she takes up the whole bed. And Priscilla said I could be thankful to-morrow's Saturday when we get clean sheets; it might have happened so that I would have had to sleep in that puddle of chocolate a whole week. And then the "Lights-out" rang, and they left me to clean up, and the housekeeper's gone to bed, and I can't get any fresh bed clothes, and I _won't_ sleep that way! I'm not used to sleeping in chocolaty sheets. I don't like America and I _hate_ girls." Tears were dripping from Keren's cheeks onto the fire-breathing dragons below. The Dowager, without comment, rose and rang the bell. "Katie," she said, as the maid on duty appeared at the door, "some fresh sheets for Miss Keren, please, and remake her bed. That will do for to-night, Keren. Get to sleep as quickly as possible, and don't talk. You mustn't disturb the other girls. We can see about changing room-mates to-morrow." Katie and the outraged dragons withdrew. A silence followed, while Miss Wadsworth and Mademoiselle exchanged glances of despair, and Miss Lord buckled on her war armor. "You see!" she said, with a suggestion of triumph, "when they get to the point of persecuting a poor little--" "In my experience of school life," said Mrs. Trent judicially, "it is a girl's own fault when she is persecuted. Their methods are crude, but to the point. Keren is a hopeless little prig--" "But at least you can't allow her to suffer--" "Oh, no, I shall do what I can toward peace. To-morrow morning, Keren can move in with Irene McCullough, and Patty and Conny and Priscilla go back to their old rooms in the West Wing. You, Mademoiselle, are somewhat inured--" "I do not mind them together. They are just--what you say?--exhilarating. It is when they are spread out that it is difficult." "You mean," Miss Lord stared--"that you are going to _reward_ their disgraceful conduct? It is exactly what they have been working for." "You must acknowledge," smiled the Dowager, "that they have worked hard. Perseverance deserves success." * * * * * The next morning, Patty and Conny and Priscilla, their arms running over with dresses and hats and sofa cushions, gaily two-stepped down the length of "Paradise Alley" while a relieved school assisted at the flitting. As they caught sight of Miss Lord hovering in the offing, they broke into the chorus of a popular school song: "We like to go to chapel And listen to the preachers, We are happy in our work, And we dearly love our teachers. Daughters of Saint Ur-su-la!" II The Romantic History of Cuthbert St. John "The Dowager" had a very sensible theory that boarding-school girls should be kept little girls, until their school life was over, and they stepped out, fresh and eager and spontaneous, to greet the grown-up world. Saint Ursula's was a cloister, in fact, as in name. The masculine half of the human species was not supposed to count. Sometimes a new girl was inclined to turn up her nose at the youthful pastimes that contented her companions. But in the end she would be drawn irresistibly into the current. She would learn to jump rope and roll hoops; to participate in paper chases 'cross country; to skate and coast and play hockey on winter afternoons, to enjoy molasses-candy pulls and popcorn around the big open fire on Saturday nights, or impromptu masquerades, when the school raided the trunks in the attic for costumes. After a few weeks' time, the most spoiled little worldling lost her consciousness of calls outside of "bounds," and surrendered to the spirit of the youthful sisterhood. But the girls in their teens answer readily to the call of ROMANCE. And occasionally, in the twilight hour between afternoon study and the dressing bell, as they gathered in the window-seat with faces to the western sky, the talk would turn to the future--particularly when Rosalie Patton was of the group. Pretty, dainty, inconsequential little Rosalie was preëminently fashioned for romance; it clung to her golden hair and looked from her eyes. She might be extremely hazy as to the difference between participles and supines, she might hesitate on her definition of a parallelopiped, but when the subject under discussion was one of sentiment, she spoke with conviction. For hers was no mere theoretical knowledge; it was gained by personal experience. Rosalie had been proposed to! She confided the details to her most intimate friends, and they confided them to their most intimate friends, until finally, the whole school knew the entire romantic history. Rosalie's preëminence in the field of sentiment was held entirely fitting. Priscilla might excel in basket-ball, Conny Wilder in dramatics, Keren Hersey in geometry and Patty Wyatt in--well, in impudence and audacity--but Rosalie was the recognized authority in matters of the heart; and until Mae Mertelle Van Arsdale came, nobody thought of questioning her position. Mae Mertelle spent an uncomfortable month shaking into place in the school life. The point in which she was accustomed to excel was _clothes_, but when she and her four trunks arrived, she found to her disgust that clothes were not useful at St. Ursula's. The school uniform reduced all to a dead level in the matter of fashion. There was another field, however, in which she might hope for supremacy. Her own sentimental history was vivid, compared to the colorless lives of most, and she proceeded to assert her claims. One Saturday evening in October, half-a-dozen girls were gathered in Rosalie's room, on piled-up sofa cushions, with the gas turned low and the light of the hunter's moon streaming through the window. They had been singing softly in a minor key, but gradually the singing turned to talk. The talk, in accordance with the moonlight and flying clouds, was in a sentimental vein; and it ended, naturally, with Rosalie's Great Experience. Between maidenly hesitations and many promptings she retold the story--the new girls had never heard it, and to the old girls it was always new. The stage setting had been perfect--a moonlit beach, and lapping waves and rustling pine trees. When Rosalie chanced to omit any detail, her hearers, already familiar with the story, eagerly supplied it. "And he held your hand all the time he was talking," Priscilla prompted. "Oh, Rosalie! Did he?" in a shocked chorus from the newcomers. "Y--yes. He just sort of took hold of it and forgot to let go, and I didn't like to remind him." "What did he say?" "He said he couldn't live without me." "And what did you say?" "I said I was awfully sorry, but he'd have to." "And then what happened?" "Nothing happened," she was obliged to confess. "I s'pose something might have happened if I'd accepted him, but you see, I didn't." "But you were very young at the time," suggested Evalina Smith. "Are you sure you knew your own mind?" Rosalie nodded with an air of melancholy regret. "Yes. I knew I couldn't ever love him, because, he--well, he had an awfully funny nose. It started to point in one direction, and then changed its mind and pointed in the other." Her hearers would have preferred that she had omitted this detail; but Rosalie was literal-minded and lacked the story-teller's instinct for suppression. "He asked if there wasn't any hope that I would change," she added pensively. "I told him that I could never love him enough to marry him, but that I would always respect him." "And then what did he say?" "He said he wouldn't commit suicide." A profound hush followed, while Rosalie gazed at the moon and the others gazed at Rosalie. With her gleaming hair and violet eyes, she was entirely their ideal of a storybook heroine. They did not think of envying her; they merely wondered and admired. She was crowned by natural right, Queen of Romance. Mae Van Arsdale, who had listened in silence to the recital, was the first to break the spell. She rose, fluffed up her hair, straightened her blouse, and politely suppressed a yawn. "Nonsense, Rosalie! You're a silly little goose to make such a fuss over nothing.--Good-night, children. I'm going to bed now." She sauntered toward the door, but paused on the threshold to drop the casual statement. "_I've_ been proposed to three times." A shocked gasp arose from the circle at this _lèse-majesté_. The disdainful condescension of a new girl was more than they could brook. "She's a horrid old thing, and I don't believe a word she says!" Priscilla declared stoutly, as she kissed poor crushed little Rosalie goodnight. This slight _contretemps_ marked the beginning of strained relations. Mae Mertelle gathered her own adherents, and Rosalie's special coterie of friends rallied to the standard of their queen. They intimated to Mae's followers that the quality of the romance was quite different in the two cases. Mae might be the heroine of any number of commonplace flirtations, but Rosalie was the victim of a _grande passion_. She was marked with an indelible scar that she would carry to the grave. In the heat of their allegiance, they overlooked the crookedness of the hero's nose and the avowed fact that Rosalie's own affections had not been engaged. But Mae's trump card had been withheld. Whispers presently spread about under the seal of confidence. She was hopelessly in love. It was not a matter of the past vacation, but of the burning present. Her room-mate wakened in the night to hear her sobbing to herself. She had no appetite--her whole table could testify to that. In the middle of dessert, even on ice-cream nights, she would forget to eat, and with her spoon half-raised, would sit staring into space. When reminded that she was at the table, she would start guiltily and hastily bolt the rest of the meal. Her enemies unkindly commented upon the fact that she always came to before the end, so she got as much as anybody else. The English classes at St. Ursula's were weekly drilled in the old-fashioned art of letter writing. The girls wrote letters home, minutely descriptive of school life. They addressed imaginary girl friends, and grandmothers and college brothers and baby sisters. They were learning the great secret of literary forcefulness--to suit their style to their audience. Ultimately, they arrived at the point of thanking imaginary young men for imaginary flowers. Mae listened to the somewhat stilted phraseology of these polite and proper notes with a supercilious smile. The class, covertly regarding her, thrilled anew. Gradually, the details of the romance spread abroad. The man was English--Mae had met him on the steamer--and some day when his elder brother died (the brother was suffering from an incurable malady that would carry him off in a few years) he would come into the title; though just what the title was, Mae had not specifically stated. But in any case, her father was a staunch American; he hated the English and he hated titles. No daughter of his should ever marry a foreigner. If she did, she would never receive a dollar from him. However, neither Mae nor Cuthbert cared about the money. Cuthbert had plenty of his own. His name was Cuthbert St. John. (Pronounced Sinjun.) He had four names in all, but those were the two he used the most. He was in England now, having been summoned by cable, owing to the critical condition of his brother's health, but the crisis was past, and Cuthbert would soon be returning. Then--Mae closed her lips in a straight line and stared defiantly into space. Her father should see! Before the throbbing reality of this romance, Rosalie's poor little history paled into nothing. Then the plot began to thicken. Studying the lists of incoming steamers, Mae announced to her room-mate that he had landed. He had given his word to her father not to write; but she knew that in some way she should hear. And sure enough! The following morning brought a nameless bunch of violets. There had been doubters before--but at this tangible proof of devotion, skepticism crumbled. Mae wore her violets to church on Sunday. The school mixed its responses in a shocking fashion--nobody pretended to follow the service; all eyes were fixed on Mae's upturned face and far-off smile. Patty Wyatt pointed out that Mae had taken special pains to seat herself in the light of a stained-glass window, and that occasionally the rapt eyes scanned the faces of her companions, to make sure that the effect was reaching across the footlights. But Patty's insinuation was indignantly repudiated by the school. Mae was at last triumphantly secure in the rôle of leading lady. Poor insipid Rosalie no longer had a speaking part. The affair ran on for several weeks, gathering momentum as it moved. In the European Travel Class that met on Monday nights, "English Country Seats" was the subject of one of the talks, illustrated by the stereopticon. As a stately, terraced mansion, with deer cropping grass in the foreground, was thrown upon the screen, Mae Mertelle suddenly grew faint. She vouchsafed no reason to the housekeeper who came with hot-water bottles and cologne; but later, she whispered to her room-mate that that was the house where he was born. Violets continued to arrive each Saturday, and Mae became more and more _distrait_. The annual basket-ball game with Highland Hall, a near-by school for girls, was imminent. St. Ursula's had been beaten the year before; it would mean everlasting disgrace if defeat met them a second time, for Highland Hall was a third their size. The captain harangued and scolded an apathetic team. "It's Mae Mertelle and her beastly violets!" she disgustedly grumbled to Patty. "She's taken all the fight out of them." The teachers, meanwhile, were uneasily aware that the atmosphere was overcharged. The girls stood about in groups, thrilling visibly when Mae Mertelle passed by. There was a moonlight atmosphere about the school that was not conducive to high marks in Latin prose composition. The matter finally became the subject of an anxious faculty meeting. There was no actual data at hand; it was all surmise, but the source of the trouble was evident. The school had been swept before by a wave of sentiment; it was as catching as the measles. The Dowager was inclined to think that the simplest method of clearing the atmosphere would be to pack Mae Mertelle and her four trunks back to the paternal fireside, and let her foolish mother deal with the case. Miss Lord was characteristically bent upon fighting it out. She would stop the nonsense by force. Mademoiselle, who was inclined to sentiment, feared that the poor child was really suffering. She thought sympathy and tact--But Miss Sallie's bluff common-sense won the day. If the sanity of Saint Ursula's demanded it, Mae Mertelle must go; but she thought, by the use of a little diplomacy, both St. Ursula's sanity and Mae Mertelle might be preserved. Leave the matter to her. She would use her own methods. Miss Sallie was the Dowager's daughter. She managed the practical end of the establishment--provided for the table, ruled the servants, and ran off, with the utmost ease, the two hundred acres of the school farm. Between the details of horseshoeing and haying and butter-making, she lent her abilities wherever they were needed. She never taught; but she disciplined. The school was noted for unusual punishments, and most of them originated in Miss Sallie's brain. Her title of "Dragonette" was bestowed in respectful admiration of her mental qualities. The next day was Tuesday, Miss Sallie's regular time for inspecting the farm. As she came downstairs after luncheon drawing on her driving gloves, she just escaped stepping on Conny Wilder and Patty Wyatt who, flat on their stomachs, were trying to poke out a golf ball from under the hat-rack. "Hello, girls!" was her cheerful greeting. "Wouldn't you like a little drive to the farm? Run and tell Miss Wadsworth that you are excused from afternoon study. You may stay away from Current Events this evening, and make it up." The two scrambled into hats and coats in excited delight. A visit to Round Hill Farm with Miss Sallie, was the greatest good that St. Ursula's had to offer. For Miss Sallie--out of bounds--was the funniest, most companionable person in the world. After an exhilarating five-mile drive through a brown and yellow October landscape, they spent a couple of hours romping over the farm, had milk and ginger cookies in Mrs. Spence's kitchen; and started back, wedged in between cabbages and eggs and butter. They chatted gaily on a dozen different themes--the Thanksgiving masquerade, a possible play, the coming game with Highland Hall, and the lamentable new rule that made them read the editorials in the daily papers. Finally, when conversation flagged for a moment, Miss Sallie dropped the casual inquiry: "By the way, girls, what _has_ got into Mae Van Arsdale? She droops about in corners and looks as dismal as a molting chicken." Patty and Conny exchanged a glance. "Of course," Miss Sallie continued cheerfully, "it's perfectly evident what the trouble is. I haven't been connected with a boarding-school for ten years for nothing. The little idiot is posing as the object of an unhappy affection. You know that I never favor talebearing, but, just as a matter of curiosity, is it the young man who passes the plate in church, or the one who sells ribbon in Marsh and Elkins's?" "Neither." Patty grinned. "It's an English nobleman." "What?" Miss Sallie stared. "And Mae's father hates English noblemen," Conny explained, "and has forbidden him ever to see her again." "Her heart is broken," said Patty sadly. "She's going into a decline." "And the violets?" inquired Miss Sallie. "He promised not to send her any letters, but violets weren't mentioned." "H'm, I see!" said Miss Sallie; and, after a moment of thought, "Girls, I am going to leave this matter in your hands. I want it stopped." "In our hands?" "The school can't be stirred up any longer; but the matter's too silly to warrant the teachers taking any notice of it. This is a thing that ought to be regulated by public opinion. Suppose you see what you can do--I will appoint you a committee to bring the school back to a solid basis of common sense. I know that I can trust you not to talk." "I don't exactly see what we can do," said Patty, dubiously. "You are usually not without resourcefulness," Miss Sallie returned with a flickering smile. "You may have a _carte blanche_ to choose your own methods." "And may we tell Priscilla?" Conny asked. "We must tell her because we three--" "Hunt together?" Miss Sallie nodded. "Tell Priscilla, and let it stop at that." The next afternoon, when Martin drove into the village to accomplish the daily errands, he dropped Patty and Priscilla at the florists, empowered by the school to purchase flowers for the rector's wife and new baby. They turned inside, their minds entirely occupied with the rival merits of red and white roses. They ordered their flowers, inscribed the card, and then waited aimlessly till Martin should return to pick them up. Passing down the counter, they came upon a bill-sticker, the topmost item being, "Violets every Saturday to Miss Mae Van Arsdale, St. Ursula's School." They stopped and stared for a thoughtful moment. The florist followed their gaze. "Do you happen to know the young lady who ordered them vi'lets?" he inquired. "She didn't leave any name, and I'd like to know if she wants me to keep on sending 'em. She only paid up to the first, and the price is going up." "No, I don't know who it was," said Patty, with well-assumed indifference. "What did she look like?" "She--she had on a blue coat," he suggested. As all sixty-four of the St. Ursula girls wore blue coats, his description was not helpful. "Oh," Patty prompted, "was she quite tall with a lot of yellow hair and--" "That's her!" He recognized the type with some assurance. "It's Mae herself!" Priscilla whispered excitedly. Patty nodded and commanded silence. "We'll tell her," she promised. "And by the way," she added to Priscilla, "I think it would be nice for us to send some flowers to Mae, from our--er--secret society. But I'm afraid the treasury is pretty low just now. They'll have to be cheaper than violets. What are your cheapest flowers?" she inquired of the man. "There's a kind of small sunflower that some people likes for decoration. 'Cut-and-come-again' they're called. I can give you a good-sized bunch for fifty cents. They make quite a show." "Just the thing! Send a bunch of sunflowers to Miss Van Arsdale with this card." Patty drew a blank card toward her, and in an upright back hand traced the inscription, "Your disconsolate C. St. J." She sealed it in an envelope, then regarded the florist sternly. "Are you a Mason?" she asked, her eye on the crescent in his buttonhole. "Y--yes," he acknowledged. "Then you understand the nature of an oath of secrecy? You are not to divulge to anyone the sender of these flowers. The tall young lady with the yellow hair will come in here and try to make you tell who sent them. You are not to remember. It may even have been a man. You don't know anything about it. This secret society at Saint Ursula's is so very much more secret than the Masonic Society, that it is even a secret that it exists. Do you understand?" "I--yes, ma'am," he grinned. "If it becomes known," she added darkly, "I shall not be responsible for your life." She and Priscilla each contributed a quarter for the flowers. "It's going to be expensive," Patty sighed. "I think we'll have to ask Miss Sallie for an extra allowance while this committee is in session." Mae was in her room, surrounded by an assemblage of her special followers, when the flowers arrived. She received the box in some bewilderment. "He's sending flowers on Wednesdays as well as Saturdays!" her room-mate cried. "He must be getting desperate." Mae opened the box amid an excited hush. "How perfectly lovely!" they cried in chorus, though with a slightly perfunctory undertone. They would have preferred crimson roses. Mae regarded the offering for a moment of stupefied amazement. She had been pretending so long, that by now she almost believed in Cuthbert herself. The circle was waiting, and she rallied her powers to meet this unexpected crisis. "I wonder what sunflowers mean?" she asked softly. "They must convey some message. Does anybody know the language of flowers?" Nobody did know the language of flowers; but they were relieved at the suggestion. "Here's a card!" Evalina Smith plucked it from among the bristling leaves. Mae made a motion to examine it in private, but she had been so generous with her confidences heretofore, that she was not allowed to withdraw them at this interesting point. They leaned over her shoulder and read it aloud. "'Your disconsolate C. St. J.'--Oh, Mae, think how he must be suffering!" "Poor man!" "He simply couldn't remain silent any longer." "He's the soul of honor," said Mae. "He wouldn't write a real letter because he promised not to, but I suppose--a little message like this--" Patty Wyatt passing the door, sauntered in. The card was exhibited in spite of a feeble protest from Mae. "That handwriting shows a lot of character," Patty commented. This was considered a concession; for Patty, from the first, had held aloof from the cult of Cuthbert St. John. She was Rosalie's friend. The days that followed, were filled with bewildering experiences for Mae Mertelle. Having accepted the first installment of sunflowers, she could not well refuse the second. Once having committed herself, she was lost. Candy and books followed the flowers in horrifying profusion. The candy was of an inexpensive variety--Patty had discovered the ten-cent store--but the boxes that contained it made up in decorativeness what the candy lacked; they were sprinkled with Cupids and roses in vivid profusion. A message in the same back hand accompanied each gift, signed sometimes with initials, and sometimes with a simple "Bertie." Parcels had never before been delivered with such unsuspicious promptitude. Miss Sallie was the one through whose hands they went. She glanced at the outside, scrawled a "deliver," and the maid would choose the most embarrassing moments to comply--always when Mae Mertelle was surrounded by an audience. Mae's Englishman, from an object of sentiment, in a few days' time became the joke of the school. His taste in literature was as impossible as his taste in candy. He ran to titles which are supposed to be the special prerogative of the kitchen. "Loved and Lost," "A Born Coquette," "Thorns among the Orange Blossoms." Poor Mae repudiated them, but to no avail; the school had accepted Cuthbert--and was bent upon eliciting all the entertainment possible from his British vagaries. Mae's life became one long dread of seeing the maid appear with a parcel. The last straw was the arrival of a complete edition--in paper--of Marie Corelli. "He--he never sent them!" she sobbed. "Somebody's just trying to be funny." "You mustn't mind, Mae, because they aren't just the sort that an American man would choose," Patty offered comfort. "You know that Englishmen have queer tastes, particularly in books. _Everybody_ reads Marie Corelli over there." The next Saturday, a party of girls was taken to the city for shopping and the matinée. Among other errands, the art class visited a photograph dealer's, to purchase some early Italian masters. Patty's interest in Giotto and his kind was not very keen, and she sauntered off on a tour of inspection. She happened upon a pile of actors and actresses, and her eye brightened as she singled out a large photograph of an unfamiliar leading man, with curling mustache and dimpled chin and large appealing eyes. He was dressed in hunting costume and conspicuously displayed a crop. The picture was the last word in Twentieth Century Romance. And, most perfect touch of all, it bore a London mark! Patty unobtrusively deflected the rest of the committee from a consideration of Fra Angelico, and the three heads bent delightedly over the find. "It's perfect!" Conny sighed. "But it costs a dollar and fifty cents." "We'll have to go without soda water _forever_!" said Priscilla. "It is expensive," Patty agreed, "but--" as she restudied the liquid, appealing eyes--"I really think it's worth it." They each contributed fifty cents, and the picture was theirs. Patty wrote across the front, in the bold back hand that Mae had come to hate, a tender message in French, and signed the full name, "Cuthbert St. John." She had it wrapped in a plain envelope and requested the somewhat wondering clerk to mail it the following Wednesday morning, as it was an anniversary present and must not arrive before the day. The picture came on the five-o'clock delivery, and was handed to Mae as the girls trooped out from afternoon study. She received it in sulky silence and retired to her room. Half a dozen of her dearest friends followed at her heels; Mae had worked hard to gain a following, and now it couldn't be shaken off. "Open it, Mae quick!" "What do you s'pose it is?" "It can't be flowers or candy. He must be starting something new." "I don't care what it is!" Mae viciously tossed the parcel into the wastebasket. Irene McCullough fished it out and cut the string. "Oh, Mae, it's his photograph!" she squealed. "And he's per-fect-ly beau-ti-ful!" "Did you ever see such eyes!" "Does he curl his mustache, or it is natural?" "Why didn't you tell us he had a dimple in his chin?" "Does he always wear those clothes?" Mae was divided between curiosity and anger. She snatched the photograph away, cast one glance at the languishing brown eyes, and tumbled it, face downward, into a bureau drawer. "Don't ever mention his name to me again!" she commanded, as, with compressed lips, she commenced brushing her hair for dinner. On the next Friday afternoon--shopping day in the village--Patty and Conny and Priscilla dropped in at the florist's to pay a bill. "Two bunches of sunflowers, one dollar," the man had just announced in ringing tones from the rear of the store, when a step sounded behind them, and they faced about to find Mae Mertelle Van Arsdale, bent on a similar errand. "Oh!" said Mae, fiercely, "I might have known it was you three." She stared for a moment in silence, then she dropped into a rustic seat and buried her head on the counter. She had shed so many tears of late that they flowed automatically. "I suppose," she sobbed, "you'll tell the whole school, and everybody will laugh and--and--" The three regarded her with unbending mien. They were not to be moved by a few tears. "You said that Rosalie was a silly little goose to make such a fuss over nothing," Priscilla reminded her. "And at least he was a live man," said Patty, "even if he did have a crooked nose." "Do you still think she was a silly goose?" Conny inquired. "N--no!" "Don't you think you've been a great deal more silly?" "Y--yes." "And will you apologize to Rosalie?" "No!" "It will make quite a funny story," Patty ruminated, "the way we'll tell it." "I think you're perfectly horrid!" "Will you apologize to Rosalie?" Priscilla asked again. "Yes--if you'll promise not to tell." "We'll promise on one condition--you're to break your engagement to Cuthbert St. John, and never refer to it again." Cuthbert sailed for England on the _Oceanic_ the following Thursday; St. Ursula's plunged into a fever of basket-ball, and the atmosphere became bracingly free of Romance. III The Virgil Strike "I'm tired of Woman's Rights on Friday afternoons," said Patty disgustedly. "I prefer soda water!" "This makes the third time they've taken away our holiday for the sake of a beastly lecture," Priscilla grumbled, as she peered over Patty's shoulder to read the notice on the bulletin board, in Miss Lord's perpendicular library hand. It informed the school that instead of the usual shopping expedition to the village, they would have the pleasure that afternoon of listening to a talk by Professor McVey of Columbia University. The subject would be the strike of the women laundry workers. Tea would be served in the drawing-room afterwards, with Mae Van Arsdale, Harriet Gladden, and Patty Wyatt as hostesses. "It's not my turn!" objected Patty, as she noted the latter item. "I was hostess two weeks ago." "That's because you wrote an essay on the 'Eight Hour Day.' Lordie thinks you will ask the professor-man intelligent questions; and show him that St. Ursula's is not a common boarding-school where only superficial accomplishments are taught, but one in which the actual problems of--" "And I did want to go shopping!" Patty mourned. "I need some new shoe-strings. I've been tying a knot in my old ones every day for a week." "Here she comes," whispered Priscilla. "Look happy or she'll make you translate the whole--Good morning, Miss Lord! We were just noticing about the lecture. It sounds extremely interesting." The two smiled a perfunctory greeting, and followed their teacher to the morning's Latin. Miss Lord was the one who struck the modern note at St. Ursula's. She believed in militant suffragism and unions and boycotts and strikes; and she labored hard to bring her little charges to her own advanced position. But it was against a heavy inertia that she worked. Her little charges didn't care a rap about receiving their rights, in the dim future of twenty-one; but they were very much concerned about losing a present half-holiday. On Friday afternoons, they were ordinarily allowed to draw checks on the school bank for their allowances, and march in a procession--a teacher forming the head and tail--to the village stores, where they laid in their weekly supply of hair ribbons and soda water and kodak films. Even had one acquired so many demerits that her weekly stipend was entirely eaten up by fines, still she marched to the village and watched the lucky ones disburse. It made a break in the monotony of six days of bounds. But every cloud has its silver lining. Miss Lord preceded the Virgil recitation that morning by a discussion of the lecture to come. The laundry strike, she told them, marked an epoch in industrial history. It proved that women, as well as men, were capable of standing by each other. The solidarity of labor was a point she wished her girls to grasp. Her girls listened with grave attention; and by eagerly putting a question, whenever she showed signs of running down, they managed to stave off the Latin recitation for three quarters of an hour. The professor, a mild man with a Van Dyke beard, came and lectured exhaustively upon the relations of employer and employed. His audience listened with politely intelligent smiles, but with minds serenely occupied elsewhere. The great questions of Capital and Labor, were not half so important to them, as the fact of the lost afternoon, or the essays that must be written for to-morrow's English, or even that this was ice-cream night with dancing class to follow. But Patty, on the front seat, sat with wide, serious eyes fixed on the lecturer's face. She was absorbing his arguments--and storing them for use. Tea followed according to schedule. The three chosen ones received their guests with the facility of long-tried hostesses. The fact that their bearing was under inspection, with marks to follow, did not appreciably diminish their case. They were learning by the laboratory method, the social graces that would be needed later in the larger world. Harriet and Mae presided at the tea table, while Patty engaged the personage in conversation. He commented later, to Miss Lord, upon the students' rare understanding in economic subjects. Miss Lord replied with some complaisance that she endeavored to have her girls think for themselves. Sociology was a field in which lessons could not be taught by rote. Each must work out her own conclusions, and act upon them. Ice-cream and dancing restored the balance of St. Ursula's, after the mental exertions of the afternoon. At half-past nine--the school did not retire until ten on dancing nights--Patty and Priscilla dropped their goodnight courtesy, murmured a polite "_Bon soir, Mam'selle_," and scampered upstairs, still very wide awake. Instead of preparing for bed with all dispatch, as well-conducted school girls should, they engaged themselves in practising the steps of their new Spanish dance down the length of the South Corridor. They brought up with a pirouette at Rosalie Patton's door. Rosalie, still in the pale blue fluffiness of her dancing frock, was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her yellow curls bent over the open pages of a Virgil, tears spattering with dreary regularity on the lines she was conning. The course of Rosalie's progress through senior Latin might be marked by blistered pages. She was a pretty, cuddling, helpless little thing, deplorably babyish for a senior; but irresistibly appealing. Everyone teased her, and protected her, and loved her. She was irrevocably predestined to bowl over the first man who came along, with her ultra feminine irresponsibility. Rosalie very often dreamed--when she ought to have been concentrating upon Latin grammar--of that happy future state in which smiles and kisses would take the place of gerunds and gerundives. "You silly little muff!" cried Patty. "Why on earth are you bothering with Latin on a Friday night?" She landed herself with a plump on Rosalie's right, and took away the book. "I have to," Rosalie sobbed. "I'd never finish if I didn't begin. I don't see any sense to it. I can't do eighty lines in two hours. Miss Lord always calls on me for the end, because she knows I won't know that." "Why don't you begin at the end and read backwards?" Patty practically suggested. "But that wouldn't be fair, and I can't do it so fast as the others. I work more than two hours every day, but I simply never get through. I know I shan't pass." "Eighty lines is a good deal," Patty agreed. "It's easy for you, because you know all the words, but--" "I worked more than two hours on mine yesterday," said Priscilla, "and I can't afford it either. I have to save some time for geometry." "_I just simply can't do it_," Rosalie wailed. "And she thinks I'm stupid because I don't keep up with Patty." Conny Wilder drifted in. "What's the matter?" she asked, viewing Rosalie's tear-streaked face. "Cry on the pillow, child. Don't spoil your dress." The Latin situation was explained. "Oh, it's awful the way Lordie works us! She would like to have us spend every moment grubbing over Latin and sociology. She--" "Doesn't think dancing and French and manners are any good at all," sobbed Rosalie, mentioning the three branches in which she excelled, "and I think they're a lot more sensible than subjunctives. You can put them to practical use, and you can't sociology and Latin." Patty emerged from a moment of revery. "There's not much use in Latin," she agreed, "but I should think that something might be done with sociology. Miss Lord told us to apply it to our everyday problems." Rosalie swept the idea aside with a gesture of disdain. "Listen!" Patty commanded, springing to her feet and pacing the floor in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. "I've got an idea! It's perfectly true. Eighty lines of Virgil is too much for anybody to learn--particularly Rosalie. And you heard what the man said: it isn't fair to gage the working day by the capacity of the strongest. The weakest has to set the pace, or else he's left behind. That's what Lordy means when she talks about the solidarity of labor. In any trade, the workers have got to stand by each other. The strong must protect the weak. It's the duty of the rest of the class to stand by Rosalie." "Yes, but how?" inquired Priscilla, breaking into the tirade. "We'll form a Virgil Union, and strike for sixty lines a day." "Oh!" gasped Rosalie, horrified at the audacity of the suggestion. "Let's!" cried Conny, rising to the call. "Do you think we can?" asked Priscilla, dubiously. "What will Miss Lord say?" Rosalie quavered. "She can't say anything. Didn't she tell us to listen to the lecture and apply its teaching?" Patty reminded. "She'll be delighted to find we have," said Conny. "But what if she doesn't give in?" "We'll call out the Cicero and Cæsar classes in a sympathetic strike." "Hooray!" cried Conny. "Lordy does believe in Unions," Priscilla conceded. "She ought to see the justice of it." "Of course she'll see the justice of it," Patty insisted. "We're exactly like the laundry workers--in the position of dependents, and the only way we can match strength with our employer, is by standing together. If Rosalie alone drops back to sixty lines, she'll be flunked; but if the whole class does, Lordie will _have_ to give in." "Maybe the whole class won't want to join the union," said Priscilla. "We'll make 'em!" said Patty. In accordance with Miss Lord's desire, she had grasped some basic principles. "We'll have to hurry," she added, glancing at the clock. "Pris, you run and find Irene and Harriet and Florence Hissop; and Conny, you route out Nancy Lee--she's up in Evalina Smith's room telling ghost stories. Here, Rosalie, stop crying and dump the things off those chairs so somebody can sit down." Priscilla started obediently, but paused on the threshold. "And what will you do?" she inquired with meaning. "I," said Patty, "will be labor leader." The meeting was convened, and Patty, a self-constituted chairman, outlined the tenets of the Virgil Union. Sixty lines was to constitute a working day. The class was to explain the case to Miss Lord at the regular session on Monday morning, and politely but positively refuse to read the last twenty lines that had been assigned. If Miss Lord proved insistent, the girls were to close their books and go out on strike. The majority of the class, hypnotized by Patty's eloquence, dazedly accepted the program; but Rosalie, for whose special benefit the union had been formed, had to be coerced into signing the constitution. Finally, after a wealth of argument had been expended, she wrote her name in a very wobbly hand, and sealed it with a tear. By nature, Rosalie was not a fighter; she preferred gaining her rights by more feminine methods. Irene McCullough had also to be forced. She was a cautious soul who looked forward to consequences. One of the most frequently applied of St. Ursula's punishments was to make the culprit miss desserts. Irene suffered keenly under this form of chastisement; and she carefully refrained from misdemeanors which might bring it upon her. But Conny produced a convincing argument. She threatened to tell that the chambermaid was in the habit of smuggling in chocolates--and poor harassed Irene, threatened with the two-fold loss of chocolates and dessert, sullenly added her signature. "Lights-out" rang. The Virgil Union adjourned its first meeting and went to bed. * * * * * Senior Latin came the last hour of the morning, when everyone was tired and hungry. On the Monday following the founding of the Union, the Virgil class gathered outside the door, in growing perturbation as the actual time for the battle approached. Patty rallied them in a brief address. "Brace up, Rosalie! Don't be a cry-baby. We'll help you out if the last lines come to you. And for goodness' sake, girls, _don't_ look so scared. Remember you're suffering, not only for yourselves, but for all the generations of Virgil classes that come after you. Anyone who backs down now is a COWARD!" Patty established herself on the front seat, directly in the line of the fire, and a slight skirmish occurred at the outset. Her heavy walking boots were conspicuously laced with pale blue baby ribbon, which caught the enemy's eye. "That is scarcely the kind of shoe laces that a lady adopts. May I ask, Patty--?" "I broke my other laces," Patty affably explained, "and since we didn't go shopping on Friday, I couldn't get any more. I don't quite like the effect myself," she conceded, as she stuck out a foot and critically surveyed it. "See that you find some black ones immediately after class," Miss Lord acidly suggested. "Priscilla, you may read the first ten lines." The lesson progressed in the usual manner, except that there was a visible tightening of nerves as each recitation was finished, and they waited to hear the next name called. Conny's turn ended with the sixtieth line. No one had gone beyond that; all ahead was virgin jungle. This was the point for the Union to declare itself; and the burden, true to her forebodings, fell upon poor trembling little Rosalie. She cast an imploring glance toward Patty's sternly waiting countenance, stammered, hesitated, and miserably plunged into a sight translation. Rosalie never had the slightest luck at sight translations; even after two hours of patient work with a dictionary, she was still extremely hesitant as to meanings. Now, she blindly forged ahead,--amid a profound hush--attributing to the Pious Æneas a most amazing set of actions. She finished; and the slaughter commenced. Miss Lord spent three minutes in obliterating Rosalie; then passed the lines to Irene McCullough. Irene drew a deep breath--she felt Conny encouragingly patting her on the back, while Patty and Priscilla, at either hand, jogged her elbow with insistent touch. She opened her mouth to declare the principles that had been foisted upon her over night; then she caught the cold gleam of Miss Lord's eye. Rosalie's sobs filled the room. And she fell. Irene was fairly good at Latin--her sight translation was at least intelligible. Miss Lord's comment was merely sarcastic, as she passed to Florence Hissop. By this time the panic had swept through the ranks. Florence would like to have been true to her pledged troth, but the instinct of self-preservation is strong. She improved on Irene's performance. "Take the next ten lines, Patty, and endeavor to extract a glimmering of sense. Please bear in mind that we are reading poetry." Patty raised her head and faced her superior in the manner of a Christian martyr. "I only prepared the first sixty lines, Miss Lord." "Why did you not finish the lesson that I gave out?" Miss Lord inquired sharply. "We have decided that eighty lines are more than we can do in a day. It takes too much time away from our other lessons. We are perfectly willing to do sixty lines, and do them thoroughly, but we can't consider any more." Miss Lord for a moment simply stared. Never had she known such a flagrant case of insubordination. And it was purely insubordination, for Patty was the most capable person in the class. "What do you mean?" she gasped at last. "We have formed a Virgil Union," Patty gravely explained. "You, Miss Lord, will appreciate the fairness of our demands better than any of the other teachers, because you believe in unions. Now, the girls in this class feel that they are overworked and underpa--er--that is, I mean the lessons are too long." Patty fetched a deep breath and started again. "Eighty lines a day doesn't leave us any time for recreation, so we have determined to join together and demand our rights. We occupy the position of skilled laborers. You can get all the girls you want for Cæsar and beginning Latin, but you can't find anybody but us to read Virgil. It's like the laundry trade. We are not just plain boilers and starchers; we are fancy ironers. If you want to have a Virgil class, you have _got_ to have us. You can't call in scab labor. Now, we aren't trying to take advantage because of our superior strength. We are perfectly willing to do an honest day's work, but we can't allow ourselves to be--er--to be--" Patty fumbled a moment for her word, but in the end she brought it out triumphantly. "We can't allow ourselves to be exploited. Singly, we are no match for you, but together, we can dictate our own terms. Because two or three of us can keep up the pace you set, is no reason why we should allow the others to be overworked. It is our duty to stand by one another against the encroachments of our employer. We women are not so advanced as men. But we are learning. Upon the solidarity of labor depends the life of Rosalie. In case you refuse to meet our demands, the Virgil class will be obliged to go out on strike." Patty pronounced her ultimatum, and leaned back with folded arms. A moment of silence followed. Then Miss Lord spoke. The class went down in hopeless, abject terror before the storm. Miss Lord's icy sarcasm was, in moments of intensity, lightened by gleams of fire. She had Irish ancestors and red hair. Patty alone listened with head erect and steely eyes. The red blood of martyrs dyed her cheeks. She was fighting for a CAUSE. Weak, helpless, little Rosalie, sniffling at her elbow, should be saved--the cowardice of her comrades put to shame. She, single-handed, would fight and win. Miss Lord finally drew breath. "The class is dismissed. Patty will remain in the schoolroom until she has translated perfectly the last twenty lines. I will hear her read them after luncheon." The girls rose and pressed in a huddled body toward the hall, while Patty turned into the empty schoolroom. On the threshold she paused to hurl one contemptuous word over her shoulder: "Scabs!" * * * * * The lunch bell rang, and Patty at her desk in the empty schoolroom heard the girls laughing and talking, as they clattered down the tin-covered back stairs to the dining-room. She was very tired and very hungry. She had had five hours of work since breakfast, with only a glass of milk at eleven o'clock. Even the pleasurable sensation of being abused did not quite offset the pangs of hunger. She listlessly set about learning the morrow's lesson in French History. It dealt with another martyr. Louis the Ninth left his bones bleaching on the plains of Antioch. The cause was different, but the principle remained. If she was not to be fed until she learned the Latin--very well--she would leave her bones bleaching in the schoolroom of St. Ursula's. An insistent tapping sounded on the window. She glanced across an angle, to find Osaki, the Japanese butler, leaning far out from his pantry window, and extending toward her a dinner plate containing a large, lone slab of turkey. "Leave plate in wastebasket, Missy," he whispered hoarsely. Patty, for an instant, struggled with dignity and martyrdom, but hunger and a love of intrigue triumphed. She tiptoed over and received the offering. There was no knife or fork, but primitive methods suffice in a case of real starvation. She finished the turkey and buried the plate beneath a pile of algebra papers. It was Osaki's daily business to empty the wastebasket; the plate in due course would be restored to its shelf. A few moments later a scurrying footfall sounded at the door, and a little Junior A. darted to Patty's side. She cast a conspiratorial glance over her shoulder as she drew from a bulging blouse two buttered rolls. "Take 'em quick!" she panted. "I must hurry back, or they'll suspect. I asked to be excused to get a handkerchief. Keep up your courage. We won't let you starve. It's splendid!" She thrust the rolls into Patty's lap and vanished. Patty found it comforting to know that the school was with her. The attractions of martyrdom are enhanced by the knowledge of an audience. Also, the rolls were a grateful addition to the turkey; her five-hour appetite was still insistent. She finished one of them and was about to begin on the second, when furtive footfalls sounded behind her, and one of the maids slipped a paper plate over her shoulder. "Here's some fresh gingerbread, Miss Patty. Cook says--" The sound of a closing door startled her, and she scurried off like a detected thief. Patty placed her second roll in the wastebasket in company with the turkey plate, and was just starting on the gingerbread, when a scrambling sounded at the end window. A blue hat appeared momentarily over the sill, its owner boosted from below, and an unidentified hand sent an orange rolling down the center aisle. Patty hastily intercepted its course and dropped it into the wastebasket. Luncheon would be over momentarily, and a visit from Miss Lord was imminent. This influx of supplies was growing embarrassing. She heard the rising flood of talk as the girls poured from the dining-room. She knew that sympathetic groups were viewing her from the open doors behind. Judging from the ceaseless shuffle of footsteps, all Saint Ursula's had errands that led past the schoolroom door. Patty did not cast a glance behind, but with rigid shoulders stared into space. Presently a rattling sounded above her head. She raised startled eyes to a register set in the ceiling, and saw Irene McCullough's anxious face peering through the opening. "You can live for days on chocolates," came in a stage whisper. "I'm awfully sorry there's only half a pound; I ate the rest last night." The register was lifted out, and a box was swiftly lowered by a string. Irene was chief of the scabs. "Thank you, Irene," Patty returned in a haughty stage whisper. "I do not care to accept any--" Miss Lord's voice became audible in the hall. "I thought, young ladies, that afternoon recreation was to be spent out of doors?" Patty just had time to snatch the box and drop it in her lap, with an open essay book above, when Miss Lord advanced into the room. Patty's face assumed an air of suffering stoicism, as she stared ahead, in the profound hope that Irene would have sense enough to remove eight feet of dangling string. Miss Lord was followed by Osaki, carrying a tray with two slices of dry bread and a glass of water. "Have you finished your Latin, Patty?" "No, Miss Lord." "Why not?" "I am going to do to-morrow's lesson in afternoon study hour." Patty's tone was respectful, but her meaning was clear. She emphasized slightly the word "to-morrow." "You will do the twenty lines immediately." A speaking silence from Patty. "Do you hear me?" "Yes, Miss Lord." "Well?" The monosyllable was sharp enough to cut. "I stand by my principles," said Patty. "I am not a scab." [Illustration: Patty just had time to snatch the box] "You may sit here until those twenty lines are finished." "Very well, Miss Lord." "I do not wish you to suffer. Here is bread and water." She motioned Osaki to set down the tray. Patty waved it aside. "I am not a convict," she said with dignity. "I refuse to eat until I am served properly at the dining-room table." A fleeting grin replaced for a moment Osaki's Oriental calm. Miss Lord set the bread on a neighboring desk, and the two withdrew. All through recreation and afternoon study, Patty sat at her desk, the plate of bread conspicuously untouched at her elbow. Then the five-o'clock bell rang, and the girls trooped out and dispersed on their various businesses. The hour between afternoon study and dressing bell, was the one hour of the day entirely their own. Patty could hear them romping up the back stairs, and racing through the corridors. Kid McCoy was conducting a pillow fight in Paradise Alley above her head. Groups passed the schoolroom window with happy calls and laughter. Pepper and Tabasco, the two riding horses, were saddled and brought out. She could see the girls taking turns in galloping around the oval, while Martin, as ringmaster, waved his whip and urged them on. Martin now was bent with rheumatism, but in his far-off reckless youth he had been a cowboy, and when he taught the girls to ride, it was with a disregard of broken bones that dismayed even the adventurous gymnasium teacher. Patty was his star pupil; she could stick on Red Pepper's back with nothing but a blanket to hold her. It was only very occasionally, when Martin was in a propitious mood, that the horses were saddled for mere public amusement. Patty's heart was sore as she watched Priscilla and Conny, her two dearest friends, disport themselves regardless of their incarcerated mate. It grew dusk; nobody came to furnish a light, and Patty sat in the semi-darkness, her head bent wearily on her arms. Finally she heard footsteps in the hall, and Miss Sallie entered and closed the door behind her. Patty braced herself anew; one needed keen wits to match the "Dragonette." Miss Sallie had been talking with Miss Lord, and she was inclined to think that Patty needed chastisement of a rare sort; but it was her practice to hear both sides. She drew up a chair, and commenced with business-like directness. "See here, Patty, what is the meaning of all this nonsense?" Patty raised reproachful eyes. "Nonsense, Miss Sallie?" "Yes, nonsense! Miss Lord says that you refused to learn the lesson that she assigned, and that you incited the rest of the girls to mutiny. You are one of the most able pupils in the class, and your failure to finish the lesson is nothing in the world but stubbornness. If it were Rosalie Patton now, there might be some sense in it." "I don't think you understand," said Patty gently. "It might be well for you to explain," suggested Miss Sallie. "I must stand by my principles." "By all means!" Miss Sallie affably agreed. "And what are your principles?" "To hold out for sixty lines of Virgil. It isn't because I _want_ to strike, Miss Sallie. It would be much easier for me to do the eighty lines, but that wouldn't be fair to Rosalie. The working day should not be gaged by the capacity of the strongest. Miss Lord will flunk Rosalie if the rest of us don't take care of her. Upon the solidarity of labor depends the welfare of the individual worker. It is the fight of the oppressed against the encroachments of--of--er--organized authority." "Um--I see!--I really begin to believe that you listened to that lecture, Patty." "Of course I listened," Patty nodded, "and I must say that I am awfully disappointed in Miss Lord. She _told_ us to apply our knowledge of sociology to the problems of our daily lives, and when we do, she backs down. But anyway, we intend to maintain the strike, until she is ready to meet our just demands. It isn't through selfish motives that I am acting, Miss Sallie. I should a lot rather have something to eat and go horseback riding. I am fighting for the cause of my suffering sisters." The ceiling above shook at the impact, as four of her suffering sisters came down on top of one another, while the walls resounded with their shrieks and laughter. Miss Sallie's lip twitched, but she controlled herself and spoke with serious gravity. "Very well, Patty, I am glad to know that this unprecedented behavior is caused by charitable motives. I am sure that when Miss Lord fully understands the case she will feel gratified. Suppose I act as intermediary and lay the matter before her? We may be able to arrive at an--er--compromise." The half hour that followed dinner was usually devoted to dancing in the big square hall, but to-night the girls were inclined to stand about in groups with furtive glances toward the schoolroom. A conference was going on inside. Miss Lord, the Dowager and the Dragonette had passed in and shut the door. Kid McCoy, returning from Paradise Alley, where she had been stretched on her stomach with her face to the register, reported that Patty had fainted through lack of food, that the Dowager had revived her with whiskey, and that she had come to, still cheering for the Union. Kid McCoy's statements, however, were apt to be touched by imagination. The school was divided in its opinion of Patty's course. The scabs were inclined to make light of her achievement, but Conny and Priscilla staunchly fanned enthusiasm. Finally, the schoolroom door opened, and the faculty emerged and passed into the Dowager's private study, while the dancing commenced with sudden fervor. No one to-day liked to be caught by Miss Lord whispering in a corner. Patty followed alone. Her face was pale, and there were weary circles about her eyes, but in them shone the light of victory. "Patty!" "Are you dead?" "How'd it come out?" "It was perfectly splendid!" "Was she furious?" "What did she say?" "We arbitrated the question and have settled on a compromise," Patty replied with quiet dignity. "Hereafter the lesson will be seventy lines. The Virgil strike is declared off." They pressed about her eager for details, but she separated herself, and kept on toward the dining-room door. There was an aloofness about her, an air of having experienced the heights alone. She was not quite ready to rub shoulders with common humanity. The school settled itself to evening study, and Patty to her dinner. They could see her across the court, through the lighted window, as she sat in state at the end of a long table. Osaki on one side, tendered preserved strawberries, and Maggie on the other, frosted cakes. The rewards of martyrdom, in Patty's case, were solidly substantial. IV The Third Man from the End "Oh, Patty! Did you bring us some wedding cake?" "Did you have any adventures?" Conny and Priscilla, with the dexterity of practice, sprang upon the rear step of the hearse as it turned in at the school gate, and rolled up the curving drive to the porte-cochère. The "hearse" was the popular name for the black varnished wagonette which conveyed the pupils of St. Ursula's from church and station. It was planned to accommodate twenty. Patty and her suit-case, alone in the capacious interior, were jolting about like two tiny peas in a very big pod. "Adventures!" she called back excitedly. "_Wait till you hear!_" As they came to a stop, they were besieged by a crowd of blue-coated girls. It was afternoon recreation, and the whole school was abroad. The welcome that she received, would have led an onlooker to infer that Patty had been gone three months instead of three days. She and her two postilions descended, and Martin gathered up his reins. "Come on, youse! All who wants a ride to the stables," was his hospitable invitation. It inundated him with passengers. They crowded inside--twice as many as the hearse would hold--they swarmed over the driver's seat and the steps; and two equestriennes even perched themselves on the horses' backs. "What's the adventure?" demanded Conny and Priscilla in a breath, as the cavalcade rattled off. Patty waved her hand toward the suit-case. "There it is. Take it upstairs. I'll be with you as soon as I've reported." "But that isn't your suit-case." Patty shook her head mysteriously. "If you tried a thousand years you'd never guess who owns it." "Who?" Patty laughed. "Looks like a man's," said Conny. "It is." "Oh, Patty! Don't be so exasperating. Where'd you get it?" "Just a little souvenir that I picked up. I'll tell you as soon as I've interviewed the Dowager. Hurry, and slip in while Jelly isn't looking." They cast a quick glance over their shoulders toward the gymnasium instructor, who was arguing fat Irene McCullough into faster movements on the tennis court. Miss Jellings was insistent that "recreation" should be actively pursued out of doors. The two could easily have obtained permission to greet Patty's return inside; but it was the policy of the trio never to ask permission in minor matters. It wasted one's credit unnecessarily. Priscilla and Conny turned upstairs lugging the suit-case between them, while Patty approached the principal's study. Ten minutes later she joined her companions in Seven, Paradise Alley. They were sitting on the bed, their chins in their hands, studying the suit-case propped on a chair before them. "Well?" they inquired in a breath. "She says she's glad to see me back, and hopes I didn't eat too much wedding cake. If my lessons show any falling off--" "_Who_ owns it?" "The man with the black eyebrows and the dimple in his chin who sang the funny songs third from the end on the right hand side." "Jermyn Hilliard, Junior?" Priscilla asked breathlessly. "Not really?" Conny laid her hand on her heart with an exaggerated sigh. "Truly and honest!" Patty turned it over and pointed to the initials on the end. "J. H., Jr." "It _is_ his!" cried Priscilla. "Where on earth did you get it, Patty?" "Is it locked?" "Yes," Patty nodded, "but my key will open it." "What's in it?" "Oh, a dress suit, and collars, and--and things." "Where'd you get it?" "Well," said Patty languidly, "it's a long story. I don't know that I have time before study hour--" "Oh, tell us, please. I think you're beastly!" "Well--the glee club was last Thursday night." They nodded impatiently at this useless piece of information. "And it was Friday morning that I left. As I was listening to the Dowager's parting remarks about being inconspicuous and reflecting credit on the school by my nice manners, Martin sent in word that Princess was lame and couldn't be driven. So instead of going to the station in the hearse, I went with Mam'selle in the trolley car. When we got in, it was _cram_ full of men. The entire Yale Glee Club was going to the station! There were so many of them that they were sitting in each other's laps. The whole top layer rose, and said perfectly gravely and politely: 'Madame, take my seat.' "Mam'selle was outraged. She said in French, which of course they all understood, that she thought American college boys had disgraceful manners; but I smiled a little--I couldn't help it, they were so funny. And then two of the bottom ones offered their seats, and we sat down. And you'll never believe it, but the third man from the end was sitting right next to me!" "Not really?" "Oh, Patty!" "Is he as good-looking near to, as he was on the stage?" "Better." "Are those his real eyebrows or were they blacked?" "They looked real but I couldn't examine them closely." "Of course they're real!" said Conny indignantly. "And what do you think?" Patty demanded. "They were going on my train. Did you ever hear of such a coincidence?" "What did Mam'selle think of that?" "She was as flustered as an old hen with one chicken. She put me in charge of the conductor with so many instructions, that I know he felt like a newly engaged nursemaid. The Glee Club men rode in the smoking-car, except Jermyn Hilliard, Junior, and he followed me right into the parlor car and sat down in the chair exactly opposite." "Patty!" they cried in shocked chorus. "You surely didn't speak to him?" "Of course not. I looked out of the window and pretended he wasn't there." "Oh!" Conny murmured disappointedly. "Then what happened?" Priscilla asked. "Nothing at all. I got out at Coomsdale, and Uncle Tom met me with the automobile. The chauffeur took my suit-case from the porter and I didn't see it near to at all. We reached the house just at tea time, and I went straight in to tea without going upstairs. The butler took up my suit-case and the maid came and asked for the key so she could unpack. That house is simply running over with servants; I'm always scared to death for fear I'll do something that they won't think is proper. "All the ushers and bridesmaids were there, and everything was very jolly, only I couldn't make out what they were talking about half the time, because they all knew each other and had a lot of jokes I couldn't understand." Conny nodded feelingly. "That's the way they acted at the seaside last summer. I think grown people have horrid manners." "I did feel sort of young," Patty acknowledged. "One of the men brought me some tea and asked what I was studying in school. He was trying to obey Louise and amuse little cousin, but he was thinking all the time, what an awful bore it was talking to a girl with her hair braided." "I told you to put it up," said Priscilla. "Just wait!" said Patty portentously. "When I went upstairs to dress for dinner, the maid met me in the hall with her eyes popping out of her head. "'Beg pardon, Miss Patty,' she said. 'But is that your suit-case?' "'Yes,' I said, 'of course it's my suit-case. What's the matter with it?' "She just waved her hand toward the table and didn't say a word. And there it was, wide open!" Patty took a key from her pocket, unlocked the suit-case, and threw back the lid. A man's dress suit was neatly folded on the top, with a pipe, a box of cigarettes, some collars, and various other masculine trifles filling in the interstices. "Oh!" they gasped in breathless chorus. "They belong to him," Conny murmured fervently. Patty nodded. "And when I showed Uncle Tom that suit-case, he nearly died laughing. He telephoned to the station, but they didn't know anything about it, and I didn't know where the glee club was going to perform, so we couldn't telegraph Mr. Hilliard. Uncle Tom lives five miles from town, and there simply wasn't anything we could do that night." "And just imagine his feelings when he started to dress for the concert, and found Patty's new pink evening gown spread out on top!" suggested Priscilla. "Oh, Patty! Do you s'pose he opened it?" asked Conny. "I'm afraid he did. The cases are exact twins, and the keys both seem to fit." "I hope it looked all right?" "Oh, yes, it looked beautiful. Everything was trimmed with pink ribbon. I always pack with an eye to the maid, when I visit Uncle Tom." "But the dinner and the wedding? What did you do without your clothes?" asked Priscilla, in rueful remembrance of many trips to the dressmaker's. "That was the best part of it!" Patty affirmed. "Miss Lord simply wouldn't let me get a respectable evening gown. She went with me herself, and told Miss Pringle how to make it--just like all my dancing dresses, nine inches off the floor, with elbow sleeves and a silly sash. I hated it anyway." "You must remember you are a school girl," Conny quoted, "and until--" "Just wait till I tell you!" Patty triumphed. "Louise brought me one of her dresses--one of her very best ball gowns, only she wasn't going to wear it any more, because she had all new clothes in her trousseau. It was white crêpe embroidered in gold spangles, and it had a train. It was long in front, too. I had to walk without lifting my feet. The maid came and dressed me; she did my hair up on top of my head with a gold fillet, and Aunt Emma loaned me a pearl necklace and some long gloves and I looked perfectly beautiful--I did, honestly--you wouldn't have known me. I looked _at least_ twenty! "The man who took me in to dinner never dreamed that I hadn't been out for years. And you know, he tried to flirt with me, he did, really. And he was getting awfully old. He must have been almost forty. I felt as though I were flirting with my grandfather. You know," Patty added, "it isn't so bad, being grown up. I believe you really do have sort of a good time--if you're pretty." Six eyes sought the mirror for a reflective moment, before Patty resumed her chronicle. "And Uncle Tom made me tell about the suit-case at the dinner table. Everybody laughed. It made a very exciting story. I told them about the whole school going to the Glee Club, and falling in love in a body with the third man from the end, and how we all cut his picture out of the program and pasted it in our watches. And then about my sitting across from him in the train and changing suit-cases. Mr. Harper--the man next to me--said it was the most romantic thing he'd ever heard in his life; that Louise's marriage was nothing to it." "But about the suit-case," they prompted. "Didn't you do anything more?" "Uncle Tom telephoned again in the morning, and the station agent said he'd got the party on the wire as had the young lady's case. And he was coming back here in two days, and I was to leave his suit-case with the baggage man at the station, and he would leave mine." "But you didn't leave it." "I came on the other road. I'm going to send it down." "And what did you wear at the wedding?" "Louise's clothes. It didn't matter a bit, my not matching the other bridesmaids, because I was maid of honor, and ought to dress differently anyway. I've been grown up for three days--and I just wish Miss Lord could have seen me with my hair on the top of my head talking to men!" "Did you tell the Dowager?" "Yes, I told her about getting the wrong suit-case; I didn't mention the fact that it belonged to the third man from the end." "What did she say?" "She said it was very careless of me to run off with a strange man's luggage; and she hoped he was a gentleman and would take it nicely. She telephoned to the baggage man that it was here, but she couldn't send Martin with it this afternoon because he had to go to the farm for some eggs." Recreation was over, and the girls came trooping in to gather books and pads and pencils for the approaching study hour. Everyone who passed number Seven dropped in to hear the news. Each in turn received the story of the suit-case, and each in turn gasped anew at sight of the contents. "Doesn't it smell tobaccoey and bay rummish?" said Rosalie Patton, sniffing. "Oh, there's a button loose!" cried Florence Hissop, the careful housewife. "Where's some black silk, Patty?" She threaded a needle and secured the button. Then she daringly tried on the coat. Eight others followed her example and thrilled at the touch. It was calculated to fit a far larger person than any present. Even Irene McCullough found it baggy. "He had awfully broad shoulders," said Rosalie, stroking the satin lining. They peered daintily at the other garments. "Oh!" squealed Mae Mertelle. "He wears blue silk suspenders." "And something else blue," chirped Edna Hartwell, peering over her shoulder. "They're pajamas!" "And to think of such a thing happening to Patty!" sighed Mae Mertelle. "Why not?" bristled Patty. "You're so young and so--er--" "Young!--Wait till you see me with my hair done up." "I wonder what the end will be?" asked Rosalie. "The end," said Mae unkindly, "will be that the baggage man will deliver the suit-case, and Jermyn Hilliard, Junior, will never know--" A maid appeared at the door. "If you please," she murmured, her amazed eyes on Irene who was still wearing the coat, "Mrs. Trent would like to have Miss Patty Wyatt come to the drawing-room, and I am to take the suit-case down. The gentleman is waiting." "Oh, Patty!" a gasp went around the room. "Do your hair up--quick!" Priscilla caught Patty's twin braids and wound them around her head, while the others in a flutter of excitement, thrust in the coat and relocked the suit-case. They crowded after her in a body and hung over the banisters at a perilous angle, straining their ears in the direction of the drawing-room. Nothing but a murmur of voices floated up, punctuated by an occasional deep bass laugh. When they heard the front door close, with one accord they invaded Harriet Gladden's room, which commanded the walk, and pressed their noses against the pane. A short, thick-set man of German build was waddling toward the gate and the trolley car. They gazed with wide, horrified eyes, and turned without a word to meet Patty as she trudged upstairs lugging her errant suit-case. A glance told her that they had seen, and dropping on the top step, she leaned her head against the railing and laughed. "His name," she choked, "is John Hochstetter, Jr. He's a wholesale grocer, and was on his way to a grocers' convention, where he was to make a speech comparing American cheese with imported cheese. He didn't mind at all not having his dress-suit--never feels comfortable in it anyway, he says. He explained to the convention why he didn't have it on, and it made the funniest speech of the evening. There's the study bell." Patty rose and turned toward Paradise Alley, but paused to throw back a further detail: "He has a dear little daughter of his own just my age!" V The Flannigan Honeymoon The Murphy family, with a judicious eye to the buttered side of the bread, had adopted Saint Ursula as their patron saint. The family--consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Murphy, eleven little Murphys and "Gramma" Flannigan--occupied a five-room cottage close to the gates of St. Ursula's school. They subsisted on the vicarious charity of sixty-four girls, and the intermittent labor of Murphy _père_, who, in his sober intervals, was a sufficiently efficient stone-cutter and mason. He had built the big entrance gates, and the long stone wall that enclosed the ten acres of "bounds." He had laid the foundation of the new west wing--known as Paradise Alley--and had constructed all the chimneys and driveways and tennis courts on the place. The school was a monument to his long and leisurely career. Mr. and Mrs. Murphy, with an unusual display of foresight, had christened their first baby after the school. Ursula Murphy may not be a euphuistic combination, but the child was amply repaid for carrying such a name, by receiving the cast-off clothes of generations of St. Ursula girls. There was danger, for a time, that the poor little thing would be buried beneath a mountain of wearing apparel; but her parents providentially discovered a second-hand clothes man, who relieved her of a part of the burden. After Ursula, had come other little Murphys in regular succession; and it had grown to be one of the legendary privileges of the school to furnish the babies with names and baptismal presents. Mrs. Murphy was not entirely mercenary in her yearly request. She appreciated the artistic quality of the names that the girls provided. They had a distinction, that she herself, with her lack of literary training, would never have been able to give. The choosing of the names had come to be a matter involving politics almost as complicated as the election of the senior president. Different factions proposed different names; half-a-dozen tickets would be in the field, and the balloting was conducted with rousing speeches. There was one hampering restriction. Every baby must have a patron saint. Upon this point, the Murphys stood firm. However, by a careful study of early Christian martyrs, the girls had managed to unearth a list of recondite saints with fairly unusual and picturesque names. So far, the roll of the Murphy offspring read: Ursula Marie, Geraldine Sabina, Muriel Veronica and Lionel Ambrose (twins), Aileen Clotilda, John Drew Dominick, Delphine Olivia, Patrick (he had been born in the summer vacation, and the long-suffering priest had insisted that the boy be named for his father), Sidney Orlando Boniface, Richard Harding Gabriel, Yolanda Genevieve. This completed the list, until one morning early in December, Patrick Senior presented himself at the kitchen door, with the news that another name--a boy's--would be seasonable. The school immediately went into a committee of the whole. Several names had been put up, and the discussion was growing heated, when Patty Wyatt jumped to her feet with the proposal of "Cuthbert St. John." The suggestion was met with cheers; and Mae Van Arsdale indignantly left the room. The name was carried by unanimous vote. Cuthbert St. John Murphy was christened the following Sunday, and received a gold-lined porridge spoon in a green plush box. So delighted was the school at Patty's felicitous suggestion, that, by way of reward, they elected her chairman of the Christmas Carnival Committee. The Christmas Carnival was a charitable institution contemporaneous with the founding of the school. St. Ursula's scheme of education was broad; it involved growth in a wide variety of womanly virtues, and the greatest of these was charity. Not the modern, scientific, machine-made charity, but the comfortable, old-fashioned kind that leaves a pleasant glow of generosity in the heart of the giver. Every year at Christmastide a tree was decked, a supper laid, and the poor children of the neighborhood bidden to partake. The poor children were collected by the school girls, who drove about from house to house, in bob-sleighs or hay-wagons, according to the snow. The girls regarded it as the most diverting festival of the school year; and even the poor children, when they had overcome their first embarrassment, found it fairly diverting. The original scheme had been for each girl to have an individual protégé, that she might call upon the family and come into personal relations with a humbler class. She was to learn the special needs of her child, and give something really useful, such as stockings or trousers or flannel petticoats. It was an admirable scheme on paper, but in actual practice it fell down. St. Ursula's was situated in an affluent district given over to the estates of the idle rich, and the proletarian who clung to the skirts of these estates was amply provided with an opportunity to work. In the early days, when the school was small, there had been sufficient poor children to go round; but as St. Ursula's had grown, the poor seemed to have diminished, until now the school was confronted by an actual scarcity. But the Murphys, at least, they had always with them. They yearly offered thanks for this. Patty accepted her chairmanship and appointed sub-committees to do the actual work. For herself and Conny and Priscilla she reserved the privilege of choosing the recipients of St. Ursula's bounty. This entailed several exhilarating afternoons out of bounds. A walk abroad is as inspiring to the inmates of a prison as a trip through Europe to those at large. They spent the better part of a week canvassing the neighborhood, only to reveal the embarrassing fact that there were nine possible children, aside from the Murphy brood, and that none of these nine were from homes that one could conscientiously term poor. The children's sober industrious parents could well supply their temperate Christmas demands. "And there are only six Murphys the right age," Conny grumbled, as they turned homewards in the cold twilight of a wintry day, after an unprofitable two hours' tramp. "That makes about one child to every five girls," Priscilla nodded dismally. "Oh, this charity business makes me tired!" Patty burst out. "It's fun for the girls, and nothing else. The way we dole out stuff to perfectly nice people, is just plain insulting. If anybody poked a pink tarlatan stocking full of candy at me, and said it was because I'd been a good little girl, I'd throw it in their face." In moments of intensity, Patty's English was not above reproach. "Come on, Patty," Priscilla slipped a soothing hand through her arm, "we'll stop in at the Murphys' and count 'em over again. Maybe there's one we overlooked." "The twins are only fifteen," said Conny hopefully. "I think they'll do." "And Richard Harding's nearly four. He's old enough to enjoy a tree. The more Murphys we can get the better. They always love the things we give." "I know they do!" Patty growled. "We're teaching the whole lot of them to be blooming beggars--I shall be sorry I ever used any slang, if we can't put the money to better use than this." The funds for the carnival were yearly furnished by a tax on slang. St. Ursula demanded a fine of one cent for every instance of slang or bad grammar let fall in public. Of course, in the privacy of one's own room, in the bosom of one's chosen family, the rigor was relaxed. Your dearest friends did not report you--except in periods of estrangement. But your acquaintances and enemies and teachers did, and even, in moments of intense honorableness, you reported yourself. In any case, the slang fund grew. When the committee had opened the box this year, they found thirty-seven dollars and eighty-four cents. Patty allowed herself, after some slight protest, to be drawn to the door of the Murphy domicile. She was not in an affable mood, and a call upon the Murphys required a great deal of conversation. They found the family hilariously assembled in an over-crowded kitchen. The entire dozen children babbled at once, shriller and shriller, in a vain endeavor to drown each other out. A cabbage stew, in progress on the stove, filled the room with an odorous steam. Shoved into a corner of the hearth, was poor old Gramma Flannigan, surrounded by noisy, pushing youngsters, who showed her gray hairs but scant consideration. The girls admired the new baby, while Yolanda and Richard Harding crawled over their laps with sticky hands. Mrs. Murphy, meanwhile, discanted in a rich brogue upon the merits of "Coothbert St. Jawn" as a name. She liked it, she declared, as well as any in the list. It sure ought to bring luck to a child to carry the name of two saints. She thanked the young ladies kindly. Patty left Conny and Priscilla to carry off the social end of the call, while she squeezed herself onto the woodbox by Gramma Flannigan's chair. Mrs. Murphy's mother was a pathetic old body, with the winning speech and manners of Ireland a generation ago. Patty found her the most remunerative member of the household, so far as interest went. She always liked to get her started with stories of her girlhood, when she had been a lady's maid in Lord Stirling's castle in County Clare, and young Tammas Flannigan came and carried her off to America to help make his fortune. Tammas was now a bent old man with rheumatism, but in his keen blue eyes and Irish smile, Gramma still saw the lad who had courted her. "How's your husband this winter?" Patty asked, knowing that she was taking the shortest road to the old woman's heart. She shook her head with a tremulous smile. "I'm not hearin' for four days. Tammas ain't livin' with us no more." "It's a pity for you to be separated!" said Patty, with quick sympathy, not realizing on how sore a subject she was touching. The flood gates of the old woman's garrulity broke down. "With Ursuly an' Ger-r-aldine growin' oop an' havin' young min to wait on thim, 'twas needin' a parlor they was, an' they couldn't spare the room no longer for me'n Tammas. So they put me in the garret with the four gurrls, an' Tammas, he was sint oop the road to me son Tammas. Tammas's wife said as Tammas could sleep in the kitchen to pay for carryin' the wood an' watter, but she couldn't take us both because she takes boarders." Patty cocked her head for a moment of silence, as she endeavored to pluck sense from this tangle of Tammases. "It's too bad!" she comforted, laying a sympathetic hand on the old woman's knee. Gramma Flannigan's eyes filled with the ready tears of old age. "I'm not complainin', for it's the way o' the world. The owld must step off, an' make room for the young. But it's lonely I am without him! We've lived together for forty-seven years, an' we know each other's ways." "But your son doesn't live very far away." Patty offered what solace she might. "You must see Thomas very often." "That an' I don't! You might as well have a husband dead, as a mile an' a half away an' laid oop with rheumatism." The clock pointed to a quarter of six, and the visitors rose. They had still to walk half a mile and dress before dinner. The old woman clung to Patty's hand at parting. She seemed to find more comfort in the little stray sympathy that Patty had offered, than in all her exuberant brood of grandchildren. "Isn't it dreadful to be old, and just sit around waiting to die?" Patty shuddered, as they faced the cold darkness outside. "Dreadful!" Conny cordially agreed. "Hurry up! Or we'll be late for dinner, and this is chicken night." They turned homeward at a jog trot that left little breath for speech; but Patty's mind was working as fast as her legs. "I've got a perfectly splendid idea," she panted as she turned in at the gate and trotted up the driveway toward the big lighted house that spread wide wings to receive them. "What?" they asked. The quick insistent clang of the gong floated out to meet them, and on the instant, hurrying figures flitted past the windows--the summons to meals brought a readier response than the summons to study. "I'll tell you after dinner. No time now," Patty returned as she peeled off her coat. They were unlacing their blouses as they clattered up the back stairs, and pulling them over their heads in the upper hall. "Go slow--please!" they implored of the down-going procession whose track they crossed. Dinner was the only meal which might be approached by the front stairs, which were carpeted instead of tinned. Their evening frocks were fortunately in one piece, and they dove into them with little ceremony. The three presented themselves flushed of cheek and somewhat rumpled as to hair, but properly gowned and apologetic, just as grace was ended. To be late for grace only meant one demerit; the first course came higher, and the second higher still. Punishment increased by geometrical progression. During the half hour's intermission before evening study, the three separated themselves from the dancers in the hall, and withdrew to a corner of the deserted schoolroom. Patty perched herself on a desk, and loudly stated her feelings. "I'm tired of having the Dowager get up at prayers, and make a speech about the beautiful Christmas spirit, and how sweet it is to make so many little children happy, when she knows perfectly well that it's just a lark for us. I'm chairman this year and I can do as I please. I've had enough of this fake charity; and I'm not going to have any Christmas tree!" "No Christmas tree?" Conny echoed blankly. "But what are you going to do with the thirty-seven dollars and eight-four cents?" asked Priscilla, the practical. "Listen!" Patty settled to her argument. "There aren't any children around here who need a blessed thing, but Gramma and Granpa Flannigan do. That poor old woman, who is just as nice as she can be, is crowded in with all those horrid, yelling, sticky little Murphys; and Granpa Flannigan is poked into Tammas Junior's kitchen, running errands for Tammas Junior's wife, who is a per-fect-ly _terrible_ woman. She throws kettles when she gets mad. Gramma worries all the time for fear he has rheumatism, and nobody to rub on liniment, or make him wear the right underclothes. They're exactly as fond of each other as any other husband and wife, and just because Ursula wants to have callers, I say it's a mean shame for them to be separated!" "It is too bad," Conny agreed impartially. "But I don't see that we can help it." "Why, yes! Instead of having a Christmas tree, we'll rent that empty little cottage down by the laurel walk, and mend the chimney--Patrick can do that for nothing--and put in new windows, and furnish it, and set them up in housekeeping." "Do you think we can do it for thirty-seven dollars and eighty-four cents?" Priscilla asked. "That's where the charity comes in! Every girl in school will go without her allowance for two weeks. Then we'll have more than a hundred dollars, and you can furnish a house perfectly beautifully for that. And it would be real charity to give up our allowances, because they are particularly useful at Christmas time." "But will the girls want to give their allowances?" "We'll fix it so they'll have to," said Patty. "We'll call a mass meeting and make a speech. Then everybody will file past and sign a paper. No one will dare refuse with the school looking on." Patty's fire kindled an answering flame in the other two. "It is a good idea!" Conny declared. "And it would be a lark, fixing the house," said Priscilla. "Almost as much fun as getting married ourselves." "Exactly," Patty nodded. "Those poor old things haven't had a chance to see each other alone for years. We'll give 'em a honeymoon all over again." Patty was outwardly occupied with geometry the next hour, but her mind was busy hemming sheets and towels and tablecloths. It being Thursday evening, the hour between eight and nine was occupied with "manners." The girls took turns in coming gracefully downstairs, entering the drawing-room, announced by Claire du Bois in the rôle of footman, and shaking hands with their hostesses--Conny Wilder, as dowager mama, and towering above her, as débutante daughter, Irene McCullough, the biggest girl in the school. The gymnasium teacher who assigned the rôles, had a sense of humor. An appropriate remark was expected from each guest, the weather being barred. "Mrs. Wilder!" Priscilla gushed, advancing with outstretched hand, "and dear little Irene! It doesn't seem possible that the child is actually grown. It was only yesterday that she was a mite of a thing toddling about--" Priscilla was shoved on by Patty. "Me dear Mrs. Wilder," she inquired in a brogue that would have put the Murphys to shame, "have ye heard the news that's goin' round? Mr. and Mrs. Tammas Flannigan have taken the Laurel Cottage for the season. They are thinkin' of startin' a salon. They will be at home ivery afternoon during recreation hour--and will serve limonade and gingerbread in summer, and soup and sandwiches in winter. Ye must take Irene to call on thim." The moment "manners" was over, the three withdrew to the seclusion of Patty's and Conny's room in Paradise Alley, and closed the door against callers. Between nine and nine-thirty was the fashionable calling hour at St. Ursula's. The time was supposed to be occupied in getting ready for bed, but if one were clever about undressing in the dark, one might devote the thirty minutes to social purposes. "Gone to sleep! Don't disturb us!" the placard read that they impaled upon the door, but the clatter of tongues inside belied the words. "Isn't my idea fine about the lemonade and soup?" Patty demanded. "The great thing about charity is not to make it charity. You must keep people self-supporting," Priscilla quoted from their last lesson in sociology. "We'll fix little tables under the apple tree in summer and in the parlor in winter," Patty planned, "and all the school girls and automobiles will stop for lemonade. We'll charge the girls five cents a glass and the automobiles ten." "And I say, let's make Patrick and Tammas each contribute a dollar a week toward their support," Conny proposed. "They must eat up a dollar's worth of potatoes as they are living now." They continued planning in whispers until long after "lights-out" had rung; and Priscilla, in a laudable desire to be inconspicuous, was obliged to crawl on hands and knees past Mademoiselle's open door, before she gained her own room at the end of the corridor. The moment recreation sounded the next afternoon, they obtained permission to be out of bounds, and set off at a brisk trot. It was their business-like intention to have all the statistics complete, before submitting the matter to the assembled school. "We'll first call on Patrick and Tammas and make 'em promise the dollar," said Patty. Patrick readily promised his dollar--Patrick was always strong in promises--and the girls proceeded gaily to Tammas Junior's. They found Granpa on the back doorstep anxiously wiping his feet; he was a tremulous reed that bowed before every blast of the daughter-in-law's tongue. Tammas Junior, after being taken aside and told the project, thought he could manage two dollars a week. An expression of relief momentarily took the hunted look from his eyes. He was clearly glad to rescue his father from the despotic rule of his wife. The girls turned away with their minds made up. It only remained to secure the cottage, coerce the school, and hem the sheets. "You go and price furniture and wall paper," Patty issued her orders, "while I see about the rent. We'll meet at the soda-water fountain." She found the real-estate man who owned the cottage established in an office over the bank; and by what she considered rare business ability, beat him down from nine dollars a month to seven. This stroke accomplished, she intimated her readiness for the lease. "A lease will not be necessary," he said. "A month to month verbal agreement will do for me." "I can't consider it without a lease," said Patty, firmly. "You might sell or something, and then we'd have to move out." The gentleman amusedly filled in the form, and signed as party of the first part. He passed the pen to Patty and indicated the space reserved for the signature of the party of the second part. "I must first consult my partners," she explained. "Oh, I see! Have them sign here, and then bring the lease back." "All of them?" she asked, dubiously scanning the somewhat cramped quarters. "I'm afraid there won't be room." "How many partners have you?" "Sixty-three." He stared momentarily, then as his eye fell on the embroidered "St. U." on Patty's coat sleeve, he threw back his head and laughed. "I beg your pardon!" he apologized, "but I was a bit staggered for a moment. I am not used to doing business on such a large scale. In order to be legal," he gravely explained, "the paper will have to be signed by all the parties to the contract. If there is not enough room, you might paste on an er--" "Annex?" suggested Patty. "Exactly," he agreed and with grave politeness bowed her out. As the bell rang that indicated the end of study that evening, Patty and Conny and Priscilla jumped to their feet, and called a mass meeting of the school. The door was closed after the retreating Miss Jellings, and for half an hour the three made speeches separately and in unison. They were persuasive talkers and they carried the day. The allowance was voted with scarcely a dissenting voice, and the school filed past and signed the lease. For two weeks St. Ursula's was a busy place--and also Laurel Cottage. Bounds were practically enlarged to include it. The girls worked in gangs during every recreation hour. The cellar was whitewashed by a committee of four, who went in blue, and came out speckled like a plover's egg. Tammas Junior had volunteered for this job, but it was one the girls could not relinquish. They did allow him to kalsomine the ceilings and hang the wall paper; but they painted the floors and lower reaches of woodwork themselves. The evening's hour of recreation no longer found them dancing, but sitting in a solid phalanx on the stairs hemming sheets and tablecloths. The house was to be furnished with a completeness that poor Mrs. Flannigan, in all her married life, had never known before. When everything was finished, the day before the holidays, the school in a body wiped its feet on the door-mat and tiptoed through on a last visit of inspection. The cottage contained three rooms, with a cellar and woodshed besides. The wall paper and chintz hangings of the parlor were flaming pink peonies with a wealth of foliage--a touch of flamboyant for some tastes, but Granpa's and Gramma's eyes were failing, and they liked strong colors. Also, crafty questioning had elicited the fact that "pinies" were Gramma's favorite flower. The kitchen had turkey-red curtains with a cheerful strip of rag carpet and two comfortable easy chairs before the hearth. The cellar was generously stocked from the school farm--Miss Sallie's contribution--with potatoes and cabbages and carrots and onions, enough to make Irish stew for three months to come. The woodbin was filled, and even a five-gallon can of kerosene. Sixty-four pairs of eyes had scanned the rooms minutely to make sure that no essential was omitted. Both the Murphy and Flannigan households had been agog for days over the proposed flitting of the pair. Even Mrs. Tammas had volunteered to wash the windows of the new cottage, and for a week she had scarcely been cross. The old man was already wondering at life. When the time arrived, Mrs. Murphy secretly packed Gramma's belongings and dressed her in her best, under the pretext that she was to be taken in a carriage to a Christmas party to have supper with her husband. The old woman was in a happy flutter at the prospect. Granpa was prepared for the journey by the same simple strategy. Patty and Conny and Priscilla, as originators of the enterprise, had been appointed to install the old couple; but with tactful forbearance, they delegated the right to the son and daughter. They saw that the fires were burning, the lamps lighted, and the cat--there was even a cat--asleep on the hearth rug; then when the sound of carriage wheels in front told them that Martin had arrived with his passengers, they quietly slipped out the back way and jogged home to dinner through the snowy dusk. They were met by a babel of questions. "Was Gramma pleased with the parlor clock?" "Did she know what to do with the chaffing-dish?" "Were they disappointed at not having a feather bed?" "Did they like the cat, or would they rather have had a parrot?" (The school had been torn asunder on this important point.) At the dinner table that night--such of the school as was left--chattered only of Laurel Cottage. They were as excited over Gramma and Granpa's happiness, as over their own approaching holiday. All sixty-four were planning to drink tea, on the first day of their return, from Gramma's six cups. Toward nine o'clock, Patty and Priscilla, by a special dispensation that allowed late hours in vacation, received permission to accompany Conny and ten other dear friends to the station for the western express. Driving back alone in the "hearse," still bubbling with the hilarity of Christmas farewells, they passed the Laurel Cottage. "I believe they're still up!" said Priscilla. "Let's stop and wish 'em a Merry Christmas, just to make sure they like it." Martin was readily induced to halt; his discipline also was relaxed in vacation. They approached the door, but hesitated at sight of the picture revealed by the lighted window. To interrupt with the boisterous greetings of the season, seemed like rudely breaking in upon the seclusion of lovers. Only a glance was needed to tell them that the house-warming was successful. Gramma and Granpa were sitting before the fire in their comfortable red-cushioned rocking-chairs; the lamp shed a glow on their radiant faces, as they held each other's hands and smiled into the future. Patty and Priscilla tiptoed away and climbed back into the hearse, a touch sobered and thoughtful. "You know," Patty pondered, "they are just as contented as if they lived in a palace with a million dollars and an automobile! It's funny, isn't it, what a little thing makes some people happy?" VI The Silver Buckles "To be cooped up for three weeks with the two stupidest girls in the school--" "Kid McCoy isn't so bad," said Conny consolingly. "She's a horrid little tomboy." "But you know she's entertaining, Patty." "She never says a word that isn't slang, and _I_ think she's the limit!" "Well, anyway, Harriet Gladden--" "Is perfectly dreadful and you know it. I would just as soon spend Christmas with a weeping angel on a tombstone." "She is pretty mournful," Priscilla agreed. "I've spent three Christmases with her. But anyway, you'll have fun. You can be late for meals whenever you want, and Nora lets you make candy on the kitchen stove." Patty sniffed disdainfully as she commenced the work of resettling her room, after the joyous upheaval of a Christmas packing. The other two assisted in silent sympathy. There was after all not much comfort to be offered. School in holiday time was a lonely substitute for home. Priscilla, whose father was a naval officer, and whose home was a peripatetic affair, had become inured to the experience; but this particular year, she was gaily setting out to visit cousins in New York--with three new dresses and two new hats! And Patty, whose home was a mere matter of two hours in a Pullman car, was to be left behind; for six-year old Thomas Wyatt had chosen this inopportune time to come down with scarlet fever. The case was of the lightest; Master Tommy was sitting up in bed and occupying himself with a box of lead soldiers. But the rest of the family were not so comfortable. Some were quarantined in, and the others out. Judge Wyatt had installed himself in a hotel and telegraphed the Dowager to keep Patty at St. Ursula's during the holidays. Poor Patty had been happily packing her trunk when the news arrived; and as she unpacked it, she distributed a few excusable tears through the bureau drawers. Ordinarily, a number remained for the holidays,--girls whose homes were in the West or South, or whose parents were traveling abroad or getting divorces--but this year the assortment was unusually meager. Patty was left alone in "Paradise Alley." Margarite McCoy, of Texas, was stranded at the end of the South Corridor, and Harriet Gladden of Nowhere, had a suite of eighteen rooms at her disposal in "Lark Lane." These and four teachers made up the household. Harriet Gladden had been five years straight at St. Ursula's--term time and vacations without a break. She came a lanky little girl of twelve, all legs and arms, and she was now a lanky big girl of seventeen, still all legs and arms. An invisible father, at intervals mentioned in the catalogue, mailed checks to Mrs. Trent; and beyond this made no sign. Poor Harriet was a mournful, silent, neglected child; entirely out of place in the effervescing life that went on around her. She never had any birthday boxes from home, never any Christmas presents, except those that came from the school. While the other girls were clamoring for mail, Harriet stood in the background silent and unexpectant. Miss Sallie picked out her clothes, and Miss Sallie's standards were utilitarian rather than æsthetic. Harriet, with no exception, was the worst dressed girl in the school. Even her school uniform, which was an exact twin of sixty-three other uniforms, hung upon her with the grace of a meal-bag. Miss Sallie, with provident foresight, always ordered them a size too large in order to allow her to grow and Harriet invariably wore them out, before she had established a fit. "What on earth becomes of Harriet Gladden during vacation?" Priscilla once wondered on the opening day. "They keep her on ice through the summer," was Patty's opinion, "and she never gets entirely thawed out." As a matter of fact this was, as nearly as possible, what they did do with her. Miss Sallie picked out a quiet, comfortable, healthy farmhouse, and installed Harriet in charge of the farmer's wife. By the end of three months she was so desperately lonely, that she looked forward with pleasurable excitement to the larger isolation of term time. Patty, one day, had overheard two of the teachers discussing Harriet, and her reported version had been picturesque. "Her father hasn't seen her for years and years. He just chucks her in here and pays the bills." "I don't wonder he doesn't want her at home!" said Priscilla. "There isn't any home. Her mother is divorced, and married again, and living in Paris. That was the reason Harriet couldn't go abroad with the school party last year. Her father was afraid that when she got to Paris, her mother would grab her--not that either of them really wants her, but they like to spite each other." Priscilla and Conny sat up interestedly. Here was a tragic intrigue, such as you expect to meet only in novels, going on under their very noses. "You girls who have had a happy home life, cannot imagine the loneliness of a childhood such as Harriet's," said Patty impressively. "It's dreadful!" Conny cried. "Her father must be a perfect _Beast_ not to take any notice of her." "Harriet has her mother's eyes," Patty explained. "Her father can't bear to look at her, because she reminds him of the happy past that is dead forever." "Did Miss Wadsworth say that?" they demanded in an interested chorus. "Not in exactly those words," Patty confessed. "I just gathered the outline." This story, with picturesque additions, lost no time in making the rounds of the school. Had Harriet chosen to play up to the romantic and melancholy rôle she was cast for, she might have attained popularity of a sort; but Harriet did not have the slightest trace of the histrionic in her make-up. She merely moped about, and continued to be heavy and uninteresting. Other more exciting matters demanded public attention; and Harriet and her blasted childhood were forgotten. Patty stood on the veranda waving good-by to the last hearseful of Christmas travelers, then turned indoors to face an empty three weeks. As she was listlessly preparing to mount the stairs, Maggie waylaid her with the message: "Mrs. Trent would like to speak to you in her private study, Miss Patty." Patty turned back, wondering for just which of her latest activities she was to be called to account. A visit to the Dowager's private study usually meant that a storm was brewing. She found the four left-behind teachers cosily gathered about the tea table, and to her surprise, was received with four affable smiles. "Sit down, Patty, and have some tea." The Dowager motioned her to a chair, while she mingled an inch of tea with three inches of hot water. Miss Sallie furnished a fringed napkin, Miss Jellings presented buttered toast, and Miss Wadsworth, salted almonds. Patty blinked dazedly and accepted the offerings. To be waited on by four teachers was an entirely new experience. Her spirits rose considerably as she mentally framed the story for Priscilla's and Conny's delectation. When she had ceased to wonder why she was being thus honored, the reason appeared. "I am sorry, Patty," said the Dowager, "that none of your special friends are to be here this year; but I am sure that you and Margarite and Harriet will get on very happily. Breakfast will be half an hour later than usual, and the rules about bounds will be somewhat relaxed--only of course we must always know where to find you. I shall try to plan a matinée party in the city, and Miss Sallie will take you to spend a day at the farm. The ice is strong enough now for you to skate, and Martin will get out the sleds for you to coast. You must be in the open air as much as possible; and I shall be very pleased if you and Margarite can interest Harriet in out-of-door sports. Speaking of Harriet--" The Dowager hesitated momentarily, and Patty's acute understanding realized that at last they were getting at the kernel of the interview. The tea and toast had been merely wrapping. She listened with a touch of suspicion, while the Dowager lowered her voice with an air of confidence. "Speaking of Harriet, I should like to enlist your sympathy, Patty. She is very sweet and genuine. A girl that anyone might be proud to have for a friend. But through an accident, such as sometimes happens in a crowded, busy, selfish community, she has been overlooked and left behind. Harriet has never seemed to adjust herself so readily as most girls; and I fear that the poor child is often very lonely. It would be highly gratifying to me if you would make an effort to be friendly with her. I am sure that she will meet your advances half way." Patty murmured a few polite phrases and retired to dress for dinner, stubbornly resolved to be as distant with Harriet as possible. Her friendship was not a commodity to be bought with tea and buttered toast. The three girls had dinner alone at a little candle-lit table set in a corner of the dining-room, while the four teachers occupied a conveniently distant table in the opposite corner. Patty commenced the meal by being as monosyllabic as possible; but it was not her natural attitude toward the world, and by the time the veal had arrived (it was Wednesday night) she was laughing whole-heartedly at Kid's ingenuous conversation. Miss McCoy's vocabulary was rich in the vernacular of the plains, and in vacation she let herself go. During term time she was forced to curb her discourse, owing to the penny tax on slang. Otherwise, her entire allowance would have gone to swell the public coffers. It was a relief to let dinner-table conversation flow where it listed; usually, with a teacher in attendance and the route marked out, there was a cramped formality about the meal. French conversation was supposed to occupy the first three courses five nights in the week, and every girl must contribute at least two remarks. It cannot be said that on French nights the dining-room was garrulous. Saturday night was devoted to a discussion (in English) of current events, gleaned from a study of the editorials in the morning paper. Nobody at St. Ursula's had much time for editorials, and even on an English Saturday conversation languished. But the school made up for it on Sunday. This day, being _festa_, they could talk about anything they chose; and sixty-four magpies chattering their utmost, would have been silence in comparison to St. Ursula's at dinner time on Sunday. * * * * * The four days preceding Christmas passed with unexpected swiftness. A snow-storm marked the first, followed by three days of glistening sunshine. Martin got out the bobs, and the girls piled in and rode to the wood-lot for evergreens. There were many errands in the village, and the novelty of not always having a teacher at one's heels, proved in itself diverting. Patty found the two companions which circumstances had forced upon her unexpectedly companionable. They skated and coasted and had snow fights; and Harriet, to Patty's wide-eyed astonishment, assumed a very appreciable animation. On Christmas Eve they had been out with Martin delivering Christmas baskets to old time protégés of the school; and on the way home, through pure overflowing animal spirits, for a mile or more they had "caught on" the back of the bob, and then tumbled out and run and caught on again, until they finally dove head foremost into the big piled-up drift by the porte-cochère. They shook the snow from their clothes, like puppies from a pond, and laughing and excited trooped indoors. Harriet's cheeks were red from contact with the snow, her usually prim hair was a tangled mass about her face, her big dark eyes had lost their mournful look. They were merry, mischievous, girlish eyes. She was not merely pretty, but beautiful, in a wild, unusual gypsyish way that compelled attention. "I say," Patty whispered to Kid McCoy as they divested themselves of rubbers and leggins in the lower hall. "Look at Harriet! Isn't she pretty?" "Golly!" murmured the Kid. "If she knew enough to play up to her looks, she'd be the ravingest beauty in all the school." "Let's make her!" said Patty. At the top of the stairs they met Osaki with a hammer and chisel. "I open two box," he observed. "One Mees Margarite McCoy. One Mees Patty Wyatt." "Hooray!" cried the Kid, starting at a gallop for her room in the South Wing. A Christmas box to Kid McCoy meant a lavish wealth of new possessions out of all proportion to her desserts. She owned a bachelor guardian who was subject to fits of such erratic generosity that the Dowager had regularly to remind him that Margarite was but a school girl with simple tastes. Fortunately he always forgot this warning before the next Christmas--or else he knew Kid too well to believe it--and the boxes continued to come. Patty had also started without ceremony for Paradise Alley, when she became aware of deserted Harriet, slowly trailing down the dim length of Lark Lane. She ran back and grasped her by an elbow. "Come on, Harry! And help me open my box." Harriet's face flushed with sudden pleasure; it was the first time, in the five and a half years of her school career, that she had ever achieved the dignity of a nickname. She accompanied Patty with some degree of eagerness. The next best thing to receiving a Christmas box of your own, is to be present at the reception of a friend's. It was a big square wooden box, packed to the brim with smaller boxes and parcels tied with ribbon and holly, and tucked into every crevice funny surprises. You could picture, just from looking at it, the kind of home that it came from, filled with jokes and nonsense and love. "It's the first Christmas I've ever spent away from home," said Patty, with the suggestion of a quiver in her voice. But her momentary soberness did not last; the business of exploration was too absorbing to allow any divided emotion. Harriet sat on the edge of the bed and watched in silence, while Patty gaily strewed the floor with tissue paper and scarlet ribbon. She unpacked a wide assortment of gloves and books and trinkets, each with a message of love. Even the cook had baked a Christmas cake with a fancy top. And little Tommy, in wobbly uphill printing, had labeled an elephant filled with candy, "FOR DERE CISTER FROM TOM." Patty laughed happily as she plumped a chocolate into her mouth, and dropped the elephant into Harriet's lap. "Aren't they dears to go to such a lot of trouble? I tell you, it pays to stay away sometimes, they think such a lot more of you! This is from Mother," she added, as she pried off the cover of a big dressmaker's box, and lifted out a filmy dancing frock of pink crêpe. "Isn't it perfectly sweet?" she demanded, "and I didn't need it a bit! Don't you love to get things you don't need?" "I never do," said Harriet. Patty was already deep in another parcel. "From Daddy, with all the love in the world," she read. "Dear old Dad! What on earth do you s'pose it is? I hope Mother suggested something. He's a perfect idiot about choosing presents, unless--Oh!" she squealed. "Pink silk stockings and slippers to match; and look at those perfectly lovely buckles!" She offered for Harriet's inspection a pink satin slipper adorned with the daintiest of silver buckles, and with heels dizzily suggestive of France. "Isn't my father a lamb?" Patty gaily kissed her hand toward a dignified, judicial-looking portrait on the bureau. "Mother suggested the slippers, of course, but the buckles and French heels were his own idea. She likes me sensible, and he likes me frivolous." She was deep in the absorbing business of holding the pink frock before the glass to make sure that the color was becoming, when she was suddenly arrested by the sound of a sob, and she turned to see Harriet throw herself across the bed and clutch the pillow in a storm of weeping. Patty stared with wide-open eyes; she herself did not indulge in such emotional demonstrations, and she could not imagine any possible cause. She moved the pink satin slippers out of reach of Harriet's thrashing feet, gathered up the fallen elephant and scattered chocolates, and sat down to wait until the cataclysm should pass. "What's the matter?" she mildly inquired, when Harriet's sobs gave place to choking gasps. "My father never sent me any s-silver b-buckles." "He's way off in Mexico," said Patty, awkwardly groping for consolation. "He never sends me anything! He doesn't even know me. He wouldn't recognize me if he met me on the street." "Oh, yes, he would," Patty assured her with doubtful comfort. "You haven't changed a bit in four years." "And he wouldn't like me if he did know me. I'm not pretty, and my clothes are never nice, and--" Harriet was off again. Patty regarded her for a moment of thoughtful silence, then she decided on a new tack. She stretched out a hand and shook her vigorously. "For goodness' sake, stop crying! That's what's the matter with your father. No man can stand having tears dripped down his neck all the time." Harriet arrested her sobs to stare. "If you could see the way you look when you cry! Sort of streaked. Come here!" She took her by the shoulder and faced her before the mirror. "Did you ever see such a fright? And I was just thinking, before you began, about how pretty you looked. I was, honestly. You could be as pretty as any of the rest of us, if you'd only make up your mind--" "No, I couldn't! I'm just as ugly as I can be. Nobody likes me and--" "It's your own fault!" said Patty sharply. "If you were fat, like Irene McCullough, or if you didn't have any chin like Evalina Smith, there might be some reason, but there isn't anything on earth the matter with you, except that you're so _damp_! You cry all the time, and it gets tiresome to be forever sympathizing. I'm telling you the truth because I'm beginning to like you. There's never any use bothering to tell people the truth when you don't like them. The reason Conny and Pris and I get on so well together, is because we always tell each other the exact truth about our faults. Then we have a chance to correct them--that's what makes us so nice," she added modestly. Harriet sat with her mouth open, too surprised to cry. "And your clothes are awful," pursued Patty interestedly. "You ought not to let Miss Sallie pick 'em out. Miss Sallie's nice; I like her a lot, but she doesn't know any more than a rabbit about clothes; you can tell that by the way she dresses herself. And then, too, you'd be a lot nicer if you wouldn't be so stiff. If you'd just laugh the way the rest of us do--" "How can I laugh when I don't think things are funny? The jokes the girls make are awfully silly--" Speech was no longer possible, for Kid McCoy came stampeding down the corridor with as much racket as a cavalcade of horses. She was decked in a fur scarf and a necklace set with pearls, she wore a muff on her head, drum-major fashion; a lace handkerchief and a carved ivory fan protruded from the pocket of her blouse and a pink chiffon scarf floated from her shoulders; her wrist was adorned with an Oriental bracelet and she was lugging in her arms a silver-mounted Mexican saddle, of a type that might be suited to the plains of Texas, but never to the respectable country lanes adjacent to St. Ursula's. "Bully for Guardie!" she shouted as she descended upon them. "He's a daisy; he's a ducky; he's a lamb. Did you ever see such a perfectly corking saddle?" She plumped it over a chair, transformed the pink chiffon scarf into a bridle, and proceeded to mount and canter off. "Get up! Whoa! Hi, there! Clear the road." Harriet jumped aside to avoid being bumped, while Patty snatched her pink frock from the path of the runaway. They were shrieking with laughter, even Harriet, the tearful. "Now you see!" said Patty, suddenly interrupting her mirth. "It's perfectly easy to laugh if you just let yourself go. Kid isn't really funny. She's just as silly as she can be." Kid brought her horse to a stand. "Well I like that!" "Excuse me for telling the truth," said Patty politely, "I'm just using you for an illustration--Heavens! There's the bell!" She commenced unlacing her blouse with one hand, while she pushed her guests to the door with the other. "Hurry and dress, and come back to button me up. It would be a very delicate attention for us to be on time to-night. We've been late for every meal since vacation began." * * * * * The girls spent Christmas morning coasting. They were on time for luncheon--and with appetites! The meal was half over when Osaki appeared with a telegram, which he handed to the Dowager. She read it with agitated surprise and passed it to Miss Sallie, who raised her eyebrows and handed it to Miss Wadsworth, who was thrown into a very visible flutter. "What on earth can it be?" Kid wondered. "Lordy's eloped, and they've got to hunt for a new Latin teacher," was Patty's interpretation. As the three girls left the table, the Dowager waylaid Harriet. "Step into my study a moment. A telegram has just come--" Patty and Kid climbed the stairs in wide-eyed wonder. "It can't be bad news, for Miss Sallie was smiling--" meditated Patty. "And I can't think of any good news that can be happening to Harriet." Ten minutes later there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and Harriet burst into Patty's room wild with excitement. "He's coming!" "Who?" "My father." "When?" "Right now--this afternoon--He's been in New York on business, and is coming to see me for Christmas." "I'm so glad!" said Patty heartily. "Now, you see the reason he hasn't come before is because he has been away off in Mexico." Harriet shook her head, with a sudden drop in her animation. "I suppose he thinks he ought." "Nonsense!" "It's so. He doesn't care for me--really. He likes girls to be jolly and pretty and clever like you." "Well, then--_be_ jolly and pretty and clever like me." Harriet's eyes sought the mirror, and filled with tears. "You're a perfect idiot!" said Patty, despairingly. "I'm an awful fright in my green dress," said Harriet. "Yes," Patty grudgingly conceded. "You are." "The skirt is too short, and the waist is too long." "And the sleeves are sort of queer," said Patty. Faced by these dispiriting facts, she felt her enthusiasm ebbing. "What time is he coming?" she asked. "Four o'clock." "That gives us two hours," Patty rallied her forces. "One can do an awful lot in two hours. If you were only nearer my size, you could wear my new pink dress--but I'm afraid--" She regarded Harriet's long legs dubiously. "I'll tell you!" she added, in a rush of generosity. "We'll take out the tucks and let down the hem." "Oh, Patty!" Harriet was tearfully afraid of spoiling the gown. But when Patty's zeal in any cause was roused, all other considerations were swept aside. The new frock was fetched from the closet, and the ripping began. "And you can wear Kid's new pearl necklace and pink scarf, and my silk stockings and slippers--if you can get 'em on--and I think Conny left a lace petticoat that came back from the laundry too late to pack--and--Here's Kid now!" Miss McCoy's sympathies were enlisted and in fifteen minutes the task of transforming a remonstrating, excited, and occasionally tearful Harriet into the school beauty, was going gaily forward. Kid McCoy was supposed to be an irreclaimable tomboy, but in this crucial moment the eternal feminine came triumphantly to the fore. She sat herself down, with Patty's manicure scissors, and for three-quarters of an hour painstakingly ripped out tucks. Patty meanwhile addressed her attention to Harriet's hair. "Don't strain it back so tight," she ordered. "It looks as though you'd done it with a monkey-wrench. Here! Give me the comb." She pushed Harriet into a chair, tied a towel about her neck, and accomplished the coifing by force. "How's that?" she demanded of Kid. "Bully!" Kid mumbled, her mouth full of pins. Harriet's hair was rippled loosely about her face, and tied with a pink ribbon bow. The ribbon belonged to Conny Wilder, and had heretofore figured as a belt; but individual property rights were forced to bow before the cause. The slippers and stockings did prove too small, and Patty frenziedly ransacked the bureaus of a dozen of her absent friends in the vain hope of unearthing pink footwear. In the end, she had reluctantly to permit Harriet's appearing in her own simple cotton hose and patent leather pumps. "But after all," Patty reassured her, "it's better for you to wear black. Your feet would be sort of conspicuous in pink." She was still in her truthful mood. "I'll tell you!" she cried, "you can wear my silver buckles." And she commenced cruelly wrenching them from their pink chiffon setting. [Illustration: Patty meanwhile addressed her attention to Harriet's hair.] "Patty! _Don't!_" Harriet gasped at the sacrilege. "They're just the last touch that your costume needs." Patty ruthlessly carried on the work of destruction. "When your father sees those buckles, he'll think you're _beautiful_!" For a feverish hour they worked. They clothed her triumphantly in all the grandeur that they could command. The entire corridor had contributed its quota, even to the lace-edged handkerchief with a hand-embroidered "H" that had been left behind in Hester Pringle's top drawer. The two turned her critically before the mirror, the pride of creation in their eyes. As Kid had truly presaged, she was the ravingest beauty in all the school. Irish Maggie appeared in the door. "Mr. Gladden is in the drawin'-room, Miss Harriet." She stopped and stared. "Sure, ye're that beautiful I didn't know ye!" Harriet went with a laugh--and a fighting light in her eyes. Patty and Kid restlessly set themselves to reducing the chaos that this sudden butterfly flight had caused in Paradise Alley--it is always dreary work setting things to rights, after the climax of an event has been reached. It was an hour later that the sudden quick patter of feet sounded in the hall, and Harriet ran in--danced in--her eyes were shining; she was a picture of youth and happiness and bubbling spirits. "Well?" cried Patty and Kid in a breath. She stretched out her wrist and displayed a gold-linked bracelet set with a tiny watch. "Look!" she cried, "he brought me that for Christmas. And I'm going to have all the dresses I want, and Miss Sallie isn't going to pick them out ever again. And he's going to stay for dinner to-night, and eat at the little table with us. And he's going to take us into town next Saturday for luncheon and the matinée, and the Dowager says we may go!" "Gee!" observed the Kid. "It paid for all the trouble we took." "And what do you think?" Harriet caught her breath in a little gasp. "_He likes me!_" "I knew those silver buckles would fetch him!" said Patty. VII "Uncle Bobby" While St. Ursula's was still dallying with a belated morning-after-Christmas breakfast, the mail arrived, bringing among other matters, a letter for Patty from her mother. It contained cheering news as to Tommy's scarlet fever, and the expressed hope that school was not too lonely during the holidays; it ended with the statement that Mr. Robert Pendleton was going to be in the city on business, and had promised to run out to St. Ursula's to see her little daughter. The last item Patty read aloud to Harriet Gladden and Kid McCoy (christened Margarite). The three "left-behinds" were occupying a table together in a secluded corner of the dining-room. "Who's Mr. Robert Pendleton?" inquired Kid, looking up from her own letter. "He used to be my father's private secretary when I was a little girl. I always called him 'Uncle Bobby.'" Kid returned to her mail. She took no interest in the race of uncles, either real or fictitious. But Patty, being in a reminiscent mood, continued the conversation with Harriet, who had no mail to deflect her. "Then he went away and commenced practising for himself. It's been ages since I've seen him; but he was really awfully nice. He used to spend his entire time--when he wasn't writing Father's speeches--in getting me out of scrapes. I had a goat named Billy-Boy--" "Is he married?" asked Harriet. "N-no, I don't think so. I believe he had a disappointment in his youth, that broke his heart." "What fun!" cried Kid, reëmerging. "Is it still broken?" "I suppose so," said Patty. "How old is he?" "I don't know, I'm sure. He must be _quite_ old by now." (Her tone suggested that he was tottering on the brink of the grave.) "It has been seven years since I've seen him, and he was through college then." Kid dismissed the subject. Old men, even with broken hearts, contained no interest for her. That afternoon, as the three girls were gathered in Patty's room enjoying an indigestible four o'clock tea of milk and bread and butter (furnished by the school) and fruit cake and candy and olives and stuffed prunes, the expressman arrived with a belated consignment of Christmas gifts, among them a long narrow parcel addressed to Patty. She tore off the wrapping, to find a note and a white pasteboard box. She read the note aloud while the others looked over her shoulder. Patty always generously shared experiences with anyone who might be near. "_My Dear Patty,--_ "Have you forgotten 'Uncle Bobby' who used to stand between you and many well-deserved spankings? I trust that you have grown into a VERY GOOD GIRL now that you are old enough to go away to school! "I am coming to see for myself on Thursday afternoon. In the meantime, please accept the accompanying Christmas remembrance, with the hope that you are having a happy holiday, in spite of having to spend it away from home. "Your old playfellow, "ROBERT PENDLETON." "What do you s'pose it is?" asked Patty, as she addressed herself to unknotting the gold cord on the box. "I hope it's either flowers or candy," Harriet returned. "Miss Sallie says it isn't proper to--" "Looks to me like American Beauty roses," suggested Kid McCoy. Patty beamed. "Isn't it a lark to be getting flowers from a _man_? I feel awfully grown up!" She lifted the cover, removed a mass of tissue paper, and revealed a blue-eyed, smiling doll. The three girls stared for a bewildered moment, then Patty slid to the floor, and buried her head in her arms against the bed and laughed. "It's got real hair!" said Harriet, gently lifting the doll from its bed of tissue paper, and entering upon a detailed inspection. "Its clothes come off, and it opens and shuts its eyes." "Whoop!" shouted Kid McCoy, as she snatched a shoe-horn from the bureau and commenced an Indian war dance. Patty checked her hysterics sufficiently to rescue her new treasure from the danger of being scalped. As she squeezed the doll in her arms, safe from harm's way, it opened its lips and emitted a grateful, "_Ma-ma!_" They laughed afresh. They laid on the floor and rolled in an ecstasy of mirth until they were weak and gasping. Could Uncle Bobby have witnessed the joy his gift brought to three marooned St. Ursulites, he would have indeed been gratified. They continued to laugh all that day and the following morning. By afternoon Patty had just recovered her self-control sufficiently to carry off with decent gravity Uncle Bobby's promised visit. As a usual thing, callers were discouraged at St. Ursula's. They must come from away, accredited with letters from the parents, and then must pass an alarming assemblage of chaperones. Miss Sallie remained in the drawing-room during the first half of the call (which could last an hour), but was then supposed to withdraw. But Miss Sallie was a social soul, and she frequently neglected to withdraw. The poor girl would sit silent in the corner, a smile upon her lips, mutiny in her heart, while Miss Sallie entertained the caller. But rules were somewhat relaxed in the holidays. On the day of Uncle Bobby's visit, by a fortuitous circumstance, Miss Sallie was five miles away, superintending a new incubator house at the school farm. The Dowager and Miss Wadsworth and Miss Jellings were scheduled for a reception in the village, and the other teachers were all away for the holidays. Patty was told to receive him herself, and to remember her manners, and let him do a little of the talking. This left her beautifully free to carry out the outrageous scheme that she had concocted over night. Harriet and Kid lent their delighted assistance, and the three spent the morning planning for her entrance in character. They successfully looted the "Baby Ward" where the fifteen little girls of the school occupied fifteen little white cots set in fifteen alcoves. A white, stiffly starched sailor suit was discovered, with a flaring blue linen collar, and a kilted skirt, that was shockingly short. Kid McCoy gleefully unearthed a pair of blue and white socks that exactly matched the dress, but they proved very much too small. "They wouldn't look well anyway," said Patty, philosophically, "I've got an awful scratch on one knee." Gymnasium slippers with spring heels reduced her five feet by an inch. She spent the early afternoon persuading her hair to hang in a row of curls, with a spanking blue bow over her left ear. When she was finished, she made as sweet a little girl as one would ever find romping in the park on a sunny morning. "What will you do if he kisses you?" inquired Kid McCoy. "I'll try not to laugh," said Patty. She occupied the fifteen minutes of waiting in a dress rehearsal. By the time Maggie arrived with the tidings that the visitor was below, she had her part letter-perfect. Kid and Harriet followed as far as the first landing, where they remained dangling over the banisters, while Patty shouldered her doll and descended to the drawing-room. She sidled bashfully into the door, dropped a courtesy, and extended a timid hand to the tall young gentleman who rose and advanced to meet her. "How do you do, Uncle Wobert?" she lisped. "Well, well! Is this little Patty?" He took her by the chin and turned up her face for a closer inspection--Mr. Pendleton was, mercifully, somewhat near-sighted. She smiled back sweetly, with wide, innocent, baby eyes. "You're getting to be a great big girl!" he pronounced with fatherly approval. "You reach almost to my shoulder." She settled herself far back in a deep leather chair, and sat primly upright, her feet sticking straight out in front, while she clasped the doll in her arms. "Sank you very much, Uncle Bobby, for my perfectly beautiful doll!" Patty imprinted a kiss upon the smiling bisque lips. Uncle Bobby watched with gratified approval. He liked this early manifestation of the motherly instinct. "And what are you going to name her?" he inquired. "I can't make up my mind." She raised anxious eyes to his. "How would Patty Junior do?" She repudiated the suggestion; and they finally determined upon Alice, after "Alice in Wonderland." This point happily disposed of, they settled themselves for conversation. He told her about a Christmas pantomime he had seen in London, with little girls and boys for actors. Patty listened, deeply interested. "I'll send you the fairy book that has the story of the play," he promised, "with colored pictures; and then you can read it for yourself. You know how to read, of course?" he added. "Oh, yes!" said Patty, reproachfully. "I've known how to read a _long_ time. I can read anyfing--if it has big print." "Well! You are coming on!" said Uncle Bobby. They fell to reminiscing, and the conversation turned to Billy-Boy. "Do you remember the time he chewed up his rope and came to church?" Patty dimpled at the recollection. "Jove! I'll never forget it!" "And usually Faver found an excuse for not going, but that Sunday Mover _made_ him, and when he saw Billy-Boy marching up the aisle, with a sort of dignified smile on his face--" Uncle Bobby threw back his head and laughed. "I thought the Judge would have a stroke of apoplexy!" he declared. "But the funniest thing," said Patty, "was to see you and Father trying to get him out! You pushed and Father pulled, and first Billy balked and then he butted." She suddenly realized that she had neglected to lisp, but Uncle Bobby was too taken up with the story to be conscious of any lapse. Patty inconspicuously reassumed her character. "And Faver scolded me because the rope broke--and it wasn't my fault at all!" she added with a pathetic quiver of the lips. "And the next day he had Billy-Boy shot." At the remembrance Patty drooped her head over the doll in her arms. Uncle Bobby hastily offered comfort. "Never mind, Patty! Maybe you'll have another goat some day." She shook her head, with the suggestion of a sob. "No, I never will! They don't let us keep goats here. And I loved Billy-Boy. I'm _awfully_ lonely without him." "There, there, Patty! You're too big a girl to cry." Uncle Bobby patted her curls, with kindly solicitude. "How would you like to go to the circus with me some day next week, and see all the animals?" Patty cheered up. "Will there be ele-phunts?" she asked. "There'll be several," he promised. "And lions and tigers and camels." "Oh, goody!" she clapped her hands and smiled through her tears. "I'd love to go. Sank you very, _very_ much." Half an hour later Patty rejoined her friends in Paradise Alley. She executed a few steps of the sailor's hornpipe with the doll as partner, then plumped herself onto the middle of the bed and laughingly regarded her two companions through over-hanging curls. "Tell us what he said," Kid implored. "We nearly pulled our necks out by the roots stretching over the banisters, but we couldn't hear a word." "Did he kiss you?" asked Harriet. "N-no." There was a touch of regret in her tone. "But he patted me on the head. He has a very sweet way with children. You'd think he'd had a course in kindergarten training." "What did you talk about?" insisted Kid, eagerly. Patty outlined the conversation. "And he's going to take me to the circus next Wednesday," she ended, "to see the elephunts!" "The Dowager will never let you go," objected Harriet. "Oh, yes, she will!" said Patty. "It's perfectly proper to go to the circus with your uncle--'specially in vacation. We've got it all planned. I'm to go into town with Waddy. I heard her say she had an appointment at the dentist's--and he'll be at the station with a hansom--" "More likely a baby carriage," Kid put in quickly. "Miss Wadsworth will never take you into town in _those_ clothes," Harriet objected. Patty hugged her knees and rocked back and forth, while her dimples came and went. "I think," she said, "that the next time I'll give him an entirely different kind of a sensation." And she did. Anticipatory of the coming event, she sent her suit to the tailor's and had him lengthen the hem of the skirt two inches. She spent an entire morning retrimming her hat along more mature lines, and she purchased a veil--with spots! She also spent twenty-five cents for hairpins, and did up her hair on the top of her head. She wore Kid McCoy's Christmas furs and Harriet's bracelet watch; and, as she set off with a somewhat bewildered Miss Wadsworth, they assured her that she looked _old_. They reached the city a trifle late for Miss Wadsworth's appointment. Patty spied Mr. Pendleton across the waiting-room. "There's Uncle Robert!" she said; and to her intense satisfaction, Miss Wadsworth left her to accost him alone. She sauntered over in a very blasé fashion and held out her hand. The spots in the veil seemed to dazzle him; for a moment he did not recognize her. "Mr. Pendleton! How do you do?" Patty smiled cordially. "It's really awfully good of you to devote so much time to my entertainment. And so original of you to think of a circus! I haven't attended a circus for years. It's really refreshing after such a dose of Shakespeare and Ibsen as the theaters have been offering this winter." Mr. Pendleton offered a limp hand and hailed a hansom without comment. He leaned back in the corner and continued to stare for three silent minutes; then he threw back his head and laughed. "Good Lord, Patty! Do you mean to tell me that you've grown up?" Patty laughed too. "Well, Uncle Bobby, what do you think about it?" * * * * * Dinner was half over that night before the two travelers returned. Patty dropped into her seat and unfolded her napkin, with the weary air of a society woman of many engagements. "What happened?" the other two clamored. "Tell us about it! Was the circus nice?" Patty nodded. "The circus was charming--and so were the elephants--and so was Uncle Bobby. We had tea afterwards; and he gave me a bunch of violets and a box of candy, instead of the fairy book. He said he wouldn't be called 'Uncle Bobby' by anyone as old as me--that I'd got to drop the 'Uncle'--It's funny, you know, but he really seems younger than he did seven years ago." Patty dimpled and cast a wary eye toward the faculty table across the room. "He says he has business quite often in this neighborhood." VIII The Society of Associated Sirens Conny had gone home to recuperate from a severe attack of pink-eye. Priscilla had gone to Porto Rico to spend two weeks with her father and the Atlantic Fleet. Patty, lonely and abandoned, was thrown upon the school for society; and Patty at large, was very likely to get into trouble. On the Saturday following the double departure, she, with Rosalie Patton and Mae Van Arsdale, made a trip into the city in charge of Miss Wadsworth, to accomplish some spring shopping. Patty and Rosalie each needed new hats--besides such minor matters as gloves and shoes and petticoats--and Mae was to have a fitting for her new tailor suit. These duties performed, the afternoon was to be given over to relaxation; at least to such relaxation as a Shakespearean tragedy affords. But when they presented themselves at the theater, they were faced by the announcement that the star had met with an automobile accident on his way to the performance, and that he was too damaged to appear; money would be refunded at the box office. The girls still clamored for their matinée, and Miss Wadsworth hurriedly cast about for a fitting substitute for Hamlet. Miss Wadsworth was middle-aged and vacillating and easily-led and ladylike and shockable. She herself knew that she had no strength of character; and she conscientiously strove to overcome this cardinal defect in a chaperon, by stubbornly opposing whatever her charges elected to do. To-day they voted for a French farce with John Drew as hero. Miss Wadsworth said "no" with all the firmness she could assume, and herself picked out a drama entitled "The Wizard of the Nile," under the impression that it would assist their knowledge of ancient Egypt. But the Wizard turned out to be a recent and spurious imitation of the original historical wizard. She was ultra-modern English, with a French flavor. The time was to-morrow, and the scene the terrace of Shepherd's Hotel. She wore long, clinging robes of chiffon and gold cut in the style of Cleopatra along Parisian lines. Her rose-tinted ears were enhanced by drooping earrings, and her eyes were cunningly lengthened at the corners, in a fetching Egyptian slant. She was very beautiful and very merciless; she broke every masculine heart in Cairo. As a climax to her shocking career of wickedness, she _smoked cigarettes_! Poor bewildered Miss Wadsworth sat through the four acts, worried, breathless, horrified--fascinated; but the three girls were simply fascinated. They thrilled over the scenery and music and costumes all the way back in the train. Cairo, to their dazzled eyes, opened up realms of adventure, undreamed of in the proper bounds of St. Ursula's. The Mecca of all travel had become Shepherd's Hotel. That night, long after "Lights-out" had rung, when Patty's mind was becoming an agreeable jumble of sphinxes and pyramids and English officers, she was suddenly startled wide awake by feeling two hands rise from the darkness and clutch her shoulders on the right and left. She sat upright with a very audible gasp, and demanded in unguardedly loud tones, "Who's that?" The two hands instantly covered her mouth. "Sh-h! Keep quiet! Haven't you any sense?" "Mademoiselle's door is wide open, and Lordy's visiting her." Rosalie perched on the right of the bed, and Mae Mertelle on the left. "What do you want?" asked Patty, crossly. "We've got a perfectly splendid idea," whispered Rosalie. "A secret society," echoed Mae Mertelle. "Let me alone!" growled Patty. "I want to go to sleep." She laid down again in the narrow space left by her visitors. They paid no attention to her inhospitality, but drawing their bath robes closer about them, settled down to talk. Patty, being comfortably inside and warm, while they shivered outside, was finally induced to lend a drowsy ear. "I've thought of a new society," said Mae Mertelle. She did not propose to share the honor of creation with Rosalie. "And it's going to be _really_ secret this time. I'm not going to let in the whole school. Only us three. And this society hasn't just a few silly secrets; it has an _aim_." "We're going to call it the Society of Associated Sirens," Rosalie eagerly broke in. "That _what_?" demanded Patty. Rosalie rolled off the sonorous syllables a second time. "The Sho-shiety of Ash-sho-she-ated Shi-rens," Patty mumbled sleepily. "It's too hard to say." "Oh, but we won't call it that in public. The name's a secret. We'll call it the S. A. S." "What's it for?" "You'll promise not to tell?" Mae asked guardedly. "No, of course I won't tell." "Not even Pris and Conny when they get back?" "We'll make them members," said Patty. "Well--perhaps--but this is the kind of society that's better small. And we three are the only ones who really ought to be members, because we saw the play. But anyhow; you must promise not to tell unless Rosalie and I give you permission. Do you promise that?" "Oh, yes! I promise. What's it for?" "We're going to become sirens," Mae whispered impressively. "We're going to be beautiful and fascinating and ruthless--" "Like Cleopatra," said Rosalie. "And avenge ourselves on Man," added Mae. "Avenge ourselves--what for?" inquired Patty, somewhat dazed. "Why--for--for breaking our hearts and destroying our faith in--" "My heart hasn't been broken." "Not yet," said Mae with a touch of impatience, "because you don't know any men, but you will know them some day, and then your heart will be broken. You ought to have your weapons ready." "In time of peace prepare for war," quoted Rosalie. "Do--you think it's quite ladylike to be a siren?" asked Patty dubiously. "It's _perfectly_ ladylike!" said Mae. "Nobody but a lady could possibly be one. Did you ever hear of a washerwoman who was a siren?" "N-no," Patty confessed. "I don't believe I have." "And look at Cleopatra," put in Rosalie. "I'm sure she was a lady." "All right!" Patty agreed. "What are we going to do?" "We're going to become beautiful and fascinating, with a fatal charm that ensnares every man who approaches." "Do you think we can?" There was some doubt in Patty's tone. "Mae's got a book," put in Rosalie eagerly, "about 'Beauty and Grace.' You soak your face in oatmeal and almond-oil and honey, and let your hair hang in the sun, and whiten your nose with lemon juice, and wear gloves at night, and--" "You really ought to have a bath of asses' milk," interrupted Mae. "Cleopatra had; but I'm afraid it will be impossible to get." "And you ought to learn to sing," added Rosalie, "and have some one song like the 'Lorelei!' that you always hum when you're about to ensnare a victim." The project was foreign to Patty's ordinary train of thought, but it did have an element of novelty and allurement. Neither Mae nor Rosalie were the partners she would naturally have chosen in any enterprise, but circumstances had thrown them together that day, and Patty was an obliging soul. Also, her natural common sense was wandering; she was still under the spell of the Egyptian sorceress. They discussed the new society for several minutes more, until they heard the murmur of Miss Lord's voice, bidding Mademoiselle goodnight. "There's Lordy!" Patty whispered warily. "I think you'd better to go to bed. We can plan the rest in the morning." "Yes, let's," said Rosalie, with a shiver. "I'm freezing!" "But we must first take the vow," insisted Mae Mertelle. "We ought really to do it at midnight--but maybe half-past ten will do as well. I've got it all planned. You two say it after me." They joined hands and whispered in turn: "I most solemnly promise to keep secret the name and object of this society; and if I break this oath, may I become freckled and bald and squint-eyed and pigeon-toed, now and forever more." The three members of the S. A. S. devoted their leisure during the next few days to a careful study of the work on Beauty; and painstakingly set about putting its precepts into practice. Some of these seemed perplexingly at variance. The hair, for example, was to be exposed to air and sunlight, but the face was not. They cleverly circumvented this difficulty however. The week's allowance went for chamois-skin. During every recreation hour, they retired to an airy knoll in the lower pasture, and sat in a patient row, with hair streaming in the wind, and faces protected by homemade masks. One afternoon, a little Junior A, wandering far afield in a game of hide-and-seek, came upon them unawares; and returned to the safe confines of the playground with frightened shrieks. Dark rumors began to float about the school as to the aim and scope of the new society. Suggestions ranged all the way from Indian squaws to Druid priestesses. They almost met with disaster while acquiring the ingredients of the oatmeal poultice. The oatmeal and lemon were comparatively easy; the cook supplied them without much fuss. But she stuck at the honey. There were jars and jars of strained honey in the storeroom; but the windows were barred, and the key was in the bottom of Nora's pocket. Confronted by the immediate necessity of becoming beautiful, they could not placidly sit down for five days, and wait for the weekly shopping trip to the village. Besides, with a teacher in attendance, there would be no possible chance of making the purchase. Honey was a contraband article, in the same class with candy and jam and pickles. They discussed the feasibility of filing through the iron gratings, or of chloroforming Nora and stealing the key, but in the end Patty accomplished the matter by the use of a little simple blarney. She dropped into the kitchen one afternoon with the plaintive admission that she was hungry. Nora hastened to supply a glass of milk and a piece of bread and butter, while Patty perched on a corner of the carving-table and settled herself for conversation. The girls were not supposed to visit the kitchen, but the law was never rigidly enforced. Nora was a social soul and she welcomed callers. Patty praised the apple dumplings of last night's dessert; progressed from that to a discussion of the engaging young plumber who at the moment claimed all of Nora's thoughts; then, by a natural transition, she passed to honey. Before she left, she had obtained Nora's promise to substitute it for marmalade the next morning at breakfast. The members of the S. A. S. brought pin-trays to the meal, and unobtrusively transferred a supply from their plates to their laps. But even so, disaster still threatened. Patty had the misfortune to collide with Evalina Smith in the upper hall, and she dropped her pin-tray, honey-side down, in the middle of the rug. At the same instant, Miss Lord bore down upon her from the end of the corridor. Patty was a young person of resource; the emergency of the moment rarely found her napping. She plumped down on her knees in the midst of the puddle, and with widespread skirts, commenced frantically searching for an imaginary stick-pin. "Is it necessary for you to block up the entire hall?" was Miss Lord's only comment as she passed. The rug was happily reversible, and by the simple process of turning it over, Patty satisfactorily cleaned up the mess. The other two girls were generous, and shared their supply: so in the end she obtained her honey. For three wakeful nights they stuck to the poultice--though perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the poultice stuck to them. In spite of many washings in hot water, their faces became noticeably scaly. Miss Sallie, who represented St. Ursula's board of health, met Patty Wyatt in the hall one morning. She took her by the chin and turned her to the light. Patty squirmed embarrassedly. "My dear child! What is the matter with your face?" "I--I don't know--exactly. It seems sort of--of--dandruffy." "I should think it did! What have you been eating?" "Only what I get at meals," said Patty, relievedly telling the truth. "There's something the matter with your blood," diagnosed Miss Sallie. "What you need is a tonic. I shall prescribe boneset tea for you." "Oh, Miss Sallie!" Patty earnestly remonstrated. "I don't need it, _really_. I'm sure I'll be all right." She had tried boneset tea before; it was the bitterest brew that was ever concocted. When Miss Sallie met Mae Van Arsdale suffering from the same complaint, and later still, Rosalie Patton, she commenced to be perturbed. The apple trees under her care at the farm had been afflicted that spring with San José scale, but she had hardly expected the disease to spread to the school girls. That afternoon she superintended an infusion of boneset, of gigantic proportions, and at bedtime a reluctant school formed in line and filed past Miss Sallie, who, ladle in hand, presided over the punch bowl. Each received a flowing cupful and drank it with what grace she might, until Patty's turn came. She disposed of hers in a blue china umbrella holder which stood in the hall behind Miss Sallie's back. The remainder of the line successfully followed her lead. Miss Sallie watched her little charges closely for the next few days; and sure enough, the scales disappeared. (The Associated Sirens had discarded poultices.) She was more than ever convinced of the efficacy of boneset. Shortly after the founding of the society, Mae Mertelle returned from a week-end visit to her home. (Her mother was ill and she had been sent for. Someone in Mae's family was conveniently ill a great deal of the time.) She brought with her three bracelets of linked scales representing a serpent swallowing his tail. S. A. S. in tiny letters was engraved between the emerald eyes. "They are perfectly sweet!" said Patty, with grateful appreciation. "But why a snake?" "It isn't a snake; it's a serpent," Mae explained. "To represent Cleopatra. She was the Serpent of the Nile. We'll be Serpents of the Hudson." With the appearance of the bracelets, curiosity in the S. A. S. increased, but unlike the other secret societies which had appeared from time to time, its _raison d'être_ remained a mystery. The school really commenced to believe that the society had a secret. Miss Lord, who had the reputation of being curious, stopped Patty one day as she was leaving the Virgil class, and admired the new bracelet. "And what may be the meaning of S. A. S.?" she inquired. "It's a secret society," said Patty. "Ah, a secret society!" Miss Lord smiled. "Then I suppose the name is a DEEP MYSTERY." She lowered her voice, as she said it, to sepulchral depths. There was something peculiarly irritating about Miss Lord's manner; it always suggested that she was amused by the vagaries of her little pupils. She did not possess Miss Sallie's happy faculty of meeting them on a level. Miss Lord peered down from above (through lorgnettes). "Of course the name is a secret," said Patty. "If that got out, it would give the whole thing away." "And what is the object of this famous society? Or is that too a secret?" "Why, yes, that is, I mustn't tell you exactly." Patty smiled up at Miss Lord with the innocent, seraphic gaze that always warned those who knew her best that is was wisest to let her alone. "It's a sort of branch of the Sunshine Society," she added confidentially. "We're to--well--to smile on people, you know, and make them like us." "I see!" said Miss Lord, with an air of friendly understanding. "Then S. A. S. stands for 'Sunshine and Smiles?'" "Oh, please! You mustn't say it out loud," Patty lowered her voice and threw an anxious glance over her shoulder. "I wouldn't tell anybody for worlds," Miss Lord promised solemnly. "Thank you," said Patty. "It would be dreadful if it got out." "It is a very sweet, womanly society," Miss Lord added approvingly. "But you ought not to keep it all to yourselves. Can't you let me be an honorary member of the S. A. S.?" "Certainly, Miss Lord!" said Patty sweetly. "If you care to belong, we should _love_ to have you." "Lordy wants to be a Siren!" she announced to her two fellow members when she met them shortly in the gymnasium. The account of the interview was received with hilarity. Miss Lord was anything but the accepted type of siren. "I thought a few smiles might relieve the gloom of Latin class," Patty explained. "It amuses Lordy to think she's helping the children in their play; and it doesn't hurt the children." For a time the S. A. S. flourished with the natural health of youth, but as the novelty wore off, the business of becoming beautiful grew onerous. Mae and Rosalie continued to study the beauty book with dogged perseverance,--the subject lay along the line of their natural ambitions--but Patty felt other matters calling. Spring field sports had commenced, and the nearness of the annual match with Highland-Hall, crowded out her interest in cold cream and almond meal. She and Mae were not naturally _simpatica_, and in spite of Mae's insistence, Patty became an apathetic siren. One Saturday just after the spring recess, Patty received permission to lunch in town with "Uncle Bobby." He was an uncle by courtesy only, but Patty had failed to inform the Dowager that the title was not his by natural right. She knew well what the result would be. It is quite proper to have luncheon with an uncle; and quite improper with even the oldest and baldest of family friends. When the "hearse" returned from the station at dusk with Mademoiselle and the city contingent, Rosalie Patton was waiting the arrival on the porte-cochère. She separated Patty from the group and whispered in her ear. "The most awful thing has happened!" "What?" Patty demanded. "The S. A. S. All is discovered!" "Not really!" cried Patty, aghast. "Yes! Come in here." Rosalie drew her into the empty cloak-room and shut the door. "You mean--they've found out the name--and everything?" Patty demanded breathlessly. "Not quite everything, but they would have if it hadn't been for Lordy. She saved us for once." "Lordy saved us!" There was incredulity mixed with Patty's horror. "What do you mean?" "Well, yesterday, Mae went shopping in the village with Miss Wadsworth--and you know what kind of a chaperone Waddy makes." Patty nodded impatiently. "_Anybody_ could fool her. And Mae, right under her very nose, commenced a flirtation with the _Soda-Water Clerk_." "Oh!" said Patty hotly. "How perfectly horrid!" "She didn't care anything about it, really. She was just trying to put the principles of the S. A. S. into practice." "She might at least have picked out somebody decent!" "Well, he is quite decent. He's engaged to the girl at the underwear counter in Bloodgood's, and he didn't want to be flirted with a bit. But you know how persistent Mae Mertelle is, when she makes up her mind. The poor young man just couldn't help himself. He was so embarrassed that he didn't know what he was doing. He gave Hester Pringle half chocolate and half sarsaparilla, and she says it was a _perfectly awful_ combination. It made her feel so sick that she couldn't eat any dinner. And all this time Waddy just sat and smiled into space and saw nothing; but all the girls saw,--and _so did the drugstore man_!" "Oh!" said Patty breathlessly. "And this morning Miss Sallie went to the drugstore to get some potash for Harriet Gladden's sore throat, and he told her all about it." "What did Miss Sallie do?" Patty asked faintly. "Do! She came back with blood in her eye, and told the Dowager, and they called up Mae Mertelle and then--" Rosalie closed her eyes and shuddered. "Well," said Patty impatiently. "What happened?" "The Dowager was _perfectly outraged_! She told Mae that she had disgraced the school and that she would be expelled. And she wrote a telegram to Mae's father to come and take her away. And she asked Mae if she had anything to say for herself, and Mae said it wasn't her fault. That you and I were to blame just as much as she, because we were all in a society together, but that she couldn't tell about it because she'd sworn." "Beast!" said Patty. "So then they sent for me and commenced asking questions about the S. A. S. I tried not to tell, but you know the way the Dowager looks when she's angry. Even a sphinx would break down and tell everything it knew, and I never did pretend to be a sphinx." "All right," said Patty, bracing herself for the shock. "What did they say when they heard?" "They didn't hear! I was just on the point of breaking my vows and telling all, when who should pop in but Lordy. And she was _perfectly splendid_! She said she knew all about the S. A. S. That it was a very admirable institution, and that she was a member herself! She said it was a branch of the Sunshine Society, and that Mae had never meant to flirt with the young man. She had just meant to smile and be kind to everybody she came in contact with, and he had taken advantage. And Mae said, yes, that was the way of it, and she shoved off all the blame on that poor innocent soda-water clerk." "Just like her," Patty nodded. "And now Mae is _perfectly furious_ with him for getting her into trouble. She says that he's a horrid little thing with a turn-up nose, and that she'll never drink another glass of soda-water as long as she stays in St. Ursula's." "And they're going to let her stay?" "Yes. The Dowager tore up the telegram. But she gave Mae ten demerits, and made her go without dessert for a week, and learn Thanatopsis by heart. And she can't _ever_ go shopping in the village any more. When she needs new hair ribbons or stockings or anything, she must send for them by some of the other girls." "And what's the Dowager going to do to us?" "Nothing at all--and if it hadn't been for Lordy, we'd all three have been expelled." "And I've always detested Lordy," said Patty contritely. "Isn't it dreadful? You simply can't keep enemies. Just as you think people are perfectly horrid, and begin to enjoy hating them, they all of a sudden turn out nice." "I hate Mae Mertelle," said Rosalie. "So do I!" Patty agreed cordially. "I'm going to leave her old society." "I'm already out." Patty glanced toward the mirror. "And I'm not freckled and I'm not squint-eyed." "What do you mean?" Rosalie stared; she had for the moment forgotten the dread nature of the oath. "I've told Uncle Bobby." "Oh, Patty! How could you?" "I--I--that is--" Patty appeared momentarily confused. "You see," she confessed, "I thought myself that it would be sort of interesting to practice on somebody, so I--I--just tried--" "And did he--" Patty shook her head. "It was awfully uphill work. He never helped a bit. And then he noticed my bracelet and wanted to know what S. A. S. meant. And before I knew it, I was telling him!" "What did he say?" "First he roared; then he got awfully sober, and he gave me a long lecture--it was really very impressive--sort of like Sunday School, you know. And he took the bracelet away from me and put it in his pocket. He told me he'd send me something nicer." "What do you s'pose it will be?" asked Rosalie interestedly. "I hope it won't be a doll!" Two days later the morning mail brought a small parcel for Miss Patty Wyatt. She opened it under her desk in geometry class. Buried in jeweler's cotton she found a gold linked bracelet that fastened with a padlock in the shape of a heart. On the back of one of Uncle Bobby's cards was written:-- "This is your heart. Keep it locked until the chap turns up who has the key." Patty deflected Rosalie as she was turning into French and privately exhibited the bracelet with pride. Rosalie regarded it with sentimental interest. "What has he done with the key?" she wondered. "I s'pose," said Patty, "he's got it in his pocket." "How awfully romantic!" "It sounds sort of romantic," Patty agreed with the suggestion of a sigh. "But it isn't really. He's thirty years old, and beginning to be bald." IX The Reformation of Kid McCoy Miss McCoy, of Texas, had been subjected to the softening influences of St. Ursula's School for three years, without any perceptible result. She was the toughest little tomboy that was ever received--and retained--in a respectable-boarding-school. "Margarite" was the name her parents had chosen, when the itinerant bishop made his quarterly visit to the mining-camp where she happened to be born. It was the name still used by her teachers, and on the written reports that were mailed monthly to her Texas guardian. But "Kid" was the more appropriate name that the cowboys on the ranch had given her; and "Kid" she remained at St. Ursula's, in spite of the distressed expostulation of the ladies in charge. Kid's childhood had been picturesque to a degree rarely found outside the pages of a Nick Carter novel. She had possessed an adventurous father, who drifted from mining-camp to mining-camp, making fortunes and losing them. She had cut her teeth on a poker chip, and drunk her milk from a champagne glass. Her father had died--quite opportunely--while his latest fortune was at its height, and had left his little daughter to the guardianship of an English friend who lived in Texas. The next three turbulent years of her life were spent on a cattle range with "Guardie," and the ensuing three in the quiet confines of St. Ursula's. The guardian had brought her himself, and after an earnest conference with the Dowager, had left her behind to be molded by the culture of the East. But so far, the culture of the East had left her untouched. If any molding had taken place, it was Kid herself who shaped the clay. Her spicy reminiscences of mining-camps and cattle ranches made all permissible works of fiction tame. She had given the French dancing master, who was teaching them a polite version of a Spanish waltz, an exposition of the real thing, as practised by the Mexican cow-punchers on her guardian's ranch. It was a performance that left him sympathetically breathless. The English riding master, who came weekly in the spring and autumn, to teach the girls a correct trot, had received a lesson in bareback riding that caused the dazed query: "Was the young lady trained in a circus?" The Kid was noisy and slangy and romping and boisterous; her way was beset with reproofs and demerits and minor punishments, but she had never yet been guilty of any actual felony. For three years, however, St. Ursula's had been holding its breath waiting for the crash. Miss McCoy, from her very nature, was bound to give them a sensation sometime. When at last it came, it was of an entirely unexpected order. Rosalie Patton was the Kid's latest room-mate--- she wore her room-mates out as fast as she did her shoes. Rosalie was a lovable little soul, the essence of everything feminine. The Dowager had put the two together, in the hope that Rosalie's gentle example might calm the Kid's tempestuous mood. But so far, the Kid was in her usual spirits, while Rosalie was looking worn. Then the change came. Rosalie burst into Patty Wyatt's room one evening in a state of wide-eyed amazement. "What do you think?" she cried. "Kid McCoy says she's going to be a lady!" "A what?" Patty emerged from the bath towel with which she had been polishing her face. "A _lady_. She's sitting down now, running pale blue baby ribbon through the embroidery in her night gown." "What's happened to her?" was Patty's question. "She's been reading a book that Mae Mertelle brought back." Rosalie settled herself, Turk fashion, on the window seat, disposed the folds of her pink kimono in graceful billows about her knees, and allowed two braids of curly yellow hair to hang picturesquely over her shoulders. She was ready for bed and could extend her call until the last stroke of the "Lights-out" bell. "What kind of a book?" asked Patty with a slightly perfunctory note in her voice. Rosalie was apt to burst into one's room with a startling announcement and then, having engaged everybody's attention, settle down to an endless, meandering recital sprinkled with anti-climaxes. "It's about a sweet young English girl whose father owned a tea estate in Asia--or maybe Africa. But anyway, where it was hot, and there were a lot of natives and snakes and centipedes. Her mother died and she was sent back home to boarding-school when she was a tiny little thing. Her father was quite bad. He drank and swore and smoked. The only thing that kept him from being awfully bad, was the thought of his sweet little golden-haired daughter in England." "Well, what of it?" Patty inquired, politely suppressing a yawn. Rosalie had a way of trailing off into golden-haired sentiment if one didn't haul her up sharp. "Just wait! I'm coming to it. When she was seventeen she went back to India to take care of her father, but almost right off he got a sunstroke and died. And in his death-bed he entrusted Rosamond--that was her name--to his best friend to finish bringing up. So when Rosamond went to live with her guardian, and took charge of his bungalow and made it beautiful and homelike and comfortable--she wouldn't let him drink or smoke or swear any more. And as he looked back over the past--" "He was eaten with remorse at the thought of the wasted years," Patty glibly supplied, "and wished that he had lived so as to be more worthy of the sweet, womanly influence that had come into his wicked life." "You've read it!" said Rosalie. "Not that I know of," said Patty. "Anyway," said Rosalie, with an air of challenge, "they fell in love and were married--" "And her father and mother, looking down from heaven, smiled a blessing on the dear little daughter who had brought so much happiness to a lonely heart?" "Um--yes," agreed Rosalie, doubtfully. There was no amount of sentiment that she would not swallow, but she knew from mortifying experience that Patty was not equally voracious. "It's a very touching story," Patty commented, "but where does Kid McCoy come in?" "Why, don't you see?" Rosalie's violet eyes were big with interest. "It's exactly Kid's own story! I realized it the minute I saw the book, and I had the _awfulest_ time making her read it. She made fun of it at first, but after she'd really got into it, she appreciated the resemblance. She says now it was the Hand of Fate." "Kid's story? What _are_ you talking about?" Patty was commencing to be interested. "Kid has a wicked English guardian just like the Rosamond in the book. Anyway, he's English, and she thinks probably he's wicked. Most ranchmen are. He lives all alone with only cow-punchers for companions, and he needs a sweet womanly influence in his home. So Kid's decided to be a lady, and go back and marry Guardie, and make him happy for the rest of his life." Patty laid herself on the bed and rolled in glee. Rosalie rose and regarded her with a touch of asperity. "I don't see anything so funny--I think it's very romantic." "Kid exerting a sweet womanly influence!" Patty gurgled. "She can't even pretend she's a lady for an hour. If you think she can _stay_ one--" "Love," pronounced Rosalie, "has accomplished greater wonders than that--you wait and see." And the school did see. Kid McCoy's reformation became the sensation of the year. The teachers attributed the felicitous change in her deportment to the good influence of Rosalie, and though they were extremely relieved, they did not expect it to last. But week followed week, and it did last. Kid McCoy no longer answered to "Kid." She requested her friends to call her "Margarite." She dropped slang and learned to embroider; she sat through European Travel and Art History nights with clasped hands and a sweetly pensive air, where she used to drive her neighbors wild by a solid hour of squirming. Voluntarily, she set herself to practising scales. The reason she confided to Rosalie, and Rosalie to the rest of the school. They needed the softening influence of music on the ranch. One-eyed Joe played the accordion, and that was all the music they had. The school saw visions of the transformed Margarite, dressed in white, sitting before the piano in the twilight singing softly the "Rosary," while Guardie watched her with folded arms; and the cowboys, with bowie knives sheathed in their boots, and lariats peacefully coiled over their shoulders, gathered by the open window. Lenten services that year, instead of being forcibly endured by a rebellious Kid, were attended by a sweetly reverent Margarite. The entire school felt an electric thrill at sight of Miss McCoy walking up the aisle with downcast eyes, and hands demurely clasping her prayer book. Usually she looked as much in place in the stained-glass atmosphere of Trinity Chapel as an unbroken broncho colt. This amazing reform continued for seven weeks. The school was almost beginning to forget that there was ever a time when Kid McCoy was not a lady. Then one day a letter came from Guardie with the news that he was coming East to visit his little girl. Subdued excitement prevailed in the South Corridor. Rosalie and Margarite and an assemblage of neighbors held earnest conferences as to what she should wear and how she should behave. They finally decided upon white muslin and blue ribbons. They pondered a long time over whether or not she should kiss him, but Rosalie decided in the negative. "When he sees you," she explained, "the realization will sweep over him that you are no longer a child. You have grown to womanhood in the past three years. And he will feel unaccountably shy in your presence." "Um," said Margarite, with a slightly doubtful note. "I hope so." It was on a Sunday that Guardie arrived. The school--in a body--flattened its nose against the window watching his approach. They had rather hoped for a flannel shirt and boots and spurs, and, in any case, for a sombrero. But the horrible truth must be told. He wore a frock coat of the most unimpeachable cut, with a silk hat and a stick, and a white gardenia in his buttonhole. To look at him, one would swear that he had never seen a pistol or a lariat. He was born to pass the plate in church. But the worst is still to tell. He had planned a surprise for his little ward. When she should come back to the ranch, it would be to a real home. A sweet, womanly influence would have transformed it into a fitting abode for a young girl. Guardie was not alone. He was accompanied by his bride--a tall, fair, beautiful woman with a low voice and gracious manners. She sang for the girls after dinner, and as sixty-four pairs of eyes studied the beautiful presence, sixty-four--no, sixty-three--of her auditors decided to grow up to be exactly like her. Margarite did the honors in a state of dazed incomprehension. Her make-believe world of seven weeks had crumbled in an hour, and she had not had time to readjust herself. Never--she realized it perfectly--could she have competed in femininity with Guardie's wife. It wasn't in her, not even if she had commenced to practise from the cradle. They went back to the city in the evening, and before the entire school, Guardie patted her on the head and told her to be a good little kiddie and mind her teachers. His wife, with a protecting arm about her shoulders, kissed her forehead and called her "dear little daughter." After evensong on Sundays, came two hours of freedom. The teachers gathered in the Dowager's study for coffee and conversation, and the girls presumably wrote letters home. But that night, the South Corridor followed no such peaceful occupation. Margarite McCoy experienced a reversion to type. In her own picturesque language, she "shot up the town." The echoes of the orgie at last reached the kaffee klatsch below. Miss Lord came to investigate--and she came on her tiptoes. Miss McCoy, arrayed in a sometime picture hat cocked over one ear, a short gymnasium skirt, scarlet stockings and a scarlet sash, was mounted upon a table, giving an imitation of a clog dance in a mining-camp, while her audience played rag-time on combs and clapped. "Margarite! Get down!" someone suddenly warned in frightened tones above the uproar. "You needn't call me Margarite. I'm Kid McCoy of Cripple Creek." Her eye caught sight of Miss Lord towering above the heads crowded in the doorway and she quite suddenly climbed down. For once, Miss Lord was without words. She stared for a space of three minutes; finally, she managed to articulate: "Sunday evening in a Church school!" The audience dispersed, and Miss Lord and Miss McCoy remained alone. Rosalie fled to the farthermost reaches of Paradise Alley and discussed possible punishments with Patty and Conny for a trembling hour. "Lights-out" had rung before she summoned courage to steal back to the darkened South Corridor. The sound of smothered sobbing came from Margarite's bed. Rosalie sank down on her knees and put her arm around her room-mate. The sobbing ceased while Margarite rigidly held her breath. "Kid," she comforted, "don't mind Lordie--she's a horrid, snooping old thing! What did she say?" "I'm not to leave bounds for a month, have to learn five psalms by heart and take f-fifty demerits." "Fifty! It's a perfect shame! You'll never work them off. She had no _right_ to make a fuss when you'd been good so long." "I don't care!" said Kid, fiercely, as she struggled to free herself from Rosalie's embrace. "She'll never have a chance again to call me her sweet little daughter." X Onions and Orchids "The perimeters of similar polygons are as their homologous sides." Patty dreamily assured herself of this important truth for the twentieth time, as she sat by the open schoolroom window, her eyes on the billowing whiteness of the cherry tree which had burst into blossom overnight. It was particularly necessary that she should finish her lessons with dispatch, because it was Saturday, and she was going to the city with Mademoiselle's party to spend an hour in the dentist's chair. But the weather was not conducive to concentrated effort. After an hour of half-hearted study, she closed her geometry, and started upstairs to dress, leaving the stay-at-homes to another hour of work. She started upstairs; but she did not get very far on the way. As she passed the open door that led to the back porch, she stepped outside to examine the cherry tree at close range; then she strolled the length of the pergola to see how the wistaria was coming on; from there, it was just a step to the lane, with its double row of pink-tipped apple trees. Before she knew it, Patty found herself sitting on the stone wall at the end of the lower pasture. Behind her lay the confines of St. Ursula's. Before her the World. She sat on the top of the wall, and dangled her feet out of bounds. The very most scandalous crime one could commit at St. Ursula's was to go out of bounds without permission. Patty sat and gazed at the forbidden land. She knew that she had no time to waste if she were to catch the hearse and the train and the dentist's chair. But still she sat and dreamed. Finally, far across the fields on the highroad, she spied the hearse bowling merrily to the station. Then it occurred to her that she had forgotten to report to Mademoiselle that she was going, and that Mademoiselle, accordingly, would not be missing her. At the school, of course, they would think that she had gone, and likewise would not be missing her. Without any premeditated iniquity, she was free! She sat a few moments longer to let the feeling penetrate. Then she slid over the wall and started--a joyous young mutineer, seeking adventure. Following the cheery course of the brook, she dipped into a tangled ravine and stretch of woodland, raced down a hillside and across a marshy meadow, leaping gaily from hummock to hummock--occasionally missing and going in. She laughed aloud at these misadventures, and waved her arms and romped with the wind. In addition to the delicious sense of feeling free, was added the delicious sense of feeling bad. The combination was intoxicating. And so, always following the stream, she came at last to another wood--not a wild wood like the first, but a tame, domesticated wood. The dead limbs were cut away, and the ground was neatly brushed up under the trees. The brook flowed sedately between fern-bordered banks, under rustic bridges, and widened occasionally into pools carpeted with lily pads. Mossy paths set with stepping-stones led off into mysterious depths that the eye could not penetrate: the leaves were just out enough to half hide and to tantalize. The grass was starred with crocuses. It looked like an enchanted wood in a fairy tale. This second wood, however, was bordered by a solid stone wall, and on top of the wall, by four strands of barbed wire. Signs appeared at intervals--three were visible from where Patty stood--stating that these were private grounds, and that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. Patty knew well to whom it belonged; she had often passed the front gates which faced on the other road. The estate was celebrated in the neighborhood, in the United States, for the matter of that. It comprised 500 acres and belonged to a famous--or infamous--multi-millionaire. His name was Silas Weatherby, and he was the originator of a great many Wicked Corporations. He had beautiful conservatories full of tropical plants, a sunken Italian garden, an art collection and picture gallery. He was a crusty old codger always engaged in half-a-dozen lawsuits. He hated the newspapers, and the newspapers hated him. He was in particularly bad repute at St. Ursula's, because, in response to a politely couched note from the principal, asking that the art class might view his Botticelli and the botany class his orchids, he had ungraciously replied that he couldn't have a lot of school girls running over his place--if he let them come one year, he would have to let them come another, and he didn't wish to establish a precedent. Patty looked at the "No Trespassing" signs and the barbed wire, and she looked at the wood beyond. They couldn't do anything if they did catch her, she reasoned, except turn her out. People weren't jailed nowadays for taking a peaceable walk in other people's woods. Besides, the millionaire person was attending a directors' meeting in Chicago. This bit of neighborhood gossip she had gleaned that morning in her weekly perusal of the daily press--Saturday night at dinner they were supposed to talk on current topics, so Saturday morning they glanced at the headlines and an editorial. Since the family were not at home, why not drop in and inspect the Italian garden? The servants were doubtless more polite than the master. She selected a portion of the wall where the wire seemed slack, and wriggled under, stomach-wise, tearing only a small hole in the shoulder of her blouse. She played with the enchanted wood half an hour or so; then following a path, she quite suddenly left the wood behind, and popped out into a garden--not a flower garden, but a kitchen garden on an heroic scale. Neat plots of sprouting vegetables were bordered by currant bushes, and the whole was surrounded by a high brick wall, against which pear trees were trained in the English fashion. A gardener was engaged, with his back toward Patty, in setting out baby onions. She studied him dubiously, divided between a prompting to run, and a social instinct of friendliness. He was an extremely picturesque gardener, dressed in knickerbockers and leather gaiters, with a touch of red in his waistcoat, and a cardigan jacket and a cap on the side of his head. He did not look very affable; but he did look rheumatic--even if he chased her, she was sure that she could run faster than he. So she settled herself on his wheelbarrow and continued to watch him, while she pondered an opening remark. He glanced up suddenly and caught sight of her. The surprise nearly tipped him over. "Good morning!" said Patty pleasantly. "Ugh!" grunted the man. "What are you doing there?" "Watching you plant onions." This struck Patty as a self-evident truth, but she was perfectly willing to state it. He grunted again as he straightened his back and took a step toward her. "Where'd you come from?" he demanded gruffly. "Over there." Patty waved her hand largely to westward. "Humph!" he remarked. "You belong to that school--Saint Something or Other?" She acknowledged it. Saint Ursula's monogram was emblazoned large upon her sleeve. "Do they know you're out?" "No," she returned candidly, "I don't believe they do. I am quite sure of it in fact. They think I've gone to the dentist's with Mam'selle, and she thinks I'm at school. So it leaves me entirely at leisure. I thought I'd come over and see what Mr. Weatherby's Italian garden looks like. I'm interested in Italian gardens." "Well I'll be--!" He commenced, and came a trifle nearer and stared again. "Did you happen to see any 'No Trespassing' signs as you came through?" "Mercy, yes! The whole place is peppered with 'em." "They don't seem to have impressed you much." "Oh, I never pay any attention to 'No Trespassing' signs," said Patty easily. "You'd never get anywhere in this world if you let _them_ bother you." The man unexpectedly chuckled. "I don't believe you would!" he agreed. "I've never let them bother me," he added meditatively. "Can't I help you plant your onions?" Patty asked politely. It struck her that this might be the quickest route to the Italian garden. "Why, yes, thank you!" He accepted her offer with unexpected cordiality, and gravely explained the mode of work. The onions were very tiny, and they must be set right-side up with great care; because it is very difficult for an embryonic onion to turn itself over after it has once got started in the wrong direction. Patty grasped the business very readily, and followed along in the next row three feet behind him. It turned out sociable work; by the end of fifteen minutes they were quite old friends. The talk ranged far--over philosophy and life and morals. He had a very decided opinion on every subject--she put him down as Scotch--he seemed a well-informed old fellow though, and he read the papers. Patty had also read the paper that morning. She discoursed at some length upon whether or not corporations should be subject to state control. She stoutly agreed with her editor that they should. He maintained that they were like any other private property, and that it was nobody's damned business how they managed themselves. "A penny, please," said Patty, holding out her hand. "A penny?--what for?" "That 'damn.' Every time you use slang or bad grammar you have to drop a penny in the charity box. 'Damn' is much worse than slang; it's swearing. I ought to charge you five cents, but since this is the first offense, I'll let you off with one." He handed over his penny, and Patty gravely pocketed it. "What sort of things do you learn in that school?" he inquired with a show of curiosity. She obligingly furnished a sample: "The perimeters of similar polygons are as their homologous sides." "You will find that useful," he commented with the suggestion of a twinkle in his eye. "Very," she agreed--"on examination day." After half an hour, onion-planting grew to be wearying work; but Patty was bound to be game, and stick to her job as long as he did. Finally, however, the last onion was in, and the gardener rose and viewed the neat rows with some satisfaction. "That will do for to-day," he declared; "we've earned a rest." They sat down, Patty on the wheelbarrow, the man on an upturned tub. "How do you like working for Mr. Weatherby?" she inquired. "Is he as bad as the papers make out?" The gardener chuckled slightly as he lighted his pipe. "Well," he said judiciously, "he's always been very decent to me, but I don't know as his enemies have any cause to love him." "I think he's horrid!" said Patty. "Why?" asked the man with a slight air of challenge. He was quite willing to run his master down himself, but he would not permit an outsider to do it. "He's so terribly stingy with his old conservatories. The Dowager--I mean Mrs. Trent, the principal, you know--wrote and asked him to let the botany class see his orchids, and he was just as rude as he could be!" "I'm sure he didn't mean it," the man apologized. "Oh, yes, he did!" maintained Patty. "He said he couldn't have a lot of school girls running through and breaking down his vines--as if we would do such a thing! We have perfectly beautiful manners. We learn 'em every Thursday night." "Maybe he was a little rude," he agreed. "But you see, he hasn't had your advantages, Miss. He didn't learn his manners in a young ladies' boarding-school." "He didn't learn them anywhere," Patty shrugged. The gardener took a long pull at his pipe and studied the horizon with narrowed eyes. "It isn't quite fair to judge him the way you would other people," he said slowly. "He's had a good deal of trouble in his life; and now he's old, and I dare say pretty lonely sometimes. All the world's against him--when people are decent, he knows it's because they're after something. Your teacher, now, is polite when she wants to see his conservatories, but I'll bet she believes he's an old thief!" "Isn't he?" asked Patty. The man grinned slightly. "He has his moments of honesty like the rest of us." "Perhaps," Patty grudgingly conceded, "he may not be so bad when you know him. It's often the way. Now, there was Lordy, our Latin teacher. I used to despise her; and then--in the hour of trial--she came up to the scratch, and was _per-fect-ly bully_!" He held out his hand. "A penny." Patty handed him back his own. "She kept me from getting expelled--she did, really. I've never been able to hate her since. And you know, I miss it dreadfully. It's sort of fun having an enemy." "I've had a good many," he nodded, "and I've always managed to enjoy them." "And probably they're really quite nice?" she suggested. "Oh, yes," he agreed, "the worst criminals are often very pleasant people when you see their right side." "Yes, that's true," said Patty. "It's mainly chance that makes people bad--I know it is in my own case. This morning for instance, I got up with every intention of learning my geometry and going to the dentist's--and yet--here I am! And so," she pointed a moral, "you always ought to be kind to criminals and remember that under different circumstances you might have been in jail yourself." "That thought," he acknowledged, "has often occurred to me. I--we--that is," he resumed after a moment of amused meditation, "Mr. Weatherby believes in giving a man a chance. If you have any convict friends, who are looking for a job, this is the place to send them. We used to have a cattle thief taking care of the cows, and a murderer in charge of the orchids." "What fun!" cried Patty. "Have you got him now? I should love to see a murderer." "He left some time ago. The place was too slow for him." "How long have you been working for Mr. Weatherby?" she asked. "A good many years--and I've worked hard!" he added, with a slight air of challenge. "I hope he appreciates you?" "Yes, I think on the whole that he does." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose. "And now," he suggested, "should you like me to show you the Italian garden?" "Oh, yes," said Patty, "if you think Mr. Weatherby wouldn't mind." "I'm head gardener. I do what I please." "If you're head gardener, what makes you plant onions?" "It's tiresome work--good for my character." "Oh!" Patty laughed. "And then you see, when I have a tendency to overwork the men under me, I stop and think how my own back ached." "You're much too nice a man to work for him!" she pronounced approvingly. "Thank ye, Miss," he touched his hat with a grin. The Italian garden was a fascinating spot, with marble steps and fountains and clipped yew trees. "Oh, I wish Conny could see it!" Patty cried. "And who is she?" "Conny's my room-mate. She's awfully interested in gardens this year, because she's going to get the botany prize for analyzing the most plants--at least, I think she's going to get it. It's between her and Keren Hersey; all the rest of the class have dropped out. Mae Van Arsdale is working against Conny, to spite me, because I wouldn't stay in an old secret society that she started. She gets orchids from the city and gives them to Keren." "H'm," he frowned over this tangle of intrigue. "Is it entirely fair for the rest to help?" "Oh, yes!" said Patty. "They have to do the analyzing, but their friends can collect and paste. Every time anybody goes for a walk, she comes back with her blouse stuffed full of specimens for either Conny or Keren. The nice girls are for Conny. Keren's an awful dig. She wears eye-glasses and thinks she knows everything." "I'm for Miss Conny myself," he declared. "Is there any way in which I could help?" Patty glanced about tentatively. "You have quite a number of plants," she suggested, "that Conny hasn't got in her book." "You shall take back as many as you can carry," he promised. "We'll pay a visit to the orchid house." They left the garden behind, and turned toward the glass roofs of the conservatories. Patty was so entertained, that she had entirely forgotten the passage of time, until she came face to face with a clock in the gable of the carriage house; then she suddenly realized that St. Ursula's luncheon had been served three quarters of an hour before--and that she was in a starving condition. "Oh, goodness gracious! I forgot all about luncheon!" "Is it a very grave crime to forget about luncheon?" "Well," said Patty, with a sigh, "I sort of miss it." "I might furnish you with enough to sustain life for a short time," he suggested. "Oh, could you?" she asked relievedly. She was accustomed to having a table spread three times a day, and she cared little who furnished it. "Just some milk," she said modestly, "and some bread and butter and--er--cookies. Then, you see, I won't have to go back till four o'clock when they come from the station, and maybe I can slip in without being missed." "You just wait in the pavilion, and I'll see what the gardener's cottage can supply us." He was back in fifteen minutes, chuckling as he lugged a big hamper. "We'll have a picnic," he proposed. "Oh, let's!" said Patty joyously. She did not mind eating with him in the least, for he had washed his hands, and appeared quite clean. She helped him unpack the hamper and set the table in the little pavilion beside the fountain. He had lettuce sandwiches, a pat of cottage cheese, a jug of milk, orange marmalade, sugar cookies, and gingerbread hot from the oven. "What a perfectly bully spread!" she cried. He held out his hand. "Another penny!" Patty peered into an empty pocket. "You'll have to charge it. I've used up all my ready money." The spring sun was warm, the fountain was splashing, the wind was sprinkling the pavilion floor with white magnolia petals. Patty helped herself to marmalade with a happy sigh of contentment. "The most fun in the world is to run away from the things you ought to do," she pronounced. He acknowledged this immoral truth with a laugh. "I suppose you ought to be working?" she asked. "There are one or two little matters that might be the better for my attention." "And aren't you glad you're not doing them?" "Bully glad!" She held out her hand. "Give it back." The cent returned to her pocket, and the meal progressed gaily. Patty was in an elated frame of mind, and Patty's elation was catching. Escaping from bounds, trespassing on a private estate, planting onions, and picnicking in the Italian garden with the head gardener--she had never had such a dizzying whirl of adventures. The head gardener also seemed to enjoy the sensation of offering sanctuary to a runaway school girl. Their appreciation of the lark was mutual. As Patty, with painstaking honesty, was dividing the last of the gingerbread into two exact halves, she was startled by the sound of a footstep on the gravel path behind; and there walked into their party a groom--a crimson-faced, gaping young man who stood mechanically bobbing his head. Patty stared back a touch apprehensively. She hoped that she hadn't got her friend into trouble. It was very possibly against the rules for gardeners to entertain runaway school girls in the Italian garden. The groom continued to stare and to duck his head, and her companion rose and faced him. "Well?" he inquired with a note of sharpness. "What do you want?" "Beg pardon, sir, but this telegram come, and Richard says it might be important, sir, and he says for me to find you, sir." He received the telegram, ran his eyes over it, scribbled an answer on the back with a gold pencil which he extracted from his pocket, and dismissed the man with a curt nod. The envelope had fluttered to the table and lay there face up. Patty inadvertently glanced at the address, and as the truth flashed across her, she hid her head against the back of the stone seat in a gale of laughter. Her companion looked momentarily sheepish, then he too laughed. "You have enjoyed the privilege of telling me exactly how rude you think I am. Not even the reporters always allow themselves that pleasure." "Oh, but that was before I knew you! I think now that you have perfectly beautiful manners." He bowed his thanks. "I shall endeavor to have better in the future. It will be my pleasure to put my greenhouses at the disposal of the young ladies of St. Ursula's some afternoon soon." "Really?" she smiled. "That's awfully nice of you!" They repacked the hamper and divided the crumbs among the goldfish in the fountain. "And now," he inquired, "which will you visit first--the picture gallery or the orchids?" Patty emerged from the orchid house at four o'clock, her arms filled with an unprecedented collection for Conny's book. The big yellow four-in-hand coach was standing outside the stable being washed. She examined it interestedly. "Should you like to have me drive you home on that?" "Oh, I'd love it!" Patty dimpled. "But I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise," she added on second thought. "No, I am sure it wouldn't be wise," she firmly turned her back. Her eyes fell on the road, and an apprehensive light sprang to her face. "There's the hearse!" "The hearse?" "Yes, the school wagonette. I think I'd better be going." He accompanied her back, through the vegetable garden and the enchanted wood, and held her flowers while she crawled under the fence, tearing a hole in the other shoulder of her blouse. They shook hands through the barbed wire. "I've enjoyed both the onions and the orchids," said Patty politely, "and particularly the gingerbread. And if I ever have any convict friends in need of employment, I may send them to you?" "Do so," he urged. "I will find them a job here." She started off, then turned to wave good-by to him. "I've had a perfectly bully time!" "A penny!" he called. Patty laughed and ran. XI The Lemon Pie and the Monkey-Wrench Evalina Smith was a morbid young person who loved to dabble in the supernatural. Her taste in literature was for Edgar A. Poe. In religion she inclined toward spiritualism. Her favorite amusement was to gather a few shuddering friends about her, turn out the gas, and tell ghost stories. She had an extensive repertoire of ghoulish incidents, that were not fiction but the actual experience of people she knew. She had even had one or two spiritual adventures herself; and she would set forth the details with wide eyes and lowered voice, while her auditors held one another's hands and shivered. The circle in which Evalina moved had not much sense of humor. One Saturday evening St. Ursula's School was in an unusually social mood. Evalina was holding a ghost party in her room in the East Wing; Nancy Lee had invited her ten dearest friends to a birthday spread in Center; the European History class was celebrating the completion of the Thirty-Years War by a molasses-candy pull in the kitchen; and Kid McCoy was conducting a potato race down the length of the South Corridor--the entrance fee a postage stamp, the prize sealed up in a large bandbox and warranted to be worth a quarter. Patty, who was popular, had been invited to all four of the functions. She had declined Nancy's spread, because Mae Van Arsdale, her particular enemy, was invited; but had accepted the other invitations, and was busily spending the evening as an itinerant guest. She carried her potato, insecurely balanced on a teaspoon, over one table and under another, through a hoop suspended from the ceiling, and deposited it in the wastebasket at the end of the corridor, in exactly two minutes and forty-seven seconds. (Kid McCoy had a stop-watch.) This was far ahead of anyone else's record, and Patty lingered hopefully a few minutes in the neighborhood of the bandbox; but a fresh inrush of entries postponed the bestowal of the prize, so she left the judges to settle the question at their leisure, and drifted on to Evalina's room. She found it dark, except for the fitful blue flare of alcohol and salt burning in a fudge pan. The guests were squatting about on sofa cushions, looking decidedly spotty in the unbecoming light. Patty silently dropped down on a vacant cushion, and lent polite attention to Evalina, who at the moment held the floor. "Well, you know, I had a very remarkable experience myself last summer. Happening to visit a spiritualist camp, I attended a materializing séance." "What's that?" asked Rosalie Patton. "A séance in which spirits appear to mediums in the material form they occupied during life," Evalina condescendingly explained. Rosalie was merely an invited guest. She did not belong to the inner cult. "Oh!" said Rosalie, vaguely enlightened. "I didn't really expect anything to happen," Evalina continued, "and I was just thinking how foolish I was to have wasted that dollar, when the medium shut her eyes and commenced to tremble. She said she saw the spirit of a beautiful young girl who had passed over five years before. The girl was dressed in white and her clothes were dripping wet, and she carried in her hand a monkey-wrench." "A monkey-wrench!" cried Patty. "What on earth--" "I don't know any more than you do," said Evalina impatiently. "I'm just telling what happened. The Medium couldn't get her full name, but she said her first name commenced with 'S.' And instantly, it came over me that it was my Cousin Susan who fell into a well and was drowned. I hadn't thought of her for years, but the description answered perfectly. And I asked the medium, and after a little, she said yes, it was Susan, and that she had come to send me a warning." Evalina allowed an impressive pause to follow, while her auditors leaned forward in strained attention. "A warning!" breathed Florence Hissop. "Yes. She told me never to eat lemon pie." Patty choked with sudden laughter. Evalina cast her a look and went on. "The medium shivered again and came out of the trance, and she couldn't remember a thing she had said! When I told her about the monkey-wrench and the lemon pie, she was just as much puzzled as I was. She said that the messages that came from the spirit world were often inexplicable; though they might seem to deal with trivial things, yet in reality they contained a deep and hidden truth. Probably some day I would have an enemy who would try to poison me with lemon pie, and I must never, on _any_ account, taste it again." "And haven't you?" Patty asked. "Never," said Evalina sadly. Patty composed her features into an expression of scientific inquiry. "Do you think the medium told the truth?" "I've never had any cause to doubt it." "Then you really believe in ghosts?" "In spirits?" Evalina amended gently. "Many strange things happen that cannot be explained in any other manner." "What would you do if her spirit should appear to you? Would you be scared?" "Certainly not!" said Evalina, with dignity. "I was very fond of Cousin Susan. I have no cause to fear her spirit." The smell of boiling molasses penetrated from below; Patty excused herself and turned toward the kitchen. The spiritual heights on which Evalina dwelt, she found a trifle too rare for ordinary breathing. The candy was on the point of being poured into pans. "Here, Patty!" Priscilla ordered, "you haven't done any work. Run down to the storeroom and get some butter to keep our hands from sticking." Patty obligingly accompanied the cook to the cellar, with not a thought in the world beyond butter. On a shelf in the storeroom stood to-morrow's dessert--a row of fifteen lemon pies, with neatly decorated tops of white meringue. As Patty looked at them, she was suddenly assailed by a wicked temptation; she struggled with it for a moment of sanity, but in the end she fell. While Nora's head was bent over the butter tub, Patty opened the window and deftly plumped a pie through the iron grating onto the ledge without. By the time Nora raised her head, the window was shut again, and Patty was innocently translating the label on a bottle of olive oil. As they pulled their candy in a secluded corner of the kitchen, Patty hilariously confided her plan to Conny and Priscilla. Conny was always game for whatever mischief was afoot, but Priscilla sometimes needed urging. She was--most inconveniently--beginning to develop a moral nature, and the other two, who as yet were comfortably un-moral, occasionally found her difficult to coerce. Priscilla finally lent a grudging consent, while Conny enthusiastically volunteered to acquire a monkey-wrench. Being captain of sports, she could manage the matter better than Patty. On a flying visit to the stables, ostensibly to consult with Martin as to a re-marking of the tennis courts, she singled out from his tool bench the monkey-wrench of her choice, casually covered it with her sweater, and safely bore it away. She and Patty conveyed their booty by devious secret ways to Paradise Alley. A great many alarms were given on the passage, a great deal of muffled giggling ensued, but finally the monkey-wrench and the pie--slightly damaged as to its meringue top, but still distinctly recognizable as lemon--were safely cached under Patty's bed to await their part in the night's adventure. "Lights-out" as usual, rang at nine-thirty, but it rang to deaf ears. A spirit of restless festivity was abroad. The little girls in the "Baby Ward" larked about the halls in a pillow fight, until they were sternly ordered to bed by the Dowager herself. It was close to ten o'clock when the candy-pullers washed their sticky hands and turned upstairs. Patty found a delegation of potato racers waiting with the news that she had won the prize. An interested crowd gathered to watch her open the box; it contained a tin funeral wreath that had been displayed that winter in the window of the village undertaker--Kid had bought it cheap, owing to fly specks that would not rub off. The wreath was hoisted on the end of a shinny stick and marched through the corridor to the tune of "John Brown's Body," while Mademoiselle ineffectually wrung her hands and begged for quiet. "_Mes chères enfantes_--it is ten o'clock. _Soyez tranquilles._ Patty--_Mon Dieu_--How you are bad! Margarite McCoy, you do not listen to me? _Nous verrons!_ Go to your room, dis in-stant! You do not belong in my hall. Children! I implore. Go to bed--all--_tout de suite_!" The procession cheered and marched on, until Miss Lord descended from the East and commanded silence. Miss Lord when incensed was effectual. The peace of conquest settled for a time over Paradise Alley, and she returned to her own camp. But a fresh hub-bub broke out, when it was discovered that someone had sprinkled granulated sugar, in liberal quantities, through every bed in the Alley. Patty and Conny would have been suspected, had their own sheets not yielded a plentiful harvest. It was another half hour before the beds were remade, and the school finally composed to sleep. When the teacher on duty had made her last rounds, and everything was quiet, Patty turned back the covers of her bed and cautiously stepped to the floor. She was still fully clothed, except that she had changed her shoes for softer soled bedroom slippers, better fitted for nocturnal adventures. Priscilla and Conny joined her. Fortunately a full moon shone high in the sky, and they needed no artificial light. Aided by her two assistants, Patty draped the sheets of her bed about her into two voluminous wings, and fastened them securely with safety pins. A pillow slip was pulled over her head and the corners tied into ears. They hesitated a moment with scissors suspended. "Hurry up and cut a nose," Patty whispered. "I'm smothering!" "It seems sort of too bad to spoil a perfectly good pillow slip," said Priscilla, with a slight access of conscience. "I'll drop some money in the missionary box," Patty promised. The nose and eyes were cut; a grinning mouth and devilishly curved eyebrows were added with burnt cork. The pillow slip was tied firmly about her neck to allow no chance of slipping, the ears waved lopsidedly; she was the most amazing specter that ever left a respectable grave. These preparations had occupied some time. It was already ten minutes of twelve. "I'll wait till the stroke of midnight," said Patty. "Then I'll flutter into Evalina's room, and wave my wings, and whisper, 'Come!' The monkey-wrench and the pie, I'll leave on the foot of her bed, so she'll know she wasn't dreaming." "What if she screams?" asked Priscilla. "She won't scream. She loves ghosts--especially Cousin Susan. She said to-night she'd be glad to meet her." "But what if she does scream?" persisted Priscilla. "Oh, that's easy! I'll dash back and pop into bed. Before anybody wakes, I'll be sound asleep." They made a reconnoitering excursion into the empty corridors to make sure that all was quiet. Only regular breathing issued from open doors. Evalina fortunately lived in a single, but unfortunately, it was at the extreme end of the East Wing in the opposite corner of the building from Patty's own domicile. Conny and Priscilla, in bedroom slippers and kimonos, tiptoed after Patty as she took her flight down the length of the Alley. She sailed back and forth and waved her wings in the moonlight that streamed through the skylight in the central hall. The two spectators clung together and shivered delightedly. In spite of having been behind the scenes and assisted at the make-up, they received a distinct sensation--what it would be to one suddenly wakened from sleep, to a believer in ghosts, they were a bit apprehensive to consider. At the entrance to the East Wing, they handed Patty her pie and monkey-wrench, and retreated to their own neighborhood. In case of an uproar, they did not wish to be discovered too far from home. Patty flitted on down the corridor, past yawning doors, into Evalina's room, where she took up a central position in a patch of moonlight. A few sepulchral "Comes!" brought no response. Evalina was a sound sleeper. Patty shook the foot of the bed. The sleeper stirred slightly but slept on. This was annoying. The ghost had no mind to make noise enough to disturb the neighbors. She laid the pie and the monkey-wrench on the counterpane, and shook the bed again, with the insistence of an earthquake. As she was endeavoring to resume her properties, Evalina sat up and clutched the bed clothes about her neck with a frenzied jerk. Patty just had time to save the pie--the monkey-wrench went to the floor with a crash; and the crash, to Patty's startled senses, was echoed and intensified from far down the hall. She had no chance to wave her wings or murmur, "Come." Evalina did not wait for her cue. She opened her mouth as wide as it would open, and emitted shriek after shriek of such ear-splitting intensity, that Patty, for a moment, was too aghast to move. Then, still hugging the pie in her arms, she turned and ran. [Illustration: Evalina sat up and clutched the bedclothes about her neck] To her consternation the cries were answered ahead. The whole house seemed to be awake and shrieking. She could hear doors banging and frightened voices demanding the cause of the tumult. She was making a quick dash for her own room, trusting to the confusion and darkness to make good her escape, when Miss Lord, gaily attired in a flowered bath-robe, appeared at the end of the corridor. Patty was headed straight for her arms. With a gasp of terror, she turned back toward the shrieking Evalina. She realized by now that she was in a trap. A narrow passage led from the East Wing to the servants' quarters. She dived into this. If she could reach the back stairs it would mean safety. She pushed the door open a crack, and to her horror, was confronted by a worse uproar. The servants' quarters were in a state of panic. She saw Maggie dashing past, wrapped in a pink striped blanket, while above the general confusion rose Norah's rich brogue: "Help! Murther! I seen a bur-r-gu-lar!" She shut the door and shrank back into the passage. Behind her Evalina was still hysterically wailing: "I saw a ghost! I saw a ghost!" Before her the cry of "Burglars!" was growing louder. Utterly bewildered at this double demonstration, Patty flattened herself against the wall in the friendly darkness of the passage, while she soulfully thanked Heaven that the proposed electric lights had not yet been installed. A dozen voices were calling for matches, but no one seemed to find any. She pantingly tugged at the pillowcase fastened about her neck; but Conny had tied it firmly with a white hair ribbon, and the knot was behind. In any case, even if she could remove her masquerade, she was lost if they found her; for she was still wearing the white dress of the evening, and not even Patty's imagination could compass an excuse for that at twelve o'clock at night. The search was growing nearer; she caught the glimmer of a light ahead. At any moment they might open the door of the passage. The linen closet was the only refuge at hand--and that was very temporary. She felt for the door handle and slipped inside. If she could find a pile of sheets, she might dive to the bottom and hope to escape notice, being mostly sheet herself. But it was Saturday, and all the linen had gone down. A long, slippery, inclined chute connected the room with the laundry in the basement two floors below. Steps were already audible in the passage. She heard Miss Lord's voice say: "Bring a light! We'll search the linen closet." Patty did not hesitate. In imagination she could already feel the pressure of Miss Lord's grasp upon her shoulder. A broken neck was preferable. Still hugging the lemon pie--in all her excitement she had clasped it firmly--she climbed into the chute, stretched her feet out straight in front, and pushed off. For two breathless seconds she dashed through space, then her feet hit the trap door at the bottom, and she shot into the laundry. One instant earlier, the door from the kitchen stairs had cautiously opened, and a man had darted into the laundry. He had just had time to cast a glance of boundless relief about the empty, moonlit room, when Patty and the pie catapulted against him. They went down together in a whirl of waving wings. Patty being on top picked herself up first. She still clutched her pie--at least what was left of it; the white meringue was spread over the man's hair and face; but the lemon part was still intact. The man sat up dazedly, rubbed the meringue from his eyes, cast one look at his assailant, and staggered to his feet. He flattened himself against the wall with arms thrown wide for support. "Holy gee!" he choked. "What in hell uv I got into?" Patty excused his language, as he did not appear to know that he was addressing a lady. He seemed to be laboring under the impression that she was the devil. Her pillow slip by now was very much askew; one ear pointed northward, the other southeast, and she could only see out of one eye. It was very hot inside and she was gasping for breath. For a palpitating moment they merely stared and panted. Then Patty's mind began to work. "I suppose," she suggested, "you are the burglar they are screaming about?" The man leaned back limply and stared, his wide, frightened eyes shining through a fringe of meringue. "I," said Patty, completing the introduction, "am the ghost." He muttered something under his breath. She could not make out whether he was praying or swearing. "Don't be afraid," she added kindly. "I won't hurt you." "Is it a bloomin' insane asylum?" "Just a girl's school." "Gosh!" he observed. "Hush!" said Patty. "They're coming this way now!" The sound of running feet became audible in the kitchen above, while bass voices were added to the shrill soprano that had sounded the former tocsin. The men had arrived from the stables. The burglar and the ghost regarded each other for a moment of suspended breathing; their mutual danger drew them together. Patty hesitated an instant, while she studied his face as it showed through the interstices of the meringue. He had honest blue eyes and yellow curls. She suddenly stretched out a hand and grasped him by an elbow. "Quick! They'll be here in a minute. I know a place to hide. Come with me." She pushed him unresisting down a passage and into a storeroom, boarded off from the main cellar, where the scenery of the dramatic society was kept. "Get down on your hands and knees and follow me," she ordered, as she stooped low and dived behind a pile of canvas. The man crawled after. They emerged at the farther end into a small recess behind some canvas trees. Patty sat on a stump and offered a wooden rock to her companion. "They'll never think of looking here," she whispered. "Martin's too fat to crawl through." A small barred window let in some faint moonlight and they had an opportunity to study each other more at leisure. The man did not yet seem comfortable in Patty's presence; he was occupying the farthest possible corner of his rock. Presently he rubbed his coat sleeve over his head and looked long and earnestly at the meringue. He was evidently at a loss to identify the substance; in the rush of events he had taken no note of the pie. Patty brought her one eye to bear down upon him. "I'm simply melting!" she whispered. "Do you think you could untie that knot?" She bent her head and presented the back of her neck. The man by now was partially reassured as to the humanness of his companion, and he obediently worked at the knot but with hands that trembled. At last it came loose, and Patty with a sigh of relief emerged into the open. Her hair was somewhat tousled and her face was streaked with burnt cork, but her blue eyes were as honest as his own. The sight reassured him. "Gee!" he muttered in a wave of relief. "Keep still!" Patty warned. The hunt was growing nearer. There was the sound of tramping feet in the laundry and they could hear the men talking. "A ghost and a burglar!" said Martin, in fine scorn. "That's a likely combination, ain't it now?" They made an obligatory and superficial search through the coal cellar. Martin jocularly inquiring: "Did ye look in the furnace, Mike? Here Osaki, me lad, ye're small. Take a crawl oop the poipes and see if the ghost ain't hidin' there." They opened the door of the property-room and glanced inside. The burglar ducked his head and held his breath, while Patty struggled with an ill-timed desire to giggle. Martin was in a facetious mood. He whistled in the manner of calling a dog. "Here, Ghostie! Here, Burgie! Come here, old fellow!" They banged the door shut and their footsteps receded. Patty was rocking back and forth in a species of hysterics, stuffing the corner of the sheet into her mouth to keep from laughing audibly. The burglar's teeth were chattering. "Lord!" he breathed. "It may be funny for you, Miss. But it means the penitentiary for me." Patty interrupted her hysterics and regarded him with disgust. "It would mean expulsion for me, or at least something awfully unpleasant. But that's no reason for going all to pieces. You're a nice sort of a burglar! Brace up and be a sport!" He mopped his brow and removed another portion of icing. "You must be an awful amateur to break into a house like this," she said contemptuously. "Don't you know the silver's plated?" "I didn't know nuthin' about it," he said sullenly. "I see the window open over the shed roof and I clum up. I was hungry and was lookin' for somethin' to eat. I ain't had nothin' since yesterday mornin'." Patty reached to the floor beside her. "Have some pie." The man ducked aside as it was poked at him. "W-what's that?" he gasped. He was as nervous as a mouse in a cage. "Lemon pie. It looks a little messy but it's all right. The only thing the matter with it is that it has lost its meringue top. That's mostly on your head. The rest of it is spread over me and the laundry floor and Evalina Smith's bed and the clothes chute." "Oh!" he murmured in evident relief, as he rubbed his hand over his hair for the fourth time. "I was wonderin' what the blame stuff was." "But the lemon's all here," she urged. "You'd better eat it. It's quite nourishing, I believe." He accepted the pie and fell to eating it with an eagerness that carried out the truth of his assertion as to yesterday's breakfast. Patty watched him, her natural curiosity struggling with her acquired politeness. The curiosity triumphed. "Do you mind telling me how you came to be a burglar? You make such a remarkably bad one, that I should think you would have chosen almost any other profession." He told his story between bites. To one more experienced in police records, it might have sounded a trifle fishy, but he had an honest face and blue eyes, and it never entered her head to doubt him. The burglar commenced it sullenly; no one had ever believed him yet and he wasn't expecting her to. He would like to have invented something a little more plausible, but he lacked the imagination to tell a convincing lie. So, as usual, he lamely told the truth. Patty listened with strained attention. His tale was somewhat muffled by lemon pie, and his vocabulary did not always coincide with her own, but she managed to get the gist of it. By rights he was a gardener. In the last place where he worked he used to sleep in the attic, because the gentleman he was away a lot, and the lady she was afraid not to have a man in the house. And a gas-fitter, that he had always thought was his friend, give him some beer one night and got him drunk, and took away the key of the back door. And while he (the gardener) was sound asleep on the children's sand pile under the apple tree in the back yard, the gas-fitter entered the house and stole an overcoat and a silver coffee-pot and a box of cigars and a bottle of whisky and two umbrellas. And they proved it on him (the gardener) and he was sent up for two years. And when he come out, no one wouldn't give him no work. "An' ye can't make me believe," he added bitterly, "that that beer wasn't doped!" "Oh, but it was terrible of you to get drunk!" said Patty, shocked. "'Twas an accident," he insisted. "If you are _sure_ that you'll never do it again," she said, "I'll get you a job. But you must promise, on your word of honor as a gentleman. You know I couldn't recommend a drunkard." The man grinned feebly. "I guess ye'll not be findin' anybody that will be wantin' a jailbird." "Oh, yes, I will! I know exactly the man. He's a friend of mine, and he likes jailbirds. He realizes that it's only luck that made him a millionaire instead of a convict. He always gives a man a chance to start again. He used to have a murderer in charge of his greenhouses, and a cattle thief to milk the cows. I'm sure he'll like you. Come with me, and I'll write you a letter of introduction." Patty gathered her sheets about her and prepared to crawl out. "What are ye doin'?" he demanded quickly. "Y' aren't goin' to hand me over?" "Is it likely?" She regarded him with scorn. "How could I hand you over, without handing myself over at the same time?" The logic of this appealed to him, and he followed meekly on hands and knees. She approached the laundry door and listened warily; the search had withdrawn to other quarters. She led the way along a passage and up a flight of stairs and slipped into the deserted kindergarten room. "We're safe here," she whispered. "They've already searched it." She cast about for writing materials. No ink was to be found, but she discovered a red crayon pencil, and tore a sheet of paper from a copy book. "Honesty is the best policy," was inscribed in flowing characters at the top. She hesitated with her crayon poised. "If I get you a nice job in charge of onions and orchids and things, will you promise never again to drink any beer?" "Sure," he agreed, but without much enthusiasm. There was a light of uneasiness in his eye. Nothing in his past experience tallied with to-night's adventure; and he suspected an ambush. "Because," said Patty, "it would be awfully embarrassing for me if you did get drunk. I should never dare recommend another burglar." She wrote her note on the window ledge, by moonlight, and read it aloud: "_Dear Mr. Weatherby_,-- "Do you remember the conversation we had the day I ran away and dropped into your onion garden? You said you thought criminals were often quite as good as the rest of us, and that you would find a job for any convict friend I might present. This is to introduce a burglar of my acquaintance who would like to secure a position as gardener. He was trained to be a gardener and much prefers it to burglaring, but finds it difficult to find a place because he has been in prison. He is faithful, honest and industrious, and promises to be sober. I shall appreciate any favor you may show him. "Sincerely yours, "PATTY WYATT." "P. S.--Please excuse this red crayon. I am writing at midnight, by moonlight in the kindergarten room, and the ink's all locked up. The burglar will explain the circumstances, which are too complicated to write. "Yours ever, "P. W." She enclosed her note in a large manila envelope that had contained weaving mats, and addressed it to Silas Weatherby, Esq. The man received it gingerly. He seemed to think that it might go off. "What's the matter?" said Patty. "Are you afraid of it?" "Ye're sure," he asked suspiciously, "that Silas Weatherby ain't a cop?" "He's a railroad president." "Oh!" The burglar looked relieved. Patty unlocked the window, then paused for a final moral lecture. "I am giving you a chance to begin again. If you are game, and present this letter, you'll get a job. If you're a coward, and don't dare present it, you can keep on being a burglar for the rest of your life for all I care--and a mighty poor one you'll make!" She opened the window and waved her hand invitingly toward the outside world. "Good-by, Miss," he said. "Good-by," said Patty cordially. "And good luck!" He paused, half in, half out, for a last reassurance. "Ye're sure it's on the straight, Miss? Y' ain't pitchin' me no curve?" "It's on the straight." She pledged her word. "I ain't pitchin' you no curve." Patty crept upstairs the back way, and by a wide detour avoided the excited crowd still gathered in the East Wing. A fresh hub-bub had arisen, for Evalina Smith had found a monkey-wrench on the floor of her room. It was shown to the scoffing Martin as visible proof that the burglar had been there. "An it's me own wrench!" he cried in wide-eyed amazement. "Now, what do ye think of his nerve?" Patty hurriedly undressed and tumbled into a kimono. Sleepily rubbing her eyes, she joined the assemblage in the hall. "What's happened?" she asked, blinking at the lights. "Has there been a fire?" A chorus of laughter greeted the question. "It's a burglar!" said Conny, exhibiting the wrench. "Oh, _why_ didn't you wake me?" Patty wailed. "I've wanted all my life to see a burglar." * * * * * Two weeks later, a groom arrived on horseback with a polite note for the Dowager. Mr. Weatherby presented his compliments to Mrs. Trent, and desired the pleasure of showing the young ladies of the Senior class through his art gallery on Friday next at four o'clock. The Dowager was at a loss to account for this gratuitous courtesy on the part of her hitherto unneighborly neighbor. After a moment of deliberation, she decided to meet him half way; and the groom rode back with an equally polite acceptance. On Friday next, as the school hearse turned in at the gates of Weatherby Hall, the owner stood on the portico waiting to welcome his guests. If there were a shade more _empressement_ in his greeting to Patty than to her companions, the Dowager did not notice it. He made an exceptionally attentive host. In person he conducted them through the gallery and pointed out the famous Botticelli. Tea was served at little tables set on the western terrace. Each girl found a gardenia at her plate and a silver bonbonnière with the St. Ursula monogram on the cover. After tea their host suggested a visit to the Italian garden. As they strolled through the paths, Patty found herself walking beside him and the Dowager. His conversation was addressed to Mrs. Trent, but an occasional amused glance was directed toward Patty. They turned a corner behind a marble pavilion, and came upon a fountain and a gardener man, intent upon a border of maiden-hair ferns. "I have a very remarkable new Swedish gardener," Mr. Weatherby casually remarked to the Dowager. "The man is a genius at making plants grow. He came highly recommended. Oscar!" he called. "Bring the ladies some of those tulips." The man dropped his watering-can, and approached, hat in hand. He was a golden-haired, blue-eyed young chap with an honest smile. He presented his flowers, first to the elder lady and then to Patty. As he caught her interested gaze, a light of comprehension suddenly leaped to his eyes. Her costume and make-up to-day were so very dissimilar to those which she had assumed on the occasion of their first meeting, that recognition on his part had not been instantaneous. Patty fell back a step to receive her flowers and the others strolled on. "I have to thank ye, Miss," he said gratefully, "for the finest job I ever had. It's all right!" "You know now," Patty laughed, "that I didn't pitch you no curves?" XII The Gypsy Trail "Heels together. Hips firm, one, two, three, four--Irene McCullough! _Will_ you keep your shoulders back and your stomach in? How many times must I tell you to stand straight? That's better! We'll start again. One, two, three, four." The exercise droned on. Some twenty of the week's delinquents were working off demerits. It was uncongenial work for a sunny Saturday. The twenty pairs of eyes gazed beyond Miss Jellings' head--across ropes and rings and parallel bars--toward the green tree tops and the blue sky; and twenty girls, for that brief hour, regretted their past badnesses. Miss Jellings herself seemed to be a bit on edge. She snapped out her orders with a curtness that brought a jerkily quick response from forty waving Indian clubs. As she stood straight and slim in her gymnasium suit, her cheeks flushed with exercise, she looked quite as young as any of her pupils. But if she appeared young, she also appeared determined. No instructor in the school, not even Miss Lord in Latin, kept stricter discipline. "One, two, three, four--Patty Wyatt! Keep your eyes to the front. It isn't necessary for you to watch the clock. I shall dismiss the class when I am ready. Over your heads. One, two, three, four." Finally, when nerves were almost at the breaking point, came the grateful order, "Attention! Right about face. March. Clubs in racks. Double quick. Halt. Break ranks." With a relieved whoop, the class dispersed. "Thank heaven, there's only one more week of it!" Patty breathed, as they regained their own quarters in Paradise Alley. "Good-by to Gym forever!" Conny waved a slipper over her head. "Hooray!" "Isn't Jelly awful?" Patty demanded, still smarting from the recent insult. "She never used to be so bad. What on earth has got into her?" "She is pretty snappy," Priscilla agreed. "But I like her just the same. She's so--so sort of _spirited_, you know--like a skittish horse." "Urn," growled Patty. "I'd like to see a good, big, husky man get the upper hand of Jelly once, and _just make her toe the mark_!" "You two will have to hurry," Priscilla warned, "if you want to get into your costumes up here. Martin starts in half an hour." "We'll be ready!" Patty was already plunging her face into an inky mixture in the wash bowl. The fancy-dress lawn fête, which St. Ursula's School held on the last Friday in every May, had occurred the evening before; and this afternoon the girls were redonning their costumes to make a trip to the village photographer's. The complicated costumes, that required time and space for their proper adjustment, were to be assumed at the school and driven down in the hearse. Those more simple of arrangement were to go in the trolley car, and be donned in the cramped quarters of the gallery dressing-room. Patty and Conny, whose make-up was a very delicate matter, were dressing at the school. They had gone as Gypsies--not comic opera Gypsies, but real Gypsies, dirty and ragged and patched. (They had daily dusted the room with their costumes for a week before the fête.) Patty wore one brown stocking and one black, with a conspicuous hole in the right calf. Conny's toes protruded from one shoe, and the sole of the other flapped. Their hair was unkempt and the stain on their faces streaked. They were the last word in realism. They scrambled into their dresses to-day with little ceremony, and hitched them together anyhow. Conny caught up a tambourine and Patty a worn-out pack of cards, and they clattered down the tin-covered back stairs. In the lower hall they came face to face with Miss Jellings, clothed in cool muslin, and in a more affable frame of mind. Patty never held her grudges long; she had already forgotten her momentary indignation at not being allowed to look at the clock. "You cross-a my hand with silver? I tell-a your fortune." She danced up to the gymnasium teacher with a flutter of scarlet petticoats, and poked out a dirty hand. "Nice-a fortune," Conny added with a persuasive rattle of the tambourine. "Tall, dark-a young man." "You impudent little ragamuffins!" Miss Jellings took them each by the shoulder and turned them for inspection. "What have you done to your faces?" "Washed 'em in black coffee." Miss Jellings shook her head and laughed. "You're a disgrace to the school!" she pronounced. "Don't let any policeman see you, or he'll arrest you for vagabonds." "Patty! Conny!--Hurry up. The hearse is starting." Priscilla appeared in the doorway and waved her gridiron frantically. Priscilla, late about finding a costume, at the last moment had blasphemously gone as St. Laurence, draped in a sheet, with the kitchen broiler under her arm. "We're coming! Tell him to wait." Patty dashed out. "Don't you want a coat?" Conny shrieked after her. "No--come on--we don't need coats." The two raced down the drive after the wagonette--Martin never waited for laggards; he let them run and catch up. They sprang onto the rear step; and half-a-dozen outstretched hands hauled them in, head first. They found the photographer's waiting-room a scene of the maddest confusion. When sixty excited people occupy the normal space of twelve, the effect is not restful. "Did anyone bring a button-hook?" "Lend me some powder." "That's _my_ safety-pin!" "Where'd you put the burnt cork?" "Is my hair a perfect sight?" "Fasten me up--please!" "Does my petticoat show?" Everybody babbled at once, and nobody listened. "I say, let's get out of this--I'm simply roasting!" St. Laurence seized the Gypsies by the shoulder and shoved them into the vacant gallery. They squeezed themselves, with a sigh of relief, onto a shaky flight of six narrow stairs before the breezes of an open window. "I know exactly what ails Jelly!" Patty spoke with the air of carrying on a conversation. "What?" asked the others, with interest. "She's had a quarrel with that Laurence Gilroy man who is manager at the electric light place. Don't you remember how he used to be hanging about all the time? And now he never comes at all? He was out every day in the Christmas vacation. They used to go walking together--and without any chaperone, too! You would think the Dowager would have made an awful fuss, but she didn't seem to. Anyway, you should have seen the way Miss Jellings treated that man--it was _per-fect-ly dreadful_! The way she jumps on Irene McCullough is _nothing_ to the way she jumped on him." "_He_ doesn't have to work off demerits. He's a fool to stand it," said Conny simply. "He doesn't stand it any more." "How do you know?" "Well, I--sort of heard. I was in the library alcove one day in the Christmas vacation, reading the 'Murders in the Rue Morgue,' when Jelly and Mr. Gilroy walked in. They didn't see me, and I didn't pay any attention to them at first--I'd just got to the place where the detective says, 'Is that the mark of a _human_ hand?'--but pretty soon they got to scrapping so that I couldn't help but hear, and I felt sort of embarrassed about interrupting." "What did they say?" asked Conny, impatiently brushing aside her apologies. "I didn't grasp it entirely. He was trying to explain about something, and she wouldn't listen to a word he said--she was _perfectly horrid_. You know,--the way she is when she says, 'I understand it perfectly. I don't care to hear any excuse. You may take ten demerits, and report on Saturday for extra gymnasium.'--Well, they kept that up for fifteen minutes, both of 'em getting stiffer and stiffer. Then he took his hat and went. And you know, I don't believe he ever came back--_I've_ never seen him. And now, she's sorry. She's been as cross as a bear ever since." "And she can be awfully nice," said Priscilla. "Yes, she _can_," said Patty. "But she's too cocky. I'd just like to see that man come back, and show her her place!" The masqueraders trooped in and the serious business of the day commenced. The school posed as a whole, then an infinity of smaller groups disentangled themselves and posed separately, while those who were not in the picture stood behind the camera and made the others laugh. "Young ladies!" the exasperated photographer implored. "Will you kindly be quiet for just two seconds? You have made me spoil three plates. And will that monk on the end stop giggling? Now! All ready. Please keep your eyes on the stove-pipe hole, and hold your positions while I count three. One, two, three--thank you very much!" He removed his plate with a flourish, and dove into the dark room. It was Patty's and Conny's turn to be taken alone, but St. Ursula and her Eleven Thousand Virgins were clamoring for precedence on the ground of superior numbers, and they made such a turmoil that the two Gypsies politely stood aside. Keren Hersey, as St. Ursula, and eleven little Junior A's--each playing the manifold part of a Thousand Virgins--made up the group. It was to be a symbolical picture, Keren explained. When the Gypsies' turn came a second time, Patty had the misfortune to catch her dress on a nail and tear a three-cornered rent in the front. It was too large a hole for even a Gypsy to carry off with propriety; she retired to the dressing-room and fastened the edges together with white basting thread. Finally, last of all, they presented themselves in their dirt and tatters. The photographer was an artist, and he received them with appreciative delight. The others had been patently masqueraders, but these were the real thing. He photographed them dancing, and wandering on a lonely moor with threatening canvas clouds behind them. He was about to take them in a forest, with a camp fire, and a boiling kettle slung from three sticks--when Conny suddenly became aware of a brooding quiet that had settled on the place. "Where is everybody?" She returned from a hasty excursion into the waiting-room, divided between consternation and laughter. "Patty! The hearse has gone!--And the street-car people are waiting on the corner by Marsh and Elkins's." "Oh, the beasts! They knew we were in here." Patty dropped her three sticks and rose precipitately. "Sorry!" she called to the photographer, who was busily dusting off the kettle. "We've got to run for it." "And we haven't any coats!" wailed Conny. "Miss Wadsworth won't take us in the car in these clothes." "She'll have to," said Patty simply. "She can't leave us on the corner." They clattered downstairs, but wavered an instant in the friendly darkness of the doorway; there was no time, however, for maidenly hesitations, and taking their courage in both hands, they plunged into the Saturday afternoon crowd that thronged Main Street. "Oh, Mama! Quick! Look at the Gypsies," a little boy squealed as the two pushed past. "Heavens!" Conny whispered. "I feel like a circus parade." "Hurry!" Patty panted, taking her by the hand and beginning to run. "The car's stopped and they're getting in--Wait! Wait!" She frenziedly waved the tambourine above her head. An express wagon at the crossing blocked their progress. The last of the Eleven Thousand Virgins climbed aboard, without once glancing over her shoulder; and the car, unheeding, clanged away, and became a yellow spot in the distance. The two Gypsies stood on the corner and stared at one another in blank interrogation. "I haven't a cent--have you?" "Not one." "How are we going to get home?" "I haven't an idea." Patty felt her elbow jostled. She turned to find young John Drew Dominick Murphy, a protégé of the school, and an intimate acquaintance of her own, regarding her with impish delight. "Hey, youse! Give us a song and dance." "At least our friends don't recognize us," said Conny, drawing what comfort she could from her incognito. Quite a crowd had gathered by now, and it was rapidly growing larger. Pedestrians had to make a detour into the street in order to get past. "It wouldn't take us long," said Patty, a spark of mischief breaking through the blankness of her face, "to earn money enough for a carriage--you thump the tambourine and I'll dance the sailor's hornpipe." "Patty! Behave yourself." Conny for once brought a dampening supply of common sense to bear on her companion. "We're going to graduate in another week. For goodness' sake, _don't_ let's get expelled first." She grasped her by the elbow and shoved her insistently down a side street. John Drew Murphy and his friends followed for several blocks, but having gazed their fill, and perceiving that the Gypsies had no entertainment to offer, they gradually dropped away. "Well, what shall we do?" asked Conny when they had finally shaken off the last of the small boys. "I s'pose we could walk." "Walk!" Conny exhibited her flapping sole. "You don't expect me to walk three miles in that shoe?" "Very well," said Patty. "What _shall_ we do?" "We might go back to the photographer's and borrow some car-fare." "No! I'm not going to parade myself the length of Main Street again with _that_ hole in my stocking." "Very well," Conny shrugged. "Think of something." "I suppose we could go to the livery stable and--" "It's on the other side of town--I can't flap all that distance. Every time I take a step, I have to lift my foot ten inches high." "Very well." It was Patty's turn to shrug. "Perhaps you can think of something better?" "I think the simplest way would be to take a car, and ask the conductor to charge it to us." "Yes--and explain for the benefit of all the passengers that we belong at St. Ursula's School? It would be all over town by night, and the Dowager would be furious." "Very well--what shall we do?" They were standing at the moment before a comfortable frame house with three children romping on the veranda. The children left off their play to come to the top of the steps and stare. "Come on!" Patty urged. "We'll sing the 'Gypsy Trail.'" (This was the latest song that had swept the school.) "I'll play an accompaniment on the tambourine, and you can flap your sole. Maybe they'll give us ten cents. It would be a beautiful lark to earn our car-fare home--I'm _sure_ it's worth ten cents to hear me sing." Conny glanced up and down the deserted street. No policeman was in sight. She grudgingly allowed herself to be drawn up the walk, and the music began. The children applauded loudly; and the two were just congratulating themselves on a very credible performance, when the door opened and a woman appeared--a first cousin to Miss Lord. "Stop that noise immediately! There's somebody sick inside." The tone also was reminiscent of Latin. They turned and ran as fast as Conny's flapping sole would take her. When they had put three good blocks between themselves and the Latin woman, they dropped down on a friendly stepping-stone, and leaned against each other's shoulders and laughed. A man rounded the corner of the house before them, pushing a mowing machine. "Here, you!" he ordered. "Move on." They got up, meekly, and moved on several blocks further. They were going in exactly the opposite direction from St. Ursula's school, but they couldn't seem to hit on anything else to do, so they kept on moving mechanically. They had arrived in the outskirts of the village by now, and they presently found themselves face to face with a tall chimney and a group of low buildings set in a wide enclosure--the water-works and electric plant. A light of hope dawned in Patty's eyes. "I'll tell you! We'll go and ask Mr. Gilroy to take us home in his automobile." "Do you know him?" Conny asked dubiously. She had received so many affronts that she was growing timid. "Yes! I know him _intimately_. He was under foot every minute during the Christmas vacation. We had a snow fight one day. Come on! He'll love to run us out. It will give him an excuse to make up with Jelly." They passed up a narrow tarred walk toward the brick building labeled "Office." Four clerks and a typewriter girl in the outer office interrupted their work to laugh as the two apparitions appeared in the door. The young man nearest them whirled his chair around in order to get a better view. "Hello, girls!" he said with cheerful familiarity. "Where'd you spring from?" The typewriter, meanwhile, was making audible comments upon the discrepancies in Patty's hosiery. Patty's face flushed darkly under the coffee. "We have called to see Mr. Gilroy," she said with dignity. "This is Mr. Gilroy's busy day," the young man grinned. "Wouldn't you rather talk to me?" Patty drew herself up haughtily. "Please tell Mr. Gilroy--_at once_--that we are waiting to speak to him." "Certainly! I _beg_ your pardon." The young man sprang to his feet with an air of elaborate politeness. "Will you kindly give me your cards?" "I don't happen to have a card with me to-day. Just say that two ladies wish to speak with him." "Ah, yes. One moment, please--Won't you be seated?" He offered his own chair to Patty, and bringing forward another, presented it to Conny with a Chesterfieldian bow. The clerks tittered delightedly at this bit of comedy acting, but the Gypsies did not condescend to think it funny. They accepted the chairs with a frigid, "Thank you," and sat stiffly upright staring at the wastebasket in their most distant society manner. While the deferential young man was conveying the message to the private office of his chief, public comment advanced from Patty's stockings to Conny's shoes. He returned presently, and with unruffled politeness invited them please to step this way. He ushered them in with a bow. Mr. Gilroy was writing, and it was a second before he glanced up. His eyes widened with astonishment--the clerk had delivered the message verbatim. He leaned back in his chair and studied the ladies from head to foot, then emitted a curt: "Well?" There was not a trace of recognition in his glance. Patty's only intention had been to announce their identity, and invite him to deliver them at St. Ursula's door, but Patty was incapable of approaching any matter by the direct route when a labyrinth was also available. She drew a deep breath, and to Conny's consternation, plunged into the labyrinth. "You Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy?" she dropped a curtsy. "I come find-a you." "So I see," said Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy, dryly. "And now that you've found me, what do you want?" "I want tell-a your fortune," Patty glibly dropped into the lingo she and Conny had practised on the school the night before. "You cross-a my hand with silver--I tell-a your fortune." This was no situation of Conny's choosing, but she was always staunchly game. "Nice-a fortune," she backed Patty up. "Tall young lady. Ver' beautiful." "Well, of all the nerve!" Mr. Gilroy leaned back in his chair and regarded them severely, but with a gleam of amusement flickering through. "Where did you get my name?" he demanded. Patty waved her hand airily toward the open window and the distant horizon--as it showed between the coal sheds and the dynamo building. "Gypsy peoples, dey learn signs," she explained lucidly. "Sky, wind, clouds--all talk--but you no understand. I get message for you--Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy--and we come from long-a way off to tell-a your fortune." With a pathetic little gesture, she indicated their damaged foot gear. "Ver' tired. We travel far." Mr. Gilroy put his hand in his pocket and produced two silver half dollars. "Here's your money. Now be honest! What sort of a bunco game is this? And where in thunder did you get my name?" They pocketed the money, dropped two more curtsies, and evaded inconvenient questions. "We tell-a your fortune," said Conny, with business-like directness. She brought out the pack of cards, plumped herself cross-legged on the floor, and dealt them out in a wide circle. Patty seized the gentleman's hand in her two coffee-stained little paws, and turned it palm up for inspection. He made an embarrassed effort to draw away, but she clung with the tenacious grip of a monkey. "I see a lady!" she announced with promptitude. "Tall young lady--brown eyes, yellow hair, ver' beautiful," Conny echoed from the floor, as she leaned forward and intently studied the queen of hearts. "But she make-a you lot of trouble," Patty added, frowning over a blister on his hand. "I see li'l' quarrel." Mr. Gilroy's eyes narrowed. In spite of himself, he commenced to be interested. "You like-a her very much," pronounced Conny from below. "But you never see her any more," chimed in Patty. "One--two--three--four months, you no see her, no spik with her." She looked up into his startled eyes. "_But you think about her every day!_" He made a quick movement of withdrawal, and Patty hastily added a further detail. "Dat tall young lady, she ver' unhappy too. She no laugh no more like she used." He arrested the movement and waited with a touch of anxious curiosity to hear what was coming next. "She feel ver' bad--ver' cross, ver' unhappy. She thinks always 'bout that li'l' quarrel. Four months she sit and wait--but you never come back." Mr. Gilroy rose abruptly and strode to the window. His unexpected visitors had dropped from the sky at the psychological moment. For two straight hours that afternoon he had been sitting at his desk grappling with the problem, which they, in their broken English, were so ably handling. Should he swallow a great deal of pride, and make another plea for justice? St. Ursula's vacation was at hand; in a few days more she would be gone--and very possibly she would never come back. The world at large was full of men, and Miss Jellings had a taking way. Conny continued serenely to study her cards. "One--More--Chance!" She spoke with the authority of a Grecian sibyl. "You try again, you win. No try, you lose." Patty leaned over Conny's shoulder, eager to supply a salutary bit of advice. "Dat tall young lady too much--" she hesitated a moment for fitting expression--"too much head in air. Too _bossy_. You make-a her mind? Understand?" Conny, gazing at the round-faced, chubby Jack of Diamonds, had received a new idea. "I see 'nother man," she murmured. "Red hair and--and--_fat_. Not too good-looking but--" "_Very dangerous!_" interpolated Patty. "You have no time to waste. He comes soon." Now, they had fabricated this detail out of nothing in the world but pure fancy and the Jack of Diamonds, but as it happened, they had touched an open wound. It was an exact description of a certain rich young man in the neighboring city, who loaded Miss Jellings with favors, and whom Mr. Gilroy detested from the bottom of his soul. All that afternoon, mixed in with his promptings and hesitations and travail of spirit, had loomed large, the fair, plump features of his fancied rival. Mr. Gilroy was a common-sense young business man, as free as most from superstition; but when a man's in love he is open to omens. He stared fixedly about the familiar office and out at the coal sheds and dynamo, to make sure that he was still on solid earth. His gaze came back to his visitors from the sky in absolute, anxious, pleading bewilderment. They were studying the cards again in a frowning endeavor to wrest a few further items from their overtaxed imaginations. Patty felt that she had already given him fifty cents' worth, and was wondering how to bring the interview to a graceful end. She realized that they had carried the farce too impertinently far, ever to be able to announce their identity and suggest a ride home. The only course now, was to preserve their incognito, make good their escape, and get back as best they could--at least they had a dollar to aid in the journey! She glanced up, mentally framing a peroration. "I see good-a fortune," she commenced, "if--" Her glance passed him to the open window, and her heart missed a beat. Mrs. Trent and Miss Sarah Trent, come to complain about the new electric lights, were serenely descending from their carriage, not twenty feet away. Patty's hand clutched Conny's shoulder in a spasmodic grasp. "Sallie and the Dowager!" she hissed in her ear. "Follow me!" With a sweep of her hand, Patty scrambled the cards together and rose. There would be no chance to escape by the door; the Dowager's voice was already audible in the outer office. "Goo' by!" said Patty, springing to the window. "Gypsies call. We must go." She scrambled over the sill and dropped eight feet to the ground. Conny followed. They were both able pupils of Miss Jellings. Mr. Laurence K. Gilroy, open-mouthed, stood staring at the spot where they had been. The next instant, he was bowing courteously to the principals of St. Ursula's, and striving hard to concentrate a dazed mind upon the short-circuit in the West Wing. Patty and Conny left the car--and a number of interested passengers--at the corner before they reached the school. Circumnavigating the wall, until they were opposite the stables, they approached the house modestly by the back way. They had the good fortune to encounter no one more dangerous than the cook (who gave them some gingerbread) and they ultimately reached their home in Paradise Alley none the worse for the adventure--and ninety cents to the good. * * * * * When the long, light evenings came, St. Ursula's no longer filled in the interim between dinner and evening study with indoor dancing, but romped about on the lawn outside. To-night, being Saturday, there was no evening study to call them in, and everybody was abroad. The school year was almost over, the long vacation was at hand--the girls were as full of bubbling spirits as sixty-four young lambs. Games of blindman's-buff, and pussy-wants-a-corner, and cross-tag were all in progress at once. A band of singers on the gymnasium steps was drowning out a smaller band on the porte-cochère; half-a-dozen hoop-rollers were trotting around the oval, and scattered groups of strollers, meeting in the narrow paths, were hailing each other with cheerful calls. Patty and Conny and Priscilla, washed and dressed and chastened, were wandering arm in arm through the summer twilight, talking--a trifle soberly--of the long-looked-forward-to future that was now so oppressively close upon them. "You know," Patty spoke with a sort of frightened gulp--"in another week we'll be _grown-up_!" They stopped and silently looked back toward the gay crowd romping on the lawn, toward the big brooding house, that through four tempestuous, hilarious, care-free years had sheltered them so kindly. Grown-upness seemed a barren state. They longed to stretch out their hands and clutch the childhood that they had squandered with so little thought. "Oh, it's horrible!" Conny breathed with sudden fierceness. "_I want to stay young!_" In this unsocial mood, they refused an offered game of hare-and-hounds, and evading the singers on the gymnasium steps--the song was the "Gypsy Trail"--they sauntered on down the pergola to the lane, sprinkled with fallen apple blossoms. At the end of the lane, they came suddenly upon two other solitary strollers, and stopped short with a gasp of unbelieving wonder. "It's Jelly!" Conny whispered. "And Mr. Gilroy," Patty echoed. "Shall we run?" asked Conny, in a panic. "No," said Patty, "pretend not to notice him at all." The three advanced with eyes discreetly bent upon the ground, but Miss Jellings greeted them gaily as she passed. There was an intangible, excited, happy thrill about her manner--something _electric_, Patty said. "Hello, you bad little Gypsies!" It was a peculiarly infelicitous salutation, but she was smilingly unconscious of any slip. "_Gypsies?_" Mr. Gilroy repeated the word, and his benumbed faculties began to work. He stopped and scanned the trio closely. They were clothed in dainty muslin, three as sweet young girls as one would ever meet. But Patty and Conny, even in the failing light, were still noticeably brunette--it takes boiling water to get out coffee stain. "Oh!" He drew a deep breath of enlightenment, while many emotions struggled for supremacy in his face. Conny dropped her gaze embarrassedly to the ground; Patty threw back her head and faced him. He and she eyed each other for a silent instant. In that glance, each asked the other not to tell--and each mutely promised. The breeze brought the chorus of the "Gypsy Trail"; and as they sauntered on, Miss Jellings fell softly to humming the words in tune with the distant singers: "And the Gypsy blood to the Gypsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true Over the world and under the world And back at the last to you. Follow the Romany patteran--" The words died away in the shadows. Conny and Patty and Priscilla stood hand in hand and looked after them. "The school has lost Jelly!" Patty said, "and I'm afraid that we're to blame, Con, dear." "I'm glad of it!" Conny spoke with feeling. "She's much too nice to spend her whole life telling Irene McCullough to stand up straight and keep her stomach held in." "Anyway," Patty added, "he has no right to be angry, because--without us--he never would have dared." They kept on across the meadow till they came to the pasture bars, where they leaned in a row with their heads tipped back, scanning the darkening sky. Miss Jellings's mood was somehow catching; the little contretemps had stirred them strangely. They felt the thrill of the untried future, with Romance waiting around the corner. "You know," Conny broke silence after a long pause--"I think, after all, maybe it will be sort of interesting." "What?" asked Priscilla. She stretched out her arm in a wide gesture that comprised the night. "Oh, everything!" Priscilla nodded understandingly, and presently added with an air of challenge: "I've changed my mind. I don't believe I'll go to college." "Not go to college!" Patty echoed blankly. "Why not?" "I think--I'll get married instead." "Oh!" Patty laughed softly. "_I_ am going to do both!" * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 21, "chose" changed to "choose" (endeavor to choose) Page 35, "Cony" changed to "Conny" (Conny Wilder in dramatics) Page 36, "Rosaile" changed to "Rosalie" (When Rosalie chanced) Page 76, "or" changed to "of" (majority of the) Page 85, "exhanced" changed to "enhanced" (are enhanced by) Page 86, "skurried" changed to "scurried" (she scurried off) Page 92, "Sally" changed to "Sallie" ( Miss Sallie affably) Page 107, "Connie" changed to "Conny" (Conny murmured fervently) Page 109, "wail" changed to "wait" (Just wait till) Page 152, "esthetic" changed to "æsthetic" (rather than æsthetic) Page 206, "same" changed to "some" (There was some) Page 230, "or" changed to "of" (quiet confines of) Page 247, "cheery" changed to "cherry" (of the cherry tree) Page 320, "freindly" changed to "friendly" (the friendly darkness) Page 329, "airly" changed to "airily" (her hand airily) Page 330, "sings" changed to "signs" (dey learn signs) Page 338, "tempestous" changed to "tempestuous" (through four tempestuous)